Poem: Lourdes

[Today is the feast day of Our Lady of Lourdes, which commemorate the anniversary of the first apparition to St. Bernadette Soubirous on February 11th, 1858. I visited Lourdes in 2017, drank the water, and bathed in the spring, and there received what I regard as both a true revelation and a miraculous healing. I wrote this poem a number of years later in recognition of this event.]

Lourdes

My Lady

who dwell in the mountains

abandon me not

forget me not

in silence

hold me

Lady of the stillness

of those overshadowed valleys

and of the spring

that bubbles up

from the depths of our despair

dark and clouded

by our filth

colder

than our loneliness

Lady of the darkness

that holds our eyes

in the night

in the grotto

under the shadow 

of your crossed arms

and Lady of the lights

the tongues of flame

melting wax

that spills upon our hands

searing

as we stumble

in your footsteps

Lady of gleaming white

reflected light

amidst the darkness

Lady of the song

we sing to you

sinners, fools,

sick and old

dispossessed, abandoned

in masses driven

calling upon you

Lady of the stench

and all the ugliness

of our decaying bodies

and souls

Lady of the shit-pile

where your daughter lived

Lady of the great grey expanse of space

beneath the ground

where we shelter

huddled together

so many

from the clamor

and the light

and the fire

that devour us

Lady of the shadows

on the concrete walls

Lady of the cinder-blocks

and the steel

Lady of this age

Queen of this great City

of blood and iron

Lady of the masses

teeming

starving

herded

driven

anonymous

to labor

and extermination

Lady of the broken selves

cast into the trash can

Lady of all those 

whom unclean iron

has pierced

Lady of all those

whom radiant idols

have chilled

Lady of all those

whose inner chamber is empty

Lady of all those

whose door is sealed shut

or broken open

Lady of all those

whom this world has defeated

Lady of all those

the righteous have despaired over

let fall

dropped out of the picture

hidden in the calculation

whose evil

the good have tolerated

whose eternal loss

the wise and just

have accepted

Lady who pass beyond

the limits of our patience

and our love

Lady of our healing

Lady of our death

Lady of Lourdes

I call upon you

over all your names

your shrines upon the earth

because I called upon you

in the night

and in the night

you heard and answered

and because I fell back

naked

into your icy waters

and you caught me

Lady of Lourdes

Queen of this age

and of me

I praise you

Amen

Poem: If You Had Said No

If You Had Said No

If you had said no

the burning Archangel

would have offered no rebuke

(he had not been sent

as for the priest

to humble pride

but to exalt humility)

he would have bowed

his crowned head

in silence

and in silence turned

and walked away

his rainbow plumage

receding in the endless distance

forever

in the courts of heaven

a hush would have fallen

on the cosmic powers

the cherubim

turn their thousand eyes

away from the earth

and the stars

take up

a new song

the celestial spheres

sigh like strings

in perpetual, cyclical

mourning

(for one can neither mourn nor desire

the impossible—

but what was possible

can be mourned and longed for

in remembrance

forever)

a quiet

would have fallen

upon the earth

the grass and the trees

clothe themselves

as in winter

with dimness

the burning desire

would go out

of the heart of things

no more of blood

in the dying leaves

no more of fire

in the blooming rose

the moths

would no longer

seek the flame

the leaves would have

no voice in the wind

the trees would have no eyes

and there would be no face

in the dark forest

the sons of men

would cease from

the ancient rites

of winter and springtime

they would make

no war

for immortal glory

the daughters of men

would be fair only

desired only

possessed only

there would be no light

in their eyes

no gleam of gold

fire earth moonlight

in their tresses

they would bear their children

in silence

with no wild hope

in the pain and blood

the birds

would not sing more sweetly

in their presence

nor would the fire burn brighter

there would be no roses

in them

at all

the littleness

of their children

would have no

greatness

in it

bread would be

only bread

wine only wine

and the blood of men

only like the blood of cattle

Poem: Holodomor

 [I wrote this poem many years ago after reading through a large number of oral-tradition accounts from survivors of the Holodomor, as well as a more abstract book on the same topic. 

The word Holodomor in Ukrainian means "death by starvation." This event, for those who have forgotten or never heard, took place in 1930-1933, when about eight million people starved to death, in Ukraine and throughout the Soviet Union, due to entirely man-made famines. These events took place as the result of Stalin's five-year plan to rapidly industrialize the Soviet Union. They were entirely caused by Soviet authorities and to an extent weaponized by those same authorities to break the traditional peasantry and nascent resistance and independence movements. The primary cause of starvation was not an absolute lack of food, but the mass collectivization of agriculture (designed to transfer labor to industry) and the forcible mass requisition of grain by Soviet authorities. This grain and other agricultural products was then exported overseas to earn the money and parts and expertise desperately desired to fund new, ambitious industrial projects.

