Two Poems

Maurya Simon

Two Saints in Bethlehem

They labor side by side, reworking Ecclesiastes,
Paula sometimes vexed by Jerome's inferior Greek,
though she praises his diligent metamorphosis,
his growing "spiritual manhood," a phrase which,

when he says it, reddens her cheeks. As always,
they toil to revitalize the old Latin versions, replace
the Hebrew omissions, winnow out redundancies
and musty renditions of their sacred Scriptures.

Despite the first sudden rainfall of the season,
a horned owl perches above the sodden eaves,
hooting mildly; its distracting notes remind him
now of the proverb: The ass listened to the lyre,

the pig to the trumpet. They listen to the Spirit,
translating through the night, avoiding any
adultery of the tongue (that affected lisp some
Romans adopt to belie their country breeding).

As dawn enters his room, Paula bows to prayer.
She has thinned to a transparency of herself,
and he sees that her sackcloth is ragged but clean.
Her piety's unrivalled; her womb's turned golden.

Together they shun the hearth, endure the cold that
seeps into their fingers. Though he sates his hunger
with the cherries Eustochium sent, Paula fasts
again, bending close to read her threadbare missal.

What honey is sweeter than to know God's wisdom?
Our riches are to meditate in the law of our Lord
day and night, to knock at the closed door,
to receive the "three loaves of the Trinity,"

and, when the Lord goes before us,
to walk upon the water of the world.

October, 387 C.E.

Visit Maurya Simon as Image Artist of the Month for April 2004

Issue #37 • Winter 2002-2003