Winter Solstice – The Year’s Compline

The winter solstice is the year withdrawing
From all the busy-ness of being-ness,
And life in all its transfigurations
Seems lost beyond this cold, mist-haunted world

Time almost stops. Low-orbiting, the sun
Drifts dimly, drably through Orion’s realm
Morning becomes deep dusk; there is no noon
Four candles are the guardians of failing light

Until that Night when they too disappear
Beneath a Star, before a greater Light

Converte nos, Sister Teresa whispered, leaning forward in the darkness of the church; convert us, she repeated, sensing the infirmarian nun beside her, hearing the breath and muttered prayers. She had insisted on being wheeled into the church for Compline; had got her way; was pleased she was in the pew where she'd sat for the last ten years. She loved the silence before it all began; the sense of space; the soft opening of the Confiteor, the movement of bodies like a wave of water over the blacked-out walls and high roof of the church. She brought her arthritic hands together; dug deep for a fresh prayer, but all was used; all had done before; all spread wide over her life of contemplation; in and out of her light and alternating darkness. The infirmarian muttered something. Sister Teresa shrugged her shoulders; inclined her ear; moved her head and unseeing eyes. Was it Sister Bernadette? Or was it another? She couldn't tell; all were the same in her darkness, except the touch; hand on hand; whispered words. Long ago, Jude or Judas had kissed; had betrayed. The sound of footsteps on flagstones; the rustle of habits and clicking beads; a sense of breathing and life; entering into the shared darkness and blackness, except for the red altar light to inform of the Crucified's presence and the all-seeing-eye. Sighed. Waited. Held breath. Reached for the sister's hand or arm to reassure, to sense she was not alone in the dark and that she had not died and sunk to dimness and damnation of another dark. The infirmarian tapped her hand. Relief. Converte nos, she mumbled, convert us, she repeated. The Confiteor opened up as if the whole world had breathed out in one voice; had poured out the world's sins in a soft eruption of voices. She breathed in. Clutched her hands. Wanted the closeness and nearness of all; wanted to be held; to be kissed; wanted to see the face of the sister beside her who sat close and whispered her own Confiteor. Ora pro nobis, she whispered, pray for us, let me not be lost in this darkness. Where was Papa? Where is Mama? Clare where are you? she muttered, her eyes searching the blackness, reaching out with a hand into the empty space before her. Hand on hand. Whispered voice. The chant rose and fell like a gentle sea carrying the prayers of the black-robed sisters. Jude or Judas and the kisses and betrayal. Dead now; all dead; all gone. Left here, she muttered, like a beached fish, flapping on the emptying sands of my hourglass like a whimpering child. She clutched her breast; sensed a pain. Leaned her head neatly on the sister's shoulder; sank slowly into her arms like a child searching for its mother's breast and the comforting embrace of warmth and love. Stillness. Peace. Darkness. Light.

Rusty nail by rusty nail the floors come down. Floor by floor
the old men of the old town slip away, and leave old shells
like the stone bread of Pompey. We board these windows
and bolt these doors and slate them in the young sun
for the hungry cranes, but I return in the twilight
of going home traffic when five o'clock lets loose blue collars
to fumble through the ruined rooms of time gone by,

I kick through our broken bricks. Their red dust stains
my shoes and wears on my cuffs. A hopeless hearth,
discarded news, a crippled doll with matted hair
and I all share the crumbling of the day, but only I
shall not remain come compline. Neither can I
pack these walls with me. So this is adieu
to former strongholds. To our old fidelity, adieu.

It is not fit to go forth less than brave, for
they built seven cities over Troy, seven worlds
not knowing where they stood so long the first
could not be said to be. The docks of Caesarea sleep
in the sea, and tourists sit for lunch
on the prone pillars
of Jaffa.

Lawrence Hall
Mhall46184@aol.com  
https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/
poeticdrivel.blogspot.com

               From Vespers to Compline this October Night

How peaceful it is to sit outside
In the cooling dusk as the stars appear
In the healing dusk as the busy-ness fades
Through unspoken Paters and Aves

How peaceful it is to sit outside
In the Vespers night of crickets’ hymns
In the Compline night of one last prayer
Whispered up to God through the dome of Heaven

How peaceful it is to sit outside
And be still

The winter solstice is the year withdrawing
From all the busy-ness of being-ness,
And life in all its transfigurations
Seems lost beyond this cold, mist-haunted world

Time almost stops. Low-orbiting, the sun
Drifts dimly, drably through Orion’s realm
Morning becomes deep dusk; there is no noon
Four candles are the guardians of failing light

Until that Night when they too disappear
Beneath a Star, before a greater Light



Lawrence Hall
Coffee and a Dead Alligator to Go
Available from amazon.com on Kindle and as bits of dead trees

Four monks,
black robed,
stood on the beach

in the grounds
of the abbey.
I sat and listened

to the old words
of Father John:
it isn’t easy

living amongst
so many men
from different backgrounds,

with different personalities,
he said
An old clergyman

cross over,
Father Joe
later said.

