Entry - MAG Poetry Prize 2010
in the large cavernous belly
holding altars where were carried
bones of ancient heroes, buried.
Alone this night, and warmed by flame
of candlelight alone, he came,
enduring watchful eyes of fame
captured by paint, to ponder shame.
So often prays, so seldom heals;
here in the quiet dark he feels
that morals may just be ideals;
doctrines, lies; and masses, meals.
‘Midst this tragedy a specter,
palm for crown, arrow for scepter,
Father Kelly’s still protector,
frozen, beckons to the rector.
Feeling chilled by ancient duties,
arcane texts, and ageless beauties,
the priest turns toward the corpus-perch;
sees now a Christ and now a Church.