"abbot" poems
There is snow on the ground,
And the valleys are cold,
And a midnight profound
Blackly squats o'er the wold;
But a light on the hilltops half-seen hints of
feastings unhallowed and old.
There is death in the clouds,
There is fear in the night,
For the dead in their shrouds
Hail the sun's turning flight.
And chant wild in the woods as they dance
round a Yule-altar fungous and white.
To no gale of Earth's kind
Sways the forest of oak,
Where the thick boughs entwined
By mad mistletoes choke,
For these pow'rs are the pow'rs of the dark,
from the graves of the lost Druid-folk.
And mayst thou to such deeds
Be an abbot and priest,
Singing cannibal greeds
At each devil-wrought feast,
And to all the incredulous world
shewing dimly the sign of the beast.
7.9k
In the parched path
I have seen the good lizard
(one drop of crocodile)
meditating.
With his green frock-coat
of an abbot of the devil,
his correct bearing
and his stiff collar,
he has the sad air
of an old professor.
Those faded eyes
of a broken artist,
how they watch the afternoon
in dismay!
Is this, my friend,
your twilight constitutional?
Please use your cane,
you are very old, Mr. Lizard,
and the children of the village
may startle you.
What are you seeking in the path,
my near-sighted philosopher,
if the wavering phantasm
of the parched afternoon
has broken the horizon?
Are you seeking the blue alms
of the moribund heaven?
A penny of a star?
Or perhaps
you've been reading a volume
of Lamartine, and you relish
the plasteresque trills
of the birds?
(You watch the setting sun,
and your eyes shine,
oh, dragon of the frogs,
with a human radiance.
Ideas, gondolas without oars,
cross the shadowy
waters of your
burnt-out eyes.)
Have you come looking
for that lovely lady lizard,
green as the wheatfields
of May,
as the long locks
of sleeping pools,
who scorned you, and then
left you in your field?
Oh, sweet idyll, broken
among the sweet sedges!
But, live! What the devil!
I like you.
The motto 'I oppose
the serpent' triumphs
in that grand double chin
of a Christian archbishop.
Now the sun has dissolved
in the cup of the mountains,
and the flocks
cloud the roadway.
It is the hour to depart:
leave the dry path
and your meditations.
You will have time
to look at the stars
when the worms are eating you
at their leisure.
Go home to your house
by the village, of the crickets!
Good night, my friend
Mr. Lizard!
Now the field is empty,
the mountains dim,
the roadway deserted.
Only, now and again,
a cuckoo sings in the darkness
of the poplar trees.
5.1k
Fourteen years old on sensory overload.
The evening news.
Burn baby burn.
Da bomb. Sauteed mushrooms.
Drop drill in all the classrooms.
Lesee. If I crawl under this wooden desk with hands over head then
I wont end up toast ? Outa sight.
Puff That Muthfkn dragon. He still got a condo by the sea ?
I remember thinking how privileged and exciting to live in the USA.
But. Burn baby burn.
Watching late night reruns till the station signed off. No CNN then my fren.
The Duke.
Abbot and Costello meets The Mummy.
Free T.V.That was a first for I.
No T.V. In Belize. None. No gun violence either. Hmmm.
My Lai. The Panther Answer.
Sep 25, 2012
Sep 25, 2012 at 2:35 PM UTC
there was an old temple of Thai
whose monks just wanted to get high
so they got hooked on meths
but were exposed through their breaths
so they all bid their temple good-bye
now off they all went to rehab
to cure them of the sniff and the jab
but their bright robes and habit
of the monks and their abbot
made the inmates think they'd gone mad
"we're seeing orange" they said to the quack,
who put down his bottle of Jack,
said he, rather tight,
"i think you are right,
but the bottle is better than crack".
