A Poem by Richard Crashaw for St. Teresa’s Day

 

Giuseppe_Bazzani_-_The_Ecstasy_of_St_Therese_-_WGA01527

“The Ecstasy of St. Teresa,” Giuseppe Bazzani, c. 1747 (Source).

The Flaming Heart

VPON THE BOOK AND PICTURE OF THE SERAPHICAL SAINT TERESA, AS SHE IS VSVALLY EXPRESSED WITH A SERAPHIM BISIDE HER.

Well-meaning readers! you that come as friends
And catch the pretious name this piece pretends;
Make not too much hast to admire
That fair-cheek’t fallacy of fire.
That is a seraphim, they say
And this the great Teresia.
Readers, be rul’d by me; and make
Here a well-plact and wise mistake:
You must transpose the picture quite,
And spell it wrong to read it right;
Read him for her, and her for him,
And call the saint the seraphim.
Painter, what didst thou understand
To put her dart into his hand?
See, even the yeares and size of him
Showes this the mother seraphim.
This is the mistresse flame; and duteous he
Her happy fire-works here, comes down to see.
O most poor-spirited of men!
Had thy cold pencil kist her pen,
Thou couldst not so unkindly err
To show vs this faint shade for her.
Why, man, this speakes pure mortall frame;
And mockes with female frost Love’s manly flame.
One would suspect thou meant’st to paint
Some weak, inferiour, woman-saint.
But had thy pale-fac’t purple took
Fire from the burning cheeks of that bright booke,
Thou wouldst on her have heap’t up all
That could be found seraphicall;
What e’re this youth of fire, weares fair,
Rosy fingers, radiant hair,
Glowing cheek, and glistering wings,
All those fair and fragrant things
But before all, that fiery dart
Had fill’d the hand of this great heart.
Doe then, as equall right requires,
Since his the blushes be, and her’s the fires,
Resume and rectify thy rude design,
Undresse thy seraphim into mine;
Redeem this injury of thy art,
Give him the vail, give her the dart.
Give him the vail; that he may cover
The red cheeks of a rivall’d lover.
Asham’d that our world now can show
Nests of new seraphims here below.
Give her the dart, for it is she
(Fair youth) shootes both thy shaft, and thee;
Say, all ye wise and well-peirc’t hearts
That live and die amidst her darts,
What is’t your tastfull spirits doe prove
In that rare life of her, and Love?
Say, and bear witnes. Sends she not
A seraphim at every shott?
What magazins of immortall armes there shine!
Heavn’s great artillery in each love-spun line.
Give then the dart to her who gives the flame;
Give him the veil, who gives the shame.
But if it be the frequent fate
Of worst faults to be fortunate;
If all’s præscription; and proud wrong
Hearkens not to an humble song;
For all the gallantry of him,
Give me the suffring seraphim.
His be the bravery of all those bright things,
The glowing cheekes, the glistering wings;
The rosy hand, the radiant dart;
Leave her alone the flaming heart.
Leave her that; and thou shalt leave her
Not one loose shaft but Love’s whole quiver.
For in Love’s field was never found
A nobler weapon then a wound.
Love’s passives are his activ’st part,
The wounded is the wounding heart.
O heart! the æquall poise of Love’s both parts
Bigge alike with wound and darts.
Live in these conquering leaves; live all the same,
And walk through all tongues one triumphant flame.
Live here, great heart; and love and dy and kill;
And bleed and wound; and yield and conquer still.
Let this immortall life wherere it comes
Walk in a crowd of loves and martyrdomes.
Let mystick deaths wait on’t; and wise soules be
The love-slain wittnesses of this life of thee.
O sweet incendiary! shew here thy art,
Upon this carcasse of a hard, cold hart;
Let all thy scatter’d shafts of light, that play
Among the leaves of thy larg books of day.
Combin’d against this brest at once break in
And take away from me my self and sin;
This gratious robbery shall thy bounty be,
And my best fortunes such fair spoiles of me.
O thou undanted daughter of desires!
By all thy dowr of lights and fires;
By all the eagle in thee, all the dove;
By all thy lives and deaths of love;
By thy larg draughts of intellectuall day,
And by thy thirsts of love more large then they;
By all thy brim-fill’d bowles of fierce desire,
By thy last morning’s draught of liquid fire;
By the full kingdome of that finall kisse
That seiz’d thy parting soul, and seal’d thee His;
By all the Heau’n thou hast in Him
(Fair sister of the seraphim!)
By all of Him we have in thee;
Leave nothing of my self in me.
Let me so read thy life, that I
Unto all life of mine may dy.

