More on: Nicholas Samaras

What would you give / / to have heaven be the way you imagine, / made of the familiar and welcoming?

Brother, at your grave, we stood gathered under Thanksgiving trees bare with wind. When the words had been said, I expected silence to resume. But your pale fiancée placed an incongruous stereo on your new earth, pressed the red button and the brief world opened to song. I stood amazed as music broke forward. Stunned,…

Lord, let your face be lined. Lord, let your hair be gray with patience. Holy Father, let your cheeks be silver with long growth as you put up with me and put up with me. Lord, let your face be a blazon of parts in which I can name you sufficient to be seen in…

Then, the Lord heard me in the wilderness of my soul. Then, the lost place of me became clear. Then, I recognized distraction for what it is. Then, I was freed from the desert of diversion. Then, I was moved to the green oasis within me. Then, the still voice of the Lord was as…

I love the fierce wind outside my window but know I would freeze in it. I love the fierce wind from where I view it. I love to wake and feel the presence of the Lord within. I feel his presence only to lose it, lose his presence only to feel it return. I am…

The summer issue of Image includes four poems by Nicholas Samaras, one of which was influenced by Michael Sitaras’ conceptual art project, Sacred Air. All poems are part of his work on a book of poems in response to the biblical Psalms. We asked Nicholas how these poems began.   Image: You’ve been working on…

Where the Lord lives in heaven, is he lonely? Does our Father walk his marble floors without the company of anyone righteous? Who alone is venerable enough to keep the Lord company? My voice is small, yet I call to your house, Lord. Does the wind enter your chambers and rooms, cold and empty? Where…

      Cave of the Apocalypse   Whenever it happened, the cavern would illuminate from no source. The air would dry and warm, the hair along my arms slightly rising. There was a living pressure, a vibration in the air, a vibration I couldn’t name or grasp or articulate. The rock ceiling, now cloven into three…

When did my life become the past? When did our new world, the new creation, the fulfillment of everything, become patience? We worship patience now. This island effaces with endurance, our lives that grow into longsuffering. A smile to notice how an island’s stony perimeter is much like the end of the world. How the…

Sometimes, I miss the Aramaic of youth. Then, the personal flame came over us and we spoke to the numb nations— until the nations winnowed and muted us, but not breaking the spirit of our speech. Now, I live in the breeze’s murmur, the native tongues to which the soul responds, a language that comforts…