Category: poetry

Winter Gales (A sonnet)

~ Alex Poulos ~ Leave a comment

Aeolus was not kind to this young pine
that prostrate lies, still green, beside the way.
Winter’s cold, lonely duties snapped its spine
as dancing light of dawn gave way to day.
My soul’s acute, scholarly aspiration
was like this pine, strong, green, and adolescent.
It has not crashed from Boreal spiration.
It withers slow, a moon no longer crescent.
My God, these hopes deferred have left me ill.
How long must I a craftsman only be?
I know not how these longings still to till,
when failure, when postponement’s all I see.
“Ask, ask, my son, seek seek what you desire,
I’ve promised this; I won’t be found a liar.”

March 7, 2021. Rocky Gap State Park, Maryland.

Poem: My Lover’s Eyes

~ Alex Poulos ~ Leave a comment

My Lover’s eyes, they bade me hail,
as I awoke these winter days,
her dry, her thirsty lips did raise,
within my heart a heady gale.

The goad, the spur, the cattle prod,
Ambition’s yoke at last put off,
Anxiety I seem to doff,
as I behold her, grateful, awed.

The sparrows sing, the crows they caw,
Hivernus’ quiet winter song–
when all is right that once was wrong,
when all await the shepherds’ call.

My Lover, Wife, my Bride, my Sun,
for thee my eyes shine radiant blue,
in thee my soul is knit anew,
as in thy womb is knit our son.

Our Shepherd came one winter morn;
our lady lay him near a stall.
The shepherds came and sang in awe–
no more were Adam’s sons forlorn.

Let angels sing and wise men kneel,
hivernal nature prostrate lie.
In him our tears, our sorrows die
who bear the Shepherd’s rod and seal.

Sunday, December 13. In Middletown, Maryland, on retreat cum uxore.

Poem: In the Hills of Western Maryland

~ Alex Poulos ~ Leave a comment

When in the wooded lands of fall I tread,
I take my mask down, breathe the dry oak air;
skyward I peer, as Aurora with her red
hands hails these hills of deer, sparrow, and bear.
The forest breath, it strikes against my cheek.
Freed from abstraction I’m thrust into this,
this solemn joy, this province of the meek,
where time dissolves, where space bestows its kiss.
O Mary, here the pine hills bear your name.
Mother, you held their author in your womb
so full of grace: may I become the same,
weighed down with Christ, before I meet the tomb.
O holy Lady, do not spare your power;
pray for us now, and in death’s final hour.

Sunday, November 22, 2020, near Middletown, Maryland.

Poem: Gentleness in Late Summer

~ Alex Poulos ~ Leave a comment

Gentleness– tying one’s shoes in a rainstorm,
the feel of water giving all its rinse,
the dragonflies producing their own form,
the savoring of your sensuous feminine scents.
With gentleness I said “yes” to a child,
a crop that is still many years away–
Our bodies tangled up, so spry and wild,
embracing toil in hope of harvest day.
The meek, you say, the gentle get the land,
“indulge they will in plenitudes of peace.”
A home they find, not crashing in the sand,
but one from worry proffering release.
My Christ, in you I’ve found a fortress strong,
that gentleness for which I deeply long.

August 30, 2020 at Elk Neck State Park.

Late Spring (A Sonnet)

~ Alex Poulos ~ Leave a comment

One spiritual practice I’ve found richly rewarding over the past few years is poetic composition– to try to wrap words around a moment of unveiling. There’s something sacrilegious about putting words to the ineffable, yet I find the practice grounds me to a certain extent; the words help me remember, return me to that moment of insight, beauty, and grace. The sonnet below I composed several weeks ago after a long hike through the Maryland wilderness.

