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POETRY
August
Dust is the name of the game in August; rising from
the road to settle on the petals of the Black Eyed Susan and the
dried brown faces of Queen Annes Lace. Who can keep pace in
August during dog days dogtrotting toward September. Foliage is
nibbled, gall blisters plague the oak, and the tent worm makes
camp. Behind the hill the tireless whippoorwill takes over the
night. Stars glow like fire chips and under the blaze a million
star-crazed locusts whirr me to sleep.
-- Sr. Martha Wickham, ASC Red Bub, Ill.
Carrying Around Infinity
If only we could deal with infinity better, ride along
with it, forget its nubby presence in our sidebag, resist its vacuum
pull, the longings, restlessness
If only we could not feel its
crush, the insistent press of chaos all around, not hear its lilt,
the steady rumble in the undertone
Then, perhaps -- the race to
stillness could be won.
-- Maryanne Hannan Troy, N.Y.
In the Spanish Class
We are the immigrants here. The border That we must
wade like a Rio Grande Is this river of words, a swift flow On the
bilingual lips of la maestra, Our teacher, but for us treacherous With
irregular verbs, potholed with unpronounced Aspirates. And she is the border
patrol; Defending the purity of her mother-tongue, She will soap our
mouths for mother-offending Obscenities. She walks on the water of
words With flamenco hips, la maestra, while pursuing Our illegal entry,
we flounder and dare Whirling eddies of estar, crosscurrents of
ser.
-- Nancy G. Westerfield Kearney, Neb.
Cana, or Not a Perfect Carpenter
They have no wine. -- John 2:3;
Like us in all things, but sin. -- Hebrews 4:15
It
had to come from somewhere. Expectations have histories. Out of the
blue one does not say
They have no wine, as though
remarking on the gathering of the clouds, or how early is the spring this
year.
Surely she knew before she came. Had he bent more than
nails, as he hammered the oak plank, cut too short for the table
top,
and turning, to be sure the door was closed, did he, in a
stolen moment, lengthen it an inch or two,
a quick impatient wonder
to cover his mistake? But through the lattice, did she see and
understand?
Had she asked him to build a porch with beams from
Lebanon, where she could catch the breeze, watch the sun go down?
Then as cedar rafters above gave way, did he twist the law of
gravity, put a kink in the path of falling timbers? And did she duck --
and marvel?
-- Fr. Kilian McDonnell, OSB Collegeville,
Minn.
Signing
Once, a Sunday morning when I was far from home, In
that slight confusion that one may have With what is new and strange, I
chose a place to pray And found I had knelt down without much thought
There in a special place. I did not know at once Until it seemed
too late to move away.
In the front pews, kept just for those who cannot
hear, All through liturgy they signed as one And with such joy and great
devotion for the hour The words of prayers and hymns, and in
between Whispered signs that passed as pollen, unhearing one To another,
as flower to flower.
The children looked on, with much curiosity As
invader of their space stood to sing, Paused mid-sign as lip-read song began
to show. I wished them peace in words that they wound never hear, Then
deeply moved by their devotion at the end; I blessed myself, and made the
only sign I know.
-- Jim Cassidy Elmhurst, Ill.
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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 ncrpoetry@aol.com or fax (816)
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please include your Social Security number.
National Catholic Reporter, August 11,
2000
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