Nov 30, 2022
Nov 30, 2022 at 7:09 AM UTC
I’m just a lanky lass from Wycheproof
Born on the right side of the tracks
Law degree and a stint at Racing Vic
I’ve risen well above the backroom hacks
I’m revered
and I’m feared
I’m Tony’s confidante
I scream, I shout, I rant
Back benchers quake
Ministers shake
I’m an armoured tank
You know I outrank
any one in Coo-ee
of super-strong me
Chief of Staff to the PM
I’m the ultimate femme
Murdoch grumbled, tried to call me to heel
I’m never humbled, I’m totally real
I am the ‘she’ who must be obeyed
I am the piper who must be paid
I’m the gate-keeper
I’m the scythe-reaper
Tony knows who makes and butters his bread
I keep him happy, I keep him well fed
I am Salome, when I call for a head
a platter it’s given, my enemy dead.
I was top of my game and top of the list
of Helen McCabe’s ‘Women of Power’
I’ve never cowered, brown-nosed or arse-kissed
I stand tall, over midgets I tower
Natural-born killer exudes from my pores
I suffer no fools, I banish the bores
I mark my territory, a ******* dog
Clear dry is my vision, no room for fog
Some say I influence all decisions
I’m an enforcer of rigid divisions
There is only ‘us’ in the battle of wills
Ride on my side, for the endless high thrills
Of course I agree I’ve had an impact
It’s true without me, poor Tony can’t act
But sad to tell you, it’s still more than that
I’m in charge of the ball and even the bat
I know there are some who cannot like me
Though I control the national psyche
So come Malcolm, Julie and sad sack Joe
I will decide when it’s my time to go
No-one can challenge Abbot, my hero
I’ll zap them to ashes, to dust, to zero
I’ll huff and I’ll puff and blow their House down
Forever secure and wearing my crown
So don’t mess with me, you miserable crew
Just you crawl away in case I say, “Boo!”
I’m beautiful fearless, utterly bold
Remember, I serve revenge icy cold.
© M.L.Emmett
Jan 25, 2016
Jan 25, 2016 at 10:25 PM UTC
Back in the age of faith
when most lived in homes of sod
There lived a humble man
They called the juggler of God.
He was just a simple juggler
He could not read or write.
He performed his simple tricks
for children’s laughter and delight.
In return for food and shelter-
for he had little use for gold-
He travelled from town to town
until he at last grew old.
When arthritis swelled his joints
He grew stooped, his fingers cold
When at last his gifts had failed him
He turned attention to his soul.
In the order of Saint Benedict
The kind Abbot gave him place
Though he barely knew the prayers
His simple mind was full of grace.
In the chapel of Our Lady
The Juggler prayed there in the Aisle
Bemoaning his inability
to entertain the holy child.
He felt warmth in his fingers
A quick release from pain
He reached into his leather sack
for the objects of his trade.
There before the altar
The brother juggled for the Lord
It was to be his last performance
with a heavenly reward.
Back in the age of faith
when most lived in homes of sod
There lived a humble man
They called the juggler of God.
Nov 16, 2011
Nov 16, 2011 at 7:35 AM UTC
Having just climbed
through ages
up what seemed an endless flight
of narrow winding gothic spiral stairs
I step out
right into the wind's brute force
instinctively
my arms grasp for a hold
fearful lest I blend suddenly
with the white horses
and the fields of the Camargue
far down below
Wedged safely
in a nook of stone
a hefty tourist
leans out wide between the walls
toward the setting sun
her summer skirt is blown waisthigh
revealing
unexpectedly delicate lace
above sturdy thighs
her body opens
to the strong soft touch
of the Mistral
A little later
she walks past me
clothes gathered
level gaze calm
and self-assured
and leaves me wondering
whether the mighty abbot
on his solitary tower
and his exclusive brotherhood of men
had ever understood
the wind that blew
and still blows
through two feet of stone
like they were silk
and thrills a woman
to her bone
* * *
© Walter W. Hoelbling
Mar 9, 2015
Mar 9, 2015 at 4:20 PM UTC
The old monk
with Parkinson’s disease,
bug eyed
through thick lenses
spectacles,
his fingers
shaking the host,
is unable to find
the tongue
in sick monk’s
static mouth.
