Easter Poems

Gethsemene

~Mary Oliver

The grass never sleeps.
Or the roses.
Nor does the lily have a secret eye that shuts until morning.

Jesus said, wait with me. But the disciples slept.

The cricket has such splendid fringe on its feet,
and it sings, have you noticed, with its whole body,
and heaven knows if it ever sleeps.

Jesus said, wait with me. And maybe the stars did, maybe
the wind wound itself into a silver tree, and didn't move,
maybe
the lake far away, where once he walked as on a
blue pavement,
lay still and waited, wild awake.

Oh the dear bodies, slumped and eye-shut, that could not
keep that vigil, how they must have wept,
so utterly human, knowing this too
must be a part of the story.

“Gethsemene” by Mary Oliver from Thirst Beacon Press, 2006.

The Grand Miracle

          ~Mary Karr

for John Holohan

Jesus wound up with his body nailed to a tree—

a torment he practically begged for,   

or at least did nothing to stop. Pilate

watched the crowd go thumbs down   

and weary, signed the order.   

So centurions laid Jesus flat

on a long beam, arms run along the crosspiece.   

In each palm a long spike was centered,   

a stone chosen to drive it. (Skin

tears; the bones start to split.)   

Once the cross got propped up,   

the body hung heavy, a carcass—

in carne, the Latin poets say, in meat.   

(—The breastbone a ship’s prow . . .)   

At the end the man cried out

as men cry. (Tears that fill the eyes   

grow dark drop and by drop: One   

cries out.) On the third day,

the stone rolled back, to reveal   

no corpse. History is rife

with such hoaxes. (Look at Herodotus.)

As to whether he multiplied

loaves and fishes, that’s common enough.   

Poke seed-corn in a hole and see if more corn

doesn’t grow. Two fish in a pond   

make more fishes. The altar of reason

supports such extravagance. (I don’t even know

how electricity works, but put trust   

in light switches.) And the prospect   

of love cheers me up, as gospel.

That some creator might strap on

an animal mask to travel our path between birth   

and ignominious death—now that

makes me less lonely. And the rising up

at the end into glory—the white circle of bread   

on the meat of each tongue that God

might enter us. For 2000-near years   

my tribe has lined up at various altars,

so dumbly I open this mouth for bread and song.

Mary Karr, “The Grand Miracle” from Viper Rum. Copyright © 1998 by Mary Karr. Reprinted with the permission of New Directions Publishing Corporation.

Mary Karr has  a reputation for being both "courageous and combative." Her childhood and early adulthood were filled with mental illness (her mother), violence, neglect, and substance abuse(alcoholic father ). She has an interesting essay called Facing Altars, Poetry and Prayer at the Poetry Foundation if you’d like to read more about her.  Here she explains she went from being an agnostic alcoholic to converting to Catholicism. She has what I would describe as a fierce, sometimes disturbing, style of writing that appeals to many. http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/article/175809