The St. Francis I fell in love with was designed by Franco Zeffirelli to win adolescent hearts. As depicted in his 1972 “Brother Sun, Sister Moon” Francis was a dead-ringer replica of the Romeo of Zefferelli’s 1969 “Romeo and Juliet”—the one responsible for the classic love song still piped into our hearts insidiously as elevator music: “A Time for Us”—boyish, a bowl-cut Beatle’s hairstyle, huge ga-ga eyes drinking in a lover’s gaze. Zefferelli’s Francis would discover there was no “Time for Us” as he gazed so wantonly into his flower-child sister’s eyes, the Donovan soundtrack expressing in words what he and Clare refrained from saying to each other as poppies and sunflowers and knee-deep wild grasses swayed in gentle breezes on the Umbrian hillsides where the would-be lovers frolicked and, yes, made flower-chain necklaces and hair-wreathes. How giddy they were! How in love! How tragic that poor Clair would shave her endless “Herbal Essence” locks to follow him into celibacy. How tragic that they let God get in the way of their loving each other. The couple remained inscribed on our hearts like figures on Keats’ Grecian Urn, poised eternally for that lusty kiss we would internalize and live out even compulsively with our more available lovers. Poor Clare (no wonder the order found in her name would be the “Poor Clares”).
I can’t believe that the real Francis would have in anyway been considered a heart-throb. I went to his church in Monteluco yesterday and took a hard look at the cells he is said to have prayed in. He and his brothers must have been the size of gnomes to fit through the teeny, squat doors leading into the closets in which they sequestered themselves. Either that or they took the biblical insistence “straight is the gate and narrow the way” quite literally, forcing themselves physically through key holes, starving themselves, sleeping on splintery planks of wood with rocks as pillows. Even in 1220 they wore the Franciscan robes, hair shirts really with ropes knotted three times to represent and perhaps invoke the trinity. I doubt they ever bathed (or go skinny-dipping as they are often depicted doing by Zefferilli). They suffered ketosis breath from starvation (and they did starve! When Francis’ body was exhumed in 18…examiners could tell he had starved to death because of the way his knuckle-bones were knit together), not to mention, regarding Francis, the crazed fits of temper that would have him run naked in public places and destroy his father’s merchandise and business. Where Francis fails as a lover, he certainly fit the cult ideal of a 60s radical, pooh-poohing the establishment, striking out barefoot with a copy of Abbie Hoffman’s “Steal this Book.” Who needed money, who need worry about money, when one could live like the lilies of the field off charity and divine helium?
It surprises me to this day that so many women of my generation still have crushes on St. Francis. They can’t identify with Lucy plucking her eyes out or Catherine cutting off her breasts, but Francis—he’s still the boy-wonder of hagiography. “Live Simply so Others can Simply Live,” perennially he returns to us, but always air-brushed, the stigmata no longer oozing, his Zeferelli smile still intact. But it seems that even as the soul’s lover he is not truly loving in a direct hands-on way, but is always up to strange antics in the name of love, crawling on his battered knees across the eaves to chase a bird into flight, while we stand back in distant wonder—beholding God’s fool.
Adjacent to the Chiesa di San Francesco on the peak of Monteluco is the Sacro Bosco or Sacred Grove with yet another secluded grotto where Francis is said to have prayed. The thousand year-old oaks have living presence, like old souls materializing, holding a stern and mossy vigil. One feels the otherworldliness of the Grove, the enormous branches of the ancient trees sealing us in somehow, containing us, scrappy light on the forest floor flickering with mysteries. One feels even St. Francis’ presence—solitary, somehow fugitive as he seeks a sulky shelter away from us all.
I can’t believe that the real Francis would have in anyway been considered a heart-throb. I went to his church in Monteluco yesterday and took a hard look at the cells he is said to have prayed in. He and his brothers must have been the size of gnomes to fit through the teeny, squat doors leading into the closets in which they sequestered themselves. Either that or they took the biblical insistence “straight is the gate and narrow the way” quite literally, forcing themselves physically through key holes, starving themselves, sleeping on splintery planks of wood with rocks as pillows. Even in 1220 they wore the Franciscan robes, hair shirts really with ropes knotted three times to represent and perhaps invoke the trinity. I doubt they ever bathed (or go skinny-dipping as they are often depicted doing by Zefferilli). They suffered ketosis breath from starvation (and they did starve! When Francis’ body was exhumed in 18…examiners could tell he had starved to death because of the way his knuckle-bones were knit together), not to mention, regarding Francis, the crazed fits of temper that would have him run naked in public places and destroy his father’s merchandise and business. Where Francis fails as a lover, he certainly fit the cult ideal of a 60s radical, pooh-poohing the establishment, striking out barefoot with a copy of Abbie Hoffman’s “Steal this Book.” Who needed money, who need worry about money, when one could live like the lilies of the field off charity and divine helium?
It surprises me to this day that so many women of my generation still have crushes on St. Francis. They can’t identify with Lucy plucking her eyes out or Catherine cutting off her breasts, but Francis—he’s still the boy-wonder of hagiography. “Live Simply so Others can Simply Live,” perennially he returns to us, but always air-brushed, the stigmata no longer oozing, his Zeferelli smile still intact. But it seems that even as the soul’s lover he is not truly loving in a direct hands-on way, but is always up to strange antics in the name of love, crawling on his battered knees across the eaves to chase a bird into flight, while we stand back in distant wonder—beholding God’s fool.
Adjacent to the Chiesa di San Francesco on the peak of Monteluco is the Sacro Bosco or Sacred Grove with yet another secluded grotto where Francis is said to have prayed. The thousand year-old oaks have living presence, like old souls materializing, holding a stern and mossy vigil. One feels the otherworldliness of the Grove, the enormous branches of the ancient trees sealing us in somehow, containing us, scrappy light on the forest floor flickering with mysteries. One feels even St. Francis’ presence—solitary, somehow fugitive as he seeks a sulky shelter away from us all.
In the early 1970's, Donovan agreed to write and record songs for the English version of Franco Zeffirelli's Brother Sun, Sister Moon (1972). While the film included Donovan's recordings of the songs, the accompanying soundtrack included none of Donovan's original recordings. The absence of these recordings prompted many of Donovan's fans to request an official release of the songs. In order to satisfy demand, Donovan embarked on acquiring the rights to the original recordings. Due to the nature of the original contract and complex publishing rights issues, it became evident to Donovan that releasing the original "Brother Sun Sister Moon" recordings would be extremely difficult. In the absence of this release, Donovan decided to record new versions of the original songs and release it exclusively through the iTunes Music Store. For the new recordings, Donovan opted not to recreate the lush orchestration and choir vocals of the original recordings. Instead, he plays guitar and sings solo, in a style reminiscent of his Sutras album. [edit] Track listing All tracks by Donovan Leitch. "The Little Church" – 3:26 "The Lovely Day" – 2:20 "Lullaby" – 2:31 "Brother Sun, Sister Moon" – 2:02 "A Soldier's Dream" – 3:03 "Shape in the Sky" – 2:35 "Gentle Heart" – 3:52 "The Year Is Awakening" – 3:15 "Island of Circles" – 2:56 "The Lovely Day (Instrumental)" – 2:16
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