Mary

Today is the feast of Mary the mother of Jesus. (At least, yesterday was, but yesterday was a Sunday; so some of us observe it today.)

I don't think this is the best thing I've ever written, and critics have said it's not painful enough. But it's the best I have for today, so you can read it anyway.

Her soul proclaimed the greatness of the Lord
who dwelt within her belly, and her mind.
The light shines on, the humble are restored,
and food and mercy given to mankind.
That day she saw the everlasting light
she memorised, and treasured up inside,
investing for the fading of her sight
the hope that living light had never died;
till hope itself within her arms lay dying,
a frozen journey, ready to embark,
and nothing more is left for her but trying
to comprehend the greatness of the dark;
yet somewhere shines the light in spite of that,
and silently she sobbed magnificat.

Edna St Vincent Millay

I went to the bookshop and bought a book of poems by Edna St Vincent Millay. Here is one of them which I thought was rather beautiful for the idea, and the casual diction which nonetheless makes a perfect sonnet. I wanted to share it with you.

If I should learn, in some quite casual way,
that you were gone, not to return again—
read from the back-page of a paper, say,
held by a neighbour in a subway train,
how at the corner of this avenue
and such a street (so are the papers filled)
a hurrying man— who happened to be you—
at noon to-day had happened to be killed,
I should not cry aloud— I could not cry
aloud, or wring my hands in such a place—
I should but watch the station lights rush by
with a more careful interest on my face,
or raise my eyes and read with greater care
where to store furs and how to treat the hair.