As seen in Issue 01: Reanimation.
Read the piece and learn more about the artist!
Rob Maguire is a writer, filmmaker, musician, and creative director. He would
dedicate this poem to his grandfather, the late poet W.G. McNeice - but he would have hated any veiled swipes at the church, so best not.
See more of Rob’s work here (robmaguire.ie) :
Images below were created with the assistance of AI by Rob for the development of his story to film.
"As much as I’m not an evangelist for it, I find when you thematically overlap the limitations of OLD tech with the limitations of new tech you can find a sweet spot that’s quite captivating. Hence using it in my film work!" - Rob
Read the piece below:
COME SEE THE VISION
Come see the vision, they say.
It’s blessed us for years.
The town is fevered, but elated.
Nobody blinks.
Buy an effigy, they say.
Take a room.
Stay as long as you want-
There’ll be another vision soon.
It comes towards the side of the mountain, they say.
In a crack
in a rock
High above eye level.
And the light,
The brilliant light
It scalds the doubt.
It could only be a miracle.
They say.
Six summers now the town has held the stage.
Though small, and in the world’s forgotten purse,
it gloams with a significance that few of its kind share.
‘For she
has blessed us’
they say
(And cast their eyes to clouds)
The origin is rote.
Recited reverent by eager advocates who walk their guests to room or table.
The immigrants are curious for insight, which is eagerly relayed:
it was the flames they noticed first.
(It always starts with this)
The beacon lit for local folk to crawl
from beds alarmed
and worried for themselves,
since, in a town so small and closely knit
a threat to one is everybody’s
business.
But as the summer sun returned to ground behind the mountain,
casting all in front to silhouette,
They saw it was not house nor barn but the mountain’s heart that had erupted into flame.
They stared from the pathway, the origin goes,
and from its concrete edge.
Since that was the closest you could get, without getting stuck into the scrub,
and still maintain a view.
(There is a gift shop there, now)
‘Perplexed’ the witnesses agreed they felt.
But this was merely tantalising,
for then: the crack in rock became at once divine
with the sight of a figure in the flames.
She hung in the air, deathly still,
they say,
and sang.
Her voice was carried over all the cracks and snaps
of whatever celestial flame held her aloft on the mountains edge over the town.
They say they all dropped to their knees,
an understandable riposte, if pious,
but it seems piety is quite the feature of this place,
along with ample parking and toilet facilities.
It’s natural, they say, to seek
the magical, which makes
existence seem much more
than chores and boring day-to-day.
Of course: people came
to see the place where she sang.
Fantastical, this gift, that’s cast
upon the town so quiet, lean,
and quiet.
The men fashioned first a shrine,
then trinkets forged to show esteem.
A genuflection, made through wood,
and when cost-efficient, lesser things.
An adoration. They say, facing off their wares.
The growing hubbub coursed through streets
as neighbour towns piled pilgrims in.
They stood upon the edged concrete
and crossed themselves while focussed neatly
on the spot
with the crack
in the rock
where she sang,
they say.
Furrowed brows gave signs
of flurried concentration as
the scene was conjured through firing
synapses insufficient to the task.
They fumbled for assistance: ‘And the flames?’
‘Were very high’
‘And she was wearing?’
‘I couldn’t see’
The song provoked the most interest
but no one quite relayed the
essence in pure enough a way
that could satisfy the clientele. They left it vague
and generalised, which did the trick to some extent.
Though when this was spent
they noticed that their fresh allure
was wearing thin, and wanderers
were wandering on in search of
newer sacred things.
As if the townsfolk’s minds were read
the lady answered faithfully.
The fire erupted once again,
and with it seraphic symphony.
This,
they say,
was even more
a scene from heaven
than the last.
And now, with dawdling figures bursting
from rooms kept for ‘maybe one more day’:
an enthusiastic new caste of disciple.
Early adopters destined to evangelise the scene they saw.
They grew. Of course. They do.
The crowds were truly
more than the town expected but
no matter, they’d expand.
The store, unused since winter now a hastily constructed
berth for those arriving in their droves,
expectant, flush, and tenebrous.
She’ll come again, they say.
And many more can now relay
the ecstasy of what they saw,
or heard first-hand - a decent source.
They say the ghost,
mother of all, floats high above
and does not fall. They muster
neath her dangling feet,
where hard-earned prayers
fuel divine heat.
Her song,
they say,
is of no tongue
that we
can understand.
So don’t try
(to understand)
just let it wash
over you.
They say.
It’s like she’s weeping,
it was remarked.
Her song forgives us.
Yes, they say. Exactly right.
So let your hair down, stay the night.
Six times the virgin blessed the rock, and each a lottery jackpot.
More heads on beds and tat in hand. A godsend for each local man.
Oh, it’s tremendous.
It gives you hope.
And when,
in the lulls between visions,
visitors wonder will she come again,
they say ‘we’ll see’
and wink a hellish guarantee.
And when she does,
of course, the crowds
are kept behind the concrete parapet,
not close enough to feel the heat
or worse, discern the dialect.
It’s not a scream, they say, but joy.
The sound of grace made manifest.
The pilgrim doubt is satisfied,
their rapture aches like swollen guts,
they stumble off into the night,
they drink and pray and school and lust.
While nervous eyes dart side to side.
It’s not relief, they say. Fatigue.
Which is true. As well. It seems.
With cooling flames the strain grows hotter.
The call of rope and gasoline.
How long have they bought? Before things get lean.
And like Sisyphus with bloody hands
another scales the rock to burn their daughter.
By Rob Maguire
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