He was a Trappist and a talker,
guest in a small garden house
in Georgetown, the aging paradox man
if not a comedy. Father Canisius
greeted us with hours of conversation
about silence and the use of mantras.
He had communication experience: twenty-five
years of a talkative Jesuit before his jump
Benedict and the cheese-making monks,
The most silent person in Oka. He almost burst.
The abbot regretted all the suppressed words,
sent him to this subsidiary house as a greeter
speak at will, just not with your singing brothers.
Beginners SJ, high on Merton, we were traveling from
Guelphs to see these monks and their apple trees –
expecting what, some ascending catacombs?
Perfect Heart Practitioners?
I saw a young Trappist saying
a dog – where else can mysticism begin?
Our elders, Crosby and Lilburn,
went skeptically to Canisius,
who spent their day telling jokes.
I found him mad and respectful,
something from the street saint Benoit Labre,
experiencing his illness under the gaze of God.
A year later I was sent to prison,
a minor chaplain whose job was kindness
robbers, arsonists and boys who sold grass.
Vows were coming, I returned to Georgetown alone
I listened to Canisius, tried to sing,
ate fruitless food and stayed overnight.
Was it 3 o'clock in the morning, he knocked on my door,
calling me to the night office?
He saw that I would not survive and told me to continue sleeping.
The next day he asked his practiced question:
-Did you find what you came for?
I'm back to my job in prison
and to the feeling of a cage that I'm alone
erected around my heart.
Caught between “Ours” and our own,
I made a choice, leaving my lost self alone
singing the praises of the night office among the apple trees.
