"cloister" poems
WRITTEN FOR HIS MOTHER
Dame du ciel, regents terrienne,
Emperiere des infemaux palus....
Lady of Heaven and earth, and therewithal
Crowned Empress of the nether clefts of Hell,—
I, thy poor Christian, on thy name do call,
Commending me to thee, with thee to dwell,
Albeit in nought I be commendable.
But all mine undeserving may not mar
Such mercies as thy sovereign mercies are;
Without the which (as true words testify)
No soul can reach thy Heaven so fair and far.
Even in this faith I choose to live and die.
Unto thy Son say thou that I am His,
And to me graceless make Him gracious.
Said Mary of Egypt lacked not of that bliss,
Nor yet the sorrowful clerk Theopbilus,
Whose bitter sins were set aside even thus
Though to the Fiend his bounden service was.
Oh help me, lest in vain for me should pass
(Sweet ****** that shalt have no loss thereby!)
The blessed Host and sacring of the Mass
Even in this faith I choose to live and die.
A pitiful poor woman, shrunk and old,
I am, and nothing learn'd in letter-lore.
Within my parish-cloister I behold
A painted Heaven where harps and lutes adore,
And eke an Hell whose ****** folk seethe full sore:
One bringeth fear, the other joy to me.
That joy, great Goddess, make thou mine to be,—
Thou of whom all must ask it even as I;
And that which faith desires, that let it see.
For in this faith I choose to live and die.
O excellent ****** Princess! thou didst bear
King Jesus, the most excellent comforter,
Who even of this our weakness craved a share
And for our sake stooped to us from on high,
Offering to death His young life sweet and fair.
Such as He is, Our Lord, I Him declare,
And in this faith I choose to live and die.
Dante Gabriel Rossetti, trans.
3.1k
in the cloister, we had coffee
talking something about the soul
today in the cold but sunlit court
with a good girlfriend of mine
is when it struck me:
a pretty Christian girl kind of day
before me, a butterfly kind of day
winging the dark fantasies away
start obeying and getting good habits
would have stayed had i any money
to get the rest of my college degree
kind of day
filling your heart with my replacements
to match my false interpretations
of your expectations of me
Jul 11, 2018
Jul 11, 2018 at 6:22 PM UTC
The French
peasant monk
pushed a wheel barrow
along by
the abbey church;
the squeaky wheels
echoing through
the nearby wood
and throughout
the silent cloister;
his tonsured head
lowered,
back bent,
prayers simple
maybe said.
I tended
the dying monk,
aged and fragile
as an ancient script
of yesteryear;
I recalled how
she tongued me
along
my inner thighs,
bringing tears of joy
into my hazel eyes.
Dom Gregory prepared
the altar for mass,
laying the altar cloth,
preparing the priest monk's
robes and gowns,
making sure
the candles were ready;
his footfalls
like echoes
on a deep deep sea.
Feb 11, 2015
Feb 11, 2015 at 3:32 AM UTC
I saw 13 black crows as black as 3AM
and as big as vultures eyes
with wings hanging to their sides like laundry on the line
they were standing in a circle letting their tongues dry
they’re coming for me like thieves or ghosts
stealing songs, and whispering poems to themselves
about nonsense and existence
I don’t want to die
I saw 4 black eagles, with horns growing towards the ground
like columns or anchors reaching for the bottom
their feathers folded like hands on a man resting in his coffin
bending over each other rattling my bones
drumming out the answers in ways I will need one day
their hooves are giving me growing pains
I sleep like a tornado
I saw 18 black hawks, with beaks full of teeth
roaring like a pack of wolves in perfect V
with hoods over their eyes to cover up what they’ve seen
secrets bouncing off the insides of their lips meant for me
they landed on my life like spears, ears tucked back like arrow feathers
wings spread wide like storm clouds over kansas
hailing on me teaching me their dances, they gave me armor
we will never die, we will never die, I don’t want to die, we will never die
we will never die, but we don’t want to try, I don’t want to die, I won’t let you die
we will never die, we won’t even try, but if we never die, then we never really live
I saw 9 black owls, they were quiet as death
they had talons like antlers growing from their hearts
and they were tearing me apart
each bird was tagged like cattle with one word
and they burned them in to my mind...they read
you have never lived because you have never died
May 11, 2012
May 11, 2012 at 11:09 PM UTC
Jocks
While lovely Eileen entertained us all,
with her wonderful words of lace and satin,
it made me want to answer the call,
make guys proud, like General Patton
the guys wear jocks to cloister their tools,
the perfect size so hard to find,
need to protect those precious jewels,
from errant kicks and grabs from behind
most are just elastic and cotton,
some are furry you get from **** shops,
absorb the sweat they smell quite rotten,
pick up with 1 finger or handles of mops
the backs are weird like gives you ******
when grabbed by the band and yanked real hard,
guys in gym like to snap like frozen veggie,
then try to get you on their dance card
cause now you can sing those real high notes,
your face quite large like you have the mumps,
squeal like girlie man being attacked by goats,
don't bend over you expose those rumps
but it is important to protect your package,
keep is safe for your favorite gal,
not real good to have swollen sackage,
not even if choice is a guy named Hal
Gomer LePoet...
