"ikons" poems
I love the church: its labara,
its silver vessels, its candleholders,
the lights, the ikons, the pulpit.
Whenever I go there, into a church of the Greeks,
with its aroma of incense,
its liturgical chanting and harmony,
the majestic presence of the priests,
dazzling in their ornate vestments,
the solemn rhythm of their gestures-
my thoughts turn to the great glories of our race,
to the splendor of our Byzantine heritage.
3.1k
For Anastasia
*Give patience, Lord, to us Thy children
In these dark, stormy days to bear
The persecution of our people,
The torture falling to our share.
--
When we are plundered and insulted
In days of mutinous unrest
We turn for help to thee, Christ-Saviour,
That we may stand the bitter test.
-Grand Duchess Olga Nikolaevna Romanov*
Weakened by the revolutionists,
they lived their last days out simply.
Cold borscht and cabbage rolls.
The family was herded to the slaughter house.
Precious jewels and ikons sewn into their clothing,
Give strength, Just God, to us who need it.
The baby boy was butchered like a suckling piglet.
Low ceilings and dim light made it hard
to take aim and fire. Tears and prayers collided
with bullets and blood, spattered on the walls.
A thick cloud of smoke and plaster settled
upon a dynasty dead.
She raised herself from the dead,
Clawing, moaning, screaming,
stifled by blood--
Then disappeared, falling into
the abyss of immortality.
Jun 26, 2010
Jun 26, 2010 at 5:56 PM UTC
On one side of Alexander Palace Papa stroked
his coiffed whiskers, pacing back and forth
in his simple study.
Ikons and photographs of family
Watched him all waiting in anticipation
for the news.
On the opposite side of the palace, Mama clenched
her dainty jaws, tears of joy and pain
streamed down her face.
Grigori led the Monks in chant, murmuring
prayers to the Theotokos, asking for protection
and health for the imp-child.
The imperial sheets matched the mauve room.
The resurrection child was born.
The news reached Papa thirty minutes later.
Disappointed in her grandiose arrival,
he delayed their first meeting.
The parade outside the palace
Dispersed, they too disappointed.
Jun 26, 2010
Jun 26, 2010 at 5:53 PM UTC
ICU Waiting Room in Advent
Artistic gilded deer repose in peace
Among the store-room-dusty plastic leaves
Of decorator-decorated wreaths;
From thence they gaze serenely down upon
Sneeze-spotted pics in People magazine
And empty coffee cups recyled from
Recycled natural fibers recycled
From green fair trade recycled soy inks.
No ikons grace this dying-place, no cross,
No crucifix to focus farewell prayers;
Christ’s people gather lovingly around,
Their baseball caps thrall-ringed about their heads
In devout remembrance of passing souls.
Their cell-phone aps pass through their vague, weak eyes
As once the ancient biddings and prayer-worn beads
Slipped gently through the lips and hands of men.
Dec 11, 2016
Dec 11, 2016 at 4:37 PM UTC
“…and looking at a picture on the opposite wall.”
-C. S. Lewis, The Voyage of the Dawn Treader
Ikons are windows to another World
Of Theos and Theotokos, of our saints
Some as merry as yet are others stern
While forming from the prayerful writer’s 1 hand
And in the saints the Light of God shines through
True witnesses to that transcendental Truth
And so we pause and with a candle catch
The prayer-light of their eternity
(As does the bedes-spider 2 who lives there)
Ikons are windows to that truer World
1 In Orthodoxy an ikon is said to be written rather than drawn or painted, but y’r ‘umble scrivener is no authority; the reader might begin a study of ikons / icons with:
http://www.pravmir.com/how-to-sep-up-an-icon-corner-at-home/
2 An Orthodox friend discovered that a spider had made its home among his ikons, and so in peace and hierarchical obedience the little creature served God as a sort of canon, or perhaps a bedes-spider, until its death.
Dec 29, 2018
Dec 29, 2018 at 4:27 PM UTC
Dostoyevsky’s House of the Dead
In shackles of shame and under the rod
Our brothers lie upon the Russian earth
In penance suffering for the sins of all
Their common cell is floored with filth and mud
Their common bed a shelf of planks and fleas
Their common air befouled with stench and pain
Their several labors in the heat and cold
That blow the seasons lost across the steppes
Exhaust their limbs and cruelly tease their eyes
With river-visions of what might have been
For them there is no hope within this world
And yet
At drumbeat-dawn there is hardly a man
Who does not kneel before the ikons nailed
As surely to the wall as convicts’ sins
Are nailed with Jesus to the shameful Cross
And take that Cross unto himself in depths
Of degradation and despair that bless
The bad thief first, and even so, the good
Nov 15, 2016
Nov 15, 2016 at 8:51 PM UTC
The transience
of everyday events.
The fear
that much experience
will pass me by.
These fleeting concerns
disturb my waking hours
and interrupt my sleep.
I lack a strength
of purpose.
I deplore
the weakness of my mind;
the doubts
that happiness will yet return;
that new growth of spirit
will spring from old;
that I will retain the faith
to go on building
from every death
that decimates my world.
And
I owe a debt.
I have a commitment.
I must maintain the will
to go on fighting.
I must retain the hope
that life and love
may yet be won.
And I must accept the fact
that dogmas may vanish,
that temples may fall,
that ikons may crumble,
and credence
may moulder.
But
Earth Abides
Aug 23, 2017
Aug 23, 2017 at 1:46 PM UTC
Dostoyevsky’s House of the Dead
In shackles of shame and under the rod
Our brothers lie upon the Russian earth
In penance suffering for the sins of all
Their common cell is floored with filth and mud
Their common bed a shelf of planks and fleas
Their common air befouled with stench and pain
Their several labors in the heat and cold
That blow the seasons lost across the steppes
Exhaust their limbs and cruelly tease their eyes
With river-visions of what might have been
For them there is no hope within this world
And yet
At drumbeat-dawn there is hardly a man
Who does not kneel before the ikons nailed
As surely to the wall as convicts’ sins
Are nailed with Jesus to the shameful Cross
And take that Cross unto himself in depths
Of degradation and despair that bless
The bad thief first, and even so, the good
Feb 24, 2018
Feb 24, 2018 at 3:49 PM UTC