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POETRY
Palm Sunday
1 On Palm Sunday in Holy Week i ride the A train
uptown to St. John the Divine high art gothic looming over lowly Harlem
where liturgy is divinely rendered by a bishop wearing a purple
zucchetto and pita bread replaces the wafer falling crumbs to the
cold concrete floor of the grand cathedral i stoop to pick up the pale
fragments of His broken body offered as sacrifice of praise and
thanksgiving for us careless caretakers of the Holy Mystery
2 In
Manhattan as hard rain falls at midnight lady artist, Jesse, poet David
Henderson and i break bread and drink wine together talking books,
cinema, politics and personalities like Cornel West selling out to
Harvards black elite In ecstatic conversation we celebrate the
word made flesh on Sunday nite in Mekka on Avenue A
-- Tomás San Diego
On My Way to Easter:
resonance of visions: french horns spilling sunshine
into air of topaz wine pansies grinning and You danced laughing with new
babies and sinners around the table splashing holy water and Mary open
and weeping at the tomb the helium balloons Hallelujah broke away and
rose far above the city crouching over subway tunnels
screeching electric fear where I sat facing a brown velvet black
woman lamp glow of daffodils in her lap and the derelict so sick he
held his breath and the edge of his seat through eyes like blue daybreak
over a battlefield stared out at me speaking Your Name.
-- Mariel Kinsey Las Vegas, N.M.
In the Garden
Got a slick tongue my mother used to say. Kind of
thick tonight? Yeh, had a few. Needed em. The wind was cold.
That damned garden, full of spooks and crazy howling. I was beat. Got
forty winks and then all hell broke loose.
Man, they were an ugly
crew and mean as sin. I beat it while I still had time; the others,
too, I think.
He was too dumb to run I guess. You never know
whats on his mind. Yeh, he spoke to Judas and the rest. Me? I never
said a word. --Sr. Jean Hitzeman, OP Hickory Hills, Ill.
Greenhouse Worker
You did not press a blossom, Keep it in the
workbook For years and years. No. You mean you let the blossom
out. Yes. I opened the skylight.
You did not press a
blossom. No. Did you actually bend down, Comfort a blossom.
Yes. I moved discretely Through the scent.
I felt the color
bursting, All my fears blown free, My soul drifting north As the last
pasture rose. Lord, sweet Lord, I saw
A day of creation, The
skylight of the earth opening, The cherubim wild With the excitement
Of resurrection, spring.
-- Mary Ann Meade Conshohoken, Pa.
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 27,
2001
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