! M O N K (2) Poem by Michael Shepherd

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..

yes, monk –
you tease me, challenge me, annoy me,
in your turn; hearing in my inner ear
the crashing waters of the great sea of faith,
the lure of sheer totality: give it all up, all of it,
the what you know and what you don’t,
the what you’ve lived and what you’ve not…
the what and whom you’ve loved,
and what the greater love might be;

3 a.m. in the dark morning of a dark night and
they're all filing silently into their pews; but
it’s summer, and already there’s a hint
through the eastern window over there, of a gentle dawn
that seems to have to it, all the time in the world,
telling the candle-lit and holy heart
of some space-time that is love.