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POETRY
Eastertide
Splendor of magnolia, Easter gift! Your nuanced
tones Of pale purple Tell of tenderness.
Jesus to Peter,
Do you love me? Repeated, echoed 400 times On the one
bush, Five feet around: Space enough for 3 apostles standing, Plus
some fish on a fire.
I walk in wonder. In buds, in birds,
Trembling life Surges from the tomb, And all around me, From earth and
sky and wind and water The call reverberates, Do you love
me?
Then comes the tempest; The tender blooms are Tossed
about and Hurled upon each other.
After the fray I see a beaten
bush; Nothing is left of Nuanced pink and purple.
On the ground
are Torn petals and sticks As remains of a fire would be.
Love has
been blown and buffeted, And the whine of the wind Answers, I --
I think so -- I want to.
-- Sr. Matthias Michels, OP Sinsinawa, Wis.
The Women of the Last Supper
Definitely there, behind the scenes, they worked as
always, preparing for the event they had not been invited to; though
certainly their work
was invited, their good food, its warm inviting
smells. Their hair like gleaming rags rubbed the table to a glassy
shine, which reflected on that night of nights
the invited men
watching, the cup, the bread, raised high. But that was later, after.
When the women arrived it was daybreak and light poured everywhere
in the Upper Room, as they poured flour through a sieve eleven times.
Bitter herbs, snakeroot and chicory, sat soaking; spiced fruit was peeled
for puree. They
knew the rules of this occasion, and worked in quiet
unison without the need to speak, as water from the well was brought
and fell upon the walls and floor in a cleansing
splash. The room sat
early washed and waiting, for the sun and wind to do their drying work,
their part in preparation, these spirits of the sky; not invited, but also
there.
-- Jessica Maich Granger, Ind.
Friday, 3 p.m.
At 3 oclock on that Friday afternoon, Jesus, the
man from Nazareth, the God from God, died:
Dead was the body labored
from his mothers womb and adored by the Magi, the body that was
immersed by John in the Jordan, that was transfigured on the high
mountain, that fell prostrate in the Garden. Drained were the cheeks
kissed by his mother and by Judas. Limp were the arms that reached out to
his mother from the manger, that wrapped around Mary and Martha in their
grief. Lifeless were the hands stroked by his parents as they fled to
Egypt, that touched and cured the untouchable leper, that shared the
bread, his body, at the Last Supper. Closed were the eyes that were aware of
the hungry thousands on the hillside, that spotted Zaccheus in the
tree, that could not bear to see the Temple used for profit. Still were
the lips that spoke Abba to Joseph and to Yahweh, that read and
sang in the synagogue, that laughed with friends. Silent was the voice
that taught the Beatitudes and told unforgettable stories of seeds and
sowers, shepherds and sheep, prodigal sons, and good Samaritans; the
voice that commanded the seas to be calm and demons to be gone; that
whispered to the adulterous woman that she was not condemned. Limp were the
legs that formed a lap that cradled the children, the knees that bent to the
floor to wash the disciples feet. Motionless were his own feet that
once walked on water, that crisscrossed Galilee, Samaria, and Judea from
city to town, lake to river, grove to desert to proclaim Good News. So
completely [empty] was Jesus that he became [the]
perfect vessel on Easter morning for the fullness of Gods life in
which we share. Amen.
-- Paul Homer West Hempstead, N.Y.
First Easter
Spring comes insistently.
How dare it arrive as it
always does? Days breaking early, Sun warming, Bulbs thrusting green
points from cold soil, Red buds bursting from maple bark?
My beloved
has died. I am desolate, widowed. Yet Spring returns as ever, Not
acknowledging his death, Not detouring respectfully around me in my
grief.
Spring easters into my bereavement, Blowing light, warmth,
birdsong right past me, Brushing against me abrasively, carelessly,
Forcing me to decide: Do I brace myself against it, hold it out? Or do I
let Spring in?
-- Virginia L. Collins English Wilbraham, Mass.
The Woman of the Altar Linens
If she could have, she would have washed and folded
the death shroud of Jesus to leave it for the mourning women to find,
but an earlier angel had to do that. She refolds soiled altar linens in
chapel light, disappears behind its sanctuary wall and then reappears
with the mornings linens, to place them as if within the cave.
They do not have the sweet spill smell of wine from evening Mass, as his
shroud must have had the aroma of burial -- the spices and scented oils
of Magdalene -- but of tumble dry and steam iron press and the gentle
fold of her angelic hands.
-- Chet Corey Bloomington, Minn.
2001 in Poetry
2000 in Poetry
1999 in Poetry
Poems should be previously unpublished and 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, April 13, 2001
[corrected 4/27/2001]
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