Sunday, February 24, 2013

It's Sunday

He speaks.
We listen.
Try to interpret
his broken English.

The congregation
becomes my conspirator.
We kneel, recite, sing,
pretend to understand,
respond when we think it’s right.

What do I get from this?
Why do I keep going?

It’s what I do
on Sundays
It’s Sunday again.


Madeleine Begun Kane said...

Well done. I especially liked this line: "The congregation
becomes my conspirator"

Kerry O'Connor said...

You have expressed the incomprehensibility of certain rituals, which defy reasoned argument. They exist because they do. I think your choice of free verse for the poem was inspired.

Kim Nelson said...

How many millions would say this is there story. The comfort of routine, familiarity and congregation are perfectly illustrated in this direct little piece.

Jim said...

Love it, Judy. Because it's Sunday. :)
I am sure a lot of us are with you on asking why. Been, done, many times when things 'don't seem right.' Then perhaps because 'Mom did it.'

Anonymous said...

Such an interesting poem and experience. I love that all the congregation are conspirators, trying to understand but also trying to be loving - a very different kind of conspiracy, unusual and yet someone one can relate to - k.

Poet Laundry said...

Ha! Thanks for the smile I got from this Judy. Fun way to make a point!

Peggy said...

Excellent capture of the incomprehensible comfort of ritual at times. Good writing as usual.

Margaret said...

I've been there... and I get frustrated.

Sara McNulty said...

Wonderful writing, Judy.

Willow said...

I love the poem and its surprise happy ending.