The young monk,
bespeckled,
crossed over

from the cloister door,
genuflected,
looked at me,

then went
on tip toe
seeming
to the bell tower

to ring
for the office
of Compline.

From cloister
he walks,
the black robed
monk,

pausing in the aisle
of the abbey church
to genuflect;
stopping,

he gazes at us,
then into
the bell tower
to ring the bells

for Compline.
I watch
as the red altar light
flickers

into semi dark
of the abbey;
remembering she
who kissed

in another dark
with warm
kissing lips.
The bells break

the silence
of the evening chill;
one by one
the monks enter

at their own pace,
hooded
in black robes,
each to their own place.

Trappist monks singing                                          s
            ­                                                                 ­   t
                                                          ­                 h
Hymns and incense ascending                g
                                    ­                              i
                               ­                              e
to their very                            *h

Something a wise Benedictine said reminded this scribbler of the poor man to whom Becket gives a blanket in the 1964 film:

Poor man: "Thank you."

Becket: "You're welcome.  It will keep you warm."

Prissy cathedral canon: "He'll only sell it for drink."

Becket: "Then* that will keep him warm."

Compline in an Alley

Oh, let the poor man cling to his bottle
It’s his, isn’t it?  It’s his own free choice
The only thing he owns. Not even the space
Behind the dumpsters is reserved for him

Some bigger guy might take it away tonight
And his blankets too, and maybe his shoes
But with his bottle he is a worthy man
And he will drink to his own worthiness

Hard-earned, hard-fought, hard-drunk, ‘til dead
And kissing no one’s feet or hands or *ss

Sister Scholastica left the refectory after lunch; made her way to the grounds for the twice-daily recreation period. She had been one of the twelve nuns to be chosen to have their feet washed by the abbess later that day. Some were too old, some too young, she imagined, looking for a quiet spot to wander; take in the scenery; meditate on her day and the following days to come of Easter. A chaffinch flew near by; a blackbird alighted on the ground and then flew off again. She paused. Maundy Thursday. Her sister Margaret had died on a Thursday. She remembered the day her sister was found in her cot by her mother; heard the screams; the rushing of both about her; her father’s harsh words; both shouting; her being pushed aside; wondering what had happened; no one saying until the small coffin was taken out of the house for the funeral and off to the church which she was not allowed to attend. Mother was never the same afterwards. The days of lucidity grew less and less; madness crept over her like a dark spider spinning its web tightly. She sighed. Walked on through the grounds passed the stature of Our Lady green with moss and neglect. The sun warmed. Say your prayers, mother had said, always say your prayers. Mother’s dark eyes lined with bags through lack of sleep, peered at her especially when the madness held her like a bewitched lover. Poor Margaret, poor sister, only said baby sounds, off into the night. One of the nuns passed her with a gentle nod and a smile. Sister Mary. She saw her once holding the hand of another sister, late evening after Compline, along the cloister in the shadows. Father fumed at the creeping madness; Mother’s spewing words; the language foul. She stopped; looked at the apple orchard. Le repas saint: le corps et le sang de Christ, Sister Catherine said to her that morning after mass, the holy meal, the body and blood of Christ, Sister Scholastica translated in her mind as she paused by the old summerhouse. Francis, who once claimed to have loved her, wanted only to copulate; left her for some other a year later. A bell rang from the church. Sighed, Time not hers. She fingered her rosary, a thousand prayers on each bead, each bead through her finger and thumb. Her father beat her when her mother’s rosary broke in her hands; the room was cold and dark. Pray often, Mother said, in moments of lucidity. Time to return. The voice of God in the bells. She turned; walked back towards the convent, her rosary swinging gently in her hand, her eyes taking in the church tower high above the trees; a soft cool breeze kissing her cheek like Francis did once, long long ago before Christ called and made her a bride; clothed her in black as if in mourning for the sinful world she’d left behind.