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POETRY
Connection
I bought the jar of honey at the discount store
for a dollar
cant go wrong, honey is honey,
I tell
myself, besides, the jar is pretty, a honeycomb on its lid, small,
just right for summer jam
at home, the label informs me that
this honey was made by bees in a Hungarian meadow, and joy warms
through me like a sudden blast of sun
I stand in the winter
kitchen, waist high in waving poppies and yarrow and paintbrush, I
know this place and the young girl running barefoot through it,
blonde curls and a necklace of white clover heads streaming behind
her
she is that ancestor I know only through my mothers
remembering, along with tales of family noses and tempers and an uncle
who trained Lippizaner horses
I have formed her in admirable
image, wise child, wise woman, who has given me my love for earth and
words, I see her, older now, moving with soft feet and careful
eyes in this very meadow (it is not impossible) foraging flowers and
herbs, stripping willow bark and cherry, to use as poultice or potion
to discourage moths and fitful sleep, bending, weaving in gentle
dance, courteous of the bees whose descendants carry on
from my
mothers gold-rimmed cup, I drink the honeyed tea, the holy
wine, in communion with all who have made me, the child with bouncing
curls and those who came before her, who dance in my heartbeat, ride
the rapids in my tributaries of blood, tantalize my mind with impudent
violins, seize my fingers with laughter as I type
bless all of
you who hover round my cup and speak to me of family!
-- Ethel Pochocki Brooks, Maine
Righteous Man Praying
Three months and no rain, O Lord. The field yields its
last dew, Dust gray becomes the parched soil. To the bare ground crops
stoop, Cattle bearing still tongues in wide mouths. Heat upholds summer
sky high, No shade for us to hide. With pursed lips We stand under our
own suspense. No patch of cloud, no thread of wind, As the silence of
dead air penetrates, we Cannot but look in, dig in, To find the dryness
deep within.
No praying, no righteous man, No righteous man
praying, Not even one single rain-man like Elijah. Shelter us from the
hot spells of false prophets; Shower us, O Lord, in the greenhouse of your
prayer.
-- Ben Hsiau Columbia, Mo.
Leave-taking Prayer
If the heart grows heavy As an adamantine stone
May some lost lark find refuge there And a lilting song intone.
And
if sadness sits upon your winter face And heavy knits your brow May
spring descend with flowers bright And laugh upon the broken bough.
If the road leads to deserts sere And the soul is on sorrows
brink May you find old Jacobs ancient well And drink, and drink,
and drink.
-- Br. Thomas More, CFX Louisville, Ky.
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
topoetry@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 29,
2001
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