Lives of the Seraphim*
In Russian Orthodox churches the icons
are sacred. The faithful take candles
and light them to pray for themselves
in their only good clothes. The women
in scarves and heavy woolen coats,
the men with their hats in their hands.
The saints in their beautiful rich robes,
the priests in their flowing white raiments
with sacraments, swinging their incense.
Brass and dim light. Outside, at the top
of the steps leading in, someone trades
icons of saints the size of small coins for
a kopek, each one unique. String them
around your neck later or give them as
tokens to friends and family. The seraphim
will follow you out when you can’t
see them, their silks and their banners
flowing in daytime, their eyes squinting
from too much sunlight. You may
see one or two tears slipping down. They mean
no harm and perch in the trees and on
rooftops, cling to bus rails as the cars
honk past. No one will notice, but in these
rounds where the blue smoke
of exhaust makes them cough at times,
they are blameless. Back inside they made
you feel blessed and you could do
something equally marvelous like call
out a miracle. Have the bus miss the car
as it misses the pedestrian as she
dodges the traffic between six unmarked
lanes with her purse slung over her left
shoulder and her sturdy shoes dancing. Just lift
her straight up to heaven like that. You
could do it if you wanted.
*Originally published in Amethyst Review (UK), summer 2020
____________________
Nancy Christopherson
Review by Zeke Sanchez
“Lives of the Seraphim” by Nancy Christopherson starts out that “In Russian Orthodox churches the icons are sacred.” So there is an acknowledgment but not an affirmation. I say not an affirmation because the rest of the poem takes us directly into the land of miracles, literally, but rather fancifully. I am not a Biblical scholar, but these phrases here put a levity to the profile of the seraphim that I didn’t expect: “They mean no harm and perch in the trees . . .” AND ”. . . the blue smoke of exhaust makes them cough at times . . . “
The poem is rich with imagery and tradition, and it DOES end with a vivid imagined bonafide miracle!
Review by Massimo Fantuzzi
To search for a friendly face inside our old, clouded, clattered orbit of events. In the daily spin of chaos, we look for a superior order: first, to exist and be the only true one; second, to be on our side. Beliefs, conjectures: it’s a matter of survival for many – that’s how critical and desperate the situation is. Fiddling with reality remains a dangerous game, but luckily for us, in poetry, to look for is to create, and to do so in a safe space.