On a theme from Julian’s Chapter XX - from Denise Levertov's book of Poems, "Breathing The Water"

 

Six hours outstretched in the sun, yes,

hot wood, the nails, blood trickling

into the eyes, yes –

but the thieves on their neighbor crosses

survived till after the soldiers

had come to fracture their legs, or longer.

Why single out this agony? What’s

a mere six hours?

Torture then, torture now,

the same, the pain’s the same,

immemorial branding iron,

electric prod.

Hasn’t a child

dazed in the hospital ward they reserve

for the most abused, known worse?

This air we’re breathing,

these very clouds, ephemeral billows

languid upon the sky’s

moody ocean, we share

with women and men who’ve held out

days and weeks on the rack –

and in the ancient dust of the world

what particles

of the long tormented,

what ashes.[1]

But Julian’s lucid spirit leapt

to the difference:

perceived why no awe could measure

that brief day’s endless length,

why among all the tortured

One only is ‘King of Grief’.

The onening, she saw, the onening

with the Godhead opened Him utterly

to the pain of all minds, all bodies

-         sands of the sea, of the desert –

from first beginning

to last day. The great wonder is

that the human cells of His flesh and bone

didn’t explode

when utmost Imagination rose

in that flood of knowledge. Unique

in agony, infinite strength, Incarnate,

empowered Him to endure

inside of history,

through those hours when He took Himself

the sum total of anguish and drank

even the lees of that cup:

within the mesh of the web, Himself

woven within it, yet seeing it,

seeing it whole, Every sorrow and desolation

He saw, and sorrowed in kinship.

---

[1] ‘On a Theme from Julian’s Chapter XX.’ This is from the longer text of Julian of Norwich’s Showings ( or Revelations ). The quoted lines follow the Grace Warrack transcription ( 1901). Warrack uses the work ‘kinship’ in her title-heading for the chapter, though in the text itself she says ‘kindness,’ thus – as in her Glossary – reminding one of the roots common to both words.

THE COURTING NEVER ENDS - a poem from the collection, THE BOOK OF RUTH

Two weeks before

we share our vows,

in my Miller Hospital

x-ray scrubs, I sit

a lull in the activity

of the morning exams

with Helen, a fellow

wheel chair jockey.

Closely she examines me,

“Do you want to have

a happy marriage?” I

nod in affirmation.

“Do you know the secret?”

“No,” slips quietly from

my lips, “Do you want

to know?” “Yes, of

course.” Her eyes

flash behind her

glasses, accentuating

her words, “The courting

never ends. The

courting never ends.”

She reads the puzzlement

that paints my face,

with exclamation points

behind each word

she emphasizes, “You

must never stop

dating your wife.”

Stories of Friday night

steak dinners, with

her deceased lover

of many years,

during a shared

lifetime peppered

with want and plenty.

Her words repeated

until locked In my

subconscious, our

brief, intense encounter

interrupted by the

needs of another

hospital patient.

I sit here with you

on our date night,

our baby in a high

chair, our two

very young sons

at their places

around the small

rectangular table

in our kitchen.

Two Dairy Bar pizzas,

a pepperoni for the

boys, the supreme

for you and me,

Gerbers for the baby,

a poor substitute

for steak on a

Friday night, but

one meal you will

not cook, just enjoy. 

Date night

is not what it

once was, but

our love requires

some small gesture

even in poverty,

of just being with

each other, two

lovers with the

evidence of their

love around them,

enjoying a piece

of locally made

pizza, with the words

of an old German

x-ray aide echoing

from long before,

“The courting never

ends. The courting

never ends.”

EMPTY POCKETS, EMPTY STOMACHS - a poem from the collection THE BOOK OF RUTH

“We have no milk,”

you speak quietly

in a tone reminiscent

of another’s observation

that wine had run out

at a wedding feast.

Miraculous transformation

of wine or milk

from pitchers of water

seemingly absent from

the church job description

of educator and

director of parish music,

a deficit in proportion

to a yearly salary of

nine thousand dollars

for seven days work

each week with two

weeks off for good behavior.

As there is no blood-letting

from turnips, there is

no milk-letting from

music, nine thousand

dollars before government

expenses and other

deductions, does not

provide well for a

family of five.

Your milk-filled breasts

have not enough milk

for baby and cereal for

two growing boys

at the table. Evenings

liqour store clerking and

weddings and funerals

cannot fill both

refrigerator and bellies.

Well below the income

for a family of four,

much less five,

no food shelves yet

conceived for the

impoverished and

hungry. Reaganomics

mock the poor

who fight for the

crumbs from the

richman’s table.

Trickle down’s

empty promises stab

visciously at the

hunger-panged

stomachs of the poor.

The class of ‘70

golden ring, the weight

far too heavy

for a musician’s right

hand, would decorate

finer the hand of

another man.  Perhaps,

remolten into glimmering

shimmering light,

the golden reshaped

circlet might hang

from a chain

adorning the breast

of some young woman.

The jeweler’s eye

gauges carefully

its worth, twenty

dollars, no more

no less, twenty

dollars  it is.

There will be milk

and bread on

the table for

another week.