Garden 1
Abu Ward imagined
bombs were Beethoven's 5th symphony.
As strings screamed in the sky above Aleppo,
he bent his head over a tender stem.
This will live, and we will live, despite everything.
Now, my son, angry tanks roar,
smoke blinds, walls shake.
But for now,
here in center of this city,
thanks be to God
this bud will unfold,
petal by petal, like a piano sonata.
God steals into the night,
opens flowers one by one.
Azaleas sing bright as a choir
as my aunt trips under a spreading dogwood.
She skids across pebbles,
spills her purse into downy clover.
From the roses
strangers appear, caressing her hands,
Stand up, take it easy, are you all right?
She finds a quiet place and weeps.
Soon it will be time to return to the hospital,
to my uncle fissured by tubes. For now
her sorrow unfolds, petal by petal,
like a piano sonata. Could it be true
we will live, despite everything?
_____________________________________
Will I find the will to keep creating beauty in the midst of great tragedy? In suffering, is something courageous in us opened by the "love that rules the sun and the other stars" (as Dante said)?* I am moved and humbled by people who prove this is not only possible, but show by their witness that it is the only way to live in a world marked by brokenness-- gardeners like Abu Ward who grew flowers in the midst of enormous tragedy in Syria, ordinary yet extraordinary people like my aunt, who is finding respite in a garden in the midst of profound personal tragedy.
Some months ago, I read the extraordinary story of Abu Ward, "Father of the Flowers," and how he continued to create an oasis of beauty in the rubble of Aleppo, Syria. He and his son, Ibrahim, imagined the bombs that decimated their beloved city were music. "Those who enjoy the beauty of flowers enjoy the beauty of the world created by God," he said in a 2016 interview recorded on orient-news.net (citation below). I am hesitant to even write about such courage or link it to the courage and suffering of my own family, so it is with great humility and gratitude that I reference his story. Please watch & hear Ward and his son on Channel Four News, below. I am indebted to THIS STORY by R. Sikora on orient-news.net (published 2016-08-29 09:30), where I found the quotes I embedded into the poem.
I thought of Abu Ward again early this morning. As I walked under steady rain, a gust of wind pushed the clouds from the sun and suddenly I stopped watching my boots and looked around--and lo and behold, spring evidenced herself, despite the horrid weather. A rhododendron had coaxed a bud open; the crocus were about to burst; a redbud was two days away from its glorious seasonal debut. A few lines from Tagore's Epigrams weaved their way into Abu Ward's story in my mind. Tagore's actual poem reads The night comes secretly to open buds in the forest. . .The lines are beautiful, but I remembered them incorrectly--very incorrectly; thus my refrain "God steals into the night. . ."
Then as I lifted my face to the sun's weak but welcome warmth, I thought of my dear aunt, who has been finding respite in the beautiful grounds of Duke Gardens in North Carolina. My uncle has been on the transplant list for a kidney off and on for years now, during which time he had a transplant that didn't 'take.' He currently lies very, very ill in Duke Hospital.
As the gutters frothed, I thought too of new life blooming for people I love--new babies recently born or about to be born. Of course I couldn't pack all of that into one poem, but I wanted to sing at least a small song, so here it is.
My life, and the lives of so many I care about, have been marked by gardens. I often link death, sickness, suffering and joy to gardens--in my memory, faith, and imagination. Perhaps in gardens I find not only the life cycles that mark our lives, but I also find comfort in paradox: new life from death--sleep, not death--decay and nurture, withdrawal and communion, solitude and fellowship. And hope.
*This quote is from the end of Dante's Paradiso.
Yet my wings were not meant for such a flight — / Except that then my mind was struck by lightning / Through which my longing was at last fulfilled.
Here powers failed my high imagination: / But by now my desire and will were turned, / Like a balanced wheel rotated evenly,
By the Love that moves the sun and the other stars.
I heard these beautiful words most recently in an interview with scientist and writer Margaret Wertheim on On Being with Krista Tippett. Listen to it HERE.
bombs were Beethoven's 5th symphony.
As strings screamed in the sky above Aleppo,
he bent his head over a tender stem.
This will live, and we will live, despite everything.
Now, my son, angry tanks roar,
smoke blinds, walls shake.
But for now,
here in center of this city,
thanks be to God
this bud will unfold,
petal by petal, like a piano sonata.
God steals into the night,
opens flowers one by one.
Azaleas sing bright as a choir
as my aunt trips under a spreading dogwood.
She skids across pebbles,
spills her purse into downy clover.
From the roses
strangers appear, caressing her hands,
Stand up, take it easy, are you all right?
She finds a quiet place and weeps.
Soon it will be time to return to the hospital,
to my uncle fissured by tubes. For now
her sorrow unfolds, petal by petal,
like a piano sonata. Could it be true
we will live, despite everything?
_____________________________________
Some months ago, I read the extraordinary story of Abu Ward, "Father of the Flowers," and how he continued to create an oasis of beauty in the rubble of Aleppo, Syria. He and his son, Ibrahim, imagined the bombs that decimated their beloved city were music. "Those who enjoy the beauty of flowers enjoy the beauty of the world created by God," he said in a 2016 interview recorded on orient-news.net (citation below). I am hesitant to even write about such courage or link it to the courage and suffering of my own family, so it is with great humility and gratitude that I reference his story. Please watch & hear Ward and his son on Channel Four News, below. I am indebted to THIS STORY by R. Sikora on orient-news.net (published 2016-08-29 09:30), where I found the quotes I embedded into the poem.
I thought of Abu Ward again early this morning. As I walked under steady rain, a gust of wind pushed the clouds from the sun and suddenly I stopped watching my boots and looked around--and lo and behold, spring evidenced herself, despite the horrid weather. A rhododendron had coaxed a bud open; the crocus were about to burst; a redbud was two days away from its glorious seasonal debut. A few lines from Tagore's Epigrams weaved their way into Abu Ward's story in my mind. Tagore's actual poem reads The night comes secretly to open buds in the forest. . .The lines are beautiful, but I remembered them incorrectly--very incorrectly; thus my refrain "God steals into the night. . ."
Then as I lifted my face to the sun's weak but welcome warmth, I thought of my dear aunt, who has been finding respite in the beautiful grounds of Duke Gardens in North Carolina. My uncle has been on the transplant list for a kidney off and on for years now, during which time he had a transplant that didn't 'take.' He currently lies very, very ill in Duke Hospital.
As the gutters frothed, I thought too of new life blooming for people I love--new babies recently born or about to be born. Of course I couldn't pack all of that into one poem, but I wanted to sing at least a small song, so here it is.
My life, and the lives of so many I care about, have been marked by gardens. I often link death, sickness, suffering and joy to gardens--in my memory, faith, and imagination. Perhaps in gardens I find not only the life cycles that mark our lives, but I also find comfort in paradox: new life from death--sleep, not death--decay and nurture, withdrawal and communion, solitude and fellowship. And hope.
*This quote is from the end of Dante's Paradiso.
Yet my wings were not meant for such a flight — / Except that then my mind was struck by lightning / Through which my longing was at last fulfilled.
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