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POETRY
Expectation
When emerging crocuses like sackclothed
penitents feel raw winds
when early robins perched on bleak
limbs chant miserere over tire-rutted mud
when yearnings for heat
and hue surpass hunger pangs in this fasting time and the soul is
sour
then the wand of God poises once more and soon earth will
burst with resurrections.
-- Sr. Patricia Schnapp, RSM Adrian, Mich.
Trompe loeil
In S. Ignazio in Rome, Brother Andrea
Pozzo, master of baroque illusion, confounds the eye, transforming planes
into vaulting, dome and cupola, frescoed with heavenly visions. On
yesteryears New Yorker covers, the incomparable Mauritis C.
Escher compounds illusion, drawing those flights of stairs to everywhere
and nowhere. In turn, Fritz Eichenberg, so loved and admired by Dorothy Day,
shows you the Supper of the Lord, with Jesus the host, seen from behind
and ringed by street people, eleven of them, two serving the rest. At the
top of the lithograph, you see a half-open door and a solitary figure
standing in the cold, eyes riveted on Jesus, leaving you wondering: Is
this a twelfth guest coming in or is he, Judas, backing out into the
night?
-- Fr. Walter Bado, SJ Lexington, Ky.
Faith Like a Grain of Mustard Seed
The mustard seed is as sturdy as a weed. It can take
hold anywhere -- among rocks, along putrid ditches, in country
gardens, along paths that lead deep into the woods. No matter where it
takes root, it takes over.
My faith has been more like a mysterious
fish. It can remain so still it fades into the beige background or moves
so quickly through rough water, it appears to be no more than a ripple of
a wave. It will nibble at almost anything
it thinks can sustain it.
Worse, it can be caught by simply rubbing its belly -- and Lord knows the
world is still filled with people who hold the secret of tickling fish.
Sometimes my faith is like a straw fence put up to hold back a
raging
fire. It can be consumed with such furor, not even ashes
remain one minute, and burst into a celestial umbrella that sheds the rains
of doubt like water off a ducks back. I wonder if it has a sense of
humor or what waits in the white rage of its laughter?
-- Fredrick Zydek Omaha, Neb.
Conversion
Dawn gathers -- As the season of winter-white branches
beckons, Shrouded in the mists of the enveloping fog Of our selfishness,
aimlessness, our injustices, Once more seeking conversion. BREAD is
broken for the masses, And the WORD is spewed out to the starving. As we
journey toward the finale and forgiveness of this Lenten
Season.
-- Sr. Patrice Geppi, SSND Baltimore
Dusting
The steady sift of dust on tabletops, in
corners better bright and sharp fills us with sighs -- we scowl and
scour, forget we too are dust, burden and burdened by each particle
of history settling hour on hour, forget to dream our inconvenient
dust gives spirit form and eyes lips fingers helping any coming thing
into its clarity serve altitudes of love.
Well might we smile on
dreaming dust, wink, even, as with oils and soft cloths we meet it for a
while. Such gentle penance lifts the sifting body, makes it
light.
-- Sr. Mary Virginia Micka, CSJ St. Paul, Minn.
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 22,
2002
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