Late Spring

Here, the wet weight of honeysuckle scent,
the shadows dancing on the brook’s brown bank,
the brook’s deliberate gurgling descent,
the poplar tulips flowering its flank,
assert the withering to naught of Spring,
its ceding to empyric Summer’s glow,
th’exhausting days that toil from us wring,
the heaviness that rests on those that grow.
My god this too’s the season of my life,
of limits I am achingly aware.
My soul with cares, with duties now is rife.
They close in on me with a haunting stare.
“My son, beloved, look into my face,
And feel the natural rhythms of my grace.”

Saturday, May 30, 2020. On personal retreat near Waldorf, MD.

The Man Born Blind (John 9:1–17)

~ Alex Poulos ~ Leave a comment

This post was originally written for a Lenten devotional put together by my parish, Church of the Advent, in Washington, DC.

It wasn’t just their question; it was mine.
What caused this wretched curse of wroth divine?
What did I do to be robbed of the light,
to utt’rly disappear from others’ sight?
Why hath my God looked on me with contempt?
With what did he my cursèd parents tempt,
cursèd with me, clearly God’s enemy,
curs’d e’er to ask and ask again, “why me?”
But then Light came, unveiling my deceptions;
with mud he smeared away my preconceptions.
My pain, rejection, O my loss and hurt,
that shame that comes from grov’ling in the dirt,
became the pretext for my greatest boon—
That moment when Light’s eyes did meet my own.

Today’s passage begins with a question, in effect, “Master, was this man born blind because of his own sin, or because of his parents’?” The starting point for my sonnet above was the realization that this question must also have haunted both the blind-man himself and his parents, and that it likely tore their family apart. Instead of finding support from his parents (vv. 18–22), as might be expected, he has been lying down by the side of the road and begging. Even after a dramatic reversal of fortune, his parents have no desire to stick up for their newly healed son (vv. 18–23). We easily imagine how the need to blame would have destroyed this man’s bonds with his parents. He’s faced rejection from his neighbors too. Some of those who have walked by him as he begged, presumably for years, are not even sure that this man is in fact the blind beggar— they had simply learned to look away.

Jesus, however, looks this pain squarely in the eyes. He refuses to allow his disciples, or the man’s neighbors, to employ theology to dehumanize, to disclaim responsibility for a creature, though marred, who was made in God’s image (may Christ confront us when we do the same!). He takes instead this terrible suffering as a pretext for a greater glory— that of sight restored, both of body and of soul. For God is so mighty in his love that even the most terrible suffering can be made, in the light of the cross, to look as though it were God’s original plan, as though God himself had directly caused terrible toil to bring about the reversal. This is not so, and cannot be so, but it is a testament to God’s exquisite care that our sufferings often become the locus of extraordinary blessing. This is the spiritual truth we are bid to embrace during the season of Lent: that when we lose our lives, we find them; that when we take up our crosses, we rise to new life; that when we lean with Christ into our pain, exhaustion, and despair, we might, just might, find Easter joy.

Let not thrift be king: Gregory of Nazianzus on poetry

~ Alex Poulos ~ Leave a comment

The semester is over!  To celebrate, I share here a portion of a poem of Gregory’s that I recently translated.  Friends from church held a “Port and Poetry” party: we gathered together and shared poems around a warm fire.  It was a delightful evening!  For our contribution, I read the Greek aloud (iambic trimeter), and my wife read the English.  

The excerpt comes from PG 37.1186, from the Carmina de se ipso.  

English

We waste not our words on outward things,
however they should be; the inward life,
our undivided care, demands our explication.
In mind resides a salvific grace,
a grace, which spurs us on to hea’en,
yet not before the mind hath spake
to tell us, of its one sure desire.
What gain shall ever come from damned-up stream,
or from the sun’s beam, blocked by clouds?
Of such a sort, the sophic mind in silence,
like rose’s grace, concealed by scurr’lous seed.
But when the shattered wind-blown seed shows forth
its bloom, then ye shall see the rose revealed,
adorned on stage for all to love and see.
Had e’er that beauty been borne away,
then Vernal Spring, bereft of grace, would be.
No more we seek to speak, to think, as those
who deem Thrift King in matters of the Word.

