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Words
That Make Us Friends
By Doug Talley
The longer I pursue my interest in poetry, the more
I become convinced that literature has little to do with accomplishment
and a great deal to do with friendship. Of course, just about
every writer wishes to publish a poem or a book, but I wonder
if there is not greater reward in the process of writing and
communicating than in actual publication. The process usually
rubs us up to people, to ourselves and others and perhaps
even to God, and ideally puts us into proper relationship
one with another as friends.
I review a great many poetry submissions to this column,
which for one reason or another I am unable to use, but invariably
I find myself enriched by brief glimpses into the lives of
others, as detailed in the submissions themselves and the
accompanying e-mails and biographical notes. I learn that
sons and daughters are sent to war, that a young couple striving
and praying long to conceive a child is finally blessed with
triplets, or that an elderly couple with a dozen grandchildren
still enjoy hoeing the garden together. I am grieved to hear
of loved ones, especially infants, who pass away. I receive
submissions from those dying of cancer, who have never thought
of writing poetry before, but at a late date feel something
of worth to pass on. In reviewing the e-mails of submitters
and readers I receive a dose of life. The submitted poetry
itself might be rough and unaccomplished, and yet something
of our shared humanity is conveyed nonetheless. For the privilege
of reading submissions, I am grateful.
To have to reply to any contributor with a rejection
slip is a difficult labor, especially when one has offered
a rich personal snapshot of life. It is a bitter, disagreeable
task to reward such kindness so coldly. To all those who
have written, I say thank you. If nothing else, I have felt
friendship in your words.
The Welcome Help of Readers
Some readers have responded with helpful suggestions,
which I thought to share in this month’s column. A while
back I had sent out plea to learn more about the forgotten
poetry of Sister Mary Madeleva. I had stumbled upon some
fragments of her poetry while rummaging through the storage
boxes of a monastery, but after a fair amount of searching
could not find a single book of hers still in print. Several
readers responded with solid information. One reader wrote
the following:
Dear Doug Talley,
You can find many of Sister M. Madeleva's
books on http://www.abebooks.com/
Just enter "Madeleva" in the author box in the "search"
box - I got 186 hits (many duplicates) Enjoy your shopping!
Thanks for writing about her - very
interesting!
Lynn Varey
I had never heard of the abebooks website, but sure
enough, it offered a rich sampling of Sister Madeleva’s books.
Another reader wrote:
OK.
This is the last time I will bug you for a while... Here is
a little treat for you~ I've transcribed some of her poems...
AND, I found you a little volume: (first edition, and signed!)
Title: KNIGHTS ERRANT AND OTHER POEMS. Inscribed by
Author. Author: Madeleva, Sister M
Description:
New York, NY: D. Appleton and Company, 1923.
First Edition. Signed and Inscribed by Author xiv, 77 pages
of text, followed by [ii] of publisher's advertisement. Green
hardcover cloth binding with minimal rubbing to extremities;
spine slightly darkened. No dustjacket. Front endpaper inscribed
by author "For Mercedes and Frank...[signed] Sister M.
Madeleva." A clean, tight and attractive copy of this
publication. Very good condition.
ENJOY!
Yours in Truth and Beauty,
Rebecca Everett
Among
the poems written by Sister Madeleva, which Rebecca Everett
shared with me, were the following gems. Sister Madeleva
conveys a fervent religious passion, skillfully articulated,
both intimate and detached at the same time, which is a rare
accomplishment in modern poetry. The lawyer in me concluded
I can avail myself of the “fair use” exception to copyright
law, and so I reprint a few poems here in order to pique a
broader and deeper interest in her work, and to encourage
readers to seek out the few remaining copies of her books
still in print.
Poems
by Sister Mary Madeleva, C.S.C.:
In Desert Places
God
has a way of making flowers grow.
He is both daring and direct about it.
If you know half the flowers that I know,
You do not doubt it.
He chooses some gray rock, austere and high,
For garden-plot, trafficks with sun and weather;
Then lifts an Indian paintbrush to the sky,
Half flame, half feather.
In desert places it is quite the same;
He delves at petal-plans, divinely, surely,
Until a bud too shy to have a name
Blossoms demurely.
He dares to sow the waste, to plow the rock.
Though Eden knew His beauty and His power,
He could not plant in it a yucca stalk,
A cactus flower.
(from A Question of Lovers)
Mirrors
I
seek you always. Have I never seen you?
Let's ask if any bird has seen the air,
Or flower the light, though these are everywhere.
Choose any veil you will. Set it between you
And my beholding. Know it shall not screen you
From me. What occult vestures you may wear,
Too dread or dull or difficult to bear,
Are mirrors meaning naught unless they mean you.
Is beauty something I cannot discover?
Is truth a thing that only children know?
Are you not mine who are the whole world's lover?
Can I not find you in all winds that blow,
In the wild loneliness of lark and plover,
In slender shadow trees upon the snow?
(from Four Girls)
Desert Sunset
Sunset
stood at the edge of the world, apart in the west,
Virginal calm, aloof, in golden austerity dressed.
Soft little twilight winds and birds and clouds had flown;
Sunset stood on the lone horizon, wistful, alone,
Clad in dispassionate amber from foot to beautiful head,
Whence all the shining, shimmering glamour of life had fled.
Almost I thought her a queen, so splendidly simple she stood;
Almost I thought her a poet in the arms of an elate mood,
Until I saw the day look down at her from the blue
In vain, and the night look up in vain; then I knew
That virginal, consecrate, lone must sunset forever be,
Taking her mystic way to the heart of eternity.
Aye, and my soul stood there, too, at the utter edge of the
world,
Plighted, like her, and elate, in golden wonder furled.
(from Penelope)
The
Four Last Things: Collected Poems (1959)
Hopefully,
these poems will prove of some interest to Meridian’s readership
and inspire further digging into Sister Madeleva’s work.
And again, I am most grateful for your comments and submissions.
Keep them coming! In some happy, modest way our shared words
are turning us into friends.
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