|
POETRY
Perseids
On the screen door, well past midnight, a scaly
wingspread, yellow, black stripes -- tiger moth, I call it, moth of the
Tiger Moon -- I tell it to stay, not let kitchen light which dazzles my
glow-eyed cat frighten the moth into flight when it follows me into my
dreams where dark oozes through metal mesh. Beneath the Perseids
shaken from antique velvet of an August sky, beneath this
millenniums final solar eclipse, you who take my measure are beyond
remembering to come back -- jaguar shaman tracking stardust across the
Milky Way. My gold ring is your lighthouse, as I wait for my hands to
catch up with my mind. In the Penan rainforest, tongues shape one
word for he, she, it but six for we. I
whisper our six names into the backyard sweetgum because you might forget
five -- wondering if I have brown eyes or black -- because green is
the color of healing, like fresh grief, like my hands
flowing.
-- Martha M. Vertreace Chicago
Passion
Jesus in his passion is shown silent, stoic and
full of dignity. But when they stripped him naked and tied his wrists
together and with the rope raised him off the floor and laid into him
with a whip, did not this Jesus who wept, who felt hunger, thirst and
desolation -- did not this Jesus scream and howl in agony and beg them
to stop? And when they pounded nails into his body, did he not
scream and scream again so that all on the mount could hear? Is he
not our brother?
-- Bob Maxwell Washington
The Lake at our Side
The Lake at our side, Always was, always will be.
The waters, deep beyond deep; calling me, deep into deep, The waters call my
name, call my peoples names.
People of the water, born of the
water. The waters of birth, the waters of death. The waves of our past,
the waves of our future. The waters of my hidden soul, the waters of my
hopefilled dreams.
The waves of pain, the waves of healing. The
waters quiet and still, the waters roar and throb. The waves of anguish, the
waves of peace. The waters immovable, the waters ever moving.
The
waters stir, the waves hurl. The waves roll in, the waters jump up. Will
I jump in, the waters jump up. The waters call, deep into deep.
Deep
in my soul, deep in my dreams. The waters of death, the waters of
life. The waves of today, the waves forever. The waves yesterday, the
waves tomorrow.
The waters call my name, call my peoples
names. The waters, deep beyond deep, deep into deep. The Lake at our
side. Always was, always will be.
-- Fr. Jozef Timmers, OFM Cap. Chicago
The Monastery Winemaker
Yes, tis me, Brother Fidelis, Faithful to my
trade. No, not the sacred hours (Libera nos, Domine) My girth
cannot disguise Im neither mystic nor ascetic, I make
wine.
Deep in these creviced caverns Removed from Lauds and
Compline I ply my trade, my art. And I must needs sample For my art
insists on tippling From time to time.
Yes, tis my wine which
is transformed To sacred vintage. My work is sanctified by
transubstantiation. Still, masters of my sanguinary art Practice first to
energize the bonds of charity, Good fellowship, gemutlickheit, A
smile, a grin, a belly-laugh, A chuckle, a guffaw. Thats all the
recompense my art demands. Thats praise of God enough For this
benign Benedictine.
I sip my glass -- magnifico! Benedicamus
Domino!
-- John R. Kidwell Manitowoc, Wis.
Christ of the Coconut Villa
You are not even a days plane ride away, but a
whole universe separates us now, as I think and dream about you, your
daily struggle to keep your children alive and fed. Youve been
behind the desk of this motel for twenty years, always the graveyard shift,
the hours and the tedium etching your face with frustration, the best
years of your life never to come.
I can hear death in your voice, it
dances around the edge of our conversation, what we first-worlders fear
the most expected by you in the same way Id expect to wear a coat
in the winter. It is your sister. And now, you across the ocean, who
share my age, stare down a tunnel toward your lifes end, our
vantage points two notes playing music incongruently.
The sights, the
smells, the stories of your land waft through my mind, your voice lilts
and resonates, haunting me. Your memory pries and breaks me open, asking
me to bite once again from the messy, chaotic mango fruit that is your
life.
I only know that I met Christ when I looked into the eyes of
a motel desk clerk and my life is now a puzzle.
-- Jan Pilarski South Bend, Ind.
Use the links below to read previous Poetry pages. Use
your browser's Back button to return to this page.
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)
968-2280. Please include your street address, city, state, zip and daytime
telephone number. NCR offers a small payment for poems we publish, so
please include your Social Security number.
National Catholic Reporter, May 19,
2000
|
|