*This is copyrighted material, a prose poem from my latest book, "Poems of a Prodigal." It is about a certain individual I am fascinated with, a religious solitary who lives out in nature, on Mt. Athos in Greece.
Kallistratos
Elder Kallistratos, hermit on Mt. Athos in Greece.
Misanthropic? Or truly eremitical?
Young, aspiring monks make pilgrimages to find him.
They trek and trudge through gorgeous mountains
Which have eyes in them.
The monks look for him, to no avail, in unoccupied caves.
They discover his hermitage, clothed in green,
A jewel in a forest.
The windows look bright in the night,
And solitary prayers emanate from the chimney.
They can see him prostrated by the fire,
Whose flames dance on the walls.
In the cool, contemplative evenings,
He strolls the medicinal garden he's cultivated,
Where the menthol breeze tastes sweet.
He endures much bodily pain,
Repudiating the thought of societal doctors.
His hospital is spiritual and herbal.
The fleeting joys of the civilized
Do not approach savage contentedness.
He is a monk in a mountain,
Happy as a boy.
At sundown, he drinks pure water,
Pensively looking out at the vast sea, and smiling.
Is he delusional, a man chasing mirages?
Does he see more lucidly than all of us?
He claims to be at war with a jealous, satanic battalion.
"Material things are unnecessary," he proclaims.
He says it is beautiful to play with squirrels among the boulders.
He journeys the wild, which treats him harshly, on foot with a walking stick.
The storms he sleeps through put to shame the storms of society which keep men awake.
His refrigerator is of cold rock.
His asceticism is spartan and athletic.
He abandoned a shack crowned with birds.
He calls the snow his comfortable blanket.
He builds fires in caverns, which mosh in red.
His spiritual strength exceeds his tired muscles.
He is a mocker of the monasterial.
He knows that true communities are composed of individuals,
Thus he opts for a town of hermits in a mountain.
The mountain's soul churns of living water.
It is like a maternal breast which nourishes the needy monks.
Water from the fluffy, white clouds!
Those pillows weep clear droplets.
Therapeutic are the sounds of rocks, and the crunches of gravel beneath one's boots.
There is a cave which glows at night, gilded with icons.
Its golden brightness is seen from afar.
Cheeps and tweets flutter in the rustling leaves by day.
Perhaps his is the face of madness, and the icons reflect his irrational dreams.
Perhaps they are saintly neurotics who dot his walls.
He will die out there, in nature, one with the soil, one with the earth.
The rainforest showers and wrings its green towel.
A poet at a desk must be as creative as a survivalist in a desert.
Does the hermit truly seek humble isolation, or does he want to be found and glorified?
There is a crucifix, the proud point of a hovel, with good advice.
It points heavenward, overseeing all, like a sailing mast.
His waist-long beard snows like Christmas.
Elder Kallistratos, hermit on Mt. Athos in Greece.
Misanthropic? Or truly eremitical?