Greek

Ἡμῖν δὲ, τοῦ μὲν ἐκτὸς οὐ πολὺς λόγος,
Ὅπως ποθ’ ἕξει· τοῦ δ’ ἔσω λίαν πολύς.
Ἐν νῷ γάρ ἐστιν ἥμιν ἡ σωτηρία,
Πλὴν ἐκλαλουμένῳ τε, καὶ δηλουμένῳ.
Πηγῆς τί κέρδος ἐστὶν ἐμπεφραγμένης;
Τί δ’ ἡλιακῆς ἀκτῖνος, ἣν κρύπτει νέφος;
Τοιοῦτόν ἐστι νοῦς σοφὸς σιγώμενος,
Οἷον ῥόδου τὸ κάλλος, ὃ κάλυξ σκέπει
Οὐκ εὐπρεπές· τὸ τερπνὸν ἐκφαίνει δ’, ὅταν
Αὔραις ῥαγεῖσα τὸν τόκον θεατρίσῃ.
Εἰ δ’ ἦν ἀεὶ τὸ κάλλος ἐσκεπασμένον,
Οὐδ’ ἄν τις ἦρος ἦν χάρις τοῦ τιμίου.
Οὐδὲν πλέον ζητοῦμεν, ὡς οὕτω λαλεῖν,
Ὡς οἳ δοκοῦσιν εὐτελεῖς τὰ τοῦ λόγου.


ἐν αὐτῷ,
ΜΑΘΠ 

 


Hexameter from the Psalms.

~ Alex Poulos ~ 3 Comments

Since I’ve been reading the Psalms and the Iliad back to back, I’ve decided to write a bit of hexameter based on the Psalms.  These are scarcely great works of art, but do they allow me to practice the meter.  

Here’s my first offering, based on Ps. 36:31 (LXX).  

ἐν κράδιῃ νόμος τοῦ θεοῦ ἐστι, ἄνακτος ἐόντος. 
τοῦ δ᾽ὁδός οὐκ ἐδαμάσθη, ὠκίστ᾽ ἐρχεται αὐτῃ.
 
“The law of God is in his heart, as the Lord is present [with him].
His path has not been overthrown, and he goes swiftly in it.” 
 
The Psalm itself reads:
 
ὁ νόμος τοῦ θεοῦ αὐτοῦ ἐν καρδίᾳ αὐτοῦ,
καὶ οὐχ ὑποσκελισθήσεται τὰ διαβήματα αὐτοῦ.
 
“The law of God is in his heart,
and his steps will not be overthrown.” 
 
ἐν αὐτῷ,
ΜΑΘΠ 

“The Song of the Sacred Dance”- Gregory of Nazianzus, Greek Epic, and Christian Theology

~ Alex Poulos ~ 1 Comment

For my term paper in my Homer class, I’ll be examining the Homeric influences in Gregory of Nazianzus’s Poemata Arcana. These are the first eight of his dogmatic poems.  Written in the epic hexameter of Homer, the poems are exquisite statements of Christian dogma and aesthetics.  The third poem, entitled “On the Spirit” commences in dramatic fashion.  Indulge me as I translate a few lines (with suitable poetic license):


“O Soul, why are you troubled?
Sing the boast of the Spirit,
Lest you divide the one not made so by nature.
Let us tremble at this great Spirit,
My God, by whom I know God;
The Spirit of God in the Heavens,
Who yet makes me a god here on the Earth.
Almighty, All-giving, the Song of the Sacred Dance,
Bearer of Life, both seen and unseen;
Divine counselor, He proceeds from the Father;
Divine Spirit he goes un-bidden.
He is not the Child;
But one is worthy of such honor,
Yet apart from God he is not;
Divine, he is equal in nature.”

