#abbey
To Rico
11th hour
11th day
11th month
All units from Tango Charlie 2
Urgent assistance required:
1x IC2 male: white surplus tie
Scholars’ best
Suspected faint
Tomb of the unknown solider
Heron gowns swipe
1x nurse in attendance
Rose hair Bisto heart
Male unresponsive nurse giving kiss of life
Cindy Crawford dorm
Tango Charlie 3 be advised
Epaulettes flurry Jerusalem Chamber
West Door now open
Dignitaries' B minor fugue
Poppy air bite
Jan 17, 2021
Jan 17, 2021 at 2:14 PM UTC
l'uomo non può salvarsi
the Italian monk said
-man cannot
save himself-
we were in
the monastery garden
digging potatoes
for midday lunch,
seul Dieu peut
nous sauver
Dom Blaise uttered
-only God can save us-
and I listened to him
taking in his greying
tonsure and beard,
I opened the book
heavy and aged
smelling of time
and Christ on His cross
-Christi in crucem eius-
fingered and page worn
worn by fingers and eyes,
absque omni
condicione electionis
Calvin said
-unconditional election-
He does not elect us
because of our merits
but by His sovereign choice,
but Dom Joseph said
that is not Church teaching
we are saved by our freedom
to choose and accept
God's grace
and we sat by
the monastery beach
face to face.
Oct 20, 2019
Oct 20, 2019 at 9:05 AM UTC
His head
no longer tonsured
but cropped close
like a zec
in a Stalinist prison,
he passed me in the cloister
in his loose fitting robes,
head down,
deep in thought
or prayer.
Another monk
who walked with a limp,
weeded the beds
by the cloister wall,
a black patch
over one eye
like a pirate
from Treasure Island
which I read as a boy.
I swept the refectory
in the mid morning work,
watching the sunlight
make patterns
on the wooden floor,
colours from
the coloured-glass windows.
The tall lean monk
planed the wood smooth
for the cross,
to mark the place
of the monk
who died in the week,
peaceful in his bed.
Who of these is holy,
I wouldn't know,
none looks into
their inner self or soul
and pleads as such
to themselves or others
if they dare;
holiness or saint-hood
is for God to declare.
Aug 17, 2019
Aug 17, 2019 at 8:39 AM UTC
Confiteor Deo omnipotenti.
The old monk black robed
moved side to side down
the cloister a wrecked ship
in the high seas of his age
as the bell tolled for Lauds.
Et vobis fratres and come
she said bring me your soft
spoils bring me to my highest
heaven so I did. Without free
will there can be no sin or
virtue without free will you
are free of all responsibilities
Dom Thomas said to us. Quia
peccavi nimis the young monk
confessed. Belltower seen
above trees from the roadside
and heard further afield than that.
George and I pulling the bells
as we shown the day before.
Cogitatione verbo et opere
et omissione I said in my inner
darkness. Dom Charles twisted
the apple just so and said that
is how it is done.Mea culpa mea
culpa mea maxima culpa having
free will is to be culpable from the
beginning and having free will is
necessary factor for any sinning.
Sep 3, 2018
Sep 3, 2018 at 8:40 AM UTC
The bell rang for Matins.
The tall thin monk seemed
to glide past me to the church.
The cloister had captured and
held the cold morning. I gazed
into the cloister garth on my
right and saw the flower beds
spread like a carpet. I entered
the church and dipped my finger
in the stoup and made a sign
of the cross and took my place
in the choir stalls. Opposite
monks had gathered in the
5.30am dawn and stood or sat
turning pages of their books
of prayer. Beside and behind
other monks gathered about
me likewise ********* books
for Matins. The abbot knocked
on wood and the chanting
began. The morning sun shone
through high windows and laid
a splash of light on the flagstone
floor. I followed and chanted the
Latin words to mix and blend
with the others. I watched the
sunlight flicker on the floor. I
smelt the incense from Mass
the day before and each day
would come and go and be the
same like an echo down the wind.
I wondered would I stand with
saints or those who sinned.
Sep 3, 2018
Sep 3, 2018 at 3:54 AM UTC
The taxi dropped me off
at the end of the drive.
I wanted to walk up
the avenue of trees
to the monastery
and leave the outer world
by a slow walk.
