“Root is what I am, rootpoet here at home among the worms, finding here the poem’s terms.” —Miklos Radnoti, August 8, 1944
If, as it seems, art is nothing, nothing at all— some sleep only that lulls us toward trees, what to make of these poems, Miklos, where you ordered a life into lines? That brutal stumble through the mountains might have said enough. Or those curses sneered by villagers, one pausing near the water well to dust and dust his sleeves. Finally, you with the rest, worn through, too settled for another step, were forced to dig and dig your graves, then
kneel at last on the uncalmed earth there. What is that light against the fields? Why, after all that had been done? They sought to sever tongues from thoughts—those soldiers, certain in their silence, who carved from hurt this tender fruit words could have grown and given seed. Miklos, these hidden poems, found folded in your pocket. . . . Prove, history, how the world speaks deeper than decay: this murmur pulled from underground, with its challenge of a purer sound and song.
“Each time that we have some pain to go through, we can say to ourselves quite truly that it is the universe, the order and beauty of the world, and the obedience of creation to God that are entering our body. After that, how can we fail to bless with tenderest gratitude the Love that sends us this gift?” —Simone Weil
The pathology report an icon; the tissue staining the slide, God’s kaleidoscope. And those cells, obeying their DNA, cosmic dust as they whirl and split. Why not praise cancer, relentless, blind, that seeks and finds the lymph and blood? Because I am unthankful, rude. Because if I linger over this gift, I will change, I will vanish from the earth. In Russia, an icon of Mary has wept for twenty years. Mary, do you see my nuclei mutating, like words in “whisper down the lane”? This same God took your son away. Help me disobey.