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I don't preach much, due to waning energies and care of a sick wife.<br>
I did notice the chatter about Martha and Mary, and then this morning<br>
came across this poem<br>
<br>
Anna Kamienska (1930-1986) is the author, translated from the Polish by
Grazyna Drabik<br>
and David Curzon in <u>Astonishments</u> 2008, Paraclete Press.
Wikipedia has<br>
an informative entry on her:<br>
<a class="moz-txt-link-freetext" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anna_Kamie%C5%84ska">http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anna_Kamie%C5%84ska</a><br>
<br>
In the same volume are quotes from her <i>Notebooks, </i>and I put a
few of them<br>
after the poem.<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
SAINT MARTHA <br>
Scolded like an impolite child<br>
stopped in mid gesture<br>
with a wooden spoon in one hand<br>
while a bowl falls from the other<br>
Hidden in the dimness of the pantry <br>
under a chandelier of spider-webs<br>
she stands ashamed in the glow of the kitchen fire <br>
covering her dress with a blue apron <br>
stained by a small dark smudge over her breast <br>
She shades her brow with a starched cloth <br>
In the darkness the barrels pray<br>
patient with the maturing of malt<br>
The truth of oil settles in clay jugs<br>
A tear trembles on a flaxen eyelash<br>
Greatly saddened shadows<br>
are lit only by a humble and apologetic <br>
sliver of green glance<br>
Yet still disobedient she continues to serve <br>
heart in a rush of love<br>
even when her wise sister<br>
slim as a poplar<br>
calmly takes out of her hands<br>
a warm loaf of bread sprinkled with snow<br>
<br>
<br>
I like Simone Weil’s idea that writing is actually the translation of<br>
a text we already carry within us. That notion makes a heavy task<br>
lighter.<br>
In fact, though, writing is the backbreaking work of hacking a<br>
footpath, as in a coal mine; in total darkness, beneath the earth. In<br>
poetry there are moments of illumination. A streak of light falls in<br>
the dark corridor, then the darkness slams shut overhead once more.<br>
In prose the darknesses are even thicker, the black clods even<br>
harder.<br>
***<br>
<blockquote type="cite">I pray in words. I pray in poems. I want to
learn to pray through <br>
breathing, through dreams and sleeplessness, through love and re-<br>
nunciation.<br>
I pray through snow that falls outside the window.<br>
I pray with the tears that do not end</blockquote>
<br>
So a little spring prays to the ocean, so the beating heart prays to
the
<br>
heart of the universe, so the little word prays to the great Logos, so
a
<br>
dust speck prays to the earth, so the earth prays to the cosmos, so the
<br>
one prays to the billion, so human love prays to God's love, so always
<br>
prays to eternity, so the frightened beast prays to the forest silence,
so
<br>
uncertainty prays to beauty itself.
<br>
And all these prayers are heard.
<br>
***
<br>
Poetry is a foretaste of truth. It is the vestibule of faith. It is
contem-
<br>
porary poets who have turned it into smoke and mirrors.
<br>
***<br>
<br>
In the Psalms I find my own recurring feeling of the abyss. Again<br>
I feel suspended above this terrifying precipice that, however, is not<br>
nothingness but some kind of fusion of time-space. And there is no<br>
helping hand.<br>
***<br>
<br>
In my 75th year, with limitation increasing, I find her thought and
words<br>
oddly comforting.<br>
<br>
Frazer <br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<br>
<pre class="moz-signature" cols="25">--
J. A. Frazer Crocker, Jr.
3541 Ocean View Drive
Florence, OR 97439
541-902-0554
E-mail: <a class="moz-txt-link-abbreviated" href="mailto:jafcjr@charter.net">jafcjr@charter.net</a>
"Searching for God is the first thing and the last,
but in between such trouble, and such pain."
--Jane Kenyon</pre>
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