I weeded
the cloister Garth
flower bed,
back aching,
God
at my young
bent shoulder.
The youngest monk,
squat and black robed,
holds the ewer,
while the abbot
holds between
knobbly fingers,
the aspergillum,
to bless the monks
in the choir stalls,
after Compline,
before
the Angelus calls.
Jun 1, 2014
Jun 1, 2014 at 2:14 PM UTC
President Joko Widodo.
Indonesian symbol Garuda
is a mythical type phoenix
akin to Icarus both extinct.
Joko Widodo also known
as the bird-man of Bali
told Abbot go fly a kite.
Aug 9, 2018
Aug 9, 2018 at 8:54 AM UTC
Having just climbed
through ages
up what seemed an endless flight
of narrow winding gothic spiral stairs
I step out
right into the wind's brute force
instinctively
my arms grasp for a hold
fearful lest I blend suddenly
with the white horses
and the fields of the Camargue
far down below
Wedged safely
in a nook of stone
a hefty tourist
leans out wide between the walls
toward the setting sun
her summer skirt is blown waisthigh
revealing
unexpectedly delicate lace
above sturdy thighs
her body opens
to the strong soft touch
of the Mistral
A little later
she walks past me
clothes gathered
level gaze calm
and self-assured
and leaves me wondering
whether the mighty abbot
on his solitary tower
and his exclusive brotherhood of men
had ever understood
the wind that blew
and still blows
through two feet of stone
like they were silk
and thrills a woman
to her bone
* * *
© Walter W. Hoelbling
Oct 3, 2015
Oct 3, 2015 at 4:02 PM UTC
We gathered on the grass
of the garth
surrounded by
the cloister's low wall,
there was a trolley
with a tea urn
and cups and saucers
and sugar and milk
or a jug of French coffee,
the clock tower
chimed a quarter,
a monk sipped tea
and spoke in French to another,
I sipped tea
and Dom Kenneth
passed me some cake
on a plate,
you can kiss me
wherever you like
she said and so I did,
birds sang from
the tree in the garth,
I ate cake watching
the French peasant monk
pour himself
some black coffee,
exspéctans exspectávi Dóminum,
et inténdit mihi
Dom Henry said,
Hugh stood talking to George
about what I knew not
and cared not a jot,
she allowed me
to undress her
my hands shook
with excitement,
I waited for the Lord
and He heard me
Dom Henry said,
I put the plate on the trolley
and sipped my tea
watching Gareth discuss
Wittgenstein with an Austrian monk,
the abbot sipped coffee
conversing with the monk
with the cissy girl haircut
who showed me how
to pick apples,
take me, she whispered,
here and now,
the bell tower tolled
and the monks dispersed
placing cups and plates
on the trolley,
the peasant monk
pushed the trolley
back to the refectory,
head lowered, eyes downcast,
conversing with God no doubt,
spank me as foreplay,
she uttered soft,
I walked the cloister,
smell of blossoms,
the bell tolled,
bird song,
Dom James said
about learning Latin,
search the high road,
Dom Henry said,
avoid
the lower path
to sin.
Dec 7, 2015
Dec 7, 2015 at 2:28 AM UTC
They bet me I couldn’t spend the night
Locked up in the Abbot’s loft,
Up where recusants once, in fright
Would wait for the stake at Pentecost.
They’d once piled ******* high in the square
And taunted all night long,
When peasants stood in the firelight
In a massive, cheering throng.
But that was hundreds of years ago
So of course I said I could,
I should have known there was something wrong
When I saw the man in the hood,
The loft was next to the church bell tower
And would creak when they pulled the rope
Of the giant bell that sat in its bower
To wait commands from the Pope.
I climbed the circular, rickety stair
And they came and locked me in,
There wasn’t a spark of light in there
It was dark, as black as sin,
And all there was was a narrow bed
On a hard, old wooden plank,
A single cover to keep me warm
But I knew just who to thank.