It was September
and the August
warmth remained
and birds flew overhead.
Half way up the drive,
I saw three black robed monks
walking towards me.
I knew them all
from my previous visits.
This time it was to stay
and take my place
amidst them all.
Words of welcome
and enquiries of my health
and state of mind
and humour to relax me
as we entered
the porter's lodge
of the abbey.
A sense
of nervousness
entered me.
The world and its works
left behind and the inner world
of this desert would
shape me and prepare me.
After the introduction
and cheer, a brother took me
to my room or cell
as it was called
and watched and talked
as I unpacked my things.
He studied the books
I unpacked: Story of a Soul,
Confessions of St Augustine,
one Bible and poems of Hopkins.
He left me and said
he would return later for me
for the Office of None;
two others came
so I wasn't alone.
Aug 24, 2018
Aug 24, 2018 at 8:09 AM UTC
The monk stands
in the shadow
of the cloisters,
said Benedict,
his arms folded
beneath his black habit,
his features unsmiling,
his stare out at the garth
and the clock tower
over the way.
I watch him,
feeling the sun's warmth
where the shadows aren't;
the flowers in the flower beds
are in full bloom,
the afternoon air
throws birds into the sky
to set free and fly.
Other monks
gather in the garth
after the office of None;
Patrick wheels out the trolley
with tea, coffee and cake;
we stand and talk
in the brief recreational break;
white clouds drift by,
birds take wing above
in the afternoon sky.
One talks to me of his book
on the abbey, the history
from its origins in France
until exiled here.
There is the bell
for the end of the break
and on we go
to our occupations
in our rooms or church;
I attend the Latin class
with George and Gareth,
our novice master aids us
in our studies, we learn
the holy sounds
of the Latin phrase and chants.
I love the office of Compline:
the chanting in the half-dark,
the evening light
through high windows,
the utter separation
from the outer world
and our communion with God
in prayer and chant and song,
and our hymn to Sancta Maria,
and the final bell,
and the prayers on wing and air,
and I stand momentarily
silent there.
Jul 30, 2018
Jul 30, 2018 at 6:13 AM UTC
He stood on the shore
gazing across the Solent.
He was smoking
thinking of her
and what she was doing
and what she made
of the turn of events.
He'd left her the day before
and had come to the abbey.
She had no idea
where he was
and that was how
he wanted it.
A car ferry
passed his sight
with holiday-makers
filled with joy
and excitement.
The abbey
was his sanctuary
and he had told
one of the monks
the evening before
of his exile.
Across the Solent
yachts were in sail
their whiteness in contrast
to the blue and green
of the sea.
After the office of Sext
and lunch
he would go
to the public house
over the side and wall.
He went yesterday
and played bar billiards
on his own.
But what after this?
And the day after?
This was the abbey's
private beach
and behind the woods
leading up to the church.
He flicked the cigarette stub
out to sea and stood
watching gulls in flight.
He lit another cigarette.
He would
he mused
sleep alone
again tonight.
Apr 17, 2018
Apr 17, 2018 at 6:52 AM UTC
They were not expecting him.
He rang to ask for a room
for a few days.
Then he rang his mother
to say he had arrived ok
and would be staying
at the abbey.
He went by taxi
as it was quicker than the bus
and he just couldn't cope
with the crowds
in his state of mind.
He arrived about twelve.
A monk showed him the room
and he unpacked
what little he had managed
to bring with him.
He sat in a chair
by the window
and looked at the roof
of the church.
What now?
He mused.
He wondered what she
would be thinking.
She'd be wondering
where he was
and why he'd not returned
from the town
as he said he would.
Would it dawn on her
that he'd left her?
Other thoughts would go
through her mind.
Had he had an accident?
But it would gradually
dawn on her that he'd left.
He had an hour to ****
before lunch.
He left the room
and went for a walk
in the abbey grounds
down to the sea shore
through the woods.
Standing there
he lit up a cigarette
and watched the sea.
He thought to himself
what will become of me?
Apr 11, 2018
Apr 11, 2018 at 4:26 AM UTC
He pushed an old wooden
wheelbarrow, the monk who
passed me by on the path
to the woods. On the way,
I stopped at the monk's
cemetery on the right. Huge
stone tombstones marked
out in Latin who they had
been in the monastic life
and when they died. I had
known none of them, but
God did in His timeless zone.
