Benedict’s Daughter. Philip C. Kolin

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ speak each other’s language.

      Noised about the city, his promise

      fulfilled this hour of sacred prayer.

      Sext

      The Hour Christ Died

      Midday, the sext hour, mealtime

      for all the empty eyes waiting

      in the long soup lines at St. Meinrad’s.

      They are Christ suffering—

      the homeless, the betrayed, and

      the abandoned; children with distended stomachs

      wounded by hunger and thirst;

      seniors crucified on a fixed income.

      They have not read Benedict’s Rule

      on providing hospitality

      or giving guests a pound weight of bread,

      and pilgrims a hemina of wine.

      But they know the black monks

      will fill them with all good things:

      red jello bouncing like a pounding heart;

      meatloaf in thick brown gravy;

      mashed potatoes puffy as cumulus clouds in April.

      The sun is at its fullest

      as they leave; the hour Christ died.

      But as they walk out, one

      by one, the monks bless each

      with a hyssop branch,

      dipped in holy water.

      Vespers

      The Delta Between Sunset and Dark

      At this holy hour, the Delta hinges

      between the splendor of sunset

      and the covetous reach of dark.

      Cotton fields dress in Easter white—

      brides processing down aisles,

      ready to light their lamps, waiting

      for the groom.

      A cream-draped lotus offers

      enticement to the evening air,

      a bouquet of incense.

      A young girl tells her cousin

      about the infinite joy

      she carries in her rounding womb.

      Lilies drift across the flat, long land

      into their silhouettes.

      At nightfall the soft

      side of sorrow seeps in—

      a mother stands alone

      beside the body of her lynched son

      keening, the melody of grief

      picked up by the moanful refrain

      of the blues from the clapboard church

      across the road.

      Through the stained glass windows

      the candles look like sunsets.

      Compline

      The Day is Done

      The convent has silenced the sky—

      no bell clangs or calls

      in this dark season; the day is done;

      neither bunting nor jay takes wing;

      night masks the earth’s green splendor

      in mists and mazes.

      Before the dim chapel lamp

      the sisters beg for light to keep watch over

      their thoughts and dreams,

      and entreat angels to make rounds

      evicting sin-sated whisperers

      and phantoms in harlequin disguise.

      In their cells, each sister undresses

      her conscience, yet again

      asking forgiveness for slipping

      into vanity or being shackled in shame,

      thieves of the day’s glory,

      and then wills her soul to God

      in scapular Latin, cloistered in her bed

      (in manus tuas), just before she reaches

      the shelter of feathers and wings.

      part 2

The Journey

      In This Place of Stability

      Vow to be part of this holy place

      so it can be part of you.

      Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

      Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

      Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

      Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, СКАЧАТЬ