Ulysses Reconsidered by Aaron Robertson

Just like Farnese’s birds, whose voices became caught on an unchanging view of palaces in ruin, you fell into a dream: one of rivers that ran with sentimental ease before your family seat. But left to choose, you changed the eternal for light, where gifted canon’s robes allowed your mind to turn from thoughts of chimney smoke and gardens seldom seen, the limestone of your end betraying words of slate. The Fleece still hangs unclaimed, yet slowly I’m pulled back to forest-covered hills and hard volcanic rock, unsure of how the tide has brought me to this shore. Your counsel holds no truth for sailors who have come to crave the open sea, when mesmorized by fame you never knew the life you claimed to hold so dear.

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Vicar Apostolic to Cher Monseigneur by Aaron Robertson

Kororareka burns. Chief Kawiti’s attack that has threatened for days finally falls and breaks upon the town at dawn; its garrison hard pressed to hold his quick advance, whole streets already lost in an infernal blaze. The Anglicans are spared, yet fierce fighting surrounds their church, frequently scarred with musket shot by each exchange between the lines. All others, as I write, resign themselves to turn and flee from half-built lives to boats anchored at bay, whose cannon, calmly poised, must soon sound in reply. Do not fear how we fare, my very presence here sees our mission made safe from the violence that tears apart a morning’s peace. This episcopal ring is worth more than its weight when witnessed by a throng of native eyes, and none would dare to confront I, Pikopo, in the flesh. Confined so far away in Lyon from these shores, your continual need to question my resolve implies a faith unmade. Such doubts are better saved for those who kiss your hand, leaving me to my work amongst still-savage minds.

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