Two Poems for Holy Week
Good Friday and Easter Sunday
True Wood
Pears thunk and plop on
barren, yellow grass
alone, not-gathered.
The tree bore fruit
but there is no one
to eat of it.
is it still a tree?
Upraised branches,
so much verdant waterspray
towards the sky,
still and soft against
the blue--
but no one to see.
is it still a tree?
Oaken limbs, worn with carrying children
to and fro, pumping, playing
jumping, but no one to
hear the joy in the swing.
is it still a tree?
Carpenter fashions these
woodly beams,
rough-hewn
splinter-worthy
dangerous to the flesh,
carried for miles
to the top of a hill-
everyone sees-
It was a tree.
Recipe for Awakening
Stir together singular,
disparate syllables.
Salt tears. Dry yeast.
Mix with water (no blood yet)
but sweat. And all those tears.
Beat, not with a spoon--convex
form no match for the fear held
in its hand--but carefully stir
the sifted self, Savior, kneaded
on a board until the dough
pulls away.
Cover loosely with cloth,
place in a battered space
until deliverance is complete.
Let rise.
Form into one life,
resurrected.1
These poems are wonderful, and "Recipe for Awakening" is just stunning--the sounds, the meaning. Thank you for sharing these.
Here is my own poem for Holy Saturday:
Saturday by Rebecca D. Martin
It starts hard and definite.
An anguished cry, a black sky.
The rending of everything right
into wrong, or different.
Do we talk about the time in between?
I have always hated undefined spaces,
the far mountain peaks with
who knows how much distance
between now and arrival, or passing by.
The broad swath of field, even with flowers.
The sky too wide.
Give me rock and stone. Let me
drive through the heart of the mountain.
This place is no place, but we call it
home. When may we leave it?
Please. When will we get there?
These are both so, so good, Jody.