a crucifixion and a mysterion

Crucifixion

You understand the colors on the hillside have faded,

we have the gray and brown and lavender of late autumn,

the apple and pear trees have lost their leaves, the mist

of November is often with us, especially in the afternoon

and toward evening, as it was today when I sat gazing

up into the orchard for a long time the way I do now,

thinking of how I died last winter and was revived.

And I tell you I saw there a cross with a man nailed

to it, silvery in the mist, and I said to him: "Are you

the Christ?" And he must have heard me, for in his

agony, twisted as he was, he nodded his head affirmatively,

up and down, once and twice. And a little way off

I saw another cross with another man nailed to it,

twisting and nodding, and then another and another,

ranks and divisions of crosses straggling like exhausted

legions upward among the misty trees, each cross

with a silvery, writhing, twisting, nodding, naked

figure nailed to it, and some of them were women.

The hill was filled with crucifixion. Should I not be

telling you this? Is it excessive? But I know something

about death now, I know how silent it is, silent, even

when the pain is shrieking and screaming. And tonight

is very silent and very dark. When I looked I saw

nothing out there, only my own reflected head nodding

a little in the window glass. It was as if the Christ

had nodded to me, all those writhing silvery images

on the hillside, and after a while I nodded back to him.

Carruth, Hayden. "Crucifixion" The Best American Poetry 1990. Toronto: Collier Macmillan Canada, Inc., 1990.

Adventures in New Testament Greek: Mysterion

What our habit has attained for us appears

a somewhat meager view of mystery.

And Latinate equivalents have fared

no better tendering the palpable

proximity of dense noetic pressure.

More familiar, glib, and gnostic bullshit

aside, the loss the body suffers when

sacrament is pared into a tiny

picture postcard of absent circumstance

starves the matter to a moot result, no?

Mysterion is of a piece, enormous

enough to span the reach of what we see

and what we don't. The problem at the heart

of metaphor is how neatly it breaks down

to this and that. Imagine one that held

entirely across the play of image

and its likenesses. Mysterion is

never elsewhere, ever looms, indivisible

and here, and compasses a journey one

assumes as it is tendered on a spoon.

Receiving it, you apprehend how near

the Holy bides. You cannot know how far.

Cairns, Scott. "Adventures in New Testament Greek: Mysterion" New & Selected Poems. Lincoln, Nebraska: Zoo Press, 2002.

of poets and artists

Who Is a Poet

a poet is one who writes verses

and one who does not write verses

a poet is one who throws off fetters

and one who puts fetters on himself

a poet is one who believes

and one who cannot bring himself to believe

a poet is one who has told lies

and one who has been told lies

one who has been inclined to fall

and one who raises himself

a poet is one who tries to leave

and one who cannot leave

Translated from the Polish by Magnus J. Krynski and Robert A. Maguire

Rozewicz, Tadeusz. "Who Is a Poet" The Vintage Book of Contemporary World Poetry. New York: Vintage Books, 1996.

What Mr. Cogito Thinks About Hell

The lowest circle of hell. Contrary to popular opinion it is inhabited neither by despots nor matricides, nor even by those who go after the bodies of others. It is the refuge of artists, full of mirrors, musical instruments, and pictures. At first glance this is the most luxurious infernal department, without tar, fire, or physical tortures.

Throughout the year competitions, festivals, and concerts are held here. There is no climax in the season. The climax is permanent and almost absolute. Every few months new trends come into being and nothing, it appears, is capable of stopping the triumphant march of the avant-garde.

Beelzebub loves art. He boasts that already his choruses, his poets, and his painters are nearly superior to those of heaven. He who has better art has better government -- that's clear. Soon they will be able to measure their strength against one another at the Festival of the Two Worlds. And then we will see what remains of Dante, Fra Angelico, and Bach.

Beelzebub supports the arts. He provides his artists with calm, good board, and absolute isolation from hellish life.

Translated from the Polish by John Carpenter and Bogdana Carpenter

Herbert, Zbigniew. "What Mr. Cogito Thinks About Hell" The Vintage Book of Contemporary World Poetry. New York: Vintage Books, 1996.

a poem by malka heifetz tussman

Love the Ruins

With one letter of your many names

you broke in --

and now you live

your own hot life in me.

With one sound of your many names

you pierced yourself in me --

and now you feed

on my heart's blood.

Soon

you will shatter me

from within.

Then gather up the splinters,

and love the ruins,

my God.

Tussman, Malka Heifetz. "Love the Ruins" Voices Within The Ark: The Modern Jewish Poets. New York: Avon Books, 1980.

a poem by avraham ben-yitzhak

Blessed Are Those Who Sow and Do Not Reap

Blessed are those who sow and do not reap

Because they wander far.

Blessed are those who give themselves freely, the splendor

Of whose youth had added to daylight

Though they flung off their glory where roads part.

Blessed are those whose pride crosses the borders of their souls

And becomes a white humility

After the rainbow's rising in the cloud.

Blessed are those who know what their heart cries out in deserts

And on whose lips silence flowers.

Blessed are they, for they will be taken into the heart of the world

Wrapped in a cloak of unremembrance,

Forever remaining without speech.

Ben-Yitzhak, Avraham. "Blessed Are Those Who Sow and Do Not Reap" Voices Within The Ark: The Modern Jewish Poets. New York: Avon Books, 1980.

a poem by yehuda amichai

Of Three or Four in a Room

Of three or four in a room

there is always one who stands beside the window.

He must see evil sprouting among the thorns

and fires on the hill.

And how men who went out of their houses whole

are given back in the evening like small change.

Of three or four in a room

there is always one who stands beside the window.

His dark hair over his thoughts.

Behind him, words.

And in front of him voices wandering without a knapsack,

hearts without supplies, prophecies without water,

and large stones which have been returned

and remain sealed, like letters which have no

address and no one to receive them.

Amichai, Yehuda. "Of Three or Four in a Room" Voices Within The Ark: The Modern Jewish Poets. New York: Avon Books, 1980.