Pied Beauty on Poetry Thursday.
(Thursday, January 25, 2007)
I believe I began loving poetry, truly, and appreciating it, truly, when I took a formal poetry class. Before that, I had no clue what blank verse or iambic pentameter were; I just wrote poetry however I chose. I found, and still do find, beauty in that. However, my true love for poetry came out of this study of formal verse and learning how to write it and use it to plant little secrets and treasures within my lines.
I thought I would share the first poem I wrote for that formal class. I was surprised at the work that came out of me, how naturally the rhythms came for me, and I find a lot of joy in writing formal poems to this day.
This poem was submitted and published in the college literary publication, and when I was asked to read it at the opening, I kindly said I would prefer not to. Truth be told, my professor loved this poem and urged me to submit it along with others, but this one was chosen, and I was ashamed. I had recently been learning a lot about Catholicism and was just exposed to it for the first time, and the poem is a reflection of some questions and thoughts I had while sitting in mass. I thought it might be sacreligious or offend someone. At that time in my life, I found it so peculiar that a priest would never know a woman -- this sort of blew my mind, and I wondered if other women wondered, too, how a man gave that up. I put priests on a pedestal; I thought they were incredible, god-like. I grew up in a way that was completely opposite of all the beliefs of Catholicism, and it was mind-blowing to begin learning and reading and thinking hard about their faith and customs.
I feel comfortable sharing it now.
An Adoration of Ordination
A drop of sacred water hits the floor.
I wonder, did his mother pray for him?
Many a woman lives to see him sin—
to feel his tongue along the chalice brim,
And shiver in their loins to wonder why
the taste of the Son received his affection
instead of a more voluptuous perfection.
And his scarlet candle, still it burns.
A movement, a whisper, his lips upon the altar,
and silently, his mouth proclaims the Gospel.
Many a woman lives through crucifixion
of secret confessions and longing to tell.
In dawn and eve he bends to kneeling poses
and meditates upon the Mystery
of Faith through wooden beads, his rosary.
The Agnus Dei waits among his prayers.
A little water cuts his wine in fraction;
a little faction partakes of his wine,
and female bodies thirst in curiosity—
what prophecy, in God’s divine design.
Indulge in more Poetry Thursday!
© Megan K. 2006-2007
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I love this. I love the way that it point out the moments of our lives when everyone wants to believe one thing and really another is true.
Lovely imagry
Meg- what an incredible poem. I have been trying to figure out what to say here but my words fail me... this was just so spiritual both in its words and imagery. I was transported... thank you so much.
Outstanding is all I can say. BB
Wow. That was intense and wonderful and the flowing of words. Yet a deep story there. Wow, maybe you should have one day a week that is poem day, where you share a new poem??? Or more than one poem day? :)
I love this poem. Like a good poem should, it keeps the tensions of paradox balanced just right as it searches. Your poem is a perfect example of yet another reason we all love poetry so much, I suppose; poetry helps us sharpen and define the questions that we are struggling with and is capable of delivering the complicated non-linear "answers" that those questions often lead to. Thanks for sharing this!