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признание от души мученика(confessions from the soul of a martyr)

Before you begin, understand that I have no problems with religion as a whole and these are purely my own personal experiences and reflections. Religion, for many, is a saving grace and makes a major positive impact in their lives, I, however, PERSONALLY did not find religion helpful and often felt ashamed of my uncertainties towards my faith. Finally, I have come to terms with my atheism and have found religious ideologies fascinating and humbling once I separated them from my own being. In this poem I will touch on my past with religion and my admiration of Joan of Arc, a French-Catholic Saint.

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I have Joan of Arc’s soul,

selfless,

a martyr,

spirit spilling with ambition for

a siege of the selfless.

my mother, perhaps, breathed in her ashes

when she had me;

her embers embedded underneath my eyelids,

and I began to see all the treacheries that she fought against:

 

I was certain it was my duty to avenge her.

 

I devoted myself to God,

stringing together verses with my

own: a homemade friendship

bracelet I hoped He would accept,

 

I strayed away from surface level beauty:

I never made acquaintances with my reflection,

never shook hands with my features,

keeping my fingers off my face and

my insecurities underneath my faith.

 

soon enough I found myself blurring

the lines between religion

and morality,

I was told:

those who are faithless are reckless

senseless,

and

hell bound

and I began to whimper like a hound,

kneeling against my bed,

breathing in air and breathing out

prayer to maintain the wellbeing of

my loved ones without realizing the

impact of it on my own.

 

it started with my separation from religion;

I fell ill on Sunday mornings,

mourning the loss of my

once obstinate fidelity,

catching tears onto my tongue,

clinging onto the capsules

of my sanctity,

my place in heaven,

 

my soul

 

I grieved most of all for

my soul,

because I felt like I was

unworthy of harbouring a ship of

spirits in the deck of my

conscience,

Joan of Arc had set sail in

the ocean of my

virtue,

white sheets of dove

feathers,

floating as I

frantically baptize myself in

The once transparent water tainted,

opal;

my cross replaced by my birthstone

 

losing that piece of myself made me

feel naked,

made me believe I had lost her

blessing,

smeared her name,

disappointed her for

disgracing the cause

she had died for.

 

I had lost her guidance,

her blessing,

however,

her devotion to others stayed with me,

empathy became the new lense over my

eyes,

and I began to realize the

difference between

humanity and

divinity:

 

the subtleties hidden  

amid the

complexities of the human heart,

and the paths of eden,

revealing the connections between

vitality and virtue,

between worshipping warmth and

worshipping god,

how we are not so different than our ideas of the

supernal,

how we are among the celestial,

spinning in the sky;   

I dare not reach higher,

I simply serve others,

I sink into

the earth for

equality, as she

drifts into the sky for

sanctity.

 

seen as heretics for our loyalties

feared for our ambition.

our vigor,

devotion:

 

she is the maid of orleans,

I am the maid of obscurity;

 

while she is pious,

I am progressive;

 

a savior for religion,

I savour rebellion;

 

she blames no one for her

misfortune,

whereas I

blame my tongue because it doesn’t

curve like the great Albertan plains and,

I blame my tongue because it doesn’t

drift down like Russian snow,

I blame the measuring tape I wrap

around my waist like an

anaconda,

I blame the sins I’ve committed for

salvation,

I blame my mind for being an open

vessel,  

defenseless to passion,

poetry,

and

paradoxes.

 

we have both begged for respect

we have both been

peasant girls asking for an audience,

We have both been accused of

Being something we’re not:

saints,

soldiers,

sacrifices.

 

I have Joan of Arc’s soul,

selfless,

a martyr,

but I will be burned for different reasons.

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This poem was inspired by my everlasting love and awe of Joan of Arc. In a way she frightens me because she reminds me of myself. What she did in the name of God is nearly identical to what I would do in the name of art, theater, literature, history, and humanity. As someone who has experienced religion and made the independent decision to become an atheist: I can say that religion is not for me, yet I still hold an appreciation for it in my heart.

 

Feature Image is from GIPHY and is a clip from the silent film, The Passion of Joan of Arc