|
POETRY
Flying in America
We wait silently in snaking lines, slouching towards
security. No companionable murmurs or impatient sighing, just the
repeating drone of low-paid workers searching for the next apocalypse.
Bring out your laptops, they chant. We shuffle, juggle,
obey.
The airport newsstands, united. Front covers immortalizing new
icons of death. Passengers are but moments away from mentally reenacting the
unimaginable. Why buy images already boxcut into our souls?
We
rewrite and rewrite cartoon scripts on takeoff. ACTION! She
grabbed the pots of scalding coffee from the tiny galley and aimed real
low. SPLASH! WHAMO! ARRGH! The bad guy instantly felled by
Starbucks! The universe was saved! and ... CUT!
In flight, I
glance at the magazine my subconscious willed me to buy. Ridiculously
perfect papier-mâché pumpkins grace the cover. Good god! Its
Martha Stewarts LIVING. The secret of forcing spring blooming
daffodils to flower indoors, in winter, Is revealed. Their names roll
off my tongue. Golden Harvest. Bridal Crown. JetFire, Pink
Angel. Imagine. Imagine all the daffodils living life in peace.
Flight attendants are sniffling into shredded tissue. 2,700 of their
coworkers were laid off yesterday. Their jobs may be gone when we
land. The single cell of Martha Stewart in me would like desperately to
make it all beautiful. Youre doing a good job, I
say. Americas gonna keep flying. But what I really want
to do is grab the microphone and shout, Attention ladies and
gentlemen, We are about to learn how to keep on LIVING. And today
were going to learn how to bloom in the dead. Of our
winter.
-- C. Richardson Juneau, Alaska
Mother of Sorrows
Solace of shock, pray for us Healer of grief, pray for
us. Absorber of tears, pray for us
Protector of children, pray for
us Calmer of fear, pray for us Healer of hurt, pray for us Inspirer of
courage, pray for us
Strengthener of faith, pray for us Peace of the
terrified, pray for us Home of the lost, pray for us Song of the brave,
pray for us
Rest for the tired, pray for us Forgiver of our enemies,
pray for us Guardian of our enemies children, pray for us
Way
to the future, pray for us Queen of Peace, pray for us
-- M. Therese Casey La Mirada, Calif.
A Sun Without Justice
In ancient Arabic texts, the wingless bird symbolizes
mans lower nature. The sun usually signifies justice. However, in hot
countries, the midday sun is considered destructive, because it kills the
vegetation that sustains life. It is a sun without justice. The Bible refers to
it as the demon of midday. In folklore, sulphurs red flames
represent the underworld and the devil, who always smells of
sulphur. --Marie-Louise von Franz, Alchemy
Two wingless birds, two demons turned before the
sun and slammed into the heart of the world. Their red sulphur
flames shot from two towers where life once flowed.
Tell the sun
to hide from its dark mind; leave no shadows on the mourning
hill made of paper, bone, and ash.
Have the trees chant a
plainsong, while the cathedral leans forward -- its windows scraps of
tattered lace on the horizon.
The eagle flies above the midday
sun, above the ruins and the screeching of the trapped
firefighters body alarms.
Through the acrid incense, from
the corruptible earth, it carries all souls to heaven: reclaiming the
void where life once flowed and will flow again.
-- Joan Rizzo Medina, Ohio
not the dust
death isnt hanging heavy in the air this
morning, at least not here. the breeze from the harbor is welcome,
cooling my cappuccino.
* * * the air is clear, only some dust
coming from construction across the street but not the dust of cement
crushed and felled from two hundred stories in free fall not the dust of
cracked toilets, decimated terminals, desk frames giving up loved ones to
fire and fury not the dust of vaporized bones and startled souls
crossing over, high above the harbor not the dust of doors sealing office
tombs or windows slashing wrists, necks, arteries in their accidental
fall into grace not the dust of dreams imploding across the backdrop of
the unimaginable with a morning coffee
* * * the city searches past the dust
ventilated, searched out the newest hope the oldest routine in the warm
early summer day, not the dust
-- Sr. Charleen M. [Pavlik] Fayette City,
Pa.
Hard Times
In hard times you go to the center. Theres a
centripetal force towards home, the softness stronger than stone.
In
hard times, as always, aliveness, breath, become the
marvel.
In hard times youre the pilgrim for whom all are
friends. Nothing is left to sell or barter but ones life in
service.
-- Sr. Carl Bialock, RSCJ Houston
The Dogs
Disaster has brought them to this site Of the blasted
and collapsed extremities Of what had been human buildings, to do
Dogs work of educated search and retrieve. Patiently waiting
handlers orders, they pass Knowing eyes over the working area,
already Knowing by scent, here is work to be done. None of them
socializes: to one another They are working partners, like the humans
Who died in the disaster, or the pairs Of searches and carnage-carriers
assigned To the site. Unlike these, they do not Drink coffee, make
desperate jokes, scratch Their heads with helmets off -- only focus On
dogs work, until dogs tired relief From cadaver-fetch; they
cannot show grief.
-- Nancy G. Westerfield Kearney, Neb.
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 cream-colored 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.
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 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, October 19, 2001
[corrected 10/26/2001]
|
|