Saturday, March 31, 2018

a broken alleluia ............

On Palm SundayI found that a brand new hosanna is easier to sing
Than a broken alleluia
But an epiphany on a day of rest
May go dark for the rest of the week
On Fig MondaySomething came over me like a red mist,
I blew my top, Lost my rag,
Everyone went quiet, Looked down at their sandals,
Tomorrow I’d have to wear that t-shirt again,
‘I’m sorry for what I said when I was hungry’
On Great TuesdayI was staying with thirteen nuns in a convent,
Some of whom were among the original disciples.
Living in silence, they’d become lost for words,
‘Your presence and prayer here,’ they promised,
‘Will enhance the world’s store of stillness and reverence.’
I had my doubts.
On Spy WednesdayPopping my head above the parapet of the everyday
I caught myself in the lens of some strange binoculars
It was me I was focussed on, and also it wasn’t,
I saw myself inside this other world, Here was
Everyone, on the corner of Fourth and Walnut
Walking around shining like the sun, They were mine,
I was theirs… but it was all too bright
I ducked down again, went back into hiding
In case someone spotted me, seeing us all.
On Maundy ThursdayJohann Cruyff died and Wales played Northern Ireland
I was with Dad back at the Vetch Field, Swansea, 1970,
Seeing George Best, total footballer, in that green shirt.
Like Cruyff, he could make you believe in God.
In the evening I played five-a-side
But forgot to do the Cruyff Turn
On Good FridayI hadn’t anticipated the death, nor that I’d be the killer
Not that there was nails or blood as we hung up,
Just another of those small, everyday expirations,
When hate seems stronger than love, When
Something whispers, ‘It is finished’
And the darkness feels stronger than light.
The Poem was completely abandoned
And death was stronger than life
On Empty SaturdayWe met old friends, the ghost of their love
No longer given up, Foreheads glancing,
Lips brushing, Look at them
Gazing at each other, like death was not an end,
And holy weeks have an eighth day.
Later this angel, we hadn’t expected,
Conjuring patience while wheeling around
An ageing Uncle, ‘Well,’ he smiled,
‘We’ve got no bloody choice, have we?’
I thought maybe no day is as empty as it pretends
That something is happening behind that stone
Even if you never imagine a day,
When someone has rolled it away
On Easter SundayI tried to be like the fox, like Wendell Berry says,
I practised resurrection. I realised I needed
To practice more, at least 10,000 hours
And probably I’d still need a hand. Up. And out.
(This poem was first abandoned on Good Friday 2017)

Poem by martin Wroe a great and πŸ…±πŸ…΄πŸ…°πŸ†„πŸ†ƒπŸ…ΈπŸ…΅πŸ†„πŸ…» friend.