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
“…you will go forth from these walls, but will live like a monk in the world.”
-Father Zossima to Alyosha in The Brothers Karamazov
Every vocation is a novitiate And every labor a monastic prayer: Matins and Lauds are sung over coffee, Then Terce for the plough, the lathe, and the wheel
Sext is gratitude for the midday meal And None is the hour for downing tools Soft Vespers is the song of happy homes ‘Til Compline sends all good folk to their beds -
Final vows are taken at death; for now, Every vocation is a novitiate
She was the strangest football fan I'd ever met, Between match programmes and leaflets she hid Nietzsche and Thoreau; Philosophy being a bright passion of hers, It all seemed so natural in her visage. On days, she'd hum You'll Never Walk Alone While turning delicately the pages of a new text, Smiling at the words that appeared before her on the page. Dorian Gray, she took time to point out, Kept her fascinated— But it was always going to be Nietzsche, And the first time she strummed the pages of Thus Spoke Zarathustra it was as if the humming had turned to fire, And she was melded with the page. I would believe only in a god who could dance. If you asked her who she favoured, she would reply back with a chirp, the Russians! And hold to you a copy of Dostoyevsky, Crime and Punishment, she said, was her fascination And she'd as fluidly as ever switch back to the fixtures. Never passion, always fancy. It was as if viewing herself through a third party lens. Her passion for the game, As mysterious as her gentle touch on softer pages. How could she love so drastically? Football, her passion, But her books were her mystery to all, to even herself, And the quiet murmur of Nietzsche, her nectar.