They played the silliest games, of course,
They would howl outside the door,
Just as I started to settle down
I would hear this terrible roar,
Somehow the timbers would start to creak
When they put a strain on the rope,
And then the bell with a sound like hell
Would boom, and I’d almost choke.
I lay the night in a fevered sleep
But I swear someone came in,
I felt a breeze from the open door
And that coarse, harsh breath of sin,
But then a gurgling, choking sound
As my hair stood up on end,
I stayed curled up in my dark surround
As the door creaked once, then slammed.
When morning came, a sliver of light
Shone in through a rafter beam,
It fell upon a terrible sight
A nightmare, wrapped in a dream,
A man, whose body lay by the bed
His throat all ragged and torn,
And blood in puddles of horrible dread,
I wished I’d never been born.
They must have rushed on up to my screams
Flung open the padlocked door,
Then stood in silence, staring at me
And what lay dead on the floor,
I saw him then, the man in the hood
He’d wanted someone to blame,
And there I was, all covered in blood
With friends to witness my shame.
They’d bet me I couldn’t spend the night
Locked up in the Abbot’s loft,
Up where recusants once, in fright
Would wait for the stake at Pentecost.
But now my nights are spent in a cell
Dreaming of death and blood,
And why he’d want to send me to hell
That infamous man in the hood.
David Lewis Paget
Nov 13, 2015
Nov 13, 2015 at 5:26 AM UTC
Francis sits down at the bench and begins his meal.
The other monks eat without thought other than
What the reading monk on his high stool reads out.
Some book on Cromwell, halfway through, the reader’s
Tone dry and at an even pace. Francis reflects on the
Preparation of the meal. The gathering of vegetables
From the garden, the preparing of the meat, the soup,
The dessert and all with little help save what Brother
Benedict brought with time and skill. Francis studies
Each monk in turn, his eyes sweeping the refectory,
The way this one holds his fork, that one shovels in
Without thought or care, another picking through his
Meal like some old hobo through a garbage heap.
The reader pauses to sip water. The sound of cutlery
On plates, the birds outside the tall windows of the
Refectory in song, the odd slurp or cough, a sneeze.
The reader reads on, Cromwell brought to life, his
Deeds both good and bad, high and low. Francis brings
His spoon to his lips, sips the soup, thick and dark.
One of the young monks pushing round the trolley
With meals for the next course, stops and stares at
The crucifix on the wall above the abbot’s head,
Thinks on the Last Supper with the sipping of blood
And wine and the breaking of both body and bread.
Mar 8, 2012
Mar 8, 2012 at 2:23 AM UTC
I smelt the morning air
as I walked the cloister
from church to kitchen,
oratio est labor,
Dom Francis busy
about the pots and pans said
bring me cabbage
from the walled garden
so I did,
the French peasant monk
wheeled a barrow
as if loaded
with the world's sins
over the rough grounds
of the abbey,
we must sow the seed
not hoard it
Dominic said,
sow your seeds in me
she said fill me
with yourself
and your squiggling fishes,
sunlight through
the high windows
of the refectory
as I swept the floor
but the sunlight stayed
with its tiny
particles floating,
Dieu voit tout
the French monk said
as he aided me
in the apple orchard
plucking fruit,
she opened to me
her valley and garden
and I dug deep,
the punishment
of every disordered mind
is its own disorder
Augustine of Hippo said,
I lay the benches for lunch
with jugs and bowls of fruit
and watched the Crucified
on the wall
above the abbot's bench
high above my head,
das Gefühl Gott in dir
the Austrian monk said
as I mowed
the monk's graveyard,
I sensed God
in me some days
other days nothing
but an empty wind
through the hollowness
of my soul,
come she said
lying there
on her bed
enter me
fill my hole.
