THE LADY OF OCTOBER

First Nun:

Nothing remotely suggests

what the moon has tried

to conceal: at the foot of the mountain

we found a penitent, clinging to his

nightshirt, counting his fingers

and crying.

Weeping under the shadow

of the moon, but the shadows

failed to hide his tears, and the moon

shone like the witch hysterical

over the waters on his cheeks.

Second Nun:

Somewhere

in the crowded city

we heard

the song of the Lady hugging the walls

of an old cathedral.

A song of sorrow asking to be heard

above the waves of crowded city’s

voice: It was asking to be heard

because the city suffers from a famine

there is no wheat coming from the fields

the earth has turned a yellow color –

now dry and ruinous.

First Nun:

But the moonlight could not hide his tears.

Second Nun:

The birds from the city have

fallen with the rains.

The song of the Lady re-echoes

through the grief and the glory:

“We cannot sleep the nights. Our eyes

are parched. The days are hot and long

carrying an emptiness more

than the hallow

in our stomachs,

and I know that death is not far from us.”

First Nun:

He wept for his sins and wet the earth

beneath his knees.

But his tears were salt, and the earth

bore no root, no green, not even

a stir opening to the small, small drops.

Second Nun:

Only She lamented the hunger of the city.

The people knew they were starving

but were too busy to care why or where

to ask for food. For the city, it is true,

has much oil for its cars, and

power for its lights.

In that mass ofmachines where everything

opens and closes, moves and stops –

the growing of the grass, the trees,

the stir of the wind,

the temper of the sea, the thunder

from the mountains — all these echoes

of heaven

are not heard.

Two Nuns:

Hunger in a penitent’s soul

is all the pain the dry season brings.

Tears by the mountains huddled

what manner of man is this that kneels

by the stone, and strikes his breast

with sounds like prayer?

The voice of prayer that goes beyond

the fire in the breast

beyond the swell of watered eyes.

The voice of prayer that comes

from a sanctuary

of stillness, where a Child could

dwell between the metal and the spirit.

A condition of complete simplicity

where a world is complete before the Altar

and a heart without a world, simple.

First Nun:

Who shall tell the people?

Second Nun:

Before the Black Sea, there were thirty pairs.

Part II

The Lady:

From the Blessed St. John

a message to thee from the Truth,

the source from which God’s creation began:

“I know of the doings, and find these

neither cold nor hot.

Being what thou art, lukewarm,

make me voice thee out of my mouth.

See where I stand at the door

Knocking: If anyone listens to my voice

and opens the door, I will come in

and visit him, and take my supper with

him.

Chorus:

Listen you who have ears, to the message…

The Lady:

…The Spirit has for the people.”

They have ruined the churches,

and many have died…

Chorus:

…without prayers for their graves

The Lady:

…unheedful of the bitter waters

Chorus:

…of Hell.

The Lady:

Who shall tell us what to do?

When hearts like doors have closed themselves

and the streets have crowded with cheerers

mocking a Man riding a donkey,

the tide of the traffic has thickened

over the square;

Does not a Child come up to the Man

that He may ask

For all to hear: “Unless you become

as little children, you shall not enter

my kingdom.”

What, no child?

Chorus:

Was that laughter?

First Nun:

Hail Mary

we turn to Thee.

The Lamb of God, behold!

rebuked by electronic robots

and computing machines.

Second Nun:

Holy Mary,

behold our vineyards: the clusters

look rich and ripe,

but when gathered and pressed before

His judgment…

Chorus:

…Lord, hear our cries.

Have mercy. Have mercy.

Two Nuns:

The vintage from the earth gave no wine.

Not one single drop

for the Figure on the Cross

That shed His last for them.

The Lady:

The crop of this earth is dry.

Go to the nuns. Ask them to pray.

First Nun:

The world is neither the convent

nor the church door, only.

Second Nun:

The Lord did not die for the convent

nor the church door, only.

Chorus:

The sinner by the stone mountain

with his false confessions has been

invited for dinner.

Go, tell him to dress himself

and attend

the banquet of the Lord,

and there,

pour out his griefs tha pennance

may br annointed over his forehead

and he may go

to the square in the morrow to proclaim:

“I can see! I am blind no more!”

The Lady:

In the square, the people are too busy

feasting with their gold.

They do not seem to starve for food.

They do not seem to go blind, or deaf,

or mute,

or sick with the palsy.

What then?

Chorus:

Shall the blind man made seeing,

the sinner pardoned,

be heard over the waves of traffic and noise?

When the temper of the tide shall rise

and fall,

when the earth shall be open and made green

when the birds come homing from the South

when the sharp sickle of the Angel gathers

the wrold’s vintage

shall the people in the square

pause from their hurry and look to the sky

bending their knees in prayer to cry:

“Lord, are we not worthy?”

Part III

Chorus:

Nothing remotely suggests

what the moon has tried to conceal:

At the foot of the mountain

we found a penitent clinging to his

nightshirt, counting his fingers

and crying.

Weeping under the shadows of the moon,

but the shadows failed to hide

his tears and the moon shone

like the witch hysterical over

the waters on his cheeks.

Two Nuns:

Bend the knees before the Sanctuary

and make the voice of prayer

strike the breats to

Open! Open! Open!

The Lady:

“If anyone listens to my voice

and opens the door, I will come in

to visit him, and take my supper

with him.

Listen, you that have ears,

to the message

the Spirit has for the people!”

————————–

This was published in the “Varsitarian”

official organ of the University of Sto. Tomas and was

submitted and won the Palanca the same year it came

out. I was finishing my course in philosophy at the

time. Even then, I already had attempts at being a St.

John of the Cross. A poetic attempt, albeit puerile.

The papal book “Memory and Identity” is with the

Father Provincial of the Order of the Blessed

Sacrament. He was our parish priest at the Carmelite

Convent for six years and with his promotion is now

back with his central office. The descalced Carmelite

friars have not taken over the daily masses at the

Gilmore Convent. I will try to retrieve it.

“Memory” refers also to our personal recollection of

the life of Christ, the history of the Church, the

struggles of humankind through wars and natural

calamities — all must be part of our recollection in

order that we can “Identify” with Christ in humanity’s

failings, trials, struggles, victories and triumphs,

and with each other together with the communion of

saints that have gone before us.

Without memory we do not have our identity. Without

remembering the past of the Old Testament and the New

Testament, we have no identity in the now. Our

identity is our collective history. We are one in

many memories; and all our memories identify us.

Thank you for your guidance, Father, and please say a

special prayer for my forthcoming trip to the United

States. Am meeting with the agents for my book and am

also discussing a possible Asia desk for a

Washington-based office.