Benedict’s Daughter

      Poems

      Copyright © 2017 Philip C. Kolin. All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical publications or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publisher. Write: Permissions, Wipf and Stock Publishers, 199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3, Eugene, OR 97401.

      Resource Publications

      An Imprint of Wipf and Stock Publishers

      199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3

      Eugene, OR 97401

      www.wipfandstock.com

      paperback isbn: 978-1-5326-1147-6

      hardcover isbn: 978-1-5326-1149-0

      ebook isbn: 978-1-5326-1148-3

      Manufactured in the U.S.A. March 6, 2017

      for Margie and Al

      I decided after investigating everything carefully from the very first to write an orderly account for you, Theophilus, so that you may know the truth concerning the things about which you have been instructed.

      luke 1:3

      He should know that whoever undertakes the government of souls must prepare himself to account for them.

      st. benedict, holy rule

      What we love we shall grow to resemble.

      st. bernard of clairvaux

      Humanity, take a good look at yourself. To one side you’ve got heaven and earth, and all creation. You’re a world—everything is hidden in you.

      st. hildegard of bingen

      Acknowledgments

      My thanks go to the following journals where some of these poems originally appeared:

      Introduction

      These poems tell the story of a remarkable woman of faith, a spiritual director for over 50 years who lived her life according to St. Benedict’s Holy Rule. Interspersed with poems about her and her family are those that focus directly on Benedictine spiritual traditions, liturgies, saints, and abbeys.

      part 1

      Lauds

      Day Opens

      The book of day opens with

      the papery feel of dew on azure;

      sun shafts sign the distant hilltops

      overlooking the abbey

      with heaven’s new covenant.

      It’s time to shake off

      the mortality of sleep;

      the tomb of night is cracked, step out

      and feel the infinity of light.

      Dawn has resurrected the world

      from the denial of darkness.

      The air is inscribed with Gospels

      calling us to be a part of forever:

      the Angelus and Mass bells,

      the canticles of rivers and oceans,

      and the blessings of soft-voiced breezes—

      all ring souls with delight.

      God fills daybreak with himself.

      Terce

      St. Peter on the Eternity of Three

      Everything I learned about eternity unfolded

      in threes. Mary told me about the Magi

      and about losing him in the temple

      then finding him three days later.

      James, John, but I saw her glorified son

      transfigured on that holy mountain top.

      Coming down, we wiped the dazzle

      from our eyes; and for three years

      it spread like lilies across the fields.

      Then came Gethsemane

      and the blood tears he shed

      turning stones opalescent red.

      That night the high priest’s courtyard

      felt as cold as my tongue; I denied him

      the three times the cock crowed.

      I froze at the third hour

      when unctuous Pilate

      sentenced him to die.

      I could not watch those three crosses

      standing stark on that hill

      or bear to see the temple veil

      ripping apart. The darkness

      that followed his death

      stole three hours’ light from the sky.

      The third day the women,

      Salome, Joanna, Magdela,

      ran back from the tomb with earth-

      shaking news that he had risen,

      the stone rolled away,

      and his burial linens lay limp

      on the floor.

      On Pentecost at the third hour

      the Holy Spirit descended

      enflaming our tongues

      to speak each other’s language.

      Noised about the city, his promise

      fulfilled this hour of sacred prayer.

      Sext

      The Hour Christ Died

      Midday, the sext hour, mealtime

      for all the empty eyes waiting

      in the long soup lines at St. Meinrad’s.

      They are Christ suffering—

      the homeless, the betrayed, and

      the abandoned; children with distended stomachs

      wounded by hunger and thirst;

      seniors crucified on a fixed income.

      They have not read Benedict’s Rule

      on providing hospitality

      or giving guests a pound weight of bread,

      and pilgrims a hemina of wine.

      But they know the black monks

      will fill them with all good things:

      red jello bouncing like a pounding heart;

      meatloaf in thick brown gravy;

      mashed