Apr '18
25
Today's little rescuee is quite extraordinary.
Not for the quality of the poem itself, but for its content and focus.
Robert and I had what you might call quite a vigorous conversation earlier in the evening about the Catholic church (within which I was raised) and my anger at, and feeling of betrayal by, this institution which has shown itself to fail so terribly in living up to its own teachings and in caring for its congregations.
The bundle of jumbled vocabulary available to me today happened to contain some key words relevant to the topic and voilà! a rescued poem mysteriously relevant to my present state of mind.
This poem incanted its way from pages 167 and 26 of The Devourers and Marie Tarnowska respectively, both by Annie Vivanti Chartres.
I remember a caring Lord
I wake and pray to a doubtful God
How bitterly I talk that lovely language:
Say His name devoutly! Be afraid!
I have held him tightly to my heart.
Now my eyes are full with tears of poison.
He was all to me; He was my all:
My soul a golden morning in His prayer;
His voice a turquoise evening in my home;
A time when love would keep and would not leave.
Now my eyes are full with tears of poison.
Not for the quality of the poem itself, but for its content and focus.
Robert and I had what you might call quite a vigorous conversation earlier in the evening about the Catholic church (within which I was raised) and my anger at, and feeling of betrayal by, this institution which has shown itself to fail so terribly in living up to its own teachings and in caring for its congregations.
The bundle of jumbled vocabulary available to me today happened to contain some key words relevant to the topic and voilà! a rescued poem mysteriously relevant to my present state of mind.
This poem incanted its way from pages 167 and 26 of The Devourers and Marie Tarnowska respectively, both by Annie Vivanti Chartres.
I remember a caring Lord
I wake and pray to a doubtful God
How bitterly I talk that lovely language:
Say His name devoutly! Be afraid!
I have held him tightly to my heart.
Now my eyes are full with tears of poison.
He was all to me; He was my all:
My soul a golden morning in His prayer;
His voice a turquoise evening in my home;
A time when love would keep and would not leave.
Now my eyes are full with tears of poison.
That is extraordinary. Synchronicity? The subconscious is a wonderful thing. It conjures up a lot of feelings for me too. The 'turquoise evening' for some reason gives me an image of the classic virgin Mary statue, with her (almost) turquoise cloak.
05/01/2018 01:27:15 AM
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