Apr 10, 2010
Apr 10, 2010 at 7:54 AM UTC
Lo, the drunken ordinance of light through
stained glass, lest to rehash the peopled
white of infinity.
Reach...with what folding passion second
guesses the labor of its love...the warm
footfalls of the sun overlaying the intricacy
of a snowflake...as captions of bone
dissolving upon the motion picture.
Perpetually opening seasons enamored
directionless...cancellation and activation
which is The Spark upon dark...striations
of dreams upon the gyres of galaxies.
Proofs positive of palpable breath, given
and taken in gloried passage.
The cloistered ghost gifted the laughability
of its cloister.
A polish fit for heresy...listen to the
crystalline structure as it bats its eyelashes.
Oct 11, 2014
Oct 11, 2014 at 10:27 AM UTC
Perched motionless
Gleaming among the catkins of the oak—
with toy accordions for leaves
And a heron—watching
Neck pleated
Head resting in feathery shoulders
Sharp-eyed, beak brutal
Watching—
where below
that beer can, squashed and stabbed
...And did he see her?
by the naked window
Did he see the lace that bloomed?
No—fell
like spring’s full flakes
to coat the hills in white
for an hour at best in its cool damp?
Did he see?
the way her hair lapped
the spine and blade of back?
Bent the night—so darkly
red from black
as she pulled her blouse above her head?
And did he want!
the flesh of warm yellow lamplight
the smeared press of spit and sweat!
YES!
Squash and **** that beer can!
Sculpt your loneliness!
and stick it through
with any hard implement handy!
Grind your teeth on dumb regret
and **** yourself!
You know you don’t—love her?
Be jealous of her sheets, her springs, her sunsets!
on their ways to frost and moonlit sleep
turning forsythia of day
to fuzzy falls of glitter-gray
spilling down thick hips
of the river’s dungeon banks
so steeped in heat
to the dizzy roar that follows....
Be jealous of the River!
who always goes to her
when you will not...
And if—you really loved
I mean—loved!
who you saw...
you would have seen
the tired tears—roll than linger—Years
forsake their bones
defy the need for sleep
Defy everything!
Except—
the moon’s cloister...an owl’s call
And if you had loved her
you would have made the distance!
crossed the lawn!
skipped stairs!
Fought the Night of Time!
taken her porch like a champion!
Heart pounding near—the door down!
And if you had really loved
who you had seen
I MEAN—LOVED HER!
You would have—
You would have done—
ANYTHING!
Sep 9, 2016
Sep 9, 2016 at 9:28 PM UTC
I'll never make you smile again,
Not as your lover,
Not as your friend;
Not like it was
Way back when.
What is now, is not then.
I can smile
When I recall
The laugh you gave
When we were all.
Each day our oyster,
Each night we'd cloister
From the day's travails.
But memory pales,
And your smile fades
Into the mists of recall.
Jan 28, 2016
Jan 28, 2016 at 10:34 AM UTC
(repost)
Perched motionless
Gleaming among the catkins of the oak—
with toy accordions for leaves
And a heron—watching
Neck pleated
Head resting in feathery shoulders
Sharp-eyed, beak brutal
Watching—
where below
that beer can, squashed and stabbed
...And did he see her?
by the naked window
Did he see the lace that bloomed?
