www.byzcath.org Forums General Discussions Town Hall Who are your favorite spiritual poets?

I have several. When I was learning Polish, I was deeply moved by the poetry of Fr. Jan Twardowski. He has a poem Rana (Wound).

Original: Rany Twej lewej stopy nie widac na Krzyzu...

przykryta stopa prawa - by nie ogladano
trudno sekretu dyskretnym dotrzymac
aniolowie na trabkach zaraz wydmuchali
ze tak sie stalo

do niej sie modli przetracone szczescie
kolaboranci nielegalna milosc
ten kto na starosc przyszedl sie wyplakac
ze trudniej kochac bliznich niz malego fiata
pobitych rana - ta kt�rej nie widac

modli sie Swiety J�zef z mokra lilia w reku
i sikorka bez pary co idzie spac sama


My translation:
The wound on your left foot, it is unseen on the cross
it is covered by the right foot, as it is not to be seen
it is hard for a secret to keep itself silent
angels announced on their trumpets announced right away
that it took place

it is to [the left foot] that prays happiness interrupted
and unlawful lovers
the one who in his old age came to lament
that it is harder to love your neighbors than a little Fiat
it is the wound of the defeated - the unseen one

prays St. Joseph with a wet lily in his hand
and the little tit bird without a mate, that goes to sleep alone

I'm not normally big on poetry and in fact on fiction altogether. My favorite type of reading is non-fiction, high level journalism, etc. But at times, poetry touches my heart.


I am not well familiar with spiritual works of other classical authors, including Russian, British, and American. I like modern, rhymeless poems.

Of course, the most powerful spiritual poetry is the prayers and hymns, canons and akathists, of the Church. Every time I sing Lord, Now Lettest Thou Thy Servant Depart in Peace, I get emotional.

Here is my most loved Russian rendition:



And the Psalm of David by Rakhmaninoff!

As the Feast of the Presentation/Purification approaches my favorite poet is T.S. Eliot:

A SONG FOR SIMEON

Lord, the Roman hyacinths are blooming in bowls and
The winter sun creeps by the snow hills;
The stubborn season has made stand.
My life is light, waiting for the death wind,
Like a feather on the back of my hand.
Dust in the sunlight and memory in corners
Wait for the wind that chills towards the dead land.

Grant us thy peace.
I have walked many years in this city,
Kept faith and fast, provided for the poor,
Have given and taken honour and ease.
There went never any rejected from my door.
Who shall remember my house, where shall live my children's children
When time of sorrow is come?
They will take to the goat's path, and the fox's home,
Fleeing from the foreign faces and the foreign swords.

Before the time of cords and scourges and lamentation
Grant us thy peace.
Before the stations of the mountain of desolation,
Before the certain hour of maternal sorrow,
Now at this birth season of decease,
Let the Infant, the still unspeaking and unspoken Word,
Grant Israel's consolation
To one who has eighty years and no to-morrow.

According to thy word.
They shall praise Thee and suffer in every generation
With glory and derision,
Light upon light, mounting the saints' stair.
Not for me the martyrdom, the ecstasy of thought and prayer,
Not for me the ultimate vision.
Grant me thy peace.
(And a sword shall pierce thy heart,
Thine also.)
I am tired with my own life and the lives of those after me,
I am dying in my own death and the deaths of those after me.
Let thy servant depart,
Having seen thy salvation.


-T.S. Eliot

Thank you, Thomas the Seeker.

I grew up listening along with my Mom to her tapes and heard "My Sweet Lord" sung by George Harrison with his timeless guitar. Then I grew up and discovered the Billy Preston version!

Here are both versions of this beloved song of mine: