Two Poems by Vern Fein

Marta Dzedyshko

O, MACRINA

In Roman times when the church was fledgling,

babies were abandoned along the Appian Way. 

While their keening parents kneeled,

soldiers pushed  them down drains by the hundreds,

mainly girls and the deformed and weak

until the church saw and responded.

In those days, the church lurched between helping the poor

or erecting church buildings and monuments.

It was not the brothers Gregory and Basil

who swept up these helpless infants.

It was their sister Macrina. 

Praise you for your denial of a privileged life.

Praise you for attending famines

to rescue the poor when flesh hung like cobwebs,

for saving those girls and marshaling an army

of church mothers to do the same,

bring them home to raise.   

Now we treat immigrants like those road babies,

may we respond to Macrina's example. She knew 

that Mary had raised a poor baby who was rejected

because he was not conceived the way he was supposed to be.

VESPER

An angel decided to rescue an angel.

Evil humans capture angels,

neglect them and treat them cruelly—

so we have shelters for rescue.

Floated to a loving home,  

a little white cloud of a dog, 

named Vesper, as holy as an

evening prayer, a daily

answer for the angels

who found each other.

© Vern Fein

Enjoy other posts by Vern Fein HERE.

Vern Fein

A recent octogenarian, Vern Fein, has published over 300 poems and short prose pieces on more than 100 websites. A few are Gyroscope Review, Young Raven’s Review, Bindweed, *82 Review, River And South, Grey Sparrow Journal, and One Art.  His second poetry book—REFLECTION ON DOTS—was released late last year. 

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HAPPY AS A MUDLARK by Vern Fein

 

Kiril Gruev

HAPPY AS A MUDLARK

I've said it. You've said it.

What does it mean?

Just a bird being happy?

Aren't all birds happy?

Mudlarks, robins, bluebirds.

In 18th-century England, though, 

the unhappy poor struggled, 

doomed to a life of poverty, 

desperate for the family to eat daily.

They scoured the shores

of the murky Thames River.

It was their bank, grocery store.

Combed the beaches 

for every item that might

bring a coin or two, 

lumps of coal, scraps of metal,

pieces of cargo lost in wrecks.

Anything salvaged, fair game. 

A pitiable scene, women and girls

mostly, dirty aprons filled

with smut and bother,

hoped to sell anything.

But the local reports saw

who they called mudlarks 

differently, happy and smiling 

and grateful as they 

gathered their daily wares, 

rain or shine, mud or sand. 

In Chekov's play, 

The Cherry Orchard,

a serf named Anfisa

has a small scene.

She kneels in her tiny room,

beside her straw bed,

and thanks to God 

for what she has,

while her masters pule

as their estate is sold.

Anfisa was a mudlark.

How easy should it be

for us, in our privilege,

to be mudlark happy too? 

© Vern Fein

Enjoy other posts by Vern Fein HERE.

Vern Fein

A recent octogenarian, Vern Fein, has published over 300 poems and short prose pieces on more than 100 websites. A few are Gyroscope Review, Young Raven’s Review, Bindweed, *82 Review, River And South, Grey Sparrow Journal, and One Art.  His second poetry book—REFLECTION ON DOTS—was released late last year. 

Follow Feed the Holy