No—fell
like spring’s full flakes
to coat the hills in white
for an hour at best in its cool damp?
Did he see?
the way her hair lapped
the spine and blade of back?
Bent the night—so darkly
red from black
as she pulled her blouse above her head?
And did he want!
the flesh of warm yellow lamplight
the smeared press of spit and sweat!
YES!
Squash and **** that beer can!
Sculpt your loneliness!
and stick it through
with any hard implement handy!
Grind your teeth on dumb regret
and **** yourself!
You know you don’t—love her?
Be jealous of her sheets, her springs, her sunsets!
on their ways to frost and moonlit sleep
turning forsythia of day
to fuzzy falls of glitter-gray
spilling down thick hips
of the river’s dungeon banks
so steeped in heat
to the dizzy roar that follows....
Be jealous of the River!
who always goes to her
when you will not...
And if—you really loved
I mean—loved!
who you saw...
you would have seen
the tired tears—roll than linger—Years
forsake their bones
defy the need for sleep
Defy everything!
Except—
the moon’s cloister...an owl’s call
And if you had loved her
you would have made the distance!
crossed the lawn!
skipped stairs!
Fought the Night of Time!
taken her porch like a champion!
Heart pounding near—the door down!
And if you had really loved
who you had seen
I MEAN—LOVED HER!
You would have—
You would have done—
ANYTHING!
Jun 28, 2017
Jun 28, 2017 at 11:06 AM UTC
Dawn breaks. Sliver of light
through shutters, wakes Sister
Blaise, stirs her from sleep.
Bell rings. Chimes loud.
She sits up, legs over the
side of the bed. Bare feet,
wooden floor. Coldness bites.
Rubs arms, legs. Crosses
herself with middle digit,
in nomine Patris. Bright light
through shutters slices into
floor. Prayer said she rises
from her bed. Thoughts race
through her head. Drab night
gown, grey, long. She walks
to the enamel bowl, pours
cold water, washes face and
neck and hands. Et Filii, et
Spiritus Sancti. Lets water
run through fingers. Wash
me whiter. The Christ on
the wall hangs there in His
silence. Picture of Christ on
her desk, hands out stretched.
She runs water through her
fingers, wet, cold. Wash me,
cleanse me. She dries her
hands on the old white towel,
rubbing dry fingers, hands,
face and neck. Uncle used to.
Pushes thoughts of him away,
they slip back in place, eel like.
Uncle used to touch. Bless me
Father. She folds the towel,
places it neatly at the foot
of her bed. She removes the
nightgown. Dresses in her habit.
White and black. Mother said
nothing. Silence and the turning
of the head. Finger pressed
against lips. Dressed, she sets
about her cell. Tidying, sorting,
bed making. Uncle used to touch
her. For I have sinned. She opens
the shutters, lets light in, opens
the windows, fresh air, birdsong,
slight breeze. Father used to beat.
The Christ hanging from the cross
on the wall is silent. Nailed hands,
hands curled. She has kissed the
nailed feet. Now she stares at the
turned head, turned slightly to one
side, crown of thorns, wood carved.
Sister Clare is in the cloister. She
watches her walk. She stops. Looks
into the cloister Garth. Flowers
growing, neat rows, large bushes.
Mother said nothing. Beatings.
Lies told about Uncle he said.
Sent to bed, no supper. The sun
is warm, light on head. She walks
from the window and stands in
front of the crucifix. His hands
curled, nailed, old nails, pins.
Feet one on top of the other, nailed
in place. She kisses His feet.
Presses soft lips. Uncle used
to touch, said our secret, sin
to tell, little girl. She presses
lips to His feet. Mother weak,
said nothing, dying now, cancer,
pain, hurts. Father dead. Never
make old bones he said. Proved
right. She closes her eyes. Touches
His legs, runs finger along. Stiff,
cold, smooth. Uncle did; she never
told again. Father displeased, the
beating pleased. The bell rings again.
Echoes along cloister. She crosses
herself with middle digit. A bird sings.
Wind moves branches by window,
He calls, must leave, must go.
