Michael the Archangel and the Beauty of Truth

Michael the Archangel and the Beauty of Truth

The head of the Archangels watches over us with the sword of truth and the shield of beauty

They are not symbols, they are realities truer than stone

Everything exists that we are capable of imagining:

imagination is the translation of inexpressible truths,

it is the language with which the soul perceives what the intellect cannot say

symbolism of the dynamics of the invisible

Where logic ends, the kingdom of angels begins

And there, all is perfect

There is the evil, the devil and all his demons,

there is the good, Michael the Archangel and his brothers of light,

yin and yang in eternal balance, cosmic struggle,

always temporary balance between fall and redemption

Albedo is awareness that it is not darkness that governs time,

it is not Satan who writes destiny

After every night the day rises,

in every evil sleeps a good,

and Satan is watched over in every moment by Michael the Archangel,

is not master of the night,

is guarded by the sword of those who fight for the Light

‘How much evil there is in the world’

I say to an elderly friar in the confessional

He smiles Franciscan and falls silent

‘Father, I feel the weight of evil’

He smiles seraphic and falls silent

‘If demons had bodies they would darken the sun in the noontide’

I say with zeal

He smiles, falls silent

‘There are so many demons in the world’ I repeat

“Yes” his smile replies ‘but angels are more’

‘Every man is half a fallen angel,

but the other half is made of fire that wants to rise again’

(Dostoevsky)

The contemporary kneels before the dark side,

contemplates it, dresses it, sells it

The post-contemporary looks up,

sees beyond the darkness, recognises the glow that pierces it.

Michael is not alone.

In tradition – apocalyptic and mystery –

is not one, but one among seven

Seven archangels, like seven flames before the throne,

like seven notes of a celestial melody,

each guardian of an aspect of truth,

each defender of a face of eternal beauty.

Seven, number of abundance,

of wholeness, of creation being fulfilled,

of days, of sacraments,

of the colours of the iris, of the heavens superimposed in the prophetic vision

Seven, like the guardians of the threshold,

each with a mission, a name, a seal,

and perhaps, each with a language that becomes poetry of the apocalypse

And so, with words taken from the Apocalypse – all but one,

we write an invocation to the seven

A post-contemporary prayer

A cry among the ruins that still holds white hope

TO THE SEVEN ARCHANGELS

Seven,

I seek you in the eyes of fire

I invoke you before the throne

sound of blood and thunder

I invoke you amid the scourges

break the seals

Seven,

trumpets sound in your ears

the tombs open of Gog and Magog

behold the synagogue of the dragon

great agony, I bring in Babylon

I seek my name above the gates

lest the second death take me

Seven,

the beast is free

The Amen will vomit the lukewarm

torments and laments

clamours, scorpions and lions

Seven,

in the head there is silence

absinthe is poured from cups

bursts, clamours and marks on the forehead

one must climb on a cloud, on a mountain

Seven,

I do not seek your names

aromas of incense

the hidden meaning of the stars

they are so beautiful

Seven,

feed me the fruits

ransoms of men and tongues

leaves, buds of the tree of life

write my name in the book

Seven,

a white stone

apocalypse in my abysses

a new name, a new song

on the face, that was dead eclipse

now is risen