There was a feeling of peace
there; no rush or clamour
for recognition or status
other than that beyond the
world to give. I stood in silence
reading the names. Birds
sang or called to each other
from nearby trees. Sunlight
shone down like a blessed kiss.
I moved on towards the wood
and passed on through to
the private beach and stood
and stared at the sea. I pushed
away thoughts of Sophia lying
on Mr H's bed trying to ******
her eyes blue, her blouse loose.
Mar 16, 2018
Mar 16, 2018 at 3:56 AM UTC
The bell tolled.
The priest/ monk
entered from the right.
He knelt
and kissed the altar.
I sat on the other side
of the grille, black painted,
decorated
with twists and turns.
He bowed to us,
then turned away
to face the altar.
He began
the Latin Mass.
All knelt as he began.
One muttered to my right
a secret prayer;
to my left
one fingered
a wooden rosary,
mouthing Aves
and Glory bes.
He Latinized
his back to us.
I mused on Sophia
trying to ****** me
on the dead man's bed.
Her Polish/ English language
softly spoken
in my ear.
He read the Epistle
of St James.
The rosary pusher
paused her *********
The prayer mutterer
silenced her words.
Sophia, I mused,
lay out on the bed,
hands behind her head,
legs spread wide.
The priest/monk
read the Gospel
of St Mark.
I closed my eyes.
I pictured the Crucified
in my dark.
Mar 3, 2018
Mar 3, 2018 at 1:41 PM UTC
Your brother and you
sat in the common room
of the abbey: you a monk
and he a teacher, your
conversation carried on
in soft voices. I sat on a
chair by the radiator and
window peering out at the
cloister in the summer
evening below. You laughed
softly at a comment on
some past event; he smiling
at the memory of you two
as boys. The cloister garth
was empty; both moon and
retiring sun occupied the sky.
A black robed monk went
past my view below, then
out of sight, where I did
not know. Soon be supper,
you said, see you before
the office of Compline. You
left and the door closed.
Your brother retired to his
room along the passage.
I watched as the sky grew
dim; the shadows appeared
in the cloisters where light
could not reach. Across
the way a monk walk past
his window unaware I secretly
watched his walk. Soon be
supper in the refectory,
I mused, leaving my window
seat, leaving the radiator
and its welcoming heat.
Mar 2, 2018
Mar 2, 2018 at 7:59 AM UTC
The tall monk
with Parkinson's
stood giving communion
to those who lined up
during Mass.
His hand shook
as he placed the host
on the tongue.
I held open my palms
and he placed
the host there.
The Christ,
the body,
the sacrifice.
After he had provided all
he walked back slowly
to his place at the altar
and continued the service,
two other monks
with him.
I knelt in a pew;
the tongue absorbing
the bread, the host,
the Christ.
The incense hung
on the air;
the smell so familiar.
Closing my eyes
I uttered a prayer
and waited listening
to the chanting
going on there.
Feb 17, 2018
Feb 17, 2018 at 4:15 AM UTC
That monk, what was
his name? Time forgets
the name, but he would
have been of the original
ones left behind in 1922,
aged when I saw him in 68,
balding and just a greyness
of his former tonsure on his
Norman peasant head.
Lay brother of the noble kind,
humble and self-efacing,
working in gardens or woodlands,
attending the mass and offices
in silent mode in the lay-brothers' pews.
Gone know; some tidy grave
with Latin words; molehills
and the song of birds.
Sep 26, 2017
Sep 26, 2017 at 4:28 PM UTC
Pax in te
the young monk said
during Mass
his hands
touched mine
sign of peace,
trees swayed
in the early morning breeze
by the South wall,
Il vento
è il respiro
di Dio
the Italian monk said
as we stood
gazing at the trees,
I cleaned the toilets
after Terce
bucket and mop
and cloths
the smell of disinfectant
in the air,
Dieu est amour
Dom Charles said
l'amour de Dieu
est aussi dans
sa création
we had arranged flowers
by the statue
de la mère de Dieu,
in some cases
silence is dangerous
St Ambrose said
Gareth related
as we sat
on the private beach
of the abbey,
the bells tolled for Vespers
George and I
pulled as we were shown
le campane sono
la voce di Dio,
incense in the church
after Mass
the sound of plainsong
still in the air in echoes,
der Glaube an Gott
ist ein Akt des Willens
the Austrian monk said
I looked at him
but was stumped
by what he said,
faith in God
is an act of will
Gareth said
translating
as he thought best,
peace within
no act of will
just peace
and rest.
