A Young Seminarian ~

Poems about these boys.

Yevgeny Yevtushenko ~

† April 1, 2017

BABI YAR

by Yevgeny Yevtushenko

No monument stands over Babi Yar.

A steep cliff only, like the rudest headstone.

I am afraid.

Today, I am as old

As the entire Jewish race itself . . .

What words ~

What words are needed— to strike the chord? To say the meaningful?

Jottings inside the Museum of Fine Arts ~

Art is busy trying to express realities in ways more understandable than the reality itself.
The poet asks: What words must I conjure up to make beauty lift her veil?

Over the Ocean ~

Oh, the distance! If I were not flying back to what was once home, I would feel completely lost and alone. Up over Scotland along the edge of Iceland over Newfoundland, Canada into Detroit, Michigan, to board there again for Pittsburgh. All in 9 hours. By ship it takes 8 days. Home is far away. Easier to arrive there poetically, and on a deeper level, spared of stark, unpleasant realities.

Lost Gems ~

All the beautiful, beautiful things that go unseen and unheard! Like the poem I happened to hear this morning, Annabel Lee by Edgar Allen Poe -- read so feelingly by Garrick Hagon. Has that gem been lost, and only able to be found by chance, as if it were a random grain of sand along the Atlantic coast?

Meeting with a Poetess ~

Yesterday we were sitting in a restaurant. She is eighteen and college bound. She wanted me to see some of her new poems. There was one she had written about her mother, about breaking loose and going off on her own:

"I tried to hold myself in your arms, Mother . . .", she wrote.

Beautiful, poetic idea. I tried not to show her how deeply it had moved me.

Changing Perspectives ~ On Reading Shakespeare

Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
The struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury
Signifying nothing.

I remember reading these lines as a High School student. I was amazed at the ideas Shakespeare presented, the beauty of the metaphors, the strange new way of viewing life. On reading this now there is none of that fascination for the artistry.

What I now read is a precise description of reality as I know it to be, a satisfying statement of truth.

Floating with God ~

Early Irish monks had an unusual way of doing God's will. They would get into a small boat and let it float to wheresoever. . . Now that sounds strange, but somehow I like the idea of floating with God.

Letting Go ~ Letting Be

My comments about playing the piano [Fingering] and letting the fingers find their place without my placing them according to numbers really apply to life itself. What I have this to learn: let myself be directed from a source outside myself. Let that determine how things should be. Stop trying to direct everying. Let go. Let be.

January 27, 1945 ~ Liberation of Auschwitz

To an Unknown Girl in Auschwitz

by Charles L. Cingolani

I

Who are you who make your way
in the endless lines?
You, Two-Six-Nine-Five-Three,
You, the Flower of Jewry
proud, erect, your denuded skull
that once flowed rich black
with hair that tumbled fountain-like
around a slender neck of ivory
cascading onto shoulders
to fall divided gliding down
over breasts and back.

What noble forehead I see
above dark pools
wherein burn radiant eyes,
your soft sunken temples,
the slope of your regal nose.
Those lips, lightly pursed
above a chin held aloft,
borne with that silent certainty
of being loved already
by one yet unknown to you,
but whose presence now felt
propels your dauntless search.

Your every movement graced,
your feathered step,
your groping hands gliding
those fingers loosely stretched
that have yet to caress
a newborn babe
or cushion a lover's head
from loving spent.

II

On what hidden tether are you
being drawn to him
who has come here
searching for you among the fair,
for you, his longed-for love.

You are his Winter Rose,
You are his Rising Sun
You are his Evening Star,
You are his House of Gold.

He has looked for you in every bower
sought out the lions' lairs,
no latch undone, no hinge unswung
until he ventured through these gates,
searching for you
in one last despairing quest.

Was it not his nearness
that awakened you before dawn
set you on this path in darkness
seeking out his lodging place?

Done with watching, longing,
done with endless dialogue alone
done with patience, pining, waiting.
You move, irresistibly drawn
to juncture, fullness, oneness,
where waiting ceases
where union quenches thirst.

All your visions clung to nights through,
all anticipation that has long beaten
at your love-sick heart
crave for fulfillment, a bringing out
that you know now
will soon come about.

Is that his voice you hear,
your head lowered now
your eyes straining
as you rush in his direction?
Are you about to enter
upon a banquet prepared?
Do you see yourself reclining
in fruits from his trees,
cushioned in down, gazing at
swirling columns of incense rising
as you await his first light touch?

He must see you coming now,
you, so intent, in his direction.
Stands he there behind some board,
some cleft in a wall?
Hear you his words already?
Is he proffering a time, a tryst, a place?
Or is it a room, a loft, a nest—
like orioles make, a flaxen purse
hanging deep in foliage hidden
where union takes place?

Are you asking
if he knows of your longing,
if his will meld with yours
in folds of awareness so hermetic
as to envelop you in one endless ritual
of giving and yielding?
All this questioning but distracts
from your final rush to him
into whose presence you are entering.

III

Go, lift your beauty to him.
All convention, all words, all thought
recede now. There is no fetter.
You are beyond license, sanction, law.
All is assent, oneness, accord.

You are running now,
taking to the wing, gently, lightly.

But he, too, is in motion
nearing, so near
about to catch you up, sidelong, longing,
to envelop you
in the heat of his embrace.


Copyright © 2005

Lesson in Prayer ~

He was an eldery priest, humble. He said: "When you talk to God you must always start with your own ego. You must become fully aware of yourself here and now. When you have done that you should say 'Here I am, Lord, ready to hear You'. And then you wait for Him in His presence. Wait, not demanding that He speak, and satisfied, too, if He doesn't.

Words of Strength ~

Tom's daughter found a poster that she framed and hanged beside Tom's bed. On it were the words: God spoke: I will not let you fall, and I will not abandon you. Josue I,5. Tom held onto those words in those last days.