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POETRY
Poems by Fr. Kilian McDonnell, OSB Collegeville,
Minn.
St. Johns Monks File in to
Prayer
In we shuffle, hooded amplitudes, scapulared brooms, a
stray earring, skinheads and flowing locks, blind in one eye,
hook-nosed, handsome as a prince (and knows it), a five-thumbed
organist, an acolyte who sings in quarter tones, one slightly swollen
keeper of the bees, the carpenter minus a finger here and there, our
pre-senile writing deathless verse, a stranded sailor, a Cassian
scholar, an artist suffering the visually illiterate and indignities
unnamed, two determined liturgists. In a word, eager purity and weary
virtue. Last of all, the Lord Abbot, early old (shepherding the saints is
like herding cats). These chariots and steeds of Israel make a black
progress into church. A rumble of monks bow low and offer praise to the
High God of gods who is faithful forever.
The Day the Fire
Fell
We heard a mighty wind, heavens rush, the day
the fire fell and Spirit flames set Jerusalem ablaze. Though the sun was
young all flesh had drunk its fill and new wines blush made
daughters prophesy, the sons to see great visions, and old men dream long
dreams, scullery maids predict the glories of the Lord; and the lame from
birth stood, no, ran free, walking and leaping and praising God,
dazed with joy, and noises rang through temple courts. Wonder and
amazement ran with him, for those who gave alms to that twisted man
gazed on one untwisted, an echo of Easter today. In the city the Instinct
of God dropped like a torch on thin reeds; provincial virgins, jocks and
hulks, the unsleeping devout, gray grammarians, gladiatorial dandies,
bar flies, a father of four, a boy from the land, a sanctuary louse,
spilled erasable faces, vendors, nervy priests with fingers on a
text. Gods elected few, beyond denial, sold all and gave to the
poor as their due. One Lord, one mind, one purse, one bread they broke
and were daily together in temple, table, praise. How does one keep this new
wine new?
The Papal Mass in St
Peters
The organ thundered glory, two grand choirs, loud and
celibate, sang triumph; monsignors in two-toned fuchsia, purple bishops,
and from every land red cardinals (My kingdom is not of this
world) with budgeted steps pilgrim down the aisle, and, last of
all, the old crippled saint in white, dragging his cross; with joy
hurled at the golden vaults as the pushy plebs rush the balustrade: rapt
Italian nuns with pointed elbows; Jews for Jesus hold high their rosaries
above the crush; Coptic crowns and Greek veils; in black mantillas,
ladies from Spain; adoring Poles; a pastor from the Bronx; Scots in
kilts, Saoan hulks in skirts; holding back focused twins of four, a
desperate matron from anywhere; five British youths in Sunday grunge; a
slight kimonoed girl from Tokyo and friend from north of Dayton.
A
storm of tongues and tribes, but one alliance, who see beneath brocaded
genuflections and silken bows the simple mysteries of the breaking of the
bread; beyond all defiance we have come to praise no academic Lord, no
abstract Savior, but to sing His death and rising which we share with the
relentless man in white, communion in the godly Blood
outpoured.
National Catholic Reporter, April 2,
1999
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