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The Lilacs on Good Friday

Tumult of noontide long ago dismissed—
The rent veil unremembered, and the sun
Relit, though shrouded in a new eclipse
Of rainswept sky. The garden seems to shun

That spectral agony of blood and bone;
Consigns itself instead to placid sleep
Untroubled as the moss upon a stone
And heedless while the three Marias weep.

Four decades’ growth of lilac by this wall
Stretches its shallow spiral to the sky.
Clustering blossoms, soon to swell and fall,
Gather themselves like nimbuses on high

Out of my hand’s grasp, yet I still can bend
The pliant osiers downward to my face,
And sniff the buds that already distend:
Late April lilacs, delicate as lace.

Unlike that rigid tree, untenanted,
And red with memory of three hours’ grief,
The thornless lilacs summon up no dread,
Demand no witness. Flower, branch, and leaf

Are only what they are. They have no words
For us to ponder, though we sometimes feign
To speak for them, as augury of birds
Construes an omen of impending pain.

The book is shut, the candle snuffed, the bell
Rings the finale of a troubled day.
Did lilacs grace the garden where we fell,
Or scent Gethsemane? I bade you pray

And watch with me a little while this night—
Could you not watch one hour? The world’s bereft
Of that which once gave stomach for a fight
Or certitude to vision. I have left

The Office of the Holy Cross unsung
But patient on the rubricated page:
Open my lips, O Lord, and let my tongue
Announce thy praises—in some other age.

Here in this garden how could it displease
To let the lilacs offer up my prayer—
Sweet censers that, when shaken by the breeze,
Scatter their fragrance in the evening air?

And in that garden where a sepulcher
New-hewn from rock awaits the mourners’ tread,
Where cerecloths, unguent, aloes mixed with myrrh
Will soon enshroud the lacerated dead,

There is some solace from the thought of how
Late April lilacs, coming into bloom,
Shall dance the currents of the air, and bow
To shed their flowerets on an open tomb.

—from Formal Complaints

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Joseph S. Salemi has published five books of poetry, and his poems, translations and scholarly articles have appeared in over one hundred publications world-wide.  He is the editor of the literary magazine TRINACRIA and writes for Expansive Poetry On-line. He teaches in the Department of Humanities at New York University and in the Department of Classical Languages at Hunter College.

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24 Responses

  1. Margaret Coats

    Joseph, granted the beauties of parallelism and contrast between the lilacs and the scene and events of Good Friday, the overarching mood of this poem is one of unresolved (and perhaps unresolvable) tension. The speaker can find no way to bring nature and salvation history together. There is a suggested retreat into devotion by saying the Office of the Holy Cross, but this would abandon the lilacs of the present day. And after a few words of the invitatory, the distracted speaker declares the devotion appropriate to another age. The present world’s bereft. Finally there is a straining to allow the undemanding flowers a role in the liturgical vision. They may bow to shed their flowerets on an open tomb. But when? While it is still a new tomb in which no one has yet been laid, or after the terrible burial followed by glorious resurrection? Are the flowerets shed tears welcoming the corpse, or carefree blooms greeting the triumphant feet of the glorified body? Unresolved, except to say that if the latter answer is admissible, it is no longer Good Friday. Once again, a contemporary (and temporal) disconnect. As a formal complaint about painful uncertainty, the poem works beautifully.

    Reply
    • Joseph S. Salemi

      Painful uncertainty and things unresolved… yes Margaret, those are powerful overtones in this meditation. And you are absolutely right about the deliberate ambiguity of whether the tomb is awaiting the body of Jesus, or if it is the tomb after His resurrection. In my first draft I had written “an empty tomb.” I changed it to “an open tomb” precisely because I wanted an unresolvable ambiguity at closure. You are a very perceptive reader.

      Reply
    • Joseph S. Salemi

      I’m glad it still stands up to scrutiny, Kip. Deepest thanks!

      Reply
  3. Cynthia Erlandson

    Joseph, thank you for this beautiful beginning to Good Friday. So many profound thoughts are elegantly expressed in this poem, which weaves together the “memory of three hours’ grief” and the beauty of lilacs. The opening phrase “Tumult of noontide” says so much in three words. Many other deeply moving phrases — “The rent veil unremembered”; “And heedless while the three Marias weep”; “that rigid tree, untenanted”; “thornless lilacs”; your description of lilacs acting as censers; “the lacerated dead” — set a mournful mood that is perfectly appropriate, and at the same time contrasts poignantly with the beauty of the lilacs. In verse six, I love what I think I hear as an extremely subtle allusion to both the last words from the cross, and the crowing of the cock.