(Richard Crashaw, Carmen Deo Nostro, with some orthographic editing).

 

A Century of Marian Metaphors

Our_Lady_of_Fatima_Credit_Ricardo_Perna_Shutterstock_CNA_1

Our Lady of Fatima, pray for us. (Source)

1. Mary’s heart is the prism which catches the ineffable light of the Godhead and scatters it out as all the many graces of the world.

2. Mary is the pure candle holding aloft the undying flame of the Holy Spirit – the light and heat are Christ in his humanity and divinity, come to quicken the dead earth.

3. Mary’s heart is the spotless flower from which we, like so many bees, draw forth the fragrant nectar of Christ to make sweet honey for our God and King.

4. Mary’s heart is the fresh spring of grace that flows until it has become the mighty river of all the baptismal waters through history.

5. One word spoken by Mary is more ravishing to the angels and saints than the music of our worship, the hymns of the dead in purgatory, or even that sweetest sound, the prayer of a single penitent sinner.

6. Mary’s heart is the jeweled cask that hides a treasure inexhaustible.

7. Mary is the ever-new wineskin, and she always receives the new wine of God’s undying graces.

8. As the Ark rested beneath the watchful gaze of the two angels, so Mary is attended by her two angelic forebears, Enoch and Elijah.

9. Mary’s Immaculate Heart is the pillar of fire; the breath of her Fiat is the pillar of cloud.

10. Mary is the crown of the priest and king, his finest ornament and glory as he stands at prayer for us in the Holy of Holies.

11. Mary is the priestly breastplate, the glory of the House of Israel, the bearer of the Urim and Thummim of Christ’s two natures, guardian of the heart of the High Priest.

12. Mary is the Golden Vestment of Adoring Sacrifice and the Linen Vestment of Atoning Sacrifice.

13. Mary is the triumphant sister of Jael and Judith.

14. Mary is the undying hearth in winter, and she who tends the hearth.

15. Mary is the strong tree of shelter for us and the wood of the cross for her son.

16. Mary is the threefold seat of wisdom.

17. Mary is the ring of Solomon the King, that all the demons fear and tremble before.

18. Mary is the blueprint of Heaven and its surest map.

19. Mary is the granary of Heaven, opened for us in the time of our souls’ great famine.

20. Mary is the Pelican, piously feeding her children with the fruit of her own Immaculate Heart.

21.Mary is the cup of the everlasting nuptials.

22. Mary is the abyss of all Light, and the Light is Christ.

23. Mary is the white fire; her spouse is the black fire; together, they bring forth the Word.

24. Mary is the perfect circle of the nimbus around Christ’s head.

25. Mary is Eden-Garden.

26. Mary is Bethel of Jacob.

27. Mary is Eretz Yisrael.

28. Mary is Mt. Sinai.

29. Mary is Mt. Zion.

30. Mary is Jordan-Bank.

31. Mary is Mt. Tabor.

32. Mary is Golgotha.

33. Mary is the Cenacle.

34. Mary is the Tree of Life, the fruit of which we are given to eat, now and always.

35. Mary is the Tree of Life, on which the world of the spirit turns.

36. Mary is the Tree of Life, perfectly united to Christ in His sacrifice.

37. Mary is the visible whirlwind from which God speaks to the Righteous man suffering; her spouse is the invisible whirlwind, from which the wind derives its likeness.

