I Am Said I (Huruma)

It’s always The Christian Brothers The whole country marked By their education and zeal For the GAA But not me! I am a child Of the Patricians With green sashes On black robes Tough as hell Six of the best To make fainthearted The hardest With a flair for art We were set free To imagine ourselves Writers and musicians As honoured In our achievement As much as any Footballer Future famous players Might deny the start The roads we were given To travel Driven beyond our means And expectations All over Ireland Winning all Ireland’s Without them it would not Have been possible for us To have traveled this far

He emerged From the austerity Of the Monastery Every loving day Crew cut crossing The Corrib To third class And he was fiery And we loved him Because he was fair The Principal wanted A choir And we were all Auditioned and I was Rejected But Brother Claver said Try him again And I was so proud That someone would stand Up for me Everyone wants To get picked for something I got picked For the choir that day And after that for the band And as if he had come Only for that Brother Claver slammed All the windows shut One day In a flaming row With Brother Cuthbert And we never saw him Again

She wakes up At fifty Slightly dressed In shocking black To mark the passing Of chances for wellbeing Missed And if she weds again It will be without The pretence of white She tosses her wild Jet hair at convention And gawking passers Who see nothing Beyond the black And body flaunting And if they are Displeased She is glad For having done With pleasing She maintains custody Of eyes cast upwards An ipod filling her ears With sounds Of her own choosing No longer hearing The negative wave Of the radio She shields her hidden Soul from all invasion Only the invited now Are admitted It is the man of the road To whom she offers Her lips For a brief taste Of the sweetness Only he can recognise

The earth waited For the Corporation To lay down the rock On which we are built The concrete out of which Are hewn the homes Where some were born And all were reared and trained And others died The proud dwellings Of the humble unpretending Lives that are written there Every kind of love and hate And every kind of silence Lived out to public hearing Quarrels penetrating   blocks Surviving to the death Tenacious generations Country people may boast Of their origins in the land Suspicious of the city But we are proud Of the form and shape The colour and the seasons Of Mervue We would gladly take off The shoes of our success In honour of this holy ground The reference point Of all our lives

He is the faithful one Who remained Slaving all his life For no return Nothing to show No joy and no love Being bitter comes Naturally Anger at the stray For turning up Having had all pleasure And no labour The Father being So open Mother so forgiving Love not being able To afford anything But the joy of redemption Waiting long and patient To retrieve the child From the labour Of being lost From the labour Of mistaken fidelity That does not know That all is gift Generous

Radios of the early morning  Tuned in to the still-dark day And the haunting voice of Elvis Ghosting down the corridor Love me tender The quieter atmosphere Of a Saturday And sickness almost takes The day off being less Urgent somehow Voices on the corridor Are a louder echo Voices of women In other rooms fantasizing About handsome strange men And roasted onions Voices of men Say nothing about women Sticking to the safety Of sport Thank God I’m on my own

The Bible says nothing About a horse It might have been A camel Or even his own feet That brought him To the place Of his falling down Into the dazzling belly Of heaven’s Sonlight That cast him forth Three days later Like Jonah from the whale A baby from the womb Like Jesus from the tomb Thrust into the opposite Of all he had ever been New identity New life No longer Saul

The man whom Jesus loves The one whom I love Is not well And Jesus takes his time Mother, Father Sister, Brother Child and friend is walled up In the tomb Of death I am W alled up Inside myself Something in me has died There is decay within Then Jesus wept And loved And prayed And called. He did that A long time ago And he’s doing it Now Come out He shouts Unbind them And let them go Free

Whispered on the lips Of holy ordinary Believers Gift of Thomas To the doubting By it every church Is painted It is the shine On every polished pew Incense of the sacred Air rising Ancient prophecy fulfilled Written on every open heart   Each from our own agony Reaching out to touch The wounds of Christ Transformed My Lord, and my God! It is written on the altar

Brisk breeze billowing Shirts and sheets Hung out to dry Bright white cotton Brushing fair skin Blushed Eyes brimmed with Summer A season ripe with loving Pulse perfect

This Is The Way, Walk In It ‘Though the Lord gave you adversity for food and suffering for drink, he will still be with you to teach you. You will see your teacher with your own eyes. Whether you turn to the right or to the left, your ears will hear a voice behind you, saying, "This is the way; walk in it." ‘ (Isaiah 30:21-22) +++ I have spent a lifetime living under the influence of the opinions of others - their wishes, desires, expectations. It’s part of normal living and loving that we seek to please and accommodate others, often giving way to their opinion about how we should live and behave. Sometimes we get an opportunity to live completely under the influence of the Holy Spirit without surrendering to what others think. This has happened twice in my life. The first was when I met the Pallottines at the age of 17. I knew immediately that I had found my home with them and I was quietly determined that nothing was going to stop me going there. The second came last year ...

August 10, 2008 It seems that every day now is like pushing an elephant up a stairs . I awake each morning to begin hauling myself up all over again. What was achieved yesterday seems to be of no use for today. I am somehow disconnected from life and fiercely connected to loss. It’s like a massive hangover, without having had the pleasure. “You have veiled the Godhead in a cloud, in the clay of our humanity” (St. Catherine Of Sienna) The Lord veiled His divinity in the clay of Mam’s humanity, most especially in the ending of her time on earth - the final ten days. The Office Of Readings today has the lovely reading from Hosea 11 and I have experienced the tenderness of that love. The night before she died Mam drew me down to her, holding me to her cheek. I had asked her if she knew who I was and she opened her eyes, smiled and said, “you are Eamonn Monson, my lovely son”. She drifted into sleep still holding me, and in her I believe, I know, that God was hold...