Category — Poetry: Wieslaw Nowak

When my father passed away several years ago my mother took it upon herself to visit his grave as frequently as possible. It wasn’t out of a sense of duty or obligation. Having been his constant companion for over thirty years she felt a visceral desire to continue to remain as close to his side as was now possible. And so his grave was transformed to a garden. While others planted sod my mother planted tulips and marigolds. She even had a planter box custom built in the shape of a cross. When it didn’t rain she would transport gallons of water from our home in whatever water receptacle was available: pop bottles, buckets, watering cans. Invariably, more water would fall onto the floor in the back of our car than would water the flowers at Topsoil Cemetery. She spent countless hours caring for those plants. She spent many more crying and in prayer.

The loss of a loved one is a life-changing moment. Greater though are small events that bond us to them. I found myself in a cemetery this evening searching for a grave I had never visited belonging to a person I had never met. With only a rough idea of when he had passed on I knew the chances of finding his monument stone was slim. But I felt the need to search. I passed by the bodies of hundred of souls, none of whom had any connection to me. Yet as I read their names I couldn’t help but think how each person had meant the world to someone. Like the grave of my father, each of these plots had been watered by the tears of people whose lives were forever altered by the loss.

And I was filled with peace.

All who walk this earth are filled with struggle and anxiety. Lives are shattered and rebuilt, only to crash again. Tragedy assuages us and troubles are unrelenting. But there are joyous moments, too. Marriages and first born children. Friends and laughter. A quiet night by a fire or the beauty of a smile which stuns you more than the most glorious sunset ever could. How insignificant are the falls when compared to the miracle of the human experience!?

And so I searched for the grave of a person I had never met. But his life forever changed the life of someone who has brightened my life more than the sun that shone down upon me this evening. At the end all our worries and concerns will be for naught but love will endure. From ever tear that waters a grave life will spring and blossom and the world will be changed forever.

Can a city dweller hear God’s voice clearly or does the constant cacophony dull His diction? If St. John of the Cross is right in asserting that it is “great wisdom to know how to be silent” then is city living sane for the serious seeker of Christ?:

“We need to find God, and he cannot be found in noise and restlessness. God is the friend of silence. See how nature - trees, flowers, grass - grows in silence; see the stars, the moon and the sun, how they move in silence…we need silence to be able to touch souls.” – Blessed Mother Teresa of Calcutta

Yet there have always been holy souls who have preferred human nature to the other kind. The late Fr. Richard Neuhaus regarded New York City as “the prolepsis of the New Jerusalem”, facetiously questioning why someone would deliberately live anywhere else. Even Thomas Merton, who was later to become a renowned contemplative monk, found happiness and contentment at Columbia University. Neither confused the spiritual with the temporal - God’s call is heard in the depths of the heart and only incidentally anywhere else.

Nonetheless, the city does influence its inhabitants. Like the emmet - ant - which loses it’s way in Blake’s “Dream”, some lose Christ among the multitude of paths the city presents.

A few months ago I was at St. Pancras station in London, waiting for a train which would take me to Paris. I ventured down the street in hopes of providentially stumbling upon a Church where I could pray or even attend Mass. I walked for a good ten minutes, but soon became convinced that if there was a spire in the vicinity the looming masonry brick buildings which lined the street probably obscured it from view.

Just as I was committing to abandoning my search, I came across an advertisement for a cellular phone company. The large megacorporation ironically offered a lament of the impersonality associated with communications industry in England. The poster presented two men and a woman, each in an indignant posture and donning a scowl. Below the photograph the caption declared: “I am not a number”.

Not a number…. Looking at the countenance of each I recalled the prototype structures I had passed along the way. Aside from the number outside each door, there had been little to differentiate one from another. I recounted the expressionless glances of commuters on the subway. I recollected the swarms that had passed by on the street without any nod of acknowledgment whatsoever. I recalled the words of Byron: “and was Jerusalem builded here, amongst these dark satanic mills?”

“Not a number”? Not even a number.

The stark reality is that most of us are no ones to most everyone. None of us are likely to ever meet the people in that advertisement and even if we did we’d never know them. Their lives, their personal crises, their hopes and dreams, their disillusionments and tragedies - all of these are unknown to us. Even the most prominent of figures face a similar fate. And even if a person obtains global prominence their legacy will be factual and cold.

Fame

“Who was the most famous person
In the empire of Trebizond?”
Blank complete – no body knew that.
I asked: “does it really matter?”
“Uh no”, they answered quietly.
I said: “I do not know either;”
“nor do I really care so much!”
“Such is fame!” I told my class.