Jul 10, 2017
Jul 10, 2017 at 2:18 PM UTC
Quid est amor?
the monk read on
but I looked
at his greying
tonsured head
how the sun
made it shine.
Dio e uomo
the Italian monk said
un po 'meno degli angeli
and what is man
that God should
care for him?
Gareth said
in his neat Italian.
Sunlight
on the orange
brickwork
of the abbey
in the afternoon
and I helping
to pick apples
in the abbey orchard
doing as shown
by Dom Charles.
Dieu a tant
aimé le monde
the French monk
said to me
as I helped him
in the side chapel
to arrange things
for the Mass
qu'il a donné son fils.
La peine pour
le péché est en effet
nécessaire mais
ce ne devrait
pas être une
préoccupation
sans fin
Gareth said
quoting St Bernard.
She lay there
on her bed
spread like
an opening flower
and I she said
to plough her field.
The French monk
quoted Plato
les hommes sages
parlent parce qu'ils
ont quelque chose
à dire les fous parce
qu'ils doivent dire
quelque chose.
What is love?
she said
kissing me
all over
in her bed
the answer rattled
like a pea in a pod
around my head.
Jun 13, 2017
Jun 13, 2017 at 7:23 AM UTC
The Italian monk
eyed me
in the refectory.
I watched him
I had no choice
he was opposite me.
He ate slow
his jaw moving
to a slow rhythm.
God centered
he said later
in the scullery
as we washed
the dishes
after lunch
that is what we are
God centered he said.
Sunlight filtered
through the coloured glass
of the refectory
on to the polished
wooden floor
I gazed at it
while the monk read
from some book
on Oliver Cromwell
in a mono-toned voice.
We sat in her lounge
she kissed me
whispered
suggestive things
in my ear
in her warm
**** voice
and we did.
George tolled the bell
for the office of Vespers
I lined up behind
the tall dark
tonsured monk
who smelt
of baked bread.
The afternoon light
was bright
and shone
through the branches
of the one tree
in the cloister garth.
Focus on God
the French monk
said to me
in French
Gareth
translated for me
I said I would
or did
or some
such answer
in my poor French.
Whatever you do
do with all your heart
Dom Joseph said
quoting St Paul
as we sat
on the private beach
of the abbey
the other novices
tossed stones along
the incoming tide.
She shut her mutt
in the kitchen
where it whined
we went
to her bedroom
and had ***
She not thinking
of her husband
coming home
from his job
but I thinking
of just that
imagining him
standing by
the bedroom door
with a displeased face.
The bell
for Compline rang
the monks stood
in the choir stalls
in their black robes.
I stood
in the semi dark
mouthing
the Latin chant
of the office
the others
were professional
I was just a novice.
Jun 2, 2017
Jun 2, 2017 at 3:30 PM UTC
Three monks met me
on the driveway
from the road
to the abbey
black robed
and a welcome
taking my bags
we walked
to the abbey
domus dei,
unfold me
she said
plant kisses
here and here,
bell tower
reaching skyward
bell sound
disturbing rooks
from nearby trees,
George washing
the refectory floor
with the large mop
and steel bucket
and moving
side to side,
il sacrificio di Cristo
the Italian monk said
la Messa quotidiana
I listened to him
as I helped him
to sort books
in the abbey library,
I kissed her *******
one after the other
my husband doesn't
do that
so you must
she said,
Dio ama ognuno
di noi come se
ci fosse solo
uno di noi
Augustine said
so I read
and only God
could do
that I mused,
I cleaned
the windows
of the chapter house
with cloth
and cold water
musing on the monk
holding up the host
during Mass
with his shaking fingers,
les nombres parfaits
comme les hommes
parfaits sont très rares
Gareth said
quoting Descartes
as we sat
in the novice room
waiting for Dom Joe,
I tried to put her
from my mind
during Compline
tried to put the image
of her beneath me
moaning with her joy,
George and I
rang the bells
for Mass
the following day
wishing I could accept
the will of God
and obey.