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 4:58 AM UTC
since I last
rode a bus,
no, poems aplenty
have poured and dripped
from ink-saturated fingers,
here there and everywhere,
disguised by many a nom de guerre
the bus riding infrequently,
as work no longer demands me,
I ride for the occasional occasion, when legs won’t
carry me the far away distances
they say violence in the city
is random, and just seems worse,
seemingly a newspaper creation,
but I know better, and random violence &
poetry inspiration do not walk or talk
hand in hand, not for the hands that write…
in every crack, lamppost,
festooned
with flyers for concerts years ago,
poems reached out to me, write, right?
I too am papered with memories of long-ago
city travels, picking up scenes & dreams
that became poems, instantaneously, scrambling,
to get home with them retained, untainted,
preserved with the freshness of city smells,
city swells, homeless, rowdies & oldies shuffling,
the interwoven of disparate desperate humans,
fodder once and now for Walt Whitman’s leaves,
each distinct needy for something else,
but for me,
just one city big view, a Cloister’s museum tapestry,
remade, rewoven anew every moment of every day
and a poem-rough tumbles from
without
&
within
,
Oct 24, 2023
Oct 24, 2023 at 8:55 AM UTC
The night’s quiet hold,
The tree’s uninterrupted shadows,
The moist breeze breathing,
All these things,
Act as my cloister,
To hide me away from the superficial world
Surrounding me in daylight.
Here,
In the night,
I take off the facade,
Of a happy, content child of society.
Here,
In the night,
I am myself;
A silent, dark ****
Sullen and reserved,
Laconic in conversation,
Uninteresting.
The night’s quiet hold,
The tree’s uninterrupted shadows,
The moist breeze breathing,
All these things,
Act as my cloister.
May 22, 2012
May 22, 2012 at 3:01 PM UTC
Il dio è il miei testimone e guida, Sister Maria, the refectorian, had said, Sister Teresa remembered walking passed the refectory, touching the wall with her fingers. God is my witness and guide, she translated, feeling the rough brick beneath her fingers. She stood; turned to look at the cloister garth. Sunlight played on the grass. Flowers added colour to borders and eyes, she thought, letting go of Maria's words as if they were balloons. Ache in limbs; a slowness in her movements. Age, she muttered inaudibly. The war had taken her cousin's sons in death. Two of them. Peter and Paul. Burma and D-day. Three years or more since. She brought hands together beneath the black serge of her habit. Flesh on flesh. Sister Clare had touched. Not over much, not over much. Papa would lift her high in his arms as a child, she mused, her memory jogged by the sunlight on the flowers. Higher and higher. Poor Papa. The spidery writing unreadable in the end. She sniffed the air. Bell rang from church tower. Sext. She looked at the clock on the cloister-tower wall. Lowered her eyes to the grass. So many greens. Jude had lain with her once or was it more? She mused, turning away from cloister wall and the sight of grass and flowers. Thirty years since he died. Blown to pieces Papa had written. Black ink on white paper sheet. Flesh on flesh; kiss to lip and lip. She paused by church door; allowed younger nuns to pass; so young these days, she thought, bowing, nodding her head. Placing her stiff fingers in the stoup, she made cross from breast to breast. Smell of incense; scent of wood; bodies close; age and time. She walked to her place in the choir stall, bowed to Crucified tabernacled. Kneeled. Closed eyes. Murmured prayer. Heard the rustle of habits; clicking of rosaries; breathing close. Opened eyes. Sister Clare across the way. A nod and a smile, almost indiscernible to others, she thought, returning the same. Mother Abbess tapped wood on wood; chant began; fingers moved; sign of cross; mumbled words. Forty years of prayer and chant; same such of fingered rosaries; hard beds; dark night of soul and such. She sensed Papa lifting her high in thought at least; Mama's touch on cheek and head. Jude's kiss. Embrace of limbs and face. Il dio è il miei testimone e guida, she recalled: God my witness and guide. Closed eyes. Sighed. Sister Clare had cried; had whispered; witness and guide; witness this and guide, she murmured between chant, prayer, and the scent of incense on the air.
Nov 26, 2013
Nov 26, 2013 at 1:23 PM UTC
Benedict stands
in the porter's lodge,
circa 1969, waiting
for Dom Tyler the monk,
to bring the large key
to open the church for Matins.
Dawn, cold air, smell of age
and incense and baking of bread.
He remembers Sonia,
the domestic at the home,
who pushed him to the bed
of old Mr Gillam and said
in her soft Italian,
Potrei fare sesso con te qui,
then in her broken English said,
I could have *** with you here.
