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 SundaysIt’s Sunday again.
10 comments:
Well done. I especially liked this line: "The congregation
becomes my conspirator"
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.
How many millions would say this is there story. The comfort of routine, familiarity and congregation are perfectly illustrated in this direct little piece.
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.'
..
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.
Ha! Thanks for the smile I got from this Judy. Fun way to make a point!
Excellent capture of the incomprehensible comfort of ritual at times. Good writing as usual.
I've been there... and I get frustrated.
Wonderful writing, Judy.
I love the poem and its surprise happy ending.
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