Gethsemane
I want to tell the story. But—
there is no approaching this,
strange crux
of everything.
Come at it sideways.
Come at it from the edge.
Picture, then,
a hardscrabble patch of land.
Rocks. An olive tree. Sparse,
straggling desert grass. The rocks
have been waiting. The wind
has been waiting. The living souls nearby
sleep through the whole thing.
(This is important. I have slept
through many things.)
And then—
What
can be known? There has never been
any moment more private
nor more public.
So.
What I know: the screaming windy cliff
of unavoidable onus, the weight
of what must be done.
For me, it was the abyss
of being about to give birth. The way
the self shrinks
to a pinpoint in a vacuum, the way
one becomes lost, faceless,
the way
the thought that there is another soul depending on you
can pull you inside out and through
to a new place.
But of course
even in that, my most impossible moment,
he was already there,
having been there before me.
Oh, how is a human
to comprehend godly heartbreak?
Might as well teach a point on a line
about temples and spires,
about stars. It’s a matter of dimension:
impossible geometry.
What we know:
he went to a place.
He knew that ahead of him
was a pain yet unknown in the world,
extra-dimensional. That
seeing it, he, who had maybe
never known fear before this,
asked to be excused,
but not really.
We know:
the contemplation of that pain
was so terrible it required the ministration
of an angel before it could be approached.
We know:
at point zero
he was left alone
in a way no human can comprehend.
We know:
he came out on the other side
gentle, generous,
quieter.
Forever after,
he would say very little about it.
Only: shrink.
Only: nevertheless.
Purchased
Ho, every one that thirsteth, come ye to the waters, and he that hath no
money; come ye, buy, and eat; yea, come, buy wine and milk without
money and without price.
Isaiah 55:1
My hand is always reaching
for my purse, Lord,
digging among the Kleenex and chapsticks for spare change.
But you, who’ve spared me, stare
at the grubby coins I offer up—
self-flagellation, martyr’s trudge, deep sighs—
and smile fondly. Silly girl.
How I’ve got it wrong,
this contract between us.
You give me:
the universe,
sunlight in my kitchen,
peaches.
You ask of me:
a lifted chin,
open palms.
I would beg forgiveness for my pocket patting
but even that you’ve already given.
The only thing you refuse me at all
is the right to pay up,
knowing, as you do,
it would make me
just too grimly just
for heaven.
Pantoum for Mary at the Tomb
(after Why Weepest Thou?, a painting by J. Kirk Richards)
Her weeping is the only sound; the birds hold their breath.
What’s missing, what she fears—this is all she can think.
She has her back to Him. If only she would turn around.
Curled in on herself, she perches between light and
what’s missing. What she fears is all. She can think
her arm braces her, but it blocks her progress,
curled in as she is on herself, perched between dark and
the light which, coming from above, catches both aslant.
She braces herself, but her arm blocks her progress.
We observe from ground level. We know the secret.
We see through the light from above that catches both aslant:
He is there, endlessly patient.
Observing from ground level, we know the secret:
this is the moment just before the moment of what matters;
He is there, endlessly patient.
He waits for her to turn her face to the future before he calls to her.
In this moment just before the moment of what matters,
the sun is shifting. The shadow on His face will withdraw
as He waits for her to turn her face to the future. Before He calls to her,
His face, though hidden, is bent toward her.
As the sun shifts, the shadow over His face will withdraw.
His palms are open; surely comfort is there.
His face, though hidden, is bent toward her.
He is about to call her name.
He stands with comfort in His open palms;
I want to tell her to turn around. Maybe
He is about to call her name, and then
all shall be well, and all shall be well.
I want to tell her to turn around. Maybe
it’s His love for her, in her pain, that makes Him pause.
All shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well,
but we are all, each, stuck in this moment.
Perhaps in His pauses, in our pain, there is love for us.
If she could stop weeping, she might hear the birds.
Everyone alive is stuck in this moment.
I want to turn around.
Darlene Young’s poetry collection, Homespun and Angel Feathers (BCC Press, 2019) won the Association for Mormon Letters 2019 prize for poetry. She teaches Creative Writing at Brigham Young University and has served as poetry editor of Dialogue journal and Segullah. Her work has been noted in Best American Essays and nominated for Pushcart prizes. She and her husband have four sons and live in South Jordan, Utah.
About the poems
►“Gethsemane” and “Pantoum for Mary in the Tomb” both appeared first in Homespun and Angel Feathers. Of “Gethsemane,” she says, “I was asked to write some poems about Jesus’ life for an exhibit at BYU. I prefer poetry that is very close in the speaker’s point of view, very visceral and scene-based, but I found it hard to imagine such an important moment. I also find religious poetry most interesting when it is about the juxtaposition of worshipper, worshipped, and the details of real life. I decided, then, to write the poem about the difficulty of imagining that scene in the garden which is so important to all of us.”