38. Mary is the wing of the Seraphim lifted into flight by that ghostly wind.

39. Mary is the flowering earth under the footprint of Christ, her son.

40. Mary is the willow who weeps with an inconsolable grief.

41. Mary is the first high cliff that meets the light of the rising Sun.

42. The heart of Mary is as a treasure hidden in a placid blue sea.

43. Mary is the haven of white sands.

44. In Mary, lava cascades into the sea and builds a new land.

45. Mary’s heart is the molten forge of the King’s great weapons.

46. Mary’s heart is the gift of roses and lilies upon the altar.

47. Mary’s heart is the mirror of heaven.

48. Mary’s heart is the root of a golden fruit, the sacred heart of her son.

49. Mary’s heart is the privileged parchment on which the Holy Ghost composes the chant of every Angelic choir.

50. Mary’s heart is God’s library, wherein He may read and recount His own great deeds in all of human history.

51. Mary’s heart is the throne of the cosmic King.

52. Mary is the unstained looking-glass through which we see Christ clearly.

53. Mary is the altar.

54. Mary is the Tabernacle

55. Mary is the Lampstand.

56. Mary is the Holy of Holies.

57. Mary is the parted veil.

58. Mary is the lantern we carry that spreads the Uncreated Light before us on our path.

59. Mary is the Queen of all our darkest nights.

60. Mary is she who speaks the ineffable name of God, and lives.

61. Mary is the first and perfect Veronica, keeper of the Holy Face of Jesus.

62. Mary is the first and perfect Magdalene, anointing Christ with her unblemished humanity.

63. Mary is the first and perfect Martha, laboring always for Christ and His kingdom.

64. Mary is the first and perfect Lydia, following the Gospel wherever it leads.

65. Mary is the first and perfect Priscilla, aid to all the successors of the Apostles.

66. Mary is the hidden Aleph at the start of God’s great book.

67. Mary is the firmament.

68. Mary is the firstborn of the Redeemed World according to the order of time.

69. Mary is the Golden Fountain of all graces.

70. Mary is the Garden and the Garden-Ground.

71. Mary’s heart is the thurible in the hands of the Great High Priest; her pure prayer goes up to the Father as so much fiery incense.

72. Mary’s heart is the Chalice that receives and holds the Most Precious Blood.

73. Mary’s heart is the gem at the center of God’s crown.

74. Mary’s heart is the virgin land where stands the banner of her son.

75. Mary is the ladder of the Angels.

76. Mary is the cloud that rises from the sea.

77. Mary is the one who chants the music we had forgotten.

78. Mary is the canopy of the undying marriage between Christ and His bride.

79. Mary is the neck of the Church.

80. Mary is the joy of all creatures.

81. Mary is the Star seen in the East.

82. Mary is the chariot of the dawn.

83. Mary is she who has surpassed Semele and Psyche.

84. Mary is she who shames Juno and Venus.

85. Mary is she who overcomes Minerva and Diana.

86. Mary is the unlooked-for gift.

87. Mary’s name is the shield of Michael.

88. Mary’s name is the lily of Gabriel.

89. Mary’s name is the staff of Raphael.

90. Mary’s name is the honey of the angels.

91. Mary is the black cloud bringing rain to the desert.

92. Mary is the gateway to the land of the living.

93. Mary is the orb of God’s blessing to the righteous.

93. Mary is the scepter of God’s wrath to the demons.

94. Mary is God’s royal seal upon His creation.

95. Mary is the quarry and mine of the Temple.

96. Mary is the font of new birth.

97. Mary is the Queen from whom all queens take their pattern.

98. Mary is the one enthroned in the heart of Jesus Christ, and His perfect likeness.

99. Mary is the sweet perfume of the holy through all the ages.

100. Mary is the eternity’s memory.

Crashaw on the Holy Cross

ExaltationoftheHolyCrossBaroque

The veritable Tree of Life. (Source)

Today’s feast of the Exaltation of the Holy Cross deserves some poetic note…as will tomorrow’s Feast of Our Lady of Sorrows. Richard Crashaw, whose deeply somatic, extravagantly Baroque spirituality made him somewhat distasteful to an older generation of critics, fits our purpose for both days admirably. My source is the 2013 University of Minnesota Edition of The English Poems of Richard Crashaw, pages 204-05.

