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EASTER
POETRY
Good Friday
Your death beat out slim pulses into dreaming this
nightmare I had, deep into winter:
You lay before us, soundless in a
starless hollow, the night a dark oppress, as dark as birth, your wings
blinking faint effusions, twinges soft auras giving off, the final utter
throbs of your heart shuddering light. We slipped quietly over the broken
translucence, and I feared there was no heaven, that you could die like
this, a white butterfly flitting in the darkness between
worlds.
Fallen, my Lord. Your love once bewildered me, you feared no
one, walked among the dying, consoling them and carrying them, you
shone still, excelling death. You lived all this world will ever know of
truth -- (truth, who sits by the door empty-handed and wailing because
she cannot save you).
And the things we would do in your memory, (as
though we belonged with you, because you made us seem worthy of
heaven), in your memory, vowing ritual, vowing blood and
politics, trading insults for our birthright. We lie. In praise of, in
creed, indifferent, we lie. We were baptized clean of your pain.
The
rains sing coldly now, my King. Life is nothing in description, now that you
are gone.
-- Faye A. Parenteau Woonsocket, R.I.
September 11, 2001
At the altar, it is easy to accept the Body given
up for us, all linen and flowers, the Host small and flat, bread that
dissolves simply in saliva. But there in the rubble bodies were given
up for each other, strong hands hauling others through the first
debris, not falling until the towers fell and bodies became ash and
air, the creamcolored dust still drifting to windowsills, filling our
lungs as we walk slowly past, watching the rescuers giving their
bodies to the smoldering heaps, the long silent liturgy of hope in the
dark ruins.
Here Christ comes to life among us risen in these
dead and these living, their bodies given in labor and
exhaustion.
Here the Spirit draws us beyond this destruction to
love stripped to bone, given over and over to open this tomb to learn
the hard giving and forgiving that will become our
resurrection
-- Sr. Doretta Cornell, RDC Bronx, N.Y.
The following three poems are part of a series titled
Holy Week.
Morning Prayer: Tuesday
In the tender compassion of our God, the dawn from on
high shall break upon us.
This Dawn comes brightly full of
promise as golden air spills over ripening buds about to spring into
greenery.
Glory to you Lord God of our Fathers
Holy Wednesday: Tenebrae Clouds
gather, cast a shadow of impending doom. This is the week of trial and
dread, no thought of joyous Easter now. Sobriety reigns Thunder and
the temple veil is rent
Maundy Thursday The Last
Supper Passover foot-washing bashful, we smile at bare
toes wondering at the meaning of this symbolic act
a priest washes
then gently sweetly towels them dry servant ministry
stripping of
the altar the altar of repose sweet and fragrant garden quiet before
storm
stay with me abide with me watch and pray
-- Mary R. Hockersmith Overland Park, Kan.
One Nail at a Time
He had more brokenness than grace. Yet he
could talk nervous cherubs
down from the trees, coax them into
singing songs that soothed
his contentious places. He was a man
who claimed squatters rights
in the peaceable kingdom. He
had sins that required industrial-strength prayers.
Not even angles
would wrestle with him. His was a faith gained one nail at a
time.
-- Fredrick Zydek Omaha, Neb.
Easter Vacation
We celebrated the mystery of resurrection by
tilling our garden this weekend.
We began with the ritual of
burning off the stubble of last years bounty.
The smoke rolled
like incense across the lawn and deep into the woods. A few crows
scolded the pungent odors though I noticed it did not stop them from
building nests.
Later when we planted onions, those old maids of the
field, the crows watched from nests
that seemed more like
choir lofts than nooks for the darkest birds of the rurals. Even
their
squawks were rich with polyphony once the garden filled with
rows of tiny tombs from which the magic
of green will emerge to
remind us that what we look for in the empty tomb is always with
us.
-- Fredrick Zydek Omaha, Neb.
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, March 29,
2002
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