Monk (2)
3 a.m. in the dark morning of a dark night;
a kneeling figure;
a single candle flickering on a gleam of gold.
I cannot see how great or small the dark space here, of
chapel, church, echoing cathedral; or
are there trees around; or a stable; or a prison cell..? ..
I cannot see how great or small his mind;
I cannot see how great or small his heart;
his soul…
monk…
your image, your imagined life-style
fascinates me, repels me,
overwhelms me, leaves me indifferent,
humiliates me, inspires me…
we all look for love; imagine
giving all the love you have,
all the love you hope for,
all the love you may never know,
in the faith, the hope, the loving-kindness,
that, all this surrendered, that emptied mind and heart
be filled with a trickle or a torrent
of a finer love…
your mother was disappointed, so you told me:
better to be born in a large Irish family
religious enough to believe that nature
manages contraception as well as she manages love…
your brothers and sisters will provide her grandchildren enough..
and she knows that she too, will surrender
a colleen's fine bold looks, for a finer radiance,
of love for family…
would it be better if you had had that vigorous love-life
which you had willingly, reluctantly, given up
for the love of love itself?
or should it be, that what you’ve never had, that you don’t miss…
and now, in the sweet and smiling peace of your presence,
your undemanding presence that urges me to tease you,
challenge you, annoy you…
now, I seem to have no questions that are relevant,
for those I had, seem dry and theoretical,
rebounding back on me when aimed at you..
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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