Ellen Porter
7/28/07
A Sodden Pile of Garbage

Just this morning
I remembered Job:
a good man
no sins left hidden
no ancestors to redeem
from wickedness.
Just a good man
sitting up the side of
a sodden, staining,
reeking pile of garbage and ash.
His skin mottled with sores
from days of stretching
supplicant
in the harsh, unfriendly sun.
His body tormented
and his soul
seemingly condemned
for no apparent reason.
He flailed, distressed,
searching for God’s elusive purpose.

And as I rise early
in my cancer-ridden body
to pick up pen and fine blank paper,
I wonder at pneumonia
robbing me of my share
of reasonable breath;
I wonder at the pain of recent
stones, passing sharp and cutting
through my kidney;
I wonder at the new mysterious pain
of shingles, straddling the nerve ways
of my back and side;
I wonder at my tooth,
broken as a mastodon’s
chipped from age and use.

I wonder all day long
about Job,
his haphazard patience, his hating love
of the only god to whom
he could pray.
Not fair—
the omnipotent sole god
turned against us.
Not fair—
I try to flick the bitterness away,
a spider web,
the deceptive beauty of ancient arachnid pattern,
sticky, unforgiving.
I try to flick it away
off my eager, tenacious fingers
and begin my search
for a different, reasonable god.

I step out into oblivion.


Ellen Porter
7/31/07
At Bay

The journey through this
cluttered, wild terrain
the pathway strewn with
fear and joy and exaltation
this journey buoys me up
fascinated by windward, unsuspected detritus.

My body holds the fear
the tender gifts at bay
one brief horror after another
one decorated birdsong
cradled, clay-formed, stuffed in waiting pockets,
held at bay.

And I wonder
what bay holds my delight
my terrors, sprung loose and trembling.
What bay is this—water, ice,
the sound of a neglected boat
left banging against the water-worn pier?

And what God wanders with me
knowing the paths I will follow
The tight strung corners I will turn?
Or maybe not knowing,
Maybe God follows along,
a bright and curious journeyer
caught up in the golden, the bleak,
the day’s terrible and brilliant surprises.


Ellen Porter
8/18/07
Greening

At dawn
I glimpse a fragile gift,
clumps of leaves
rather than distinct leaf
of sycamore and maple.
And, greatest gift of all,
not seeing
what future light will bring:
a white torn and plastic bag
caught these three years
in the upper, unreachable branches.

With the projector of sun against
the sweet wall of nature,
seeing,
I will remember how many million years
it will take for this bag—
these many bags, worldwide—
to disintegrate and to reintegrate
into this trembling, threatened, lovely, greening world.


Ellen Porter
5/13/07
Matins

Every morning before dawn
I wake to night bird song.
Now, after many early risings,
I recognize the tune
but do not know the singer.

At six
the neighborhood bells
ring the new day.
Chimes slip through open windows,
sidle under doors.
I do not need a clock.

My sisters puzzle over
my morning ritual.
But with bird song
and bells
how could I rest
my head on the pillow?


Ellen Porter
4/29/07
Renovation

Faith requires new vision
though vision
long held or nascent
guarantees nothing.
Still, walking into
newly fashioned chapel space—
wood and glass
trees and water—
freshly seen,
we stir toward the sacred.

We sing first alleluias
choirs tossing tones to each other
face to face
and up to clerestory sky.

Then our voices quiet,
their praises received,
and we eye each other
tentatively in silence.
The building walls
singing, echoing,
fling our alleluias in return
up through vibrant air.


Ellen Porter
4/5/07
Stability

It all works out in the end
Sister Charlotte explains
as she finishes cleaning the bathroom
though it is my turn.
Ranked several years my senior
she scrubs with a gentleness
I have not yet learned.
There will be an eternity
of cleaning days together,
she reminds me.
Stability.

In the diningroom
I sit with an older sister
alone at table.
She smiles in welcome
for the company.
Some days it feels like
an eternity of meals
she whispers.
Stability.

We process in festive spirit
into the chapel in pairs.
Bow to the altar.
Bow to Christ in each other.
And throughout, the cantor intones
The names of sisters long dead:
Benedict and Cornelia
Be with us
Augusta and Patricia
Be with us.
She calls,
A divining rod through eternity
A hundred souls at least.
All you holy women
come and be with us.
Stability.


Ellen Porter
5/15/07
Vision

I drink morning coffee
with eyes closed.
Habit leads my hand to the cup.

Then I stand beneath the shower
squinting tightly like a newborn
my fingers memorizing
each crevice and curve,
each body part.

At dawn
singing doxologies in sacred space
darkness caught behind my eyelids
I rise with harmonies
lifting, echoing,
against the stoney walls.

Though I would never choose
against the inexplicable gift of sight,
there is some
peculiar benefit
to seeing with the inner eye.