“Saint Mary of Egypt”
(A Painting by Jusepe de Ribera)
Do not turn away,
Oh, holy mother.
The city haze
Opens to your mercy
As you plant my day
In the desert’s memory
Of ancient sunrays.
Your vigilant prayers
Bud forth and grow
Like fragrant flowers
From your holy ground,
From your bountiful hours
Clothed in a repentant garment
Under Christ’s guiding stars.
You are, in life and death,
The desert in bloom.
I am, in the cold darkness,
A jagged stone guilty beneath
Sin’s domain. Yet, I am drawn
To your image which has buried
Impure passions and desires.
Reaching out to touch the sand
On which you walk,
I encounter your eyes instead.
Compassion rejuvenates like pure water,
Invigorates like an unexpected oasis,
Uplifts over delusional walls
And into merciful salvation.
Step out, come and see,
Oh, holy mother,
My place in the world’s scenery
And my time in Christ’s mystery.
Hastening to your emaciated arms I will sing
Songs of gratitude for meeting me
In this picture of austerity and serenity.
Written 1993, Revised 2019
Copyright © 2019 Natalia J. Garland
“Saint Evphemia”
(A Painting by Andrea Mantegna)
Boughs of perfect fruits
Arch over the crown
Of Saint Evphemia,
Red and yellow
Offerings from the earth
That she lovingly tilled.
Sunlight forever emanates
From her patient face,
Sending daybreak’s
Invitation to erase
That tempting snake
Of night’s vile disgrace.
Her cape is fastened
By a single jewel,
Mirroring apples and figs,
Covering the origin
Of her neck and shoulders
With a conscience of velvet.
As though she feels unworthy
To show her embroidered dress,
Discreet threads of wisdom
Reveal geometric designs
To keep her heart warm
And her mind determined.
A sword pierces validation
Through her able side.
A young lady’s love
Is so dangerously serious
While she is alive,
Bountiful as strawberries
Fresh from a patch
Of Christ’s own.
Death’s servants only prepared
Her faith to be known
Among the living prayerful
Where new seeds are sown.
She holds a white lily
Constantly in bloom,
Ready to listen
To silence and bluebirds
And songs that linger
Like incense and blessings.
A lion rests its head
Upon her lowered arm.
For years I have hunted,
But never expected to arrive
At the feet of Saint Evphemia,
Whether altar or arena.
Written 1993, Revised 2019
Copyright © 2019 Natalia J. Garland
“Saint Catherine Disputing and Two Donors”
(A Painting by Cenni di Francesco di Ser Cenni)
Merry Christmas, says Saint Catherine,
To you who are dying in the shadow of Maxentius.
Arise and find ultimate meaning in the sacred calling
Of humility, and drink freely of the purity of my mind.
It is always an abundant morning, she says,
When I think the thoughts of Christ.
Each step I take is holy and indisputable
When I imitate the merciful deeds of Christ.
Give to those who cannot give back,
As the Virgin Mary gave her Son to me.
Rejoice, wear my ring, and nothing lack
In wisdom, compassion and peace.
Merry Christmas, I reply, O holy saint of mine,
You gave your life in witness of undying faith.
The Word became flesh and you His worthy martyr,
That I might bring my empty cup to an eternal fountain.
As could be predicted, you are right and true,
For I have nothing to give in return for your kindness.
Accept this, if you will, my belief and trust
Which I place in our Christmas thoughts united.
Written 1993, Revised 2019
Copyright © 2019 Natalia J. Garland
Reunion with Wordsworth
It was half a lifetime ago that I read those lines:
Yes, those “Recollections of Early Childhood.”
William, today we meet again in the library:
You, in a volume embossed with gold,
And I, with my weary hands searching
Through the shelves of time for vanished youth.
Years ago I was already exhausted and aging,
But I found consolation in your truth.
No less thankful am I at your present greeting,
For it allows me to recover those early years
Of laborious thought, and to begin creating
A rhyme for the adulthood which I now hold dear.
My gain is double, picking this flower twice,
Refreshing my heart with its delicate persistence.
This private hour spent with you will suffice
To direct me to a greater and sweeter distance.
Oh, questions and answers made the student old,
Even though I daydreamed in all my classes.
Still, I carried all the books my arms could hold,
Longing for their return caress.
The tender mind will always study alone
Whether the book remains open or is closed.
What must be faced is that inward home
From which bare thoughts are dressed in words,
Into which no friend or scholar can perceive the deep
And radiant strains of my bouquet’s singular petals.
Only heavenly grace can sustain the poet’s need
To reflect on youthful days and time’s passing.
William, I shall sit with you next year in May
When the daffodils bring you renewed delight.
Then, we can mediate further on that sunny day
And go forward with a mature yet courageous mind.
Written 1984, Revised 2013
Copyright © 2013 Natalia J. Garland
The Clock Stopped Ticking
Suddenly the room became soundless
When time’s movement refused to relinquish
The next breath of its storehouse of minutes —
From its inward and measured repetition,
From inside its circle of luminous tick-tock.
Now, the markings of the past are permanent
Within the broken space which I had attended,
While the air is mute in suspended pain.
Must this minute be eternally divided?
Why is there no more music, be it sad
Or festive? Why no butterfly in the field,
Though its bright wings escape my hand?
Forced into the past, without a window
To bring the fresh air of morning,
I see my heart like the heavy walls
Burdened forever with fixed mementos.
I never expected time to die as such, so stifled,
Not being lifted to a final destination, and I
Not noticing the world invade even my solitude
With its confusing ways and prying eyes.
Return to me, oh unbroken progression
Of nights and days, and of old into new.
Carry me into the next minute’s readiness.
Finish your deliberation and let me continue
To collect souvenirs from the resultant seasons.
Then, I ran with hope to my clock, the province
Of possible new beginnings, and I shook it to see
If it had saved any minutes for my safe passage.
The clock began to tick yet again
With the steady movement of its hands.
I held its life in my hands
And placed it softly on the table.
Written 1984, Revised 2013
Copyright © 2013 Natalia J. Garland
Poems to Peruse 