Bernard Mallia, Jesuit missionary priest and poet, writer of Inħobbok f’min hu fqir, died of a heart attack on February 4 in Nairobi, aged 81, following a stomach operation.

When his first book, Nistaqsi, was published in 1968, he was a pioneer of revived unrhyming verse in Malta. Prof. Aquilina, who wrote his foreword, appreciated his reflective approach, but remarked that his poems could be more finished, more ornate.

Mallia wrote his own explanation in the introduction. He claimed that he deliberately allowed his poetry to have occasional bumps, because they keep the traveller from dozing off.

Paul Xuereb also remarked, in a review on The Times, that Mallia’s poetry was rich in reflection but rarely expressed soft sentiment. This thought rather intrigued Mallia. He used to say that his poetry was really a minor part of his life. But this did not stop him intending, at the time, to write more ‘sentimental’ poetry.

A reviewer was also intrigued by Mallia’s claustrophobic feeling that the world was beset of walls that divide people. It was then a commoner expression than now, but it did have a very personal ring with Mallia, who ached to have walls with others torn down.

Fast forward to his second book, Bejn għajta u oħra, of 2001. One can see great continuity, but also a flowering of his personal journey. By then, decades of missionary work in Tanzania and Sudan were behind him. Some of his poems are quite finished in style, but many would find that there is often that paradoxical mix of roughness and beauty that is characteristic of Mallia.

He takes in the dryness of Sudan: so poor, ‘there is nothing here’. His philosophical side kicks in and he explains that he is not a masochist, adding with typical bluntness that, if seeking pain is what poetry is, he will chuck it out right away. He is in this poor, even, he says once, God-forsaken place − but the motivation that drives him comes out. He has very few words to describe it. More often it just underlies simple descriptions of very ordinary happenings.

The second book has a section of poems in English, written to be enjoyed with his Jesuit communities and the people they care for in Tanzania and Sudan. Many are community celebrations of anniversaries, birthdays, religious feasts. One poem is a hymn to Easter.  He sings of Easter being there also in Africa. He does not say much of what he sees in Easter, but the conviction is palpable that Easter is there enlivening Africa too, in spite of and amid its dryness and poverty.

His poems are all the more convincing because he lived out what he said in them. Earlier in his life, others may have felt that his scorching enthusiasm and insistence needed to be moderated and bridled. How could he aspire to go and do pastoral work in Africa, fresh after undergoing brain surgery?

But he admirably succeeded to channel his conviction and inspiration into a very productive life as pastoral worker and as seminary teacher in Africa. His awareness of walls among people turned him into a man who would go once a week to visit inmates and staff in a huge Sudan prison, spend time supporting and chatting with people he met there. He was loved and recognised by the Muslims there, who even built up a chapel for him and his Christian community and gave him an award. He was also very persuasive as he took up the case of people who came on the wrong side of authorities, getting them off the hook through his persuasiveness.

As to poetry and sentiment, he even dared to call ‘My Beatrice’ a poor woman, living in dirty and destitute conditions, making sure to keep his word and bring her the mangoes he promised her. He wants to convince her that she is appreciated and loved ‒ but he also intimates with us that this is a truly heartfelt love, a love we see as that of a non-possessive romantic, enamoured of people living in a poor and apparently graceless environment.

Mallia is the writer of the words of the much-loved liturgical song, Inħobbok f’min hu fqir, set to music by Edward Tagliaferro and popularised by the Good News Singers.

Mallia-style, there is a reflective argument that is spun through it. How can my communion nourish my spirit if I fail to see my brother ‘crucified next to you’? It is a very finished and incredibly crisp piece of work, ending with the demanding conclusion, ‘I love you in the poor, because they resemble you most.’  This sounds the more challenging, as it comes from one who lived it, his life filling the blanks of what he could not put in words.

Charles Pace