A helpful online source, to which
I have occasionally turned, offers this critical information, without which
this poem would be less lucid: “Catholic Saint who after a life of prostitution
attempted to enter a church, was barred by a religious force, repented, allowed
in, then retired to the desert and lived a solitary life for 47 years. Greek
Church members celebrate her with a feast April 1.”
An interesting follow up to DS
46. I don’t think there should be any doubts left about what Mr. B. thinks of
organized religion. The onetime prostitute, “fondled by many,” hesitates on the
brink of the church, shrinks away in shame and repentance, and lives the life
of a hermit in the desert for the next 47 years. Hard to say what her
experience as a prostitute was, but knowing what some guys now and then are/were
capable of, I suspect falling prone on the endless, hot, wind-whistling blank solitude
of the Egyptian desert might have been a welcome relief. Holiness and sainthood
were fringe benefits. She has my sympathy. The point of this poem though, “And
forty-seven years with our caps on, / whom God has not visited.” The outcast is
the blessed one, not the church-goers with their pious caps on the whole time,
who recognize themselves as bereft.
It’s fundamental to
Judeo-Christian thinking, with Jesus himself the prime example of the blessed
outcast. (I’m assuming that crucifixion makes of one the ultimate social
outcast. And I don’t at all mean to make a joke of it.)
I’m still a bit hung-over
from yesterday’s essay, and not in much of a mood for sympathy with philistines, wealthy
orthodox piousness, and various contemporary incarnations of the vacant political
suit. So this poem is perfect.
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