First Nun:
Nothing remotely suggests what the moon has tried to conceal:
at the foot of the mountain we found a penitent,
clinging to his nightshirt,
counting his fingers and crying.
Weeping under the shadow of the moon, but the shadows
failed to hide his tears, and the moon
shone like the witch hysterical
over the waters on his cheeks.
Second Nun:
Somewhere in the crowded city we heard
the song of the Lady hugging the walls
of an old cathedral.
A song of sorrow asking to be heard
above the waves of crowded city's
voice: It was asking to be heard
because the city suffers from a famine
there is no wheat coming from the fields
the earth has turned a yellow color --
now dry and ruinous.
First Nun:
But the moonlight could not hide his tears.
Second Nun:
The birds from the city have
fallen with the rains.
The song of the Lady re-echoes
through the grief and the glory:
"We cannot sleep the nights. Our eyes
are parched. The days are hot and long
carrying an emptiness more
than the hallow
in our stomachs,
and I know that death is not far from us."
First Nun:
He wept for his sins and wet the earth
beneath his knees.
But his tears were salt, and the earth
bore no root, no green, not even
a stir opening to the small, small drops.
Second Nun:
Only She lamented the hunger of the city.
The people knew they were starving
but were too busy to care why or where
to ask for food. For the city, it is true,
has much oil for its cars, and
power for its lights.
In that mass of machines where everything
opens and closes, moves and stops --
the growing of the grass, the trees,
the stir of the wind,
the temper of the sea, the thunder
from the mountains -- all these echoes
of heaven
are not heard.
Two Nuns:
Hunger in a penitent’s soul
is all the pain the dry season brings.
Tears by the mountains huddled
what manner of man is this that kneels
by the stone, and strikes his breast
with sounds like prayer?
The voice of prayer that goes beyond
the fire in the breast
beyond the swell of watered eyes.
The voice of prayer that comes
from a sanctuary
of stillness, where a Child could
dwell between the metal and the spirit.
A condition of complete simplicity
where a world is complete before the Altar
and a heart without a world, simple.
First Nun:
Who shall tell the people?
Second Nun:
Before the Black Sea, there were thirty pairs.
Part II
The Lady:
From the Blessed St. John
a message to thee from the Truth,
the source from which God's creation began:
"I know of the doings, and find these
neither cold nor hot.
Being what thou art, lukewarm,
make me vomit thee out of my mouth.
See where I stand at the door
Knocking: If anyone listens to my voice
and opens the door, I will come in
and visit him, and take my supper with him.
Chorus:
Listen you who have ears, to the message...
The Lady:
...The Spirit has for the people."
They have ruined the churches,
and many have died...
Chorus:
...without prayers for their graves
The Lady:
...unheedful of the bitter waters
Chorus:
...of Hell.
The Lady:
Who shall tell us what to do?
When hearts like doors have closed themselves
and the streets have crowded with cheerers
mocking a Man riding a donkey,
the tide of the traffic has thickened
over the square;
Does not a Child come up to the Man
that He may ask
For all to hear: "Unless you become
as little children, you shall not enter
my kingdom."
What, no child?
Chorus:
Was that laughter?
First Nun:
Hail Mary
we turn to Thee.
The Lamb of God, behold!
rebuked by electronic robots
and computing machines.
Second Nun:
Holy Mary,
behold our vineyards: the clusters
look rich and ripe,
but when gathered and pressed before
His judgment...
Chorus:
...Lord, hear our cries.
Have mercy. Have mercy.
Two Nuns:
The vintage from the earth gave no wine.
Not one single drop
for the Figure on the Cross
That shed His last for them.
The Lady:
The crop of this earth is dry.
Go to the nuns. Ask them to pray.
First Nun:
The world is neither the convent
nor the church door, only.
Second Nun:
The Lord did not die for the convent
nor the church door, only.
Chorus:
The sinner by the stone mountain
with his false confessions has been
invited for dinner.
Go, tell him to dress himself
and attend
the banquet of the Lord,
and there,
pour out his grief’s the penance
may be anointed over his forehead
and he may go
to the square in the morrow to proclaim:
"I can see! I am blind no more!"
The Lady:
In the square, the people are too busy
feasting with their gold.
They do not seem to starve for food.
They do not seem to go blind, or deaf,
or mute,
or sick with the palsy.
What then?
Chorus:
Shall the blind man made seeing,
the sinner pardoned,
be heard over the waves of traffic and noise?
When the temper of the tide shall rise
and fall,
when the earth shall be open and made green
when the birds come homing from the South
when the sharp sickle of the Angel gathers
the world’s vintage
shall the people in the square
pause from their hurry and look to the sky
bending their knees in prayer to cry:
"Lord, are we not worthy?"
Part III
Chorus:
Nothing remotely suggests
what the moon has tried to conceal:
At the foot of the mountain
we found a penitent clinging to his
nightshirt, counting his fingers
and crying.
Weeping under the shadows of the moon,
but the shadows failed to hide
his tears and the moon shone
like the witch hysterical over
the waters on his cheeks.
Two Nuns:
Bend the knees before the Sanctuary
and make the voice of prayer
strike the breast to
Open! Open! Open!
The Lady:
"If anyone listens to my voice
and opens the door, I will come in
to visit him, and take my supper
with him.
Listen, you that have ears,
to the message
the Spirit has for the people!"
--------------------------
Father Ting, This was published in the "Varsitarian" official organ of the University of Sto. Tomas and was submitted and won the Palanca the same year it came out. I was finishing my course in philosophy at the time. Even then, I already had attempts at being a St. John of the Cross. A poetic attempt, albeit puerile. The papal book "Memory and Identity" is with the Father Provincial of the Order of the Blessed Sacrament. He was our parish priest at the Carmelite Convent for six years and with his promotion is now back with his central office. The discalced Carmelite friars have not taken over the daily masses at the Gilmore Convent. I will try to retrieve it. "Memory" refers also to our personal recollection of the life of Christ, the history of the Church, the struggles of humankind through wars and natural calamities -- all must be part of our recollection in order that we can "Identify" with Christ in humanity's failings, trials, struggles, victories and triumphs, and with each other together with the communion of saints that have gone before us. Without memory we do not have our identity. Without remembering the past of the Old Testament and the New Testament, we have no identity in the now. Our identity is our collective history. We are one in many memories; and all our memories identify us.
rita
