The Letters of Ann Griffiths (1776–1805), and: The Visions of Margery Kempe

The Letters of Ann Griffiths (1776–1805)

In the light of her exceptional spiritual experiences, Dolwar Fach in Ann's day was a meeting place of time and eternity, of heaven and earth.

–E. Wyn James

She would sometimes roll on the ground … she shone with greater intensity and prominence in spiritual religion than anyone I saw during my lifetime.

–John Hughes

Dear John,

The word has entered me again—broad day— / but the doubts gnawing still—is a partial

glimpse—a breath, a sigh, true visitation? / Ruth insists again on calling herself

maidservant, but am I called to her / sister, though the priests of the English church

warn against women's mouths, the king against / leveling. Warfare hot now as ever—

    A Rose of Sharon, a flame. A spiked hart                  piercing my side. This red buzzing, this gold                              ringing in my head, this harmony of                  wings fluttering under my skin. My God:God who is the dove, God the whisperer.

The bright melody presses into me / from all sides—and I fracture, I prism.

Enemies within, enemies without, / I'll contend even unto blood—it is the tenor of my broken mind to tell / you—

                                                                                                                        your dissonant,

                                                                                                                        your echoing friend—

Dear wanderer,

Ruth has done her part with the cattle and / half the profit will be hers.

The news from

abroad: there will be no end to fighting, / no mercy, just more boys lured from the fields.

Dissidence, a rattle in the soul, God          comes like ink loosed in a cup of water,                   a tremor, music snaking the veins—I                           am swallowed up by a host of armed men                   clattering at my prayers—such a low view

of my religion I have just now, such / corrupt understanding—I fail again

to abide, our one terror: an evil— / Eye of kite could ne'er discern it— howling

inside us.

                                                                                              Yours, contrary to nature—

Oh, brother John,

Of these claims of victory: do not be / seduced. One emperor's speech is as good

as another's. The voices knocked me flat— / Weary, for like bees then come about me—

my heart still shakes at it—by the tavern / at Llanfyllin. There in the dirt—corrupt

in essence—I saw the sound, scented it: / fine gold at last. Take good care: God appears

not always to the sight, but also to / the hearing—eye and right hand flinging from

me. Listen to your loom, to the shadow / of blue evening palming, veiling our heads.

Fragrance of valerian, the Word, sea         salt. Do not claim I failed to warn                  you—no tyranny on a foreign field         that does not return with the soldiers. Do

not misunderstand where the battle is.

                                             From one who is winging swiftly toward the                                             unseen world that lasts forever—your                                                                                                      Ann

The Visions of Margery Kempe

The first woman to record her biography in English, Margery Kempe (c. 1373– 1440) fought lust, ambition, and vanity during the many years of her visions of Mary, Jesus, and the Devil. She traveled widely from her home in King's Lynn, East Anglia, and her fellow pilgrims often attempted to lose her along the way because of her incessant spiritual weeping.

I

The first was love,                                a voice beyonddevil's fangs                            in my birthing sheets,my breast,                      their tongues                                                   lapping the sweatfrom my skin.                            I stood                                                      at the pier—it seemed to me—                            waves                                                   baptizingmy linen shift—                            no one's creature—bereft                     of speech.                                        The fiercenessof it—           my husband swore                                            I chewedmy way to the bone                        of my ownhand,                   and the wound festered.                                                  Tied, then,by the wrists,                     my son                                    spiritedaway.              A priest for my cleansing—Beelzebub                    sat on his tongue,and he backed away                                from the smell,blood and milk,                          would not                                              endure myconfession.                     The sin                                         chattered onthe red silk sang                       among the pleats of my best skirthanging                       at the open window—I begged                             for darkness,                                                    for silence,and suddenly all fell                             still—                                                  Christ,at my feet,                                    in his purple robes,my own lover,                     whispering                                                why...