The Bells of Lynne

The Bells of Lynne

By Joseph Markenstein on Wednesday October 29, 2014 In apology, I tacked my style to Longfellow in The Bells of St Blas (His last and final poem) and the title of “The Bells of Lynn�; though this poem is for Lynne Spalding (went missing Spetember 21, 2013) who died tragicaly in a stairwell of San Francisco General; left all alone for two weeks!

We poets remember you Lynne!

What say the Bells of Lynne To ships which pass in the night From the Harbor of Manhattan?

To them it is nothing for, We are the ones who mourn, -Like Knights of old in white satin.

But to me, a good reaper of rhems, To whom a long seeker of themes Become often one and the same, -The Bells of Lynne to me Have a strange, wild melody, And is something more than a name.

For Lynne is in the heart of the church; Her heanenly song sounds its churp My heart so young and so old Pounds its sound all the way down While pondering on my eiderdown One evening in the frost and cold.

Your sound so effervescent, Of a song so quiescent, Of a stature eloquent and Grand; As the flag of Jean D’Arc unfurled And in the flames did whaft and churl For Lynne is the Love of the Land.

Whenever the Bells of Lynne chime, It brambles a spell of long time crumpled up in a stairwell; And on an oaken cask her bier Made its durdge but none did see ‘r, As her repose was where she fell.

Is, then, all shivalry dead, And slavery placed in its stead?

Is some new practice to be named, That would force us to remain, Naked to sun and to rain Unsheltered and ashamed?

The ones in power crave To range and piss on graves But of yours there was no knowing; And round about you there The scent of lilies filled the air, In the cloud of the unknowing.

The saints have not forgot you, Their vestments white and new!

You are not dead though you sleep, You are open to the sky Though infinity is Pi, The Lord carries you His Sheep!

Oh, bring her back once more For seven years and four score, So more for us here below; Bring back her fervid zeal, Her heart of fire and steel, Her hands who reap and who sow.

Out of a stairwell so bleak, Your soul did every angel seek At the voice of God’s command, Like exiled kings who return To their thrones, and the people learn That Lynne is the Love of the Land.

O Bells of Lynne, not in vain Do your chimes ring out your name!

The past is deaf to your faults; Out of the bellows of night You won your wings for flight That made you the Earth’s salt.

Now We Know That: Lynne is Love of the Land!