My soul's undying litany

As mentioned earlier, her neighbor John Daniels originally set up a website of Evelyn’s poems. It has since been discontinued, and this blog is an attempt to fill the void.

This was his introduction to that earlier website, written in 2001:

Evelyn Coffey died on July 14, 2001, leaving a priceless accumulation of unpublished poems, more than 300. Her poems distilled experiences that moved her deeply, whether related to religion, nature, family, or social justice.

Evelyn was a dancer, a ballerina. She was the older of two daughters, no father present (“To My Father Who Died Too Soon”), living in Cleveland during the depression. Her younger sister Rose died as a teen ager (“The Rose Song”), and her mother died when Evelyn was in her late twenties (“Hands of a Mother.”)

Evelyn suffered a heart attack in her early youth, probably around the time that her sister and mother died. With her own death appearing a real possibility, she gave up dance (“Sentence”), gave up thoughts of married love and motherhood (“To ______”), and began to live as a celibate lover of people, nature, and her God, who she found in all. Her poems were written mostly during the late 1930’s and early 1940’s, with her most prolific production and development in a poetry class at Cleveland College.

Throughout her life, her poems were the distillation of her strong feelings. She encouraged artistic friends (“To a Soldier Artist”), thanked those who were kind to her (“The Physician”), expressed her own deep longing (“Elizabeth Barrett to Robert Browning”), reflected on war (“Good Friday 1940”), and distilled artistic experiences (“On Hearing Shubert’s Unfinished Symphony”). In ”Lullaby to One Recently from Heaven” she teaches us our duty to learn from children and teach them what we have learned from them. And she gives us a rare interpretation of her own poetry. Evelyn died a few months ago, leaving more than 300 poems, most of which were read by no one other than herself and her poetry teacher. One particular poem, “To Peg”, seems to be a most appropriate last word of consolation to those of us who delighted in her life.

To --------

My life is almost done, and still I wait

For joy the robin knows to surge my breast.

A muffled sadness rides the morning gate,

Although this other creature calls it blest.

I watch him bandy clouds to reach his mate,

While paeans of gold sound ascend the nest.

Paeans of sound the morning consecrate,

And blundering I try to mount its crest.

My hands pluck apples for my sated taste,

And though I plant the seeds with ruddy will,

No child of mine will pat the sprouting tree,

No blood of mine will climb the fruited hill.

The loamy path my digging fingers traced

Shall be my soul’s undying litany.

Evelyn Coffey