Poem 177

My first attempt to deal with Kolbe in writing – a few years later came my play The Temptations of St. Max … in the notes for that play when published I explain how I read his story in a Readers’ Digest and how it stuck with me, became the kind of grit under my skin that irritates a writer into forming art round it like a pearl …

… this poem is lambent and beautiful to me, I feel the throb of my unbelieving self straining to find a happy end, some sense of grace that I could manage to accept …

( I love the wetsuit, the weave of him filled with air, even something as simple as the deep blue corner and the last image of taking pity on and releasing a man’s soul like a trapped bee … )

Maximilian Kolbe, Martyr Of Auschwitz
(volunteered to die in place of another man June 1941)

I say Father Kolbe didn't step forward
the rest stepped back
     and kept stepping back
the world was turning not Father Kolbe
they all disappeared over the horizon
     marching backwards
he was left alone in the same place
just that nobody was sure
where the place was
any more
                     Father Kolbe rolled off the wetsuit of himself
                     and looked around
                     the weave of him was filled with air
                     like a shirt fresh on a line
                     he was alone
                     facing into a deep blue corner
                     he looked at the thin dead man
                     at his feet sadness
                     started to drag itself up him
                           but a door opened and the breeze
                     dropped the beginnings of a smile
                     into the dead man's face
                           someone said Kolbe
                           climb on this scrap of paper
                           I'll carry you
                           to the window