Here is his “Upon the Bleeding Crucifix, a Song.” I’d like to add as accompaniment my favorite English rendition of the Vexilla Regis.

Upon the Bleeding Crucifix, a Song

1.
Jesu, no more! It is full tide.
From thy head and from thy feet,
From thy hands and from thy side
All the purple rivers meet.

2.
What need thy fair head bear a part
In show’rs, as if thine eyes had none?
What need they help to drown thy heart,
That strives in torrents of its own?

3.
Thy restless feet now cannot go
For us and our eternal good,
As they were ever wont. What though?
They swim. Alas, in their own flood.

4.
Thy hands to give, thou canst not lift;
Yet will thy hand still giving be.
It gives but O, itself’s the gift.
It gives though bound; though bound ’tis free.

5.
But O thy side, thy deep-digged side!
That hath a double Nilus going.
Nor ever was the Pharian tide
Half so fruitful, half so flowing.

6.
No hair so small, but pays his river
To this red sea of thy blood,
Their little channels can deliver
Something to the general flood.

7.
But while I speak, whither are run
All the rivers named before?
I counted wrong. There is but one,
But O that one is one all o’er.

8.
Rain-swoll’n rivers may rise proud,
Bent all to drown and overflow.
But when indeed all’s overflowed
They themselves are drownèd too.

9.
Thy blood’s deluge, a drie chance
Dear Lord to thee, to us is found
A deluge of deliverance;
A deluge lest we should be drowned.

Ne’er wast thou in a sense so sadly true,
The well of living waters, Lord, till now.

 

Poem/Song: “On the Strange and Lamentable Tale of the Witches of Saluda”

Bonham_House_1

The Bonham House, Saluda, SC (Source).

It’s been a while since I posted any original wordcraft, so here’s a poem I wrote recently. The last part is a song. I wanted to hearken to the Scotch-Irish traditions of the poor folks who settled the Carolinas. You can hear me sing it on the embedded audio I have included.

On the Strange and Lamentable Tale of the Witches of Saluda

I. The Town

I saw them dancing at the old waterworks
with torchlight in their eyes, huge
gates to unseen countries
of the damned and dying.
Off in the woods, the fog
snaked through like a hungry hound bent
low over the scent
of some lesser beast.
The pines keep our secrets from us,
so we can forget.
Didn’t you know that even the
goats and horses have eyes, ears,
loose lips muttering imprecations
under their breath? Never
look over your shoulder
at a crossroads. Men have died,
petrified, for less.
Or else they shoot into space
and freeze in the rictus of their fathers,
grinning madly at the dead sun
below. I have drawn
salt from the shadow of your footsteps,
I have planted rows of teeth in my head.
What dragons will come
when I bring a scythe
to the harvest?

II. The Purlieu

You hardly know how dark
the young pine woods can be.
Not a patch of tall trees, mind you,
but ones that stand
just about twice your size.
Still plenty of silent life ahead of them.
You can see them at the edge of evening,
surrounding a field surrounding
a low crop of tombstones
all asunder and blurred
by the rain’s improvident hand.
The trees wait there, wordless,
dusk-bleached, lined up like so many
carious teeth. But they are not
what draws my eye
the fathomless
dark that spreads behind
like a growling and
hungry gullet.

III. The Back Yard

It will not go away.

Momma said to come to the table,
no use passing your life
by the back window
daydreaming.

But I could see it pacing the lawn as I ate.

Huge, black,
unblinking, white
of tooth.
I don’t think it ever sleeps.
The heat of the noonday and the
shadow that flies by night
do not afflict it
the stones in its shoes
and the rancid water it sips
out of our traschan lids
do not injure it—
the play of the neighbors
and the tumult of the street
do not distract it.
I have not yet seen it blink.
I have not yet seen it turn its gaze
from the house.
It watches.
I don’t think it ever sleeps.