Another joined Benedict
in the porter’s lodge,
some holy-Joe type,
breviary under arm,
starved gaze.
The silence,
the smell,
the chill.
Dom Tyler opens the door
from the cloister
and rattles the key,
smiles, but does not
break the Grand Silence.
He takes them out
into the morning air,
opens up the church.
Lights are on, monks
are assembling, bell rings,
Benedict takes a seat
on the side pew,
the other sits
more in front.
The old monk who last time
talked to Benedict
of monastic life,
slides by, his body aged,
his habit like a shroud.
How he escaped Sonia,
how he managed
to get away unmolested,
he finds it hard to fathom,
except the promise
of the cinema,
the seats at the back,
the kisses and touching,
all in the dark,
the flashing images
of the film going on.
Potrei fare sesso con te qui,
he utters under-breath.
The Latin of early morning
Matins begins, he dismisses
her image and her words.
The holy-Joe opens his breviary
in the semi dark, his finger
turning pages, muttering,
his head nodding
to an invisible prayer.
Benedict imagines Sonia
creeping into the pew,
muttering Italian,
sitting there.
Jun 2, 2013
Jun 2, 2013 at 11:00 AM UTC
To see the abnormal in the usual
To spy a quaint sliver of seperation
A stutter of fluidity; fluidity primary
The unknown subjection personified
These idealistic constructions forever permeating
Where currents join in twitching pools, swaying
to let their particles cloister and vibrate with
infusing spasms that dispel and attract-
Creating the magnetism of substance
Blank resound bliss
Drunk on a thousand drops
Vindicated from a thousand poisons
Reborn
at grid dot
Flowing invoice implode
All afterward foreshadowing
Being this precursor
Not an equation to be witnessed with
the surgical pangs of intellect
Arbitrary
Problematic
Instigative
None of this
Something ness
Of the womb sea
Blank resound bliss
without tributaries
though sensing its leaks
After Big Bang of suitor system silt
Wanton to multiply
Rabid and violent
In conquest
of joy and earth
What I bring to light
My depths are dark
Empty is the surface
Empty is my sleep
Feb 16, 2015
Feb 16, 2015 at 10:51 AM UTC
'When nights shall be drunk
And souls be tumbling in revelry
When the comic of roles end
And cold shall be burning
I await to call the utmost illegitimate side of us
As my penchanted pleasure
For you be semisane
Caught half into adulthood and rest you know...
Neither you nor me or they
Be sceptical or carrying the peels of scruples
Don't.
Feb 10, 2019
Feb 10, 2019 at 6:09 AM UTC
ginko soft they pile, strewn on cobble
memories themselves concretely devised
cloister inward, revise, revise, revise:
debauched meanderings fully marble
escapes to curl the lip, adorable
here and there, whether smile sneer incise
linguistic pirouettes or paler lies
congest that wisdom indefinable --
the moment past moves on to feigning truth
with pretty rhyme, for ornamenting time
with myths to filter in an Avalon,
juggle perspectival paradoxic ruth
with fine meter fine, vernacular chimes,
and resolve the conflict like a dawn
Dec 2, 2012
Dec 2, 2012 at 9:47 AM UTC
The trees overlapped
overhead creating a warm
cloister.
Harvey's car cooed past
the vibrant green
and sputter-stopped
at the plastic, fishhead
mailbox.
He drove up the grey gravel drive,
hopped out of his car and
with eager stride
headed toward
the door of the widow Prine.
"Hello, Harvey," Mrs. Prine
greeted from behind the screen
in her always-sugary-hushed tone.
"Hey, Mrs--I mean hello, Margaret."
"Haha, you remembered this time.
C'mon in, sweetie."
Harvey's steps matched gentle creaks
in wooden floor.
Pictures of Mrs. Prine's
three children lined the walls.
"That's Mattie, Cindy's baby. My first grandbaby,"
Mrs. Prine beamed.
"She's a cutie."
"Well thank you," Mrs. Prine picked up
some magazines lying on the couch,
"feel free to sit here. Can I get you something to drink?
Some wine, maybe? It's a red."
"Sure, sure. Sounds good."
Mrs. Prine stepped into the kitchen,
as the evening news played at a barely
audible volume.