Θυμέ, τί δηθύνεις; καὶ Πνεύματος εὖχος ἄειδε,
μηδὲ τέμῃς μύθοισιν ὃ μὴ φύσις ἐκτὸς ἔθηκε.
Πνεῦμα μέγα τρομέωμεν, ὅ μοι θεός, ᾧ θεὸν ἔγνων,
ὃς θεός ἐστιν ἔναντα, καὶ ὅς Θεὸν ἐνθάδε τεύχει·
πανσθενές, αἰολόδωρον, ἁγνῆς ὕμνημα χορείης,>
οὐρανίων χθονίων τε φερέσβιον, ὑψιθόωκον,
Πατρόθεν ἐρχόμενον, θεῖον μένος, ἀυτοκέλευστον,
οὔτε Πάϊς (μοῦνος γὰρ ἑνὸς Πάϊς ἐσθλὸς ἀρίστου)
οὔτ᾽ ἐκτὸς θεότητος ἀειδέος, ἀλλ᾽ ὁμόδοξον.

If you look at the Greek, you’ll see quite a few differences: I make no apologies here. Translating poetry demands poetic license. Of course, I’m hardly a competent English poet. Hopefully, my translation brings out some of what is truly beautiful in the original. Gregory’s poetry is difficult, but stunning in its erudition and loveliness.

I’ve bolded a few things I found particularly interesting or appealing in the Greek. First, one has acknowledge Gregory’s debt to Homer. The very first word of the poem, θυμός, is extremely common word for soul or spirit in Homer. Likewise, his command to his soul to “sing the boast of the Spirit” uses Homer’s singing and boasting language. One is reminded of the very first line of the Iliad, “Wrath, Goddess, sing!” One thinks too of Homer’s heroes always boasting in their lineage. Before a battle there was usually an exchange of words, each opponent boasting in his family line. So too, Gregory exhorts his soul to boast in the Spirit, so that it may be prepared for battle with those who “divide what by nature is indivisible.”

Of course, Gregory writes as a Christian poet as well. Though Homer has an immeasurable influence on his form and vocabulary, Gregory melds with it a web of Christian influences and theology. One particularly glaring incident comes in the 7th line, where the Spirit is called, θεῖον μένος. Μένος is another extremely common Homeric word. It means something like our english word “spirit,” but a bit more like in our use of “high-spirited.” Sometimes “battle strength” or “battle rage” is more fitting (the flexibility is rather like the Latin animus). But here, the Spirit the divine μένος! Gregory has taken an extremely common Homeric word, and filled it entirely with new content.

The Scriptural resonances are evident as well. The first line, while clearly echoing Greek epic, also echoes the Psalmist, “why are you downcast O Soul!” The Spirit is the “bearer of Life” for both “the heavenly ones and the earthly ones,” which I translated “seen and unseen” to evoke the allusions to the great creed. But my favorite phrase of these lines definitely comes from the fifth line, where the Spirit is the “ἁγνῆς ὕμνημα χορείης,” “the Song of the Sacred Dance.” It is turns of phrase like that that have established Gregory as one of the greatest Christian poets. His use of language so carefully and beautifully exhibits the truth of Christian theology. The two meanings of orthodoxy, which is both true worship and true theology, come together exquisitely in Gregory. Rightly has the Church remembered with the simple epithet, “the Theologian.”

ἐν αὐτῷ
ΜΑΘΠ

Carmina Homeri I

~ Alex Poulos ~ 1 Comment

In a different vein from my normal posts, I thought I’d share a passage which I found particularly moving in Homer: Briseis’ lamentation for Patroklos in book 19. I’ve found female speeches in classical literature particularly moving. My favorite passages in Livy from last semester were probably Lucretia’s speech, and the speech of the Sabine women on the eve of the final battle between the Sabines and the Romans. In the same vein, I offer a bit of Homer here.