Jan 30, 2016
Jan 30, 2016 at 2:42 AM UTC
I'm leaving soon, I feel as if everyone in the room knows that
As of late, this social life has been left abstract
I have seven bucks to buy a screwdriver in my backpack
No note, a grisly souvenir, place me somewhere to nap
It'll be years before they know their god isn't the only atheist
Some energy for living past seventeen, I may need it
Dolo, going no place, heaviest burden, built on glass
Nobody wants this bitter boy unless its on a server
I can't recall any memories of me telling my inner fervor
If there's an abbot, I'm carrying his baggage no further
Since you can't be afraid of what you already endure
Ending with a newer sun, sleeping with my phone before I enter
Sep 17, 2017
Sep 17, 2017 at 7:45 AM UTC
The Austrian monk,
stopped by the church doors,
made the fingered sign
of the cross,
sunlight on my head
as I walked the cloister,
bell chimed the one hour,
the office of Sext to begin,
blessed are they
who go by the pure path,
Dom Henry had said,
that time in the gardens
as I mowed the lawn,
she kissed me
so tenderly,
so softly,
I entered the church,
fingered the stoup,
watered I crossed myself,
Brother John,
sour faced,
eyed me as I stood
in the choir stall,
who walks in the Lord's path
are blessed,
Dom Henry said,
I mowed by the monk's cemetery,
molehills by the graves,
her neck smelt of flowers,
taste here, she said,
taste and see,
the abbot tapped on wood,
the chant began,
the sunlight flowed
through the high windows,
ora pro nobis,
the monk opposite,
eyed his book,
turned the page
with thin fingers,
I tasted her, salt and fish,
a splendid dish.
Dec 1, 2015
Dec 1, 2015 at 3:16 PM UTC
You sit in the Common Room
of the guest house
in the abbey.
The room is silent
except for the chime
of the clock
in the clock tower
every seven and a half minutes.
You look about the room
at the old battered sofas
and the odd chair here and there
and the bookcases stuffed
with Catholic books written
by abbots and priests
about prayer or God
or words of Christ.
You had read one
about the Lord’s Prayer.
Line by line. The meaning.
There’s a knock at the door.
Father Joe enters
and puts his head around
the door and smiles.
He enters the room
and closes the door
after him quietly.
He says
Father Abbot says
you can come
next September
to try your vocation
and he hugs you
and you almost drown
in the black serge
of his stained habit
and you mutter
Thank you thank God
and Oh that’s good news
and he holds you back
to get a good look at you.
Yes he says it’s the will of God.
I knew you had that something
the first time I saw you.
And you smile and feel
as if your feet are off the ground
as if you’d grown wings and could fly.
Well says Father Joe
I must be off
I have others to see
and talk to but I‘ll see you
tomorrow after mass.
And he’s gone
and the room is silent again.
You sit and feel the history
of the room embrace you.
The clock chimes the hour.
The ghosts have gone now.
The monk’s cemetery
is full of them.
You’d seen their graves
and tombstones earlier
in the day. The familiar names.
And amongst them
beneath the leaf
covered ground
Father Joe
lays silent and still now
making no sound.
Apr 15, 2012
Apr 15, 2012 at 4:06 AM UTC
At this point, I chase the white rabbit
merely out of habit/
My, what big blue beautiful eyes she has.
All the better to eat me with, my dear.
And
My, what lovely lips she has.
All the better to see me with, my dear.
And
Those big swinging hips,
All the better to ****** me with, my dear.
And
Her ringing voice in my ear,
dissolves any fear.
The tide ever rolling,
rollicking into the beach
As
we are high, frolicking,
into the undertow tide,
to hide, from death inevitable.
My, what hair, let down, wrung out,
without a care, and through
this tangled hair.
My, death hath no sting nor fury,
for a man such as this,
me as it were,
her love,
oh my,
is pure purgatory.
Following the rabbit to the abbot,
white wolf unknown, disguised in full
habit.
Like leading lambs to the slaughter/
Like leading lambs to the slaughter/
A love such as this,
won in a bar barter.
Reach beneath her dress,
toss back the garter.
.
I beseech,
I do not think it will land in my hand
And I will continue to chase the white rabbit,
purely out of habit.
