Discovering Christina

The first in a little series of gleanings I gathered from a lovely biography

I begin this essay as any writer worth his or her salt would be wise to do; with praise at the wonder of city libraries. Where would we be without them?

I was simply meandering the stacks one day and dug up this beautiful anthology of Christina Rossetti’s poetry - old and wonderful - it even smelled authentic. The best surprise by far was the Introduction. I am a consummate introduction skipper, but on a whim, I decided to read this one. It was written by one Marya Zaturenska and was nothing short of terrific! The writing was beautiful in itself and it divulged so many delicious details that I would have wanted to know about Christina before reading her poems. It was uncanny. Marya Zaturenska charmed me with this little sample of her own writing. I wanted more. Enter the librarian, who happened to be in the right place at the right time. They simply have that knack, librarians do. She mentioned to me that there is a whole biography of Rossetti by Marya Zaturenska! She dug around and found it for me. Home I went over the moon with both books in hand. Always support your local library; bake your librarian cookies once in awhile! And as any librarian would tell you, always read the Introductions to books.

I find it somewhat of a mysterious lacuna that I am only discovering Christina now so late in my life. I could have used her insight most certainly as a younger, seeking woman. She would have explained so much to me then. But with poets you learn not to ask why. You take them when they arrive - sometimes as suddenly and simply as your hand reaching randomly toward a book on a library shelf. Pages flutter and quietly land in your hands. Up fly words. Discovery! Understanding! Sympathy! The passion and visceral feel of spiritual love! All there, hidden and waiting years for you - when you are at long last ready to hear and understand.

This is the way of poets. And the way of grace.

I had first to meet Hopkins and he led me to Emily Dickinson who quietly pointed to Herbert, who in turn made me ready for Christina. These journeys of the soul are not random, though they may feel so. God uses poets as sure as the sun rises and sets. We get them precisely when they are needed. They too are veils that flutter open once in a while to reveal the startling beauty just on the other side.

We don’t ask why. We wait for revelation. And suddenly it startles us like fluttering birds from a page. That’s how Christina arrived. And I marveled.

I read her biography in tandem with the poems. It is my way. One can be more delighted with the poetry when one knows where the poet has been and what the poet has experienced in the way of delight or suffering. As I made my way first through Christina’s younger years, I was filled with more and more understanding and questions.

The younger years. We don't always know about an artist in his or her younger years. And it seems key to me now that I have been immersed in Christina's. She had a loving, close knit family with a literary mother, father, and siblings - of both English and Italian descent. They discussed and wrote and painted all the time. They were not at all of society in a financial way. They lived in "genteel poverty" - where each room was filled with perhaps shabby furniture but was clean, tidy, and welcoming. Nevertheless, many artists, writers, poets, and wealthy Oxford swells gravitated to this shabby but shining little place and left with things to think about. There were a lot of thoughts shooting back and forth over those slightly cracked tea cups. I don’t mind inserting here that this would be my HEAVEN.

The most interesting people in Christina's life, however, were within these four walls. She didn't travel far afield to search for many more. She had as much inspiration from her own family, as well as grandparents and spinster aunts who found the world quite interesting and shared their enthusiasms.

She spent time at her Grandparent's summer house and discovered the beauty and mystery of the natural world - a world she hardly saw living as a city child in the heart of London. Because of this, she always kept a quiet awe for the beauty of flowers, trees, and weather. They always held a pristine mystery because they were so other. This was important to her poetry.

She was protected in these four walls. And that is a very good thing. For when she began to write poetry at 11, it was for her mother, whom she loved and admired. She did not want help with rhyme or meter - she wanted it to be a total gift of her own. And her mother accepted the gift without any maternal condescension. I am sure that made Christina’s heart blossom with joy. She wrote better poems as she grew. At the age of 15 she had written several - her father Gabriele was impressed and moved to tears - he wanted nothing more than children who saw the world as poets - and she gave him much consolation in that regard.

Christina's muse was nurtured and protected by her family. They gave her the confidence to keep writing and to share it with them. That kind of love really should be the first home for poets, artists, and writers - though often it is regrettably not. It staves off the inevitable 'blight' the world will inflict on a poet's success. When a heart discovers that not all people will rejoice in its success, and for no very good reasons, it is a sad day. When one discovers that the world is not generally kind to artists, writers, and poets. Some discover that early on and others later. But joy at success should be there FIRST to keep a poet steady and willing to let fly their inner thoughts. Christina would be disillusioned by the reactions of others later in life, but at the beginning she came to full blossom within her literary family's love.

It is a little story about her maternal grandfather that took my heart. He was Italian and lived across town in London. He had acquired a small printing press and had a great time experimenting with it. He gathered up all Christina's 15 year old poetry with little drawings of her own and put together her first published book of poetry on his own press. She was over the moon with delight. It was probably simple and short, but she WAS in PRINT. And that matters. Nothing like ink to a word set on a page of type and your name at the top of the page. It is a physical sign of the fragile joy that dares to put its poetry out there for others to see. That her joy landed in the loving hands of her grandfather first was a lovely thing.

His pride, his excitement when he handed her the book I can only guess at. But what a treasure she held in her hands. I wonder if she stroked it and held it to her tightly when she came up against nay sayers or critics. No matter how disillusioned she became with worldly fame that wilts so easily, she first knew what it felt like to blossom fully under the loving gaze of a grandfather's praise - a grandfather who was a poet in his own right.

This story makes me exceedingly glad. That Christina had that hold on joy before the clouds of disillusionment came. It's a lovely thing.

It is why families need to cultivate their own all important, particular, inner fires where each child can come to warm themselves after a time spent in the colder world.

This is where I stopped for now…..more to come. I will close with one of Christina’s lovelies, as is only right and just.

Tread softly! all the earth is holy ground.

It may be, could we look with seeing eyes,

This spot we stand on is a Paradise

Where dead have come to life and lost been found,

Where Faith has triumphed, Martyrdom been crowned,

Where fools have foiled the wisdom of the wise;

From this same spot the dust of saints may rise,

And the King's prisoners come to light unbound.

O earth, earth, earth, hear thou thy Maker's Word:

" Thy dead thou shalt give up, nor hide thy slain " —

Some who went weeping forth shall come again

Rejoicing from the east or from the west,

As doves fly to their windows, love's own bird

Contented and desirous to the nest."

- Christina Rossetti

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