Jan 2018
I heard that Russian tongue but once
Slavonic syllables spilling with facility
From the lips of a venerable old man
An aged Croat friar reciting poetry
His eyes shone with that joy authentic
Which is the sweet fruit of deep, long, suffering
A happy man who remembers pain
A brave man who has not forgotten fear
With sly wink and a mischievous grin
He reminded his shocked parishioners
That his schooling was not Croatian
That his youth was Yugoslav
Naturally, we asked about that red time
When red meant a new order
When red meant fire burning churches
When red meant martyr’s witness
But he only ever said one thing:
“They killed thousands of priests,”
Was how he summed up the wrong,
And with a grim grin he added simply
“But… we were strong.”
Slavonic syllables spilling with facility
From the lips of a venerable old man
An aged Croat friar reciting poetry
His eyes shone with that joy authentic
Which is the sweet fruit of deep, long, suffering
A happy man who remembers pain
A brave man who has not forgotten fear
With sly wink and a mischievous grin
He reminded his shocked parishioners
That his schooling was not Croatian
That his youth was Yugoslav
Naturally, we asked about that red time
When red meant a new order
When red meant fire burning churches
When red meant martyr’s witness
But he only ever said one thing:
“They killed thousands of priests,”
Was how he summed up the wrong,
And with a grim grin he added simply
“But… we were strong.”
This was inspired by Lawrence Hall's Russian Series, which I have been reading with delight.
While I've read a touch of Tolstoy and Dostoyevksy, as an ethnic Croat who grew up at an ethnically Croatian parish church, the largest part of my encounter with anything Russian has been the oral tradition of a people who has a long memory for recalling wrongs they have suffered, both real and imagined. Croatians do not remember the era of Yugoslavia with fondness, but my pastor never had anything more to say on the topic than that they suffered, but were strong. He still can recite Russian poetry from memory. I hope that this serves as a worthy, however humble, tribute to Lawrence Hall's series of pieces, which span with ease the range from serious to fun, including much, most edifying, in between.
While I've read a touch of Tolstoy and Dostoyevksy, as an ethnic Croat who grew up at an ethnically Croatian parish church, the largest part of my encounter with anything Russian has been the oral tradition of a people who has a long memory for recalling wrongs they have suffered, both real and imagined. Croatians do not remember the era of Yugoslavia with fondness, but my pastor never had anything more to say on the topic than that they suffered, but were strong. He still can recite Russian poetry from memory. I hope that this serves as a worthy, however humble, tribute to Lawrence Hall's series of pieces, which span with ease the range from serious to fun, including much, most edifying, in between.
