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POETRY
Post Resurrection 101
Luke 24:13-35
Awash in grief we fled Jerusalem, dust of that
place clinging to us even as we ran. No words tears only making
me blind once again.
When the stranger met us I resented
him, hated him. Could he not see the grief? Or was he blind too? He
asked for our story and in sobs we threw words at him in hopes of
seeing his tears.
He was pleasant
compassionate soft-spoken. The rage of our grief did not touch
him. He began quoting Scripture line after line of stale tired
verses. Did he not hear our grief?
For miles he ignored our
weeping.
Evening on the doorstep of the familiar again he
finished with us and turned to go. My grief rose up and captured
him. I dragged him inside the tomb of our home. Seated at our
table his memorized words were useless. We offered him our
sorrow on heaping plates. He took them at last. He broke open
before us and rose again fleeing the tomb. He left us behind, two
messengers blazing in the night.
-- Shannon ODonnell Tacoma, Wash.
Good Friday
my soul awakes before the mind and eyes
unlatch, before I reason why discomfort sharp as thorns is rising in
my bones
in this place which mind not fully roused allows, I
see a broken beaten Man soldered to the wood with nails and blood,
man and cross now all of one piece, indissoluble
but
more, I see those arms stretched taut in screaming ache as
eagles wings fullspread in mammoth grace, poised, at the
ready, for the last grand flight
-- Ethel Pochocki Brooks, Maine
The Gardener
This is a quiet ground to garden, This resting-place
of the dead, and yesterday Should have been quieter still, with the
Sabbath Falling after the executions of the day before. The rich
mans tomb is filled now, That I saw, rich enough to have a guard
Set overnight: some rowdy Romans drinking Until all hours, and even when
they slept, No peace and quiet -- all night the sky lit up As in that
year once of the great star, More star-born winds among the rocks and
trees, And sounds like flocks of birds in passage Overhead. I kept my
hut. The dead are walking, Was my fear. And here it is day again, Bright
in its dawning, brighter still For what is over. Little has stirred: Only
a pair of mourners, with their urns, Women most likely, walking this
way Slowly, and just about to meet a third.
-- Nancy G. Westerfield Kearny, Neb.
April
I shut my eyes against yellow daffodil light,
balmy air, cleansing rains do not revive hope in me. I want to stay
hidden in winter darkness.
But I cant ignore the
cardinals song, the swelling buds of reawakened trees; so
Ive made a truce with April, she can make me tipsy with the scent
of hyacinths, or the surprise of crocuses popping up amidst dead
leaves;
Though Im not ready, April, I wont resist
you. Go ahead, unlock my eyes, resurrect me to new life.
-- Jane M. Nirella Middletown, N.J.
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 20,
2001
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