Since yesterday was All Saints’ Day and today is All Souls’ Day, I thought I’d share a poem I wrote in honor of my patron saint, Benedict Joseph Labre.
Below is a picture of his tomb in the Church of Santa Maria ai Anti in Rome, followed by the poem.
Pilgrim (On the Feast Day of St. Benedict Joseph Labre)
Emptied of the world,
you walked the earth
(God-gone
and God-given)
in an undertow
of prayer.
In a crown of gnats
you swooned
and slept.
Saint,
on your feast day
when the rain passed
a dozen potholes
held a dozen suns.
That multiple sun-in-potholes image at the end is a home run. It's still buzzing in my brain.
I get the feeling that this saint, who suffered rejection from the very monasteries he longed to serve, and who simply lived on the road for twelve years (dozen potholes?) in religious pilgrimage and died in the prime of his life, left a legacy of austerity, humility and piety. In sainthood he perhaps surpassed his earthly desire to become a monk. As a mother I wonder, had his mother wept while he slept as a saint? Your poem is both painful and beautiful. The images invoked here, once I understood the history (the tragedy?) capture the austerity this young intellect lived, I felt grief, to think of such brilliance “emptying” and respect for such suffering and yet, peace for the way in which he served God and acceptance that this was his path. A thought-provoking poem and one which doesn’t waste words.