LOT’S WIFE:

FOUR POEMS

 INTRODUCTION

Instead of a homily this morning, I would like to read four poems. Three are by someone else, the fourth is a first draft poem by myself for the occasion. 

For some reason, the story of Lot's Wife, is a Bible story we all know - how she was told when leaving Zoar not to look back. She did. She turned into a pillar of salt.

FIRST POEM

This first poem is entitled, “Lot’s Wife”. It’s by Anna Akhmatova and is translated from the Russian by Stanley Kunitz and Max Hayward.

LOT’S WIFE

by Anna Akhmatova

And the just man trailed God’s shining agent,

over a black mountain, in his giant track,

while a restless voice kept harrying his woman:

“It’s not too late, you can still look back

at the red towers of your native Sodom,

the square where once you sang, the spinning-shed,

at the empty windows set in the tall house

where sons and daughters blessed your marriage-bed.”

A single glance: a sudden dart of pain

stitching her eyes before she made a sound …

Her body flaked into transparent salt,

and her swift legs rooted to the ground.

Who will grieve for this woman? Does she not seem

too insignificant for our concern?

Yet in my heart I never will deny her,

who suffered death because she chose to turn.

-1922-1924

SECOND POEM

The second poem is by Wislawa Szymborska. It also is entitled, “Lot’s Wife.”  It is translated from the Polish by Grazyna Drabik and Austin Flint. It gets at possible reasons why Lot’s wife turned her head to look back at the city where her husband demanded that they must flee.

LOT’S WIFE

by Wislawa Szymborska

I looked back, they say, out of curiosity.

But there might have been other reasons.

I looked back because I missed my silver bowl.

By mistake, tying my sandal thong.

Not to look any more at the righteous nape

of my husband, Lot.

Suddenly sure that if I died,

he wouldn’t even stop.

From the disobedience of the meek.

Listening for the chase.

Touched by silence, hoping God had changed his mind.

Our two daughters were disappearing behind a hill.

I felt old. Distant.

Drowsy. I thought of the futility of wandering.

I looked back because I didn’t know where to step.

In my path appeared snakes,

spiders, field mice, young vultures.

Neither good nor bad – simply all that lived

and crept and jumped in mass panic.

I looked back in loneliness.

Ashamed that I ran so furtively.

From the wish to scream, to return.

Or merely when the wind rose,

loosened by hair and whipped my dress up.

I felt they saw it from the walls of Sodom

and burst into loud laughter, again and again.

I looked back because I was angry.

To feast on their grand undoing.

I looked back for all those reasons.

I looked back unwillingly.

It was only a boulder that turned, growling under me.

It was a crevice that abruptly cut off my road.

And then we both looked back.

No. No. I was running farther,

I crawled and flew upwards

until darkness tumbled down from the heavens,

and with it hot gravel and dead birds.

Breathless I spun around many times.

Someone watching might have thought I was dancing.

Maybe my eyes were open.

It’s possible that I fell with my face towards the city.

THIRD POEM

The third poem is by James Simmons. It too is entitled, “Lot’s Wife”.

LOT’S WIFE

by James Simmons

Uneasiness confirmed his words were right:

there was a rottenness in all she knew.

She could not see where she was going to

but love for him felt stronger than her fright.

Yet as she traveled on she was bereft

of every landmark but her husband’s eyes:

her whole life echoed in her friends’ goodbyes.

How could he take the place of all she left.

For him or them, but not for heaven’s sake,

she made decisions: these two were opposed.

He led her on his way, her eyes were closed.

At every step she felt her heart would break.

At last Lot drew his wagon to a halt;

dog-tired but glad, he groped his way inside,

looking for pleasure in his sleeping bride,

kissed her, and on her cold cheek tasted salt.

FOURTH POEM

The fourth poem is a first draft poem I put together this morning, just to try my hand at this. I want to watch your reactions, if any, at hearing some poems from the pulpit.

LOT’S WIFE

At times 
haven’t we all found ourselves

stuck in the past.

We're spending too much time

looking in the rear view mirror of life.

We want the back then now.

We want someone who has died to be still alive.

We want a return to the good old days?

We’re mad, sad and definitely 
not glad about our present situation.

As a result, we’ve become

like muggy summer salt.

We’re sulking in the shaker.

Dang it!  Nothing is coming out.

We’ve become a lot like Lot’s wife.