The Monk Poems

Morning To The Solitary

 

The tall monk stands

on the cliff pausing

from the patch  of garden that needs

his toil. His hand  a perch

 

for cold air clawing

at the veins --  but not with

arthritic ache,  solely

affirmation --

 

and to his love, he whispers

a poem of praise.

 

Grey gulls skim the grey water

as if to pull strands

of your  incandescent hair

 from the sea.

 

White flowers trail  the wind;

how beautifully the hem

of your  gown trembles

in these hours before the first

meal of black bread and cheese.

 

The moon is nothing now

in your presence but sealing wax

for parchment  --  on which I'd pen

these words if there were spare

calfskin and ink

 

but they're reserved

for writing holy text.

So here I stand among

the old stones;

and besides the old stones,

the weavers, the potters, the  bellfounders

have known  you longer than I --

 

but they do not cease

from their daily craft

to watch you rise, arching over the round

Cragg of Alisa

 

and loosening your long light

into the salted  wave. The splendor of it

stirring fish and sunken gleam

of treasure floating wild 

or tangled still in prayer's netting,

that of boyhood dreams.

.................................................................................

 The  Ego To Her Monk

 

And so  you bring me here

to witness how:

 you live in a hut

 built of mud and stone,

 

dine on leaves of kelp

and water cress floating

among the rocks of St. Kilda,

 

taste wild honey sweet

off a waxen comb

crafted by bees humming

their own Salve Regina,

 

write verse with the stray

feather of goose or duck,

 

muffle your ache

with the moan of seals,

in  the waking dawn,

 

tie your robes with a cord

of grape vine,

 

and cut your hair

when it lengthens past

the ear lobe.

 

And so you bring me here

to say -- as temptress born

from your grate of bone

I will perish...

 

The turf shall become my tower

into which I   fall

earthen-deep, my white throat

consumed by worm and  beetle,

 

its vessel of vain song

diminished -- to the masonry

of seed and  loam,

the slow fade of sin.

 

And so you bring me here --

an obdurate stare, too shocked

to coax or tremble.

..........................................................

Note-- the lovely image is by 19th century Illustrator,

Emma Florence Harrison.