Apr 22, 2017
Apr 22, 2017 at 1:40 PM UTC
The short monk
in black robes
limped up the aisle
of the church
like one half
of a comedy act
at the end of a pier,
I later learned
he was a theologian
and at work
on a book
on the benedicta trinitas,
sunlight in between arches
in the cloister
shadows elsewhere
and a monk stood
gazing into the sunlight
arms inside
his long sleeves,
hoc est corpus meum
Christ said
at the Last Supper
the institution
of the later Mass
fai questo in memoria di me,
c'est mon sang
shed for you
He said
drink from it
the tall monk
raised the cup
then sipped from it,
flowers
in the flower beds
around the outside
of the cloister
in the garth,
I weeded here
the bell ringing
each quarter
la voix de dieu
the French monk said,
I stood in the semi dark
during the office
of Compline
the voices chanting
plainsong
il mio cuore è colpito
dalla sua bellezza,
my heart
is also struck
by the beauty
of the incense
during Mass
parfum de dieu,
the raised host
between the fingers
of the monk
with Parkinson's disease
shaking as if caught
by an invisible wind,
I stood like one
who had misunderstood
and had sinned.
Apr 21, 2017
Apr 21, 2017 at 4:09 AM UTC
Insightful
or so it was
meant to be
time spent
in the monastery
more like self deception
one of the worst
deceptions,
auto-inganno
the Italian monk said
as we walked across
the field to the abbey,
amour de Dieu
the French monk said
I watched his lower lip
large and indulged looking,
smell of incense
in the church after Mass
light from high windows
on the flagstone floor
especially at lunch time
during Sext,
extra ecclesiam nulla salus
Augustine said
no salvation outside
the mystical body
of Christ,
tall thin monk
planing wood
in the workshop
shavings falling
to the floor
curled up
I swept up after
wondering who swept up
in St Joseph's
carpenter's workshop,
corpo di Cristo
held up by the Italian monk
during Mass
no longer bread,
I ate in the refectory
the monk reading
about Mary Tudor's life
light through window
onto the features of the monk
opposite as if blessed,
Dom James teaching us
about the plainsong
the notes and how long
to hold the notes
in unison all together
no harmony he said
and under the above lamp
his tonsured head
seemed red.
Mar 25, 2017
Mar 25, 2017 at 3:32 AM UTC
A monk pushed
a wheelbarrow
along the narrow path
in the abbey grounds
giving off
squeaky sounds,
perdidit in Deo
sitting in the abbey church
gazing at
the hanging tabernacle
where Christ resided,
dove Cristo è stato
a metal globe
hanging from chains
from the church roof
the priest monk
pulled down and opened up
during mass and held up
the host and said
ecco l'Agnello di Dio,
lost in God
Dom Thomas said
in prayer
and contemplation
and he sat
in the old armchair
in my room
hands forming
a church like structure,
estructura similar
a una iglesia
his hairy hands
and fingers
talking of contemplation
his tonsured head
shone in the overhead light,
perdido en dios
and the Crucified
above my bed
and the old brown cross
and plaster Christ,
perdido en dios
smell of incense
especially after Mass
hung in the air
like a woman's perfume,
she held me close
and kissed my forehead
and said
come to bed
so I did,
entertaining a thought
without accepting it
Gareth said
quoting Aristotle
is sign
of a trained mind,
the host held high
and the Austrian monk said
Körper von Christus
and ate the white host
after breaking,
lost in God
or so tried
excepting at times
he stayed lost
to my soul
or mind's cost.
