His hermitage stands sturdy in the sun.
The front porch longs to feel his heavy tread.
The windows wonder what it is he’s done
In Thailand in the room where he lies dead.
The little house would long to see him write
In hours when the winter sky was bleak
He found within himself the world’s delight
Where only on the pages he could speak.
The living conscious Christ engulfed him there,
The well of seeing, splashing into sound.
He found himself beneath the eye of God,
The God of Seeing, tearing up the ground.
He tells his novices it’s something rare—
A love that only poets can compare.
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Why haven’t they looked into Merton’s demise?
Here’s what’s occurred to me:
Our scholars have all averted their eyes
Out of fear of what they might see.
by David Martin