A Quiet Place to Pray

Simon Stylites left his shepherd’s manse behind,

but even the hut he built seemed just too lush.

With nowhere left to go away, he went up.

Still they came, the lovelorn, sick, and poor,

the curious and the kings. Thirty-seven years

on that pillar, and the pilgrims kept on coming.

Good Saint Henry built a cabin, quaint little place

facing the water, tidy pine desk, and the best—

a sunny step for meditations. Maybe a little close

to town for his taste, but it gave him space to write

about his sweet dead brother John, and of course

the other book. Disciples came, still come.

The blessed bhikku Kerouac bought himself a pack

and thought he’d hitchhike his way to the holy.

He found he had to keep moving his brakeman’s boots.

Fast cars and freights. I hope he found the silence

he was looking for before he found the bottom

of the last bottle. The hipsters trace his exodus.

Our local Brother Martin, Trappist raconteur,

follows his ascetic way on Oregon’s fairest farm,

prays hard among the gardens and wine vats,

sleeps behind the stone wall, comes out each day

to guide the spiritual way of professional wives:

the celibate guru of the lovely and young.

The hermit’s burden? It’s a trick to be alone.

Once people figure out you’ve pulled it off,

they can’t seem to stay away. What’s to say?

Isolation is one hot topic for conversation—

but it’s more than nearly anyone can understand.

Most people want to learn about it second-hand.

~William Jolliff