"Oh Lord. I forgot to put the wine in the
fridge, Harvey."
"That's okay, Mrs. Prine. I can--"
"Margaret."
"Margaret, I can drink it warm."
"How about some ice cubes?"
"That works too."
Mrs. Prine's husband died
driving an 18-wheeler,
six-miles outside of Dallas
two or three years ago.
One of the few times
a sedan won a war
against a big engine.
Her cheek bones
jutted sharply from
her face,
deep crimson lipstick
and light eyeshadow
emphasized her
few deep wrinkles,
as if she wore them
with pride.
They sat sipping lukewarm
red wine, saying nearly nothing--
touching only during commercial
breaks.
When the news ended,
Mrs. Prine grabbed Harvey's hand,
led him to the bedroom,
filled with pictures of her and her husband.
The love they made--
textbook in its precision,
light in its passion--
finished chapter,
Harvey reached for his cigarettes.
"Sweetie, please don't smoke in here."
"Oh, I'm sorry, Margaret."
Harvey stared at her old life's relics,
wrapped his arm around her,
pulled her naked flesh against his,
a summer breeze crawled through
open window,
and Harvey said,
"So, tell me more about your husband."
Mrs. Prine smiled, brushed her hair
out of her eyes,
and with a retrospective sigh,
she began.
May 19, 2011
May 19, 2011 at 5:31 PM UTC
I dreamt it snowed
Nectar and powdered sugar,
Dusting nature's lips.
I recall the kiss from her
Not-so-innocent curiosity,
Come-hither in her arched brow.
How the morning breeze
Grew wanton,
Lifting her nightdress,
Until naked she pirouetted about
The cloister garth.
I dreamt of flowering moonlight
And his potent stem,
Filling her
With stars and shivers,
As she burst, for goodness sake,
From all the little blissful parties
Drumming her garden wall.
I dreamt of fecundity
And funnel cakes,
Soft and sweet and round,
Her milk a spring,
Laden with gift of life.
Intuitive opaque areolae,
The shape of things to come,
The very ones from which
She'll nurse their young.
Nov 11, 2019
Nov 11, 2019 at 6:52 PM UTC
Martha was shown
into a parlour
inside the front door
of the mother house
by a plump nun
in black and white
who looked like a penguin
out for a stroll
wait in there
she said
someone
will fetch you
in time
so Martha looked around
the room at the plain
white walls
the heavy curtains
at the windows
the huge crucifix
on the wall opposite
whose plaster Christ
seemed battered
an aged
the plaster had lines
and cracks
on the legs
and arms
and the hands
were contorted
like a crab
on its back
with rusty nails
holding them in place
she moved nearer
and reached up a hand
so that her fingers
could touch the feet
of Christ and run
them over the toes
and feel the nail
going through the feet
she rubbed her fingers there
she used to rub the crucifix
in her grandmother's house
the big one over
the double bed
and if she stood
on the bed
she could reach right up
to touch the face
and beard
and see if she could
hear Him breathe
or if she reached
really high
she could feel His nose
which on her grandmother's
Christ the nose seemed broken
and her grandmother said
that was where
her grandfather
had thrown a shoe in temper
and crack the plaster nose
will he go to Hell?
she recalled asking
her grandmother
O no
her grandmother said
not just for that
and she was pleased
because she liked her grandfather
and his simple ways
and hard toffees
she felt each toe in turn
moving a finger
over the plaster
and remembered
her school friend Mary
who had pressed
chewing gum
into the bellybutton
of the plaster Christ
in the cloister
of the convent school
back in the 1960s
and when Sister Bede
saw it she had to gently
chiselled it out
with a screwdriver
threatening severe punishment
to the girl responsible
but no one told
and even when she left years
after the bellybutton
of the Christ still had
the scar where Sister Bede
had chiselled too hard
there was a cough behind her
and Martha turned
and there was a nun
standing by the door
her eyes dark like berries
and her thin mouth
slowly opened
and she said
are you the girl
who wants to be a nun?
Martha nodded her head
and the nun told her
to follow her and she
went down a dim lit
passageway
the nun in front
pacing slow
each footstep measured
her hands tucked
out of sight
with only the sound
of her heels going
clip clop clip clop
on the flagstones
and the black habit
swaying very gracefully
as she walked
no more words
no questions
no answers
because no one talked.