    Reply
    • Joseph S. Salemi

      Many thanks, Cynthia. Yes, I wanted the “tumult” of the Crucifixion to be contrasted with the peaceful quiet of a garden of lilacs. You are the first person who has ever caught that sleight-of-hand allusion to the cock crowing after Peter’s denial.

      Reply
  4. Susan Jarvis Bryant

    What a heart-touchingly beautiful and striking poem to wake up to on Good Friday. The lilac (symbolic of renewal and hope) is a heavenly springtime flower that (for me) conjures thoughts of England at this time of year. My dear friend died on Easter Sunday in 2000 at the tender age of forty. Every Easter Sunday, I drove to a Kentish castle garden in remembrance of her wonder and our days together. “Clustering blossoms soon to swell and fall” adorned ancient walls and the scent of those lilacs swirls in my memory to this day. This is why your closing stanza speaks volumes to me… that open tomb, although alluding to Christ, is symbolic of so much more.

    These psalm-like lines speak to my heart:

    Open my lips, O Lord, and let my tongue
    Announce thy praises—in some other age.

    Here in this garden how could it displease
    To let the lilacs offer up my prayer—

    The spring flowers offered up my prayer for my friend on those Kentish-castle Easter Sundays. The flowers spoke more graciously and eloquently than I ever could… just like your poem. This Easter Sunday, I will read it aloud in memory of my friend. Joe, thank you!

    Reply
    • Joseph S. Salemi

      Thank you, Susan, for this very moving comment and revelation about your departed friend. Please see the reply that I posted below to Brian’s post.

      Reply
  5. jd

    I agree with all of the above. Many of the lines cited by Cynthia are ones that struck me also. Thank you for a perfect Good Friday poem, Mr. Salemi.

    Reply
  6. Roy Eugene Peterson

    Such rich imagery and remembrances brought to life, assail the senses with beautiful rhyme and rhythm. From the lilacs shedding their flowerets as if in mourning, to the inability of the disciples to remain awake while Jesus is praying in Gethsemane, this is an awesome way to begin Good Friday. The empty cross red (with blood) is greatly and subtly depicted as now being “untenanted.” There is so much embedded in this poem, I had to read it more than once to savor the adeptness and depth of the master poet!

    Reply
  7. Brian A. Yapko

    Joe, I love the unexpected interplay of Good Friday imagery, spring garden imagery and a complex time scheme which seems to contain past and present at the same time. The overall effect for me is of a profound epiphany – a realization of the immediacy of Christ’s crucifixion in the speaker’s own life. The set-up is relatively simple – we enter the mind of a speaker who is enjoying the beauty of his lilac garden in a place that is far removed in both time and geography from Jerusalem. Lilacs do not grow in Israel – something your speaker is probably aware of with the question: “Did lilacs grace the garden where we fell,/Or scent Gethsemane?” He is identifying connections between his own world and the world of 2000 years ago. He is haunted by flashing images of Christ’s crucifixion and its aftermath. In a stunning image, the lilac bush becomes one with the bloody cross. Your speaker is not there in the past, and yet he seems psychologically transported: “Open my lips, O Lord, and let my tongue/Announce thy praises – in some other age.”

    This is a detail-rich poem which is psychologically-driven. It is also a cinematic poem as we see things in real time which then cause us to flash back to the events in the Bible. This makes all kinds of unexpected connections possible: the lilacs as censers, the offering of lilac flowerets on an empty tomb… The lilac bush is not just a symbol — it has become a portal into the past and into your contemplative heart.

    I’m especially intrigued by your mention of bell, book and candle. This was once the name of a Bewitched-like play, but has much older inquisitorial connotations being associated with heresies being punished by excommunication. Here, it is Christ Himself who is being “excommunicated” but this and other concepts you present here are theologically inchoate at the time of the Crucifixion and are only comprehensible with the hindsight of a Christian who lives many centuries later and knows subsequent church history.

    I believe this is a vital clue to your intentions with this poem. You are not presenting a history from A.D. 29. I believe that what you’ve created is a deeply personal meditation on Christ’s pain and pain- transcended as triggered by a contemplative garden retreat. Am I wrong to sense a hint of Coleridge here? Irrespective, Joe, I consider this to be very special work.

    Reply
    • Joseph S. Salemi

      Actually, Brian, I consider this the best and most important poem that I have ever written. This is why I have tried to keep it available on-line whenever I can manage to do so.