Momma says
daddy woudn’t have tolerated
any such foolishness.
I don’t know.

It makes not a sound.
I think it knows what we talk about
in the house.
I think it knows when we rise and fall
to our prayers.
I think it listens to what we confess,
to our fights, to the whisper of the rain.

I don’t want to go out there.
I don’t want it to get it.
I don’t think it ever sleeps.

IV. Found in a Buried Notebook, Written in Red Ink

Don’t turn your back to the trees
or walk up the weed-cracked pavement
beneath the sign that reads
CAR  ASH CO N LAUNDRY
and don’t keep the pottery you dig up
in your garden
bonewhite under the red
clay and grey sand. Don’t
venture to the edge of the field that
smells like salt
and don’t keep your teeth in a shoebox
(it might become a skull)
and don’t knock on walls
where there should be a door
or take down the portraits
of the nameless.
Don’t ponder what might have
broken the sign from the fencepost
or written its replacement
in an unknown script.
Don’t let your children go to the post office alone.
Don’t let your daughter play with the dolls
she doesn’t remember receiving.

V. The Song of the Lost Daughters


The young girls singing thread silk in their hair
Io Hymen Hymenaee
Io Hymen Hymenaee
Discarding the rest of the clothes that they wear
Io Hymen Hymenaee
Io Hymen Hymenaee

They join with the voices of the torchbearing throng
Io Hymen Hymenaee
Io Hymen Hymenaee
And soon they forget every other sweet song
Io Hymen Hymenaee
Io Hymen Hymenaee

Songs that illumine the queer, darkened lands
Io Hymen Hymenaee
Io Hymen Hymenaee
Like the water you pour over bloody hands
Io Hymen Hymenaee
Io Hymen Hymenaee

Her lace crown covers her eyes as they lead
Io Hymen Hymenaee
Io Hymen Hymenaee
Her into a thicket that smells of ripe seed
Io Hymen Hymenaee
Io Hymen Hymenaee

To hide from the angels that watch in the trees
Io Hymen Hymenaee
Io Hymen Hymenaee
And teach her the sacred rites of the bees
Io Hymen Hymenaee
Io Hymen Hymenaee

“An will ye cam back to yer mother so fine?”
Io Hymen Hymenaee
Io Hymen Hymenaee
“Ah will ye return to me, daughter of mine?”
Io Hymen Hymenaee
Io Hymen Hymenaee

“Ah mother, dear mother, I can’t come at all”
Io Hymen Hymenaee
Io Hymen Hymenaee
“Until I’ve repeated our first mother’s fall”
Io Hymen Hymenaee
Io Hymen Hymenaee

“The Sabbath is waiting, the dance oh so dear”
Io Hymen Hymenaee
Io Hymen Hymenaee
“To teach us the meaning behind every fear”
Io Hymen Hymenaee
Io Hymen Hymenaee

They never did see her again in the day
Io Hymen Hymenaee
Io Hymen Hymenaee
But once on a new moon, as old people say
Io Hymen Hymenaee
Io Hymen Hymenaee

Seven years waiting and seven years won
Io Hymen Hymenaee
Io Hymen Hymenaee
Seven years burning, but far from the Sun
Io Hymen Hymenaee
Io Hymen Hymenaee

Beware, all me daughters, what hides in the air
Io Hymen Hymenaee
Io Hymen Hymenaee
And never thread silks so fine in your hair
Io Hymen Hymenaee
Io Hymen Hymenaee

The Catholic Poems of Oscar Wilde

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Oscar Fingal O’Flahertie Wills Wilde (Source).

As I mentioned in my last post, during the month of August, I am dedicating myself to daily acts of creativity in honor of Mary’s Immaculate and Sophianic Heart. As Providence would have it, the Holy Father’s intentions for August include prayers for artists. Thus, I’m going to make my blog especially aesthetic for the rest of the month.