In these events, the Western world played an absolutely necessary role, including the United States, which incredibly chose the year 1933 to recognize the Soviet Union and open trade with it. This rapprochement between the Stalinist Soviet Union and the West was made possible largely by the efforts of (ironically) Western capitalists eager for trade opportunities, as well as numerous writers and journalists producing pro-Soviet propaganda from Moscow and elsewhere and who denied either the existence or extent of the famine or explicitly justified it in the broader interests of Russia's progressive advancement and modernization. The most famous of these journalists was Walter Duranty, whose dismissive quote about breaking eggs opens the poem below. The poem also features numerous other paraphrased quotes from Duranty, contemporary sources, and above all survivors of the famine. 

In the first instance, I offer this poem today as a statement on the present state of the world, and in particular in the face of the unconscionable violence against innocents being carried out throughout the world today: among others in Ukraine by the Russian military, and in Gaza by the Israeli military. In particular, it is offered in response to Western apologists for Israeli war crimes, who in their mix of indifference to suffering innocents, moral cowardice, perverted ideology, and brute self-interest eerily echo their predecessors of the 1930s. In all candor this poem was forcefully brought back to my mind by the remarkable experience of watching Benjamin Netanyahu's address to Congress.

Regardless of the particular details, and regardless of all copy-book debates over politics, propaganda, fact-checking, geopolitical alliances, nationalism, racism, colonialism, self-determination, self-defense, military policy, international law, existential threats, and/or "moral equivalency," the overall point made by the poem is a deliberately universal and theological one: that every murdered, brutalized, or starved innocent is Christ; and that to be ultimately indifferent to his death is as much as to kill him yourself.]

Holodomor

Murder by starvation

a simple phrase,

a simple tune,

to be glossed over and forgotten.

Making an omelet

takes breaking a few eggs—

so a man said

once upon a time.

The well-coiffed, comfortable people

with their dreams of tolerance and salvation

their love of expediency

their adulations and their triumphs

they have seen You dying on the streets,

your body swollen, your fists clenched,

your eyes glazed over like an animal's,

they saw you, my Lord, and they did not do you the honor

of turning away, denying, or condemning.

They did not say

that you were guilty.

They did not say

that you were not there.

They just said

you were a broken egg

to be spoken of

glossed over

and forgotten

forever.

Poem: Good and Evil

 Good and Evil

I saw the Devil walking through the forest,

his hands bloodless, 

long fingers

extended

his face set 

in a glare of impotent hatred

fixed before the first tree grew on earth,

his eyes forward

searching, searching, searching

for one more victim

to destroy a little while, to curse, to

escape, to

deny

a little while

until caught in the blinding light

have I seen human faces like his?

has not my face been set also, in just this way,

have not my hands been extended?

but my face was not fixed, nor were my arms

set forever

when the light caught me, when it blinded me, when it

plunged me into darkness

it could heal, and not consume

there is little difference between he and I, except

that when the light came for me, when it blinded me, when it

took away all my power, made me forever weak, forever in the power

of another

I could turn my face towards the light, 

and hold it in the heart, and in the will, so that

it was mine forever

my hatred of the light

could be devoured by fire

and the desires of my heart

separated out, a bloody business,

great tearing, cutting, amputations,

one after another, until

my heart beat in the midst of everlasting flame

not defiant, obedient 

I was darkness, but

I could still become light

this is the only difference between he and I, the only difference

between me and all the damned

surely there are others like him, walking the streets, the narrow hallways, the

gilded boulevards, gliding

down the endless road

men with faces fixed in impotent rage, their hands extended

to destroy and to deny

for a little while

surely they are like me, and I am like them

surely we are like the devil

but

surely, they too can be saved

if you will plunge them into the darkness

at the heart of your light

and burn them until they become yours

if I can be saved, then surely

they also, however fixed their faces, however

broken their hearts, however full their hands

of empty efforts

surely you can save them also, my Lord

I am still in darkness, but surely your light is within my heart

I can extinguish it if I wish, I can fix my face

forever

in denial

but my Lord, I do not fear it, because I have seen your light

have mercy upon me, a miserable sinner

have mercy upon us all, do not permit us

to remain as we are

I saw the Lord walking through the forest,

his hands were bleeding, with unhealed wounds

stretching to embrace

his face fixed in the last agony of love

the last look of a dying man

his eyes emptied of tears, 

searching, searching, searching

for those whom he would save

you have so little time, my Lord,

to save us all

so little time

to suffer and die

lead me through the forest, let me follow close behind you,

the wounds in my hands bleeding, unhealed,

my eyes dropping tears, 

searching, searching, searching

for those whom you would save

Amen.