      Your last paragraph is correct. This is a deeply personal meditation on the Crucifixion, mirrored through the imagery of lilacs. It is so personal that I cannot reveal more, except that a huge lilac bush exists in my parents’ garden, and has been there since 1952. But I can say that Susan Jarvis Bryant’s comment about her memory of her lost Kentish friend is an apt parallel to the experience that brought about this poem.

      The lines about “Open my lips, O Lord…” are a translation of the beginning versicle and response lines of The Office of the Holy Cross:

      V. Domine, labia mea aperies
      R. Et os meum annuntiabit laudem tuam.

      V. Lord, open my lips
      R. And my mouth will announce thy praise.

      Thank you for your always deeply perceptive and sensitive reading.

      Reply
  8. Adam Sedia

    This is masterfully executed. You balance scene at hand with Christ’s Passion, at once contrasting the calm, mundane present with the bloody, tumultuous, and world-changing Passion — with all allusions to it subtle and deftly woven into the narrative structure, maintaining a coherent and consistent flow. (I like how the speaker’s garden alludes to Gethsemane, as well.)

    The flow of the discourse is extremely satisfying: the speaker’s internal doubts and regrets mirrored in the allusions to the Passion narrative — particularly to the failings of the Apostles. Yet, paralleling the Resurrection, it leads to a satisfying and hopeful resolution.

    Lilacs at first seemed a strange metaphor for the Passion — so beautiful and fragrant, a world away from suffering and death. But by the end of the poem you had me convinced. You start with the natural first impression, using them in contrast to the Passion, then they become and offering, and at last become a metaphor for the Resurrection (point-counterpoint-resolution).

    Thank you for sharing.

    Reply
  9. Joseph S. Salemi

    Adam, I’m very grateful for your appreciative and perceptive comments. One reason for my choice of lilacs is the fact that lilacs tend to bloom around Easter time, or a little afterwards.

    Reply
  10. Yael

    This poem fiercely resists surface reading and demands my utmost reading attention, which got richly rewarded on several different levels. I love the sublime garden and passion imagery, the meandering pace, and the meditative quality of the different thoughts which are woven together like a beautiful tapestry. I had to read it three times to really savor the scents and images, and then a beautiful picture emerged. In it I see the Father’s lovely character mirrored both in the creation of nature and the sweet savor of sacrifice willingly brought by His Son. He consented to die and be resurrected so that we, in our darkly twisted and grossly sinful mis-understanding of His Father’s blameless character and administration of justice can feel sufficiently forgiven so as to be unafraid to surrender ourselves to him. Thank you very much for sharing this amazing poem and a blessed Easter to you.

    Reply
  11. Joseph S. Salemi

    Thank you, Yael, for your kind comments and thorough analysis. I suppose this poem is the closest I will ever get to the meditative mystery of “Dulcor” (sweetness) as described by Richard Rolle of Hampole.

    Reply
  12. Mia

    Words that do justice to a poem like this don’t come easily to me. I agree with the wonderful comments that do it justice. I have read it several times and each time it gets better and I still need to read it again. Thank you, Mr Salemi, for this moving poem , for all your poetry and for your willingness to truthfully engage with everyone, both poets and the not so poetic.

    Reply
    • Joseph S. Salemi

      Thank you, Mia. It is the strongest hope of a poet that he will be able to produce language that will hold a reader’s attention and weave a spell of enchantment. And I hope I am truthful in all verbal engagements.

      Reply
  13. James Sale

    This is a masterwork on so many levels, but as I noted once before of your work: it is the syntactical control that is so impressive, and which holds the mind and heart as the deep pondering on the mystery progresses to its ‘open’ ending. Quite fabulous. Thanks – let’s all strive to keep this work alive!

    Reply
    • Joseph S. Salemi

      Many thanks, James, for your kind and supportive words. I do try to maintain an extended syntactical control, and I find that doing so allows for greater depth of expression.

      Reply
  14. Alan Orsborn

    Telling the story of Gethsemane and the tomb obliquely through the blooming lilacs in your garden is masterful, as is the fact that the running lines continue past the ends of the stanzas. In my opinion, technically, esthetically and through the effectiveness of the message, this poem is astounding. I can see why it has been brought back.

    Reply
    • Joseph S. Salemi

      Alan, thanks for your appreciative comments. I find that enjambment is one of the best tools that a traditional poet can employ, as long as one keeps a steady hand on every grammatical and syntactical turn.

      Reply

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