And what better way to start than examining work by one of the modern era’s great philosophers of art, Oscar Wilde? It is not often remembered today that Oscar Wilde was a Catholic. True, he was only formally received on his death bed. But Wilde maintained a lifelong flirtation with the faith. Catholicism infused his imagination from very early on in his productive career. When he was a student at Oxford, he visited Rome and wrote quasi-Catholic poetry that even Cardinal Newman admired. In some of the work, the influence of Dante is manifest. The aesthetics and romance of Catholicism appealed to Wilde, and he was nearly converted by Fr. Sebastian Bowden of the London Oratory. Only much later did he definitively turn to the Lord, in his last hour. However, many members of his circle also converted…a topic I shall, perhaps, explore some other day.

Ave Maria Gratia Plena

Was this His coming! I had hoped to see
A scene of wondrous glory, as was told
Of some great God who in a rain of gold
Broke open bars and fell on Danae:
Or a dread vision as when Semele
Sickening for love and unappeased desire
Prayed to see God’s clear body, and the fire
Caught her white limbs and slew her utterly:
With such glad dreams I sought this holy place,
And now with wondering eyes and heart I stand
Before this supreme mystery of Love:
A kneeling girl with passionless pale face,
An angel with a lily in his hand,
And over both with outstretched wings the Dove.

Sonnet on Approaching Italy

I reached the Alps: the soul within me burned
Italia, my Italia, at thy name:
And when from out the mountain’s heart I came
And saw the land for which my life had yearned,
I laughed as one who some great prize had earned:
And musing on the story of thy fame
I watched the day, till marked with wounds of flame
The turquoise sky to burnished gold was turned,
The pine-trees waved as waves a woman’s hair,
And in the orchards every twining spray
Was breaking into flakes of blossoming foam:
But when I knew that far away at Rome
In evil bonds a second Peter lay,
I wept to see the land so very fair.

Urbs Sacra Æterna

Rome! what a scroll of History thine has been
In the first days thy sword republican
Ruled the whole world for many an age’s span:
Then of thy peoples thou wert crownèd Queen,
Till in thy streets the bearded Goth was seen;
And now upon thy walls the breezes fan
(Ah, city crowned by God, discrowned by man!)
The hated flag of red and white and green.
When was thy glory! when in search for power
Thine eagles flew to greet the double sun,
And all the nations trembled at thy rod?
Nay, but thy glory tarried for this hour,
When pilgrims kneel before the Holy One,
The prisoned shepherd of the Church of God.

Sonnet on Hearing the Dies Irae Sung in the Sistine Chapel

Nay, Lord, not thus! white lilies in the spring,
Sad olive-groves, or silver-breasted dove,
Teach me more clearly of Thy life and love
Than terrors of red flame and thundering.
The hillside vines dear memories of Thee bring:
A bird at evening flying to its nest
Tells me of One who had no place of rest:
I think it is of Thee the sparrows sing.
Come rather on some autumn afternoon,
When red and brown are burnished on the leaves,
And the fields echo to the gleaner’s song,
Come when the splendid fulness of the moon
Looks down upon the rows of golden sheaves,
And reap Thy harvest: we have waited long.

Holy Week at Genoa

I wandered through Scoglietto’s far retreat,
The oranges on each o’erhanging spray
Burned as bright lamps of gold to shame the day;
Some startled bird with fluttering wings and fleet
Made snow of all the blossoms; at my feet
Like silver moons the pale narcissi lay:
And the curved waves that streaked the great green bay
Laughed i’ the sun, and life seemed very sweet.
Outside the young boy-priest passed singing clear,
‘Jesus the son of Mary has been slain,
O come and fill His sepulchre with flowers.’
Ah, God! Ah, God! those dear Hellenic hours
Had drowned all memory of Thy bitter pain,
The Cross, the Crown, the Soldiers and the Spear.

