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"Preface It occurs to me that as not much narrative poetry is published these days, it might prove useful to describe how these two stories in poems came to be written. The angel first appeared in an earlier chapbook, Travels of the Angel of Sorrow. Those poems chronicled the angel's visit to a plague-ridden mountain village in winter. In What the Angel Saw, What the Saint Refused, the angel is drawn to suffering in other places and times, and as one of the poems describes, he has a habit of showing up in my living room and perusing my bookshelves. I am only partially joking. The angel poems, from the first, were written with little input from me. They were written quickly, and the editing was minimal. This was unlike any way I had ever written poetry before. I don't know who the ""I"" is that wrote them, but the ""I"" writing to you now at least knew enough not to interfere. The poems of the saint of unbelievers were written the same way. I like the saint of unbelievers, although I'm pretty certain he wouldn't like me. I am his opposite: compromising, bourgeois, fond of companionship and creature comforts. I'm sure he would have preferred a better, more austere poet to write his story, but as my oldest son's kindergarten teacher used to tell her class: ""You get what you get."" As with the angel poems, I did not decide to write about the saint; the poems simply showed up. If the angel of sorrow and the saint of unbelievers have something in common, it is that they both bear witness to suffering. Beyond that, their responses are entirely different. The angel doesn't know the purpose of his presence among humans, but grief draws him to itself repeatedly. He is helpless to improve matters, even though he sees what is happening with perfect clarity. The saint of unbelievers also refuses any subterfuge, excuse, or consolation that would diminish the harshness and injustice he witnesses. If the saint had been Job, he would have spit into the whirlwind or, better yet, laughed. He wants to shake people out of their certainties and especially rejects the transcendence of the philosophers. Unlike the angel, the saint sees a bitter humor in the tragedies that surround him, and that humor gives him an equanimity that surfaces in his conversations with the librarian. I was about to write ""his friend the librarian,"" but I doubt the saint would admit to friendship. Neither the angel nor the saint have any messages for anyone. They only have experience. Sometimes I wonder which of them most embodies negation: the angel who wants to understand but can't reconcile his understanding with the inevitable destruction or decay of all things, with contingency, or the saint who trains himself to reject any belief that would betray his knowledge of that same contingency and who even fears that the knowledge of death is itself a kind of belief. Regardless of such differences, they're both creatures of their own experience, and both, in very different circumstances, maintain their integrity."

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"You will be astonished at what a narrative poem can achieve when you read George Franklin's ground-breaking collection, What the Angel Saw, What the Saint Refused. You will learn the difference between grief that is despairing and grief that is not despairing, the second hinging on an appreciation for the unremarkable life, as you follow an angel with no destination, an angel drawn by humanity's grief. The angel can change nothing. /He is not here to bless or comfort, to join a war or stop one. Still, capacious imagery challenges philosophy: [pigeons] arc across the sky like missiles thrown off course, and creates a beauty that transcends existentialist angst: drafts/From the roof and door pulled the fire one way, then another. The terrible beauty that exists, to borrow a phrase from Rilke, because Franklin's angel will make you think of Rilke, shows you that though pain is never symmetrical, your own grief will be balanced by a belief in something larger than death. You will find harmony in a refuge of cellos and resilience in waking from a dream laughing. --Jane Ann Fuller, author of Half-Life If the angel struggles to remain aloof and elevated, ""Even though he could spread his wings / And be elsewhere, the angel stands still in the road,"" the saint embraces the muck of imperfection, ""he will consider your hands. What kind of work does this one do? He disdains hands without callouses."" In the masterful language of George Franklin, the angel and the saint can be memorable observers of the human tragedy, celestially poetic step-siblings, or powerful window to look from at who we are. You choose. Yet, I think Mr. Franklin would agree, the third option will open your eyes to examine your own life. Let these poems do that. --Juan Pablo Mobili, author of ""Contraband"" and Guest Editor at The Banyan Review Angels and saints occupy a decent amount of space in poetry, but George Franklin's angel and saint bring them to our doorstep the way few poets have or can. His angel is empathetic and sad over human tragedy, but he knows he can offer no relief-he's only a witness for eternity. Both the angel and the saint sometimes engage with humans (the angel's talk with the philosopher and the saint's talk with the librarian are priceless), including with train conductors, gamblers, and others just trying to get by. The angel writes letters and cheers on explorers, whereas the saint is more cynical and employs a more austere lens, though both want to know so much more about the often-difficult mysteries of living. The philosopher says to the angel: Everything I am, I have put into my books. But we know there's more. And so, on we all go, a fallen angel asking: What is even a moment of such happiness worth? And the librarian closing the door of the cabin and walking home again. George Franklin has given us huge vistas for our backyards in this thoughtful, brilliant book. -- Tim Suermondt, author of A Doughnut and the Great Beauty of the World"

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