Tag Archive: Easter


Outpacing Peter (2013)

Faster than Peter,
past acacia and carob,
I ran to the tomb.

We sang, we danced,
embraced and wept,
jumped up and down, cried out.

Our voices echoed:
the chamber there was empty
past the low doorway.

Alone in the damp,
except for our friend’s garments;
his scent was still there.

I ran past Mary,
leaving the rich man’s garden;
Arimathean

sweet hawthorn kindled
the fires of Golgotha,
from the day before.

Past olive, almond,
apricot, pine, turpentine,
I ran to tell them.

© Carlos Chagall, Easter Sunday, 2013

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For St. Thomas

Death is not absolute for those who stand above, outside
where spirit begets body – the wonder, not where body begets spirit,
for that would be a wonder of wonders.

© Chagall ∞

The Sixth Sunday

Lydia awaits,
baptized at the riverside;
she invites us, “Stay.”

At Thayati’ra,
we sleep atop purple goods,
feed on simple breads.

“Strong heart, it’s farewell.”
He’d have liked you, my sister,
as I, most beloved.

Back at Sam’othrace,
I think of her, still smell her;
she is not like me.

© Carlos Chagall, 2013

 

The Fifth Sunday

Fresh heaven, new earth,
Jerusalem, the betrothed:
Love as he loves you.

© Carlos Chagall, 2013

Week 3

Earlier that week, I filled with hate,
the rank odor of Sanhedrin
elders, soiled smocks, unwashed feet,
telling us to stop the teachings.

I was so proud of the others,
they stood up finally for him,
putting the blood back on their hands,
keeping his blood there in our hearts.

Last night, the Tiberias Sea,
was chilled, but beautiful starpoints
hung there high over Galilee.

I told them to cast to the right,
but as always, they don’t listen.

I stopped caring I’m different.

I lie on my back in the boat,
massaged by the gentle rolling
waves, seduced by the briny winds.

I knew who it was before them,
the glorious sun outlined him,
there on the bank in silhouette,
waving us in. “How was the catch?”

The fire was already on,
bread from wild yeasts on flat stones.

He told them to cast to the right,
and of course, this time they listened,
though they did not know it was him;

dawn broke, he caught my eye, smiled,
as if to say, “Nothing has changed.”

One hundred and fifty-three fish,
caught in the net cast to the right.

I could have said I told you so.

The breakfast fish, crisp salted skin,
the bread slightly charred, delicious.

He asked the son of John three times
if he loved him, would he shepherd
the lambs. I fell asleep then
on the sands riding the surf’s sound
to future days, time yet to come.

When I awoke, I was alone.

© Carlos Chagall, April 2013

Point Sienna

From the beach to our summer house, you left
dark gray and barefoot prints disappearing,
a pace of one gone, every four you took,
evaporating there in the hot sun,
baking the pavement, in visible mist,
fully rendered, pointillistic, then gone …
Poof! I’m amazed you didn’t burn your soles.

You draped your long body exotically
with a wrap of sea greens, aquas, sun golds,
backdrop to the blue heather of your eyes.
Earlier, at the ocean pretending
we were the first to arrive here, this bank,
this coast side, this planet, this time around,
you turned to point, fins skimming the surface,

then turned to me, your face filled with waiting
my response, but I’d not heard the question,
as waves consumed your voice and I’ve wondered
what it was exactly you said that day.

She searches for sea shells, slowly combs sands,
then wades out waist-high; the surf erases
yesterdays’ traces, and less is no more.
She, it’s just she, shucking shells by the shore.

© Carlos Chagall, 2013

Strepitus

Eclipse. “… what they’ve done,”
holy sound; black veil.  Alpha,
omega; all time

at one with all: one.
This time, this triduum: now
burst, cry into light.

Baskets filled with food,
sun-soaked altar rail.  Sweet breads,
bitters, ascension.

© Carlos Chagall, 2013

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