[Part of a series on Eros and Christ]
Sunday Confessions
By Maruja
Every Sunday
families are delivered
in cars by their children
“we must get there in time”
our parents say
with our shirts crisp
our shoes shined
our gold glistening
we cross the broad street
and walk the narrow path
that leads to the church
with good books and dirty souls
in hand,
awaiting what the priest and
the pulpit has
to offer us today.
The sanctuary is already swollen
loaded with confessions, sorrows and dreams
women and men on separate sides
pulling their devotionals together
into psalm-sprouting desires.
Aunties eye the green pastures of their sisters
overlooking the blossoms
in their own gardens.
Uncles furtively gather downstairs
gulping gossip and coffee
stuffing their bellies with boasts and biriyani
Derelict daughters hide
the bruises of their mother's fallen expectations
beneath the pleats of their technicolor saris.
Surrounded by family
there is no room for me here.
I make my way
up the stairs, towards the upper room
where I find you waiting
reunited.
I take the open seat beside you
unraveling my confessions
as my knees slowly drift apart
the divinity of your eyes receive me
revising creation stories
of fallen eves
and jesus saves.
As we join our voices
in the
Holy Qurbana
the hum of your chanting
guides me through
taking me to transdimensional places
like sun brightened stained glass
we twist our auras together
chanting in ecstasy
Kurriye-laa-yisson.
If your fingers never
find themselves
in the double-helix of my hair
know that your poems have already
blessed me
with a festival of dreams.
Kurielaison
If my lips never find themselves
in the heavens of your kiss
know that our hands have already caressed each other
in the kiss of peace.
Kurielaison.
We are one without a master.
You have transformed me into a priestess
and I offer you the chalice of my soul.
Do what you will with my wine
as you embrace the remembrance of me
Our breath, no longer nomadic and separate
blends and blossoms together
let’s warm the walls of this church
unifed by our love.
Kurielaison. Kurielaison. Kurielaison.
About the author: Maruja is a desi diasporic daughter, queer poet, teacher, healer and community activist who lives in New York City. Her writing is a cultural unveiling of the multiple identities that both complicate and inspire her life. Maruja’s intimate connections to spirit and ritual are framed by her upbringing in the Mar Thoma church, which traces its roots to Kerala, India. When she’s not writing, she enjoys yoga, laughing, dancing and mangoes.
Acknowledgments: Maruja would like express her deep gratitude to Raphaël Armand, Elmaz Abinader, Faith Adiele and the members of VONA (Voices of Our Nation Arts Foundation) for their loving feedback on earlier versions of this poem.
Editor’s note from Kittredge Cherry: During the editorial process, Maruja and I discussed the value of sacred chants in our lives and languages. Each of us has been touched by the Greek prayer “Lord, have mercy,” which is transcribed “Kurielaison” in Malayalam and “Kyrie eleison” in English. We want to share the fruits of our conversation by posting these video links:
Holy Qurbana service (showing the fullness of the church, men & women sitting on separate sides, the chanting, etc.)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ITVLeRNrG9E&
Kyrie eleison by Jodi Page-Clark (Kittredge’s favorite Kyrie)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0Ae6ceFv8TM
Image credit: Rose window from the Gedächtniskirche (Memorial Church) in Speyer, Germany (Wikimedia Commons)
__________
Coming soon: Our summer series on Eros & Christ will continue with reflections by Atlanta writer Trudie Barreras on sacred versus secular erotic texts.
[Part of a series on Eros and Christ]
Sunday Confessions
By Maruja
Every Sunday
families are delivered
in cars by their children
“we must get there in time”
our parents say
with our shirts crisp
our shoes shined
our gold glistening
we cross the broad street
and walk the narrow path
that leads to the church
with good books and dirty souls
in hand,
awaiting what the priest and
the pulpit has
to offer us today.
The sanctuary is already swollen
loaded with confessions, sorrows and dreams
women and men on separate sides
pulling their devotionals together
into psalm-sprouting desires.
Aunties eye the green pastures of their sisters
overlooking the blossoms
in their own gardens.
Uncles furtively gather downstairs
gulping gossip and coffee
stuffing their bellies with boasts and biriyani
Derelict daughters hide
the bruises of their mother's fallen expectations
beneath the pleats of their technicolor saris.
Surrounded by family
there is no room for me here.
I make my way
up the stairs, towards the upper room
where I find you waiting
reunited.
I take the open seat beside you
unraveling my confessions
as my knees slowly drift apart
the divinity of your eyes receive me
revising creation stories
of fallen eves
and jesus saves.
As we join our voices
in the Holy Qurbana
the hum of your chanting
guides me through
taking me to transdimensional places
like sun brightened stained glass
we twist our auras together
chanting in ecstasy
Kurriye-laa-yisson.
If your fingers never
find themselves
in the double-helix of my hair
know that your poems have already
blessed me
with a festival of dreams.
Kurielaison
If my lips never find themselves
in the heavens of your kiss
know that our hands have already caressed each other
in the kiss of peace.
Kurielaison.
We are one without a master.
You have transformed me into a priestess
and I offer you the chalice of my soul.
Do what you will with my wine
as you embrace the remembrance of me
Our breath, no longer nomadic and separate
blends and blossoms together
let’s warm the walls of this church
unifed by our love.
Kurielaison. Kurielaison. Kurielaison.
About the author: Maruja is a desi diasporic daughter, queer poet, teacher, healer and community activist who lives in New York City. Her writing is a cultural unveiling of the multiple identities that both complicate and inspire her life. Maruja’s intimate connections to spirit and ritual are framed by her upbringing in the Mar Thoma church, which traces its roots to Kerala, India. When she’s not writing, she enjoys yoga, laughing, dancing and mangoes.
Acknowledgments: Maruja would like express her deep gratitude to Raphaël Armand, Elmaz Abinader, Faith Adiele and the members of VONA (Voices of Our Nation Arts Foundation) for their loving feedback on earlier versions of this poem.
Editor’s note from Kittredge Cherry: During the editorial process, Maruja and I discussed the value of sacred chants in our lives and languages. Each of us has been touched by the Greek prayer “Lord, have mercy,” which is transcribed “Kurielaison” in Malayalam and “Kyrie eleison” in English. We want to share the fruits of our conversation by posting these video links:
Holy Qurbana service (showing the fullness of the church, men & women sitting on separate sides, the chanting, etc.)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ITVLeRNrG9E&
Kyrie eleison by Jodi Page-Clark (Kittredge’s favorite Kyrie)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0Ae6ceFv8TM
Image credit: Rose window from the Gedächtniskirche (Memorial Church) in Speyer, Germany (Wikimedia Commons)
__________
Coming soon: Our summer series on Eros & Christ will continue with reflections by Atlanta writer Trudie Barreras on sacred versus secular erotic texts.