- Wieslaw Nowak, May 9, 1997

St. Francis was most blunt in expressing this reality of our temporal nothingness, a reality made obvious in the city. Having walked atop Mount Subiaso and gazed upon the vastness of Perugia, he memorably exclaimed that we are nothing but worms. Speaking at the turn of the century, he could scarcely have envisaged the literal significance his statement would attain for those that commute to work each morning by subway. Whether the analogy be to emmets or worms, there’s something unsettling about a life in which we find similarity with the subhuman.

As bleak as the metaphor may be, St. Francis found in it not despair but hope. Focusing on the transcendental rather than the temporal, he realized that it was only in God that he could find eternal meaning. Unconstrained by temporal limits, God was able to know him to the fullest extent and to the depths of his being. Moreover, He was able to love him both completely and eternally, across time and space. Only by placing his temporal condition juxtapose God’s eternal ambition for his soul was Francis able to obtain the strength and courage - the grace - to renounce this world completely and pursue a relationship with Jesus with such unprecedented vigour.

Although Francis’ eventually chose the green martyrdom of monastic life, it was his vocation rather than the intrinsic nature of cosmopolitan life which led to this decision. He renounced the world in his heart before he ever did so externally. What mattered to Francis was not where he was, but that he was where he was best able to separate the spiritual from the temporal and embrace Christ most fully. The challenge presented to the modern city-dweller is to see Christ within her neighbour and embrace Him fully in her vocation. The temporal reality of his namelessness stands juxtapose one of God’s greatest miracles: that Jesus invites every person into a personal relationship. Each is known, loved and called by name. Always and forever. Even in the city. To God no one is a number.

Private Prayer [A Morning Prayer]

I awoke to the morning made glorious; Holy is the LORD creator of the universe, maker of galaxies, shaper of worlds, caster of weather, and He who protects and redeems people. I pray through the intercession of the most blessed Virgin of Nazareth, sublime is the Persanctissima in graces. I beg to remain under the protection of St. Michael, repeller of evil, Prince of Army Angelic. I pray through St. Joseph, saintly Church protector and guardian, helper of people. I invoke all the hierarchies of Archangels, Angels and Saints. I beg all the Saints, Blessed Ones and Venerables whose feast day it is, to protect me today, and every day. May all my Angel Guardians and Patron Saints show me their favour. Amen. - written by Wieslaw S. W. Nowak

Bowling Prayer

Lord, as we head out this night, we call upon you to bless us and guide us.

In bowling, as in life, some of our attempts to follow the straight path are destined to go astray. Let us not look upon these incidents as failures, but rather as opportunities for us to see our errors and improve upon ourselves.

Help us to remember, too, Your will. Each of us has a path which you desire us to lead. Though a life-long devotion to bowling may not be that will, help us to remain eternally devoted to You that we may see Your plan and be granted the perseverence necessary to follow Your will.

As we must remain focused on the pins, help us to remain even more diligently focused on You that we may inherit the Kingdom of Heaven.

We ask this through Christ, Our Lord, who lives and reigns with You and the Holy Spirit, one God, forever and ever, Amen.

I wrote the second one

My father, Wieslaw S. W. Nowak, was born in Poland in 1936. The German invasion in 1939 forced his family to uproot and cross the border into Russia. There they wandered through the steppes, often sustaining themselves for days on boiled grass. Eventually they were able to relocate to then-Palestine were his father was serving as an officer in the Polish-English allied forces. Following the war, Wieslaw and his family moved to London. In England he nurtured a love of poetry, many of his Polish writings being published. A gifted student, he studied geography and obtained a doctorate from the University of London. Briefly lecturing at the University of Portsmouth and the City of London Polytechnic, he soon accepted a position at Memorial University of Newfoundland. He served on faculty for over 30 years, directing his research towards marine geography and fisheries-related subjects. As his health faded, he returned his attention to poetry, now writing most frequently in English. He passed at on June 2, 2003 in St. John’s, Newfoundland.

Over the course of the next year I intend to reproduce some of my father’s writings. Many of his writings reflect the sorrow and struggles of his early war-ravaged life. Others are blissful and filled with the joys of later-found freedom. All reflect his deep-rooted faith. I hope his work is able to touch your heart, brighten your day or simply inspire thought.

Lonely headstone

Why a lily, perfume blossom shining?
Why a flower rosy, sky pink so calm?
Entwine not silk-green ivy, sad blossom,
in summer sky were dipped the blooms of morn.
I cared for you, whispered she. Petal fell.
I did protect you, said he. A twig dipped.
Oh, how I liked your talk! Warbler silenced.
I so much loved you – dripped out the dew drops.
LORD! said they sadly, are the words denied?
Earthwards kneel the buttercups on this soil,
dandelion carpets cover silence;
Many flowers wilted, said their conscience,
it has been years, since for that one we prayed.

- Wieslaw S. W. Nowak (1936 – 2003), Paradise, October 3, 1992

Not to be reproduced without permission