September 11th

“At the center of our being is a point of nothingness which is untouched by sin and by illusion, a point of pure truth, a point or spark which belongs entirely to God, which is never at our disposal, from which God disposes of our lives, which is inaccessible to the fantasies of our own mind or the brutalities of our own will.”  Thomas Merton

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Rushing from shower to sink, I heard the TV
blare its usual chatter of news and advertising
as we made our hurried preparations
for another busy day,
when I saw it:
dark smoke rising into the blue New York sky.

And I stopped, all schedules forgotten, transfixed
by high flames scorching glass and steel.

Calmly, the newsman speculated
about airliners and tragic accidents,
when the passive camera caught it, the black spot
flying straight and sure as a bullet, piercing
the second tower in a shower of orange flame and shattered glass.

This was no accident,then, this morning violence, and I wondered
how many people were already at work when,
pinned by burning jet fuel and melting steel, their busy day
suddenly ceased in searing red pain and numb darkness?

I wanted to go on with my own day,
to hide in the comfort of my routine,
but I could not turn away when I saw jumpers
drop to merciful deaths;

I saw a suited businessman,
pale in white dust, slowly plodding
through a deluge of drifting memos,
clutching his briefcase like a life preserver;

I heard the shrill, muffled
sirens of ambulance and fire-trucks,
lost in the dirty fog of terror.

And I knew in that moment
that we all are New Yorkers,

we all are falling into our dark, quiet center
where, sinless and without fear,
we encounter God, Yahweh, Allah,

The Eternal,  

as our shattered bodies rise
through flames of anger
into the pure, cool, forgiving
September air.

(9/11/2011)

Cain

The delicate action of grace in the soul is profoundly disturbed by all human violence. Passion, when it is inordinate, does violence to the spirit and its most dangerous violence is that in which we seem to find peace. Violence is not completely fatal until it ceases to disturb us.    Thomas Merton. Thoughts in Solitude.

Like a delicate wind

your grace shaped my infant soul

filled my emptiness

with angelic form

and I was beautiful

and good

until, jealous for your love, 

I slew my brother.

Now I fear the abyss

that opens beneath me

the grave 

of my sin-withered soul.

To you I pray

forgive me! bring me back

from the numbing peace

of careless, empty 

days.

(1 February 2013)

The Terrorist

“People who know nothing of God and whose lives are centered on themselves . . . . can only conceive one way of becoming real: cutting themselves off from other people and building a barrier of contrast and distinction between themselves and other men. They do not know that reality is to be sought not in division but in unity, for we are ‘members one of another.“ - Thomas Merton, from New Seeds of Contemplation

Je suis un parisien!  14 Nov 2015

Carry your anger

in a heavy bag

filled with nails

and sharp shards -

hate honed to

hard edge of

murder.

When you see

their bright smiles

you will know

it is time

to ignite

your Inspired

device.

(28 April 2013)

Caïn

L'action délicate de la grâce dans l'âme est profondément perturbé par toute violence humaine . Passion , quand il est excessif , ce est faire violence à l'esprit et sa violence la plus dangereuse est celle dans laquelle nous semblons trouver la paix . La violence ne est pas complètement mort jusqu'à ce qu'il cesse de nous déranger. Thomas Merton . Pensées dans la solitude.


Comme un vent délicate
ta grâce en forme de mon âme infantile
rempli mon vide
avec la forme angélique

et je étais belle
et la bonne

jusqu'à ce que, jaloux de votre amour ,
Je ai tué mon frère .

Maintenant, je crains l'abîme
qui se ouvre sous moi
la tombe
de mon péché - flétrie âme.

Pour vous je prie
pardonnez-moi! me ramener
de la paix engourdissement
de négligence , vide
jour .

(1 Février 2013)

The English Teacher

When I told them how Jim Crow
made prisons of
bathrooms, restaurants,
candy stores, schools

and how the school bus forced
colored kids into a ditch,
(too black to ride)
and justice finally failed
even Sunday school girls,

they looked askance,
narrowing their eyes
and asked how people
could be so unfair,

so I showed them.

Six million gone
with the careless wave
of the Kommandant’s baton,
and Anne, discovered and reduced
to words on a page.

Their eyes grew suddenly old and grave.

Now
asking them to write April poems,
I say,
look at the cold spring day…
wind blowing
through restless trees,
rain filling the land to
make it green,

but instead they sing dirges,
of children who murder,
and children who die.

So why should I be surprised ?
They did not make this world
and I cannot lie.

Author notes

(after reading Billy Collins’s poem, “The History Teacher”)

and fell the crane

painting, September 2001 by Hung Liu

rising high

godlike I gazed

from where the crane flies

unconcerned, over
the placid waters of

the harbor of

the world,

when, driven to madness

it pierced

my throat.

I burst

and burned

and to earth

fell,

and fell

too

the crane.