A Zen Passion (Homage To Rumi And Pasolini) Poem by Liberatore Suffoletta

A Zen Passion

Christ’s dead body
wishes to breath
his odor of death.
Oh what disgust
to hear oneself cry!
Mary, Mary,
immortal goddess of dawn,
how much pain...
I was a child once
the day I died.


Christ, your youthful
beautiful body
is crucified
between two strangers.
They are both men
Alive and their shoulders
are red
their veins as blue
as their eyes
They strike the nail
and your body shakes
as your chest trembles
Oh, what disgust
as the cold blood
dirties the bodies
the color of dawn!
You were all children,
Oh, how many days
in order to kill you
of your joyous games
and your innocence


Christ in the peace
of your suffering
naked dew
was your blood.
Serene poet,
wounded brother,
You could see
that our splendid bodies
Were in need
of eternity’s rest!
When we died.
what light upon us
brilliant and blinding
would there be
if not for the black nails
in your fists?
your forgiveness
would not be over us
from an eternal day
of compassion.


Wounded Christ,
blood of violets,
eyes filled with
the clear pity
of Christians!
Flourishing flower,
atop that distant hill
How can we cry
for thee, oh Christ?
The sky is a lake
that weeps internally
at silent Calvary.
Oh Crucifiers,
leave him alone
and think of him.


Christ, to your poor
children dispersed
beneath the infinite sky
of life, here, dying
you left this
lasting Image.
Gentle child
Light body,
curls of light...
and Saint John.
Lost in clouds
of indifference
he calls us
he informs us
this is your Body.


Christ has locked himself
within his body.
From there he is
detached and watching
his brilliant companions
destroy his pupils?
Here he awaits blind,
in the stillness of his bones:
a bloodied
baby bird
atop a hill.
Behind, his plight
the sky moves on,
Past the valleys
and past the summit
No voice rings out:
lasting and sweet
rustling the serpents
who are laughing.
Oh God of shadows
inside the temple
on the Sabbath!


All our tears create rivers
that drown in the sea,
dead women tend
a cemetery
of fresh flower beds!
Powder and rebellion
echoes of voices
reversed by the wind
drowned in the bloody sea.
Ah we are forgetful
men.
Behind Christ
and his mount of death,
the sky escapes,
and a river runs away
blindly.