No one speaks of the sculpture
standing now in the quadrangle courtyard-
Man and woman side by side- Parviz Tanavoli's
"The Poet and the Beloved of the King".
Her parts a large triangle locket
and two dainty ones above.
His a faucet complete with turnkey.
We've other things to think and speak about.
A death during Mass last week.
Blood starting near the old german crucifix
and ending with a monks' body prostrate
in the brothers' washroom.
We did not miss a beat.
The bell rang for supper at six sharp;
prayer and then the reading:
"Three Cups of Tea" by the climber named Mortenson-
all the while the responders milled about
assessing the expired corpse just outside
the refectory door.
All of this so daily before our eyes.
Because of him I learned to forgive more.
Together we know only that Fr. Bruce is dead.
We will bury him today - Feast of St. Scholastica.
His wine-spattered final dance no more desperate
than devastations of late winter.
john hanson osb
Feb.10, 2009
6 comments:
sorry to hear about fr bruce
how old was he?
the rather nonchalant treatment
of death in the monastery
is comforting in a way
it happens to all of us
no reason to make too much of a fuss about it
(though i reserve the right to make a fuss when i lose a loved one)
i took my students on a hike this morning
to the san andreas fault
one student asked what would happen
if there was an earthquake while we were there
not much except that we'd be knocked off our feet
oh, so we won't die?
no, not today
not today?
we all die sometime
what???
no...this is a great poem??
no...this could win the contest over on LS??
no...you capture the moment so beautifully??
i thought that last line was one of my best
even poets with norwegian names
need a little literay bolstering
fr bruce was 70
at the funeral vigil we heard from matthew 6...do not worry about what you are to eat or what you will wear...consider the lilies of the valley etc.
the monk in question was forever dressing up in new get-ups and talking incessently about food
he fed the birds he was into birds
but it was all pretty ridiculous as far as i could see
any way i could think of no greater occasion for gospel meets real life irony
j
This is a powerful poem, because the images are so real.
matt at shadowofiris.com
well i didn't want you
to get a big head
you know i have to take care
to protect your humility
what else are friends for?
besides even your everyday
communication is so poetic
if i oohed and aahed about
every brilliant line
you would soon tire of it
but this is indeed a very fine poem
the imagery grips me
transports me to the scene
and leaves me curious
how did he die?
why was there blood?
if the blood came from a fall near the altar
then how did he make it to the washroom?
or was the only blood
the blood of christ
that spilled from the goblet near the crucifix
and along the staggering way to the washroom
during the final dance?
i do like the last line
i see that you have edited the poem a bit
since my first reading
lord keep vanity away
the story around fr bruce is convoluted and strange
he was not at mass
he was doing something on his own
he almost never came to mass
he was in the basement of the monastery
in the long corridor there is a rather beautiful and prominent crucifix made circa 1700 AD
something happened and he had a severe bloody nose
nobody saw the final moments but it is obvious he was in a panic slipped on his own blood smacked his head etc and died
i refer to the wine spatter in an effort to suggest the humiliation of the cross and its continual prominence in our eucharists
i love your humorous provokations
this is all really kind of goofy
but i like it
cha cha cha
my WV nucke
matt dioguardi
welcome to a bewildering search
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