Philip Kolin

Holy People

I know holy people. Those who

weave words into prayer blankets

who live in a world where all

is transcendence, who see things

we don’t: rainbows as liturgical banners,

steeples as weathervanes for the soul;

angels swimming in the air, spreading

good news like streaks of sunlight.

They feel close to God in high places—

thin air plateaus, graceful mountain tops,

overshadowing tree canopies;

headlands gazing out to sea.

They speak to God there

in the alphabet of the spirit

silence punctuated by

radiant light.

They imagine God as a bridge and

themselves as butterflies crossing

over it to him, their flapping unheard

by those sewn too tightly into their flesh.

Silence

Everything in creation has its silence.

The voices of flowers tell us

of their fragile journey to beauty.

Candles in solemnly-lit places

whisper secrets about

mysteries and miracles.

The wind, a silent loomer,

ripples a summer pond,

God’s tapestry of marigolds.

Trees quietly confer with each other

in the fullness of an autumn night,

their golden leaves letters to the Creator.

Frost sneaking in overnight

painting streets and houses

in the lulling winter chill.

Silence also brings with it

memories of those from a world

we cannot hear or see

though we hunger for their words.

As their smiles flicker away, they enjoy

the perfect silence of eternity with God.

The Old Church on the west Side

Jesus came in steerage with them and they promised

him a grand church on the near west side

among the cold water flats, and only a breath away

from the foundries and smelting plants.

They constructed it with Carrara marble

that Michelangelo used for his David

and lavished walls and floors with it, glistering grace.

Tons of blessed granite held up the columns.

The congregation filled the pews at every Sunday Mass

as sanctified sheep grazed in verdant fields or martyrs bled

in the stained glass windows. Some parishioners

claimed they heard angels singing in the clerestory.

Generations were baptized here and dropped nickels

dimes, quarters, and even foreign coins in the collection

baskets, but when the parish shrunk and left

for the suburbs or the cemeteries, the church lost

its tithes, boarded up its windows, and closed its doors.

And Jesus wept.

Philip Kolin is a Roman Catholic poet who has published 17 collections of poems, most of them about Christ and our spiritual life with Him. He sees his poetry as his vocation. The titles of some of his poetry books include Reaching Forever (Cascade Books: Poiema Series), Wholly God’s (Wind and Water Press), and most recently Evangeliaries: Poems (Angelico Press). Philip Kolin is the Distinguished Professor of English Emeritus and Editor Emeritus at the University of Southern Mississippi.