CORPUS CHRISTI

Surely this procession
filed out of another zone,
Crist’s body borne aloft.

I imagine the parade at home
ascending a narrow Mediterranean street,
the sun massaging it at piazza corners.

Christ, an anonymous tourist,
had his passport stamped indifferently
by custom’s men dressed for the job.

But this sorry cortege, staggering
out of kilter, threatened by rain,
makes an altar of every house.

Were they all in vain: those sweltering days,
melting on sticky car seats,
the priest droning from a tannoy gob?

Is this all we’re left: a welter
of simmering emotion stirred up
with a pinch of belief.

We woke to our bodies long ago,
shut the door
on that stale, gutted spirituality.

But behold the bared body
of Christ, awkwardly borne,
unsettling us once more.

Féile Chorp Chríost

Féile Chorp Chríost

Is in aeráid éigin eile
a ceapadh an pharáid seo
Corp Chríost a thabhairt ar mhórshiúl.

Samhlaím é ag baile
ag siúl anuas sráid chúng mheánmharach
teas na gréine á mhuirniú neomat ag cúinní cearnóg.

Nó Críost an turasóir anaithnid
agus a phas stampáilte go fuarchúiseach
ag fir chustaim gléasta mar is cóir.

Ach an pharáid stracaithe seo
coiscéimeanna as tiúin, stadach, báisteach ag bagairt,
deineann sé de gach teach ag gabháil thairis altóir.

Is na tráthnóntaí bruite óige
lag le teas, greamaithe de shuíochán i gcúl cairr
is guth as láthair sagairt i mbeola tannoy,

An rabhadar ar fad in aisce
nó an leor gur mhair i dtaisce
mothúcháin measctha le creideamh is cuimhne míchompoird?

Thugamar droim láimhe fadó riamh
nuair a dhúisigh an corp
dá spioradáltacht stálaithe díphutógach,

Ach féach anois gur dhúisigh
Corp Chríost nocht á iompar go tuathalach
míshuaimhneas arís ionat.