Once upon a time
these ornate iron grilles
high in the church walls
kept teenage girls
away from any prurient gaze –
or worse.
Today, it’s the reverse:
they help us visualise
the figlie whose
fairytale ability –
amongst the discarded
children of the poor
and the bastard offspring
of the nobility –
turned them into stars.
There’s a small hatch
through which
the holy sacrament
could be passed.
A guide unlocks the door
to a narrow staircase
and I follow to where
I can see precisely how
Antonio Lucio Vivaldi –
Red Priest –
could be more
than mere voyeur.
There’s a meticulous list
of every foundling,
every instrument
in the maestro’s care;
and the elaborate lace
worked by those
not chosen for
orchestra or choir;
such virtuosic power,
that even now
the unguarded
listener might become
some kind of beast,
transported, giddy
with vicarious desire.
Paul Munden 