Sharing two poems this Sunday about icons. I love icons. The first is by Anne Porter. I believe this was one of the first of her poems I ever read and made me fall in love with her poetry.

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The Icon

Here in this icon out of ancient Russia
Brown as amber the little Mother of God
Holding her infant to her cheek
Is present to us
In all her wise
And peaceful sorrow

A forest hermit painted this
They say at night his face
Lit up the snow

He befriended robbers
And often gave
The bears his bread.

Anne Porter

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This second is by Scott Cairns. I have read his book, Short Trip to the Edge: A Pilgrimage to Prayer, twice now and will probably read it again. Here Scott brings us into the very atmosphere created by icons and candles and incense and poses the question about how we are to bring this beautiful and prayerful culture into the dark world we inhabit.

Orthodoxy

—after Kapouzos [ΝΙΚΟΣ ΚΑΠΟΥΖΟΣ]

Yes, sweet, and very sweet the darkness 
of the nave, and also very sweet 
the observant surround, these icons 
of our ancient fathers and our mothers, 
whose images have acquired a warm 
chiaroscuro from centuries 
of fragrant smoke—incense, beeswax wafting 
for centuries attended by seamless 
petition and praise. Such prayers as these 
yet fill the air with yet another 
palpable sweetness. 
                                    So often, the world 
appears wretched, choked by a broken, 
angry and willfully cruel people. 
So often, the world proves wretched indeed, 
and its darkness is bitter. How then 
to mitigate the assault waiting 
just beyond the narthex? How to carry 
at least some distance into the world 
this fragrance, this sweetness, these images?

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