Dec 4, 2015
Dec 4, 2015 at 2:46 PM UTC
Well the Josh Abbot Band sings Matagorda Bay
but I’m pretty sure it’s all the wrong way
should be I’ve been walking it all day
casting a shrimp or mullet along the way
whether the river, the surf or the bay
or even the intercoastal waterway
You can never go wrong fishing here
from the bank, the beach, or even the pier
maybe spring, or maybe fall
you will always have a ball
with your dad, in laws or college friends
it always pays in dividends
Of reds, whiting, croaker and trout
usually followed by a cookout
sometimes black drum or maybe a ray
either way, make them pay all day
casting a squid or maybe a mullet
the fish always bite, take it and tug it
After dark on a green light
try as you might
you just can’t find a lure they won’t bite
when the tide changes and shrimp are running
two at a time is for what you are gunning
tired, and sore, but you are tough
All night long until enough is enough
then to bed for some shut eyed dreams
then up again, as the morning sun gleams
do it again, as it never lasts
Creating memories of the past
to share with friends
and also the kids
of Matagorda Bay
Sep 16, 2016
Sep 16, 2016 at 10:15 AM UTC
At Tintern Abbey I set my bait
To fish in the River Wye,
I’d only been an hour, I swear
When the girl came floating by,
Her dress spread out, a fine brocade
And some lace about her hair,
I almost drowned when I reeled her in
And fell in the river there.
I pulled her up on the river bank
And she lay, and softly sighed,
I felt a strange relief, and thanked
The Lord, I thought she’d died.
But her eyelids gave a flutter then
And she looked at me apace,
‘Would you be one of the Abbot’s men?
There’s no mark upon your face.’
‘I only came to fish,’ I said,
‘And I like what I have caught.’
The look she gave me made me blush
For it set my jest at naught.
‘The Abbot Gilbert lies within
By his candle, book and prayer,
The pestilence has found his sin
For he knows, he’s dying there.’
I thought her speech was quaint and old
Like an echo, lost in time,
I thought, ‘I’ve never seen one so fair,
If only she was mine!’
But she sat, and moved away from me
And she said, ‘You mustn’t touch,
For death has stained this fine country,
It may have you in its clutch.’
‘But I only came to fish,’ I said,
And, ‘there’s nothing wrong with me;
Yet you float down the River Wye
And will end up in the sea.’
‘I chose the cleansing waters so
To avoid the pestilence,
The dead lie in the fields about
And it spares no eminence.’
‘My husband, Guy Fitzherbert bleeds
In the Abbey’s ante-room,
His pilgrimage denied his needs
And the Lord will take him soon.’
I stared at Tintern Abbey’s shell
Standing gaunt against the sky,
‘You must be catching a fever,
We must go and get you dry.’
‘I needs must be on my way again,
Good sir, I wish you well,
But leave this place if you’d rather live
Than enter the gates of Hell.’
My mind caught at some thing she said
And a thought, then so sublime,
I asked the girl, ‘What year is this…?’
‘Thirteen forty-nine!’
David Lewis Paget
Nov 8, 2014
Nov 8, 2014 at 5:37 AM UTC
(cuz ma life iz such a drag...
this **** kin “FAKE” hemp
pyre aye roll out to you dear reader).
As a double jointed mathematical abbot
and amateur chemist
specializing in cannabinoids
my favorite delta-9-tetra
hydrocannabinol (THC),
isolated and synthesized in 1964
weeding thru bathroom rag
while athwart the *****
i.e. measuring adequate perforated
square roto root er, sans
regular toilet tissue paper
prior to completing important
private business matter
on the sacred porcelain chamber ***
Mary Jane made a token appearance,
and boy she looked smoke kin hot
asking if I wanna marry (Jane) her attired
in drag at a joint where Billy Bong
banged on by the hands of
a phenomenal drummer
taut as a hemp knot
with music in his blood
while blowing fractal rings – holy Scott
the immediate utterance,
and rather creative bon mot
found me stock still like stone wall Jackson,
who unfortunately got deprived a hit,
nonetheless got shot
unwittingly by his own (confederate troops),
whose demise an awful blot
per southern cause during
the Civil War and if anachronism
to receive medicinal aide available
instead of primitive treatment he got
(as well other wounded soldiers
of misfortune on the battlefield),
whose faith the any almighty power
could do little to save their roach invested lot
yet availing my imagination
to twist time like that Mobius strip
mortally wounded rebels and Yankees
free from facing death on a cot
might be successful hemp
entrepreneurs cultivating a little spot
of land hemp would outstrip cotton
as king as export to trot
orange you glad I avoided
the analogy with a kumquat?
