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POETRY
Haiku of Hope
Somewhere under all this patriarchy there has to be
a pony.
-- Bob Maxwell Washington
Lazarus Gives a Banquet
They gave a dinner for him, and Lazarus
was one of them at table with him. -- John 12:2 Of
course, Im an oddity, not another one around. Ive been there
and back, and whats more, I stank.
When I give a banquet,
they come; no no-shows, no compelling them to come. No one without a
wedding garment.
Talk about a conversation piece! Sidelong
glances as I break a crust of bread -- Had he eaten with the
angels? --
I raise my glass of wine, they nudge their
neighbors -- Can he be thirsty, who drank from the ultimate
barrel? --
I speak to the Master about the price of barley --
Do they share memories from the cave that would stupefy the
mountains? --
OK, I have smudged the clear edges of reality,
broken the quantum barrier? Only this I say: truth is a moving
target.
-- Fr. Kilian McDonnell, OSB Collegeville, Minn.
Vignette
They ask their mothers Where is
the cereal? -- in vain, as they faint away like the
wounded in the street of the city and breathe their last in
their mothers arms. -- Lamentations
2:12
The windows of the soul are clouded by hunger, and deeper
wounds shrouded from sight lie buried in the dark night. Foul
birds of greed peck at the seeds of war and drop them to be sown in
blood from Rwanda to Zaire.
-- Sr. Martha Wickham, ASC Red Bud, Ill.
Unexpected, Sacramental
(In memory of Richard A. McCormick, SJ,
1922-2000)
Mom cries but we never see you cry the
girls would tell me, aware of the mystery of their father, the otherness
of men.
I would always assure them I have and I do, to which
these doubting Thomasinas would reply: We want to see
it.
On the morning of the third day after he left us, we
rose to a blanket of snow, unexpected, sacramental, white as a great
nephews baptismal gown, a nieces wedding dress, his own
funeral shroud.
Our ordinary lives canceled, Im halfway through
reading the obituary to my daughters.
Id forgotten how the
diaphragm spasms, how shallow staccato breaths alternate with
deep cleansing ones when the spirit lets go into a sudden, soulful
cry.
Between sobs I manage only: He was a great
man.
Gathering around, they stroke me gently on the neck and
back. Now I hear four weeping with me, now just the soft, oracular voice
of the youngest: This is how Dad cries.
-- Kevin E. Anderson Monclova, Ohio
A Saint in Training
We do what we can and we pray for what we
cannot yet do. -- St. Augustine
An untidy place, this
Catholic church where babies cry at Mass and the priest says
us when he talks about who isnt perfect. I heard the
place was for sinners, so I just showed up.
-- Ruth Pizzat Erie, Pa.
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1999 in POETRY
Poems should be 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, June 16,
2000
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