Novena.

[Andrew McGeever]

This is taken from an (unfinished) collection of poems, loosely entitled "Growing Up".


Novena.


Our talk is whispered: we expect
a knock from Father McNay
with his Blessed Virgin Mary
box-wrapped in purple velvet.

Our heads are bowed; we genuflect.
The icon is revealed. He leaves
us with her white and azure stare,
commanding our devotion, our prayer.

His fingers on the beads, Dad takes
the lead:"In The Name of The Father"
etcetera; the mantras of
mysteries and rosaries, then bed.

I stay with the statue, gaze into
her alabaster hollowness
and tell her that the rent is due,
just like my Mum, and Dad's off work:

his war-wound's playing up again,
so kneeling gives him pain, and eight
more days of this will make me smash
that perfect plaster innocence.

My soul is stained with mortal sin.
It takes me ages to perfect
a different accent, make a full
confession to Father McNay.

[Byron]

Learning to ask why The Holy Mother allows suffering in His World and then realising that mankind cannot appreciate joy without experiencing anguish. Ying and Yang. For ever and ever........

[Andrew McGeever]

I read somewhere (where?) that Leonard Cohen has a small statue of the B.V.M. in his kitchen. If I were ever lucky enough to be in his kitchen, I promise you that I would not intentionally knock it over.
Andrew.