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 1:26 AM UTC
I walked down the drive
from the abbey
to stand near the road
and listened to the traffic
pass by before the office
of Compline began,
obcidi,
moonlight in the dark sky
and stars sprinkled like sugar,
smell of incense
in the church
after Mass overwhelming,
a monk with a black patch
over one eye like a pirate
stood facing me in the choir
book in hand
head lowered,
begin doing
what is necessary
then what is possible
and suddenly
you are doing
the impossible
Francis said,
Dieu est ici
the French monk said
pointing a bony finger
towards his chest
as we trod up the drive
from our weekly walk,
Gott ist überall
an Austrain monk said
not just in the heart and soul,
George hoed the abbey gardens
and said the sun is so hot
it's like a desert out here
and it was
and we were thirsty,
Hugh thin and gaunt said
to be a saint one must do
the ordinary extraordinary well
which he never did
or so seemed,
give the apples a twist
so the monk said
do not pull them off
and I watched his fingers
touch and twist,
and she lay there naked
as the day she was born
and asked me
to shaft her
so I did
and her husband
was driving on a long haul,
wise men talk
because they have
something to say
fools because
they have to
say something
Gareth said quoting Plato,
the abbot tapped
his small hammer
on his bench
and the meal was over
and the reader stopped
mid sentence
reading from the book
and the refectory
was in silence
before prayers were said,
I lay with her
and she mouthed me whole,
cercare di essere salvati
the Italian monk said
to me as I weeded
the flowerbeds
in the cloister garth,
try and be saved
listen to the word,
some days I wished
to take flight and begone
like some wild
flapping wings bird.
Feb 19, 2016
Feb 19, 2016 at 3:21 AM UTC
I sat in the refectory
for the first time
a monk was reading
from some book
on Queen Mary Tudor,
Deus videt in corde meo,
visitors sat in the center table
surrounded by monks
and no one spoke
except the monk reading
from a high platform
his voice in monotones,
and she spread herself
on the bed
legs wide
and said
enter my port,
Hugh talked of singing
in unison as if I wasn't
as if he hadn't chanted
like a cow in labour,
he should knoweth that
whoever undertakes
the government of souls
must prepare himself
to account for them
Benedict said,
I watched the monk
limp along the cloister
head bowed
and carrying a *****
head to one side,
bell rang from bell tower
God's voice Dom Charles said
picking apples
in the abbey orchard,
she spoke in that soft tone
she had velvety silky
and kissed me over and over,
Dieu ne se trompe pas
the French monk said
clipping the hedge
by the garden wall
and passing me
the clippings,
tolled bells rang out
across the cloister garth
and George spoke
of priesthood at some time,
the scent of incense
as I entered the church after Terce
and sunlight in the high windows,
Gott im Mauerwerk
the Austrian monk said
rubbing fingers down
the brickwork in the cloister
feel Him he added
and I did,
it is not enough to possess
a good mind but to use it well
Gareth said by the abbey beach
quoting Descartes,
Dom Joseph(dear Bunny)
smiled his broad smile
like a sun rising at dawn,
the abbot tapped
on the table
and the reader
ceased reading
and prayers were said,
after Lauds
I made my way
for black coffee
and brown bread.
Feb 8, 2016
Feb 8, 2016 at 2:45 PM UTC