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POETRY
Witness: Kathy Kelly, Voice in the
Wilderness
We sit in the quiet room, mirrored in
opulence, twenty-foot ceilings, velvet walls embossed and
gilded, polished rare wood floor, marble staircase spiraling from the
long enclosed entryway off Central Park, complete with iron portcullis,
to hear Kathy Kelly, tiny Chicago-Irish sprite. This little
flower she calls herself, looking as if shell tell us of the
first grade class she teaches. She tells instead her journey to
Kuwait, Iraq, Haiti, the ravaged wounds of the world.
Could I have
worried if the corn would grow, having planted it, as she had, bright
kernels in the poison soil around the missile silo and have sat praying
and singing while the Jeep came, and the handcuffs? Could I have asked
the boy soldier, his army rifle pointed at my head, Do you think it will
grow? Could I have heard without hate his abashed, I sure hope so,
maam?
Could I have camped as she did, on the border of
Kuwait, have befriended the young Iraqi men who dug into
the sand, awaiting the U.S. Army? Could I have come home
after seeing the Iraqi bus come to move the witnesses, the Iraqi
leader approach the first witness, kiss his forehead, and order the
soldiers to lift him gently by his elbows into the bus? Could I have sat
like her on the steps of the U.N. fasting for 20 days, have rejoiced that
one policeman whispered: All Ive had today is iced tea, to join
you?
When she finishes, I walk out into Fifth Avenue sunlight,
startled that we are in New York. I wonder, can I go on as I have, teaching
poetry, correcting freshman essays? What are commas to all this, of the
long struggle for grace in language, or even the students bright faces
of understanding? What are these, what am I, as this tiny woman
witnesses to the violence and willful ignorance killing this Earth and her
people?
-- Sr. Doretta Cornell, RDC Bronx, N.Y.
Things I Dread
Do not judge, in order not to be judged. --
Matthew 7:2
Let me count the things I dread. To glue back that
idol I smashed. The shadow wolves are not a mirage. Climbing the North
face of Everest.
The dragon at the gate does not die. Lifting the
edge of the blanket, they will see my unwashed feet. God has a
photographic memory.
Before the end the road just stops, the
Mississippi becomes Sahara, the sun falls into the Atlantic, and, most of
all, I fail at dying.
But all these I can really manage, though its
one damn bother. But the ultimate terror: I will be measured with the
measure I measured out.
-- Fr. Kilian McDonnell, OSB Collegeville, Minn.
We Alternate in Prayer Group
carrying home the candle, tall at our
commencing. Each keeper trims the edges, softens the wax encircling a
sooty center. We are careful, chip pieces in neat arcs. The candle burns
more brightly without the rippled wall flooding its core. Such
shavings diminish height, spread fire like passion of the
Baptist: self decreasing, Christ increasing more.
-- Stella Nesanovich Lake Charles, La.
Banks Farm Road
Careful, my eyes sweep left and right as I intrude
down this old road which deer crisscross morning and night toward
food. They come fearlessly as to Lauds or Vespers, following
natures holy pattern.
I streak through a verdant
cathedral, down a silver sheen of macadam, in the grey morning mist
toward my daily grind. I work at the parish in town.
Here sunlight
and shadow seep and sway, vying, as things of beauty, with glowing
artwork of stained glass in church. Gods hand is
everywhere.
My children drive this road and are uplifted, Their
hymns are soul, rock, pop, hip- hop. God dwells in all. Genuflection
is foreign to them, but, bent knees or not, there is reverence
here.
What radio station do I choose? I choose the sacred silence of
this place. in this holy quiet, I am embraced.
-- Jeannie Bennett Fleming Dagsboro, Del.
Cheryls Grove
A wisp of sunlight proves A restless grove, asks
how Some fragile boughs can hold The burdens of the world?
Eager
to raise a point Though unwilling to praise A less demanding
proof Trees hum a song of hope.
-- Fr. Conrado Beloso Golden, British Columbia
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, March 15,
2002
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