Joan wonders
an original poem.
O Mother! who bore both burden & blessing, these fairies speak similarly to me: blessing borne, burdened with blessing. And what else is fitting? I am a girl for the meadows, and for far-out eyes, and I am a girl who burns for beyond, and I am told I shall. O Mother! I am a girl who doesn’t fit within her flesh. Tell me: pride or purpose? These fairies (who are not fairies) smile at my dreams and then sharp Catherine says AWAKE! Michael places celestial steel in my palms, Margaret covers us with the blessed cross, but when I turn, it is gone besides the ache that says so it was.
O Mother! empty womb blessed & free heart pierced, the glowing voices say similar for me: empty life filled & free heart pierced. And what else is fitting? I am a girl for the battlefields and singing arrows, and I am a girl who burns for battle, and I am told I shall. O Mother! I am a girl who doesn’t fit in her flesh. Tell me: witch or warrior? Your Son has given victory to my hand, the fairies beside me, and sharp Catherine stands and Michael swings and Margaret, dear, says I am as I ought to be, here, but when I turn, all is gone besides the sting of arrow in flesh.
O Mother! cursed by enemies of God, the growling English say the same for me: cursed by my enemies, and God’s. And what else is fitting? I am a girl for shadows in cells and candlelight, and I am a girl who burns for Christ, and I am told I shall. O Mother! I am a girl who doesn’t fit in her flesh. Tell me: saint or sinner? For I have done as I thought I ought, urged by my friends the fairies, sharp Catherine not sharp anymore, and Michael sheathes his sword, and Margaret smiles in ecstasy, but when I turn, all is gone besides the crucifix over the flames.
O Mother! eternal besides the beatific glow,
I in my anguish beg similar for me:
eternal, peaceful in some blessings now.
And what is more fitting? I am a girl
for the meadows and soft sunshine,
and I am a girl who burns for beyond,
and finally I am.
The victory is won.As often happens, 2 a.m. rolled around and I found myself fumbling for a notebook beside my bed. I had been thinking about St Joan of Arc, my patron, all day and night, ruminating on the glory & terror of her calling and of who she must have been and what she must have felt. She has always felt familiar to me, even before my conversion: her courage, her femininity, her passion, her vocation, had all called to me at different points in my life, and had all, for a time, seemed contradictory. I worried, much & often, that I was at turns too feminine and not feminine enough. Extremely competitive & independent, with a deep desire to protect those I love, I had often been made to feel as if to be a true woman I had to make myself smaller or softer. At the same time, I wear my hair in curls and as many pieces of sparkly, jingly jewelry that I can, and am deeply sensitive. Whenever I didn’t feel as if I wasn’t womanly enough, I felt instead as if I was some stereotypical silly, shallow little girl who couldn’t be left on her own.
Joan, in her embrace of battle as an activity uniquely suited for her femininity, in the mission God gave her, is a comfort. She’s friendly. Before my conversion, I felt she was my friend, and now that I am in the Church, she’s more than that. She is my patron, and in her friendliness & care she shows me that there is more to womanhood than the traits I, or others, have assigned to it. God created me as a woman, and he also created me to be the way that I am. Who am I to decide that those two things are incongruous when He has been very clear that they are not?
The form of this poem is almost identical to how it was when I first scribbled it out in the dark. It’s hard to refine this sort of thing, especially when it feels like such a culmination of different meditations and worries. It’s messy but it’s meant, deeply. I give Joan my wonderings; in her holy life & holy death, she finds the answers for me.