Jun 6, 2013
Jun 6, 2013 at 10:59 AM UTC
Dom Frederick's book
of the old abbey
I had read
the abbey closed
by Henry VIII,
the new abbey
was my sanctuary
since my first arrival,
et habitaverunt ibi,
George sickened
for the warmer weather
the cold saddened him,
she kissed my pecker
to a new life
some other guy's wife,
for the sake of silence
we ought to abstain
even from good talk
Benedict said,
I picked a cabbage
for the midday lunch
and smelt the mint nearby,
birdsong woke
the gardens and me,
Hugh him of thin frame
moaned of the number
of books on my shelf
even the Hopkins poems
got his goat,
Dieu est à mes yeux,
in my sight
and what I saw,
on the seashore
by the abbey
we threw stones
along the incoming tide
and Dom Joe(Bunny dear) smiled,
and again she said
deeper deeper,
we become what we love
and who we love shapes
what we become
said Clare (saint) that is,
the French peasant monk
cut the tall grass
with a skill
I didn't have
his scythe swung wide,
travailler à prier
he said,
Dom Patrick spoke softly
about the sweeping
and washing
of the refectory floor
and how it was done
and I did as he said,
God is the indwelling
not the transient cause
of all things Gareth said
quoting Spinoza
as we walked
from the abbey orchard
to the cloister,
I kissed her *******
each in turn
as she had said
in her big double bed,
the bell tolled
from the church
for the office of Terce,
Dio è nelle mie orecchie
the Italian monk said,
I watched the monks walk
towards the church
and I walked also,
I am lost I mused
where to go?
Feb 25, 2016
Feb 25, 2016 at 4:17 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
Cloistered manifestation
Candle lit veneration
Indoctrination it seems
The apocalypse of dreams
subtle degradation
emotional ***********
a soul split at the seams
you whisper wicked words
pleasure and pain are blurred
subliminal hypocrisy
fingers slick I grip these beads
wheat and tares sprout from these seeds
twist the truth in a noose for me
formidible religion
this gospel of indecision
life bled out on your killing floor
render me defeated
my lesser gods unseated
wrath poured out I am no more
chant your litany of lies
This sinner you despise
clench that unread Bible to your chest
consign me to eternal shame
never again to speak my name
bury me with the rest
your religion is death
with my final breath
a means to an end is best
TLB 11/01/08
Sep 5, 2014
Sep 5, 2014 at 12:54 PM UTC
Whenever I fall out of harmony with the uni-verse, I cloister at my mother's home. It's full of three things; books, paintings, and kids, yet the walls have more to offer..
I can hear her opening doors
I still remember how she shortened every single one of her galabeyas, and how the space between her ankles and her feet is exactly what infinity looks like.
I still remember the six gold ghawayesh that turned into four then turned into two, and I still remember thinking maybe one day they covered her whole arm like a shiny armor but she kept on falling defenseless because time is a cruel thief. I also remember how she robbed time of its powers by keeping her ancient wise soul an adventurous young one until the very last day; the skill she wanted to learn at the age of seventy was driving, because knitting is obviously for the young.
I still remember her taking pride in her roots, like a baobab tree, and I still remember how it was this that taught to stand my ground, balanced and rooted.
I still remember how people called her house "the mother of Egyptians' house" because that's the name of the neighborhood where it was. I still remember learning at the age of nine that the neighborhood was named so in the honor of the revolutionary Safia Zaghloul, and I still remember thinking that they named Safia Zaghloul so in the honor of her, because she was 'the mother', the source, the one more push, the spring, the lens, the revolution and beyond.
I still remember how her hair looked like moonlight, and how her skin felt like flower petals.
She wasn't an angel; she wasn't made out of light. She was made of water and fertile soil; she was a complete human being in all its glory, molded by the hands of Atum, and Minerva.
And if she was not only in my memories, I'd make a pilgrimage to her; kneel under her feet so she can braid my hair, and offer warmth and bedtime stories in treasure boxes adorned with her favorite poetry lines. And I remind myself instead to take a good look at the night sky; those who follow the stars can never be lost.
May 30, 2015
May 30, 2015 at 8:23 PM UTC