Mar 3, 2017
Mar 3, 2017 at 3:47 AM UTC
I followed the thick set monk
along the silent cloister
him white robed
hooded against the cold
hands hidden
in deep pockets,
in tasche profonde
hands formed into fists
to hold the cold in check
as I entered the work shop
where a tall monk stood
bearded un invité à voir
he said smiling,
smell of incense
and baked bread
and monks,
feel of rope between hands
rough pull down
Dom Peter said
then let go
so I did
son de cloches
in the afternoon air,
I gazed at the cloister garth
from the common room window
pacem and my hand
on the radiator
a book by Marmion
before me resting,
Deus caritas est
the old monk told me
as we sat on the seat
under the shadow of the tree
ipse novit nos he added,
I walked the cloister
towards the refectory
for supper
my hand against
the orange brick
as I walked past
rough and smooth
on my finger's touch,
ascoltare Dio
the Italian monk said
as He listens to you
listen to His voice,
Dom Joe(dear Bunny)
spoke of simple things
in simple things
we find Truth he said
vérité dans
les choses simples,
silence in the half dark
before Compline kneeling
watching the red light
at the altar end
and a peaceful feeling.
Feb 28, 2017
Feb 28, 2017 at 11:50 AM UTC
Deus amor est
a monk had told me that
that first time
in the guest room
while it rained outside,
trees along the drive
pruned well
looked like soldiers
on parade
and the tall bell tower
in the distance beckoning,
Dio è amore
the Italian monk said
as he and I made soup
and prepared lunch
in the abbey kitchen
amore incondizionato
he added,
the cloisters at evening time
dusk and just before
Vespers monks lined up
on either side
no words or whispers
just silence waiting
for the bell,
en attendant la cloche
my mind musing
on the monk in front of me
tonsured head
small ears
black robes
caught by moon's light,
primus gradus humilitatis
est obedientia prompta
St Benedict wrote
and the monk reading
in the refectory read,
George polishing
the choir stalls
with yellow duster
and polish
the scent mingling
with incense,
Hugh said
I made the chairs
in the common room
functional and well made
he added,
lectio divina
after Lauds
eyeing the pages
of the Bible
taking in the script
mediating on the words
and meaning,
Είμαστε δύο φορές
οπλισμένοι αν παλεύουμε
με την πίστη
Gareth read
quoting Plato
twice armed
if fighting with faith
Gareth said in rough translation,
the crucifix over my bed
aged by time
the Crucified
plaster worn
the wooden cross
dark wood,
I knelt and prayed
when and if I could.
Feb 18, 2017
Feb 18, 2017 at 5:52 AM UTC
Orange brick
in evening sun
dull and warm
and I felt with my fingers
as I passed,
il silenzio permette
lo spazio per Dio parli
the Italian monk said
placing two fingers
to his lips,
I hoed between the plants
in the abbey garden
sunlight upon me
like God's blessing,
smelt incense
with body sweat
and baked loaves
as I stood
in the choir stalls
before Vespers,
la oración es
un acto de amor
lasalabras no son
necesarias
St Teresa said
so I read,
I picked up
a handful of earth
and held it
in my palm
and crumbled it
between finger and thumb
like some
ancient conqueror
after battle,
the tall thin monk
tolled the big bell
pulling on the rope
with ease
then releasing it
and grabbing again
pulled,
silenzio e spazio
letting God in
where once
was noise and muddle,
prayer is love
no words needed
a saint said,
amour et prière
Dom Placid said to me
as we walked
in the cloister
before Terce,
interno la pace
as well as outer peace
the monk told me
harder to obtain
too much going on
within,
interius silentium
I stood on the seashore
and watched
the waves come in
trying to empty of self
but the sea could not
drive me from me.
Feb 17, 2017
Feb 17, 2017 at 3:56 AM UTC
The French peasant monk
scythed the tall grass
with a slow
motivated motion,
nunc et in hora
mortis nostrae
or each moment
of our time in life
temptations come and go
Dom Thomas said
even in the life here
in the abbey,
dans l'abbaye
that first time
late evening
bell tolling for Compline
moon glow
sprinkled stars
entering the church
in semi darkness,
nel buio semi
red altar light
incense aroma
silence about me
shadowy figures of monks
entering the choir stalls,
gli stalli del coro
well polished wood
dim light from high windows
out there the world's night life
has begun here
the monks chant the office
Santa Maria
the statue above the altar,
la mente è il proprio posto
e di per sé può fare un cielo
di inferno un inferno del cielo
John Milton said I read,
Dom Joe met me
after Compline
and led me
to the refectory
for supper alone
just him and me
and the evening wind's moan.
Feb 14, 2017
Feb 14, 2017 at 6:45 AM UTC