Skip to content

Log Out

×

Poetry

This chasm. Quite simply, the abyss.
Gale in a sultry church.

Out of the dark the voices of seraphim.
A beauty impossible to bear.

A theology of opposites:
in Christmas hymns
this sorrow like a lidless coffin.

Humble, the unknown soloist
folds his hands and bows his head
in gratitude for the applause.

Suddenly we’re ashamed to clap.

A small Romanian boy,
colorful banner in hand,
processes round a pew.

The mourning cloth
has not yet stirred.

God’s nothingness
rustles.

 

Translated from the Polish by Karen Kovacik

Image depends on its subscribers and supporters. Join the conversation and make a contribution today.

+ Click here to make a donation.

+ Click here to subscribe to Image.


The Image archive is supported in part by an award from the National Endowment for the Arts.

Receive ImageUpdate, our free weekly newsletter featuring the best from Image and the world of arts & faith

* indicates required