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POETRY
Mater Dolorosa
Blessed is she on Golgotha. Her son hangs still;
the day is done.
Ave, Maria, to the one who knows the wind trembles
in its flask, the grain refuses threshing, for the teeth of the
wicked are not yet broken,
and she is still his mother.
-- Maryanne Hannan Troy, N.Y.
Lent, 2000
Eternal, the desert seduces me with harsh
silence, hiding, like whats inside me.
Fire soaks the
air, wrapping me in its penance, breaking the stone I call heart.
Wind washes over me, water penetrates, swallows; the stone gives up its
shell, yielding emptiness, vacant ache, an apartment ready for my
lover who feeds me on solitude in desolation.
When I long for miles
of color -- brilliant poppies eating up the sun, you give me
seed.
In the torrential cloudburst, I am carried to you,
blossoming.
-- Sr. Eileen Haugh, OSF Winona, Minn.
At Jacobs Well
Soul sisters of She, that single, Samaritan
woman who long ago witnessed to an inner-spring divinely sent to
flow its living water, these sisters wait still wait at
Jacobs Well.
Soul sisters of She, from age to
age have drawn water traditionally ritually from external
sources to birth to cleanse to quench thirsts wait still
wait at Jacobs Well.
Our feminine fount deep within
cannot be drawn Power and Prejudice stifle the inner-spring given to
women unable to baptize to reconcile to quench spiritual
thirsts todays sisters, spectators, wait still wait at
Jacobs Well.
-- Pat Mings Idaho Falls, Idaho
Voices Heard On The Way Of The Cross
IV Station: Mary Speaks
I stand with every
mother at the roadsides of the world to watch my child struggle up
the hills.
I taught my little boy to walk and set him on his feet
again each time he fell, until he learned to walk alone.
Hes grown and gone beyond me now and nothings left for me to
do except to follow close behind him on the way.
When his feet go
out from under him, I can no longer lift him up, but I have taught him
how to rise again.
-- Sr. Irene Zimmerman, OSF Milwaukee
Ash Wednesday
Weve shrunk sackcloth and ashes to a sooty
logo on the forehead. I am drawn to this ritual at Lents
cusp, enter the forty-day sweatlodge with sober hopes.
All Lenten
exorcisms of the past have come to naught. I repeat, even while
condemning them, the horned and hooved faults that shackle my better
angels, the faults I still hope to tame.
Now once more a cross is
smudged on me like holy warpaint signaling the start again of a long
crusade.
-- Sr. Pat Schnapp, RSM Adrian, Mich.
Chosen
How is it, Christ, that holiness sounds so serene
I know it is exactly what I crave: How will I dare to be clean, stripped
enough to stand erect and brave When I am close enough to view What it
did to you?
No, not serene: You model whats invisible
afar: Who you are.
-- Sr. Eileen Haugh, OSF Winona, Minn.
Verbum Caro
Saturday Mass at the abbey, ordinary time. Sober and
precise a young monk reads his script, Gestures spare around the book, the
table. What you see is not what you get.
The sermon yesterday
caught us off guard: My homily will be in the form of a
hymn. Unfolding his paper, Father Magnus sang Six verses, notes as
clear as winter stars, Then sat down. A hard act to follow.
We know our cues: when spoken to, we speak, Familiar phrases drowsy from
decades of use. Yet all our words, repeated and restrained, Are stirring
up invisible incense clouds, Our secret longings we dare not sing out
loud, Songs like Magnus wrote, tied in our throats.
Our
Father -- the monk next to me cups his hands, Pleads for daily bread,
or catches the soft Rain of mercy. It is all the same.
We walk
toward the center, the bread and wine. Unaccompanied we make
exchange, Body for body, bow heads for the final prayer. I look around
instead at faces shining. It dawns on me, Thy kingdom come,
could.
We close our books, put words and songs away, Fix seats
the way they were. I come up for air, Reel down the aisle, dazzled, blinded
by glory Dwelling in our land, our flesh, our coarse And mumbled words,
in snow now leaping with light, now white fire in the midday sun.
-- Sr. Regina Bechtle, SC Bronx, N.Y.
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1999 in POETRY
Poems should be limited to about 50 lines and preferably typed.
Please send poems to NCR POETRY, 115 E. Armour Blvd., Kansas City MO
64111-1203. Or via e-mail to poetry@natcath.org or fax (816)
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National Catholic Reporter, April 14,
2000
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