For those like me, who aren’t exactly up on their Homer, Briseis’ husband was killed in battle, and she was claimed as spoil by the Greeks for Achilles. Agamemnon then claimed her after he had to give up his own “seized woman,” which provoked the conflict between Agamemnon and Achilles that drives most of the Iliad. Patroklos, Achilles best-friend, was evidently gracious to Briseis, and here she morns his death after being brought to Achilles’ tent.

The Greek:


Βρισηῒς δ’ ἄρ’ ἔπειτ’ ἰκέλη χρυσέῃ Ἀφροδίτῃ
ὡς ἴδε Πάτροκλον δεδαϊγμένον ὀξέϊ χαλκῷ,
ἀμφ’ αὐτῷ χυμένη λίγ’ ἐκώκυε, χερσὶ δ’ ἄμυσσε
στήθεά τ’ ἠδ’ ἁπαλὴν δειρὴν ἰδὲ καλὰ πρόσωπα. (285)
εἶπε δ’ ἄρα κλαίουσα γυνὴ ἐϊκυῖα θεῇσι·
Πάτροκλέ μοι δειλῇ πλεῖστον κεχαρισμένε θυμῷ
ζωὸν μέν σε ἔλειπον ἐγὼ κλισίηθεν ἰοῦσα,
νῦν δέ σε τεθνηῶτα κιχάνομαι ὄρχαμε λαῶν
ἂψ ἀνιοῦσ’· ὥς μοι δέχεται κακὸν ἐκ κακοῦ αἰεί. (290)
ἄνδρα μὲν ᾧ ἔδοσάν με πατὴρ καὶ πότνια μήτηρ
εἶδον πρὸ πτόλιος δεδαϊγμένον ὀξέϊ χαλκῷ,
τρεῖς τε κασιγνήτους, τούς μοι μία γείνατο μήτηρ,
κηδείους, οἳ πάντες ὀλέθριον ἦμαρ ἐπέσπον.
οὐδὲ μὲν οὐδέ μ’ ἔασκες, ὅτ’ ἄνδρ’ ἐμὸν ὠκὺς Ἀχιλλεὺς
ἔκτεινεν, πέρσεν δὲ πόλιν θείοιο Μύνητος,
κλαίειν, ἀλλά μ’ ἔφασκες Ἀχιλλῆος θείοιο
κουριδίην ἄλοχον θήσειν, ἄξειν τ’ ἐνὶ νηυσὶν
ἐς Φθίην, δαίσειν δὲ γάμον μετὰ Μυρμιδόνεσσι.
τώ σ’ ἄμοτον κλαίω τεθνηότα μείλιχον αἰεί. (300)
Ὣς ἔφατο κλαίουσ’, ἐπὶ δὲ στενάχοντο γυναῖκες
Πάτροκλον πρόφασιν, σφῶν δ’ αὐτῶν κήδε’ ἑκάστη.

My own translation (which has no ambitions of merit nor poetry):


Briseis, then, like golden Aphrodite, when she saw Patroklos lying slain by sharp bronze, wailed loudly, throwing herself around him. She tore with her hand at her breast, her tender neck, and lovely face. Then the wailing woman, like one of the goddesses, spoke:

“Patroklos! you were so kind in spirit to my wretched self! I left from you while you were yet living, yet now I come upon you dead, O leader of the peoples! Evil from evil pours down upon me always. I saw the man, to whom my father and queenly mother gave me, slain by sharp bronze before the city, and my three brothers, whom all were born by a single mother, so very dear to me, all fall on that cursed day. But you would not permit me, when swift Achilles slew my own husband, and sacked the city of divine Munes, to weep. Rather you declared me to be the bride of godlike Achilles, and to take me in a ship to Phthia, and to give me a wedding feast among the Murmidons. Thus I weep your death insatiably, you who were always most kind to me.”

Thus she spoke, weeping, and the other women mourned around her. Patroklos was their excuse, but each had her own grounds for tears.

Though Homer’s greek has been not a little challenging, I find passages like this make the difficult work more than worthwhile!

ἐν αὐτῷ,

ΜΑΘΠ