San Miniato

See, I have climbed the mountain side
Up to this holy house of God,
Where once that Angel-Painter trod
Who saw the heavens opened wide,

And throned upon the crescent moon
The Virginal white Queen of Grace,–
Mary! could I but see thy face
Death could not come at all too soon.

O crowned by God with thorns and pain!
Mother of Christ! O mystic wife!
My heart is weary of this life
And over-sad to sing again.

O crowned by God with love and flame!
O crowned by Christ the Holy One!
O listen ere the searching sun
Show to the world my sin and shame.

Madonna Mia

A lily-girl, not made for this world’s pain,
With brown, soft hair close braided by her ears,
And longing eyes half veiled by slumberous tears
Like bluest water seen through mists of rain:
Pale cheeks whereon no love hath left its stain,
Red underlip drawn in for fear of love,
And white throat, whiter than the silvered dove,
Through whose wan marble creeps one purple vein.
Yet, though my lips shall praise her without cease,
Even to kiss her feet I am not bold,
Being o’ershadowed by the wings of awe.
Like Dante, when he stood with Beatrice
Beneath the flaming Lion’s breast, and saw
The seventh Crystal, and the Stair of Gold.

E Tenebris

Come down, O Christ, and help me! reach thy hand,
For I am drowning in a stormier sea
Than Simon on thy lake of Galilee:
The wine of life is spilt upon the sand,
My heart is as some famine-murdered land,
Whence all good things have perished utterly,
And well I know my soul in Hell must lie
If I this night before God’s throne should stand.
‘He sleeps perchance, or rideth to the chase,
Like Baal, when his prophets howled that name
From morn to noon on Carmel’s smitten height.’
Nay, peace, I shall behold before the night,
The feet of brass, the robe more white than flame,
The wounded hands, the weary human face.

At Verona

How steep the stairs within Kings’ houses are
For exile-wearied feet as mine to tread,
And O how salt and bitter is the bread
Which falls from this Hound’s table,–better far
That I had died in the red ways of war,
Or that the gate of Florence bare my head,
Than to live thus, by all things comraded
Which seek the essence of my soul to mar.

‘Curse God and die: what better hope than this?
He hath forgotten thee in all the bliss
Of his gold city, and eternal day’–
Nay peace: behind my prison’s blinded bars
I do possess what none can take away,
My love, and all the glory of the stars.

On the Massacre of the Christians in Bulgaria

Christ, dost Thou live indeed? or are Thy bones
Still straitened in their rock-hewn sepulchre?
And was Thy Rising only dreamed by her
Whose love of Thee for all her sin atones?
For here the air is horrid with men’s groans,
The priests who call upon Thy name are slain,
Dost Thou not hear the bitter wail of pain
From those whose children lie upon the stones?
Come down, O Son of God! incestuous gloom
Curtains the land, and through the starless night
Over Thy Cross a Crescent moon I see!
If Thou in very truth didst burst the tomb
Come down, O Son of Man! and show Thy might
Lest Mahomet be crowned instead of Thee!

Queen Henrietta Maria

In the lone tent, waiting for victory,
She stands with eyes marred by the mists of pain,
Like some wan lily overdrenched with rain:
The clamorous clang of arms, the ensanguined sky,
War’s ruin, and the wreck of chivalry,
To her proud soul no common fear can bring:
Bravely she tarrieth for her Lord the King,
Her soul a-flame with passionate ecstasy.
O Hair of Gold! O Crimson Lips! O Face
Made for the luring and the love of man!
With thee I do forget the toil and stress,
The loveless road that knows no resting place,
Time’s straitened pulse, the soul’s dread weariness,
My freedom and my life republican!

On Easter Day

The silver trumpets rang across the Dome:
The people knelt upon the ground with awe:
And borne upon the necks of men I saw,
Like some great God, the Holy Lord of Rome.
Priest-like, he wore a robe more white than foam,
And, king-like, swathed himself in royal red,
Three crowns of gold rose high upon his head:
In splendor and in light the Pope passed home.
My heart stole back across wide wastes of years
To One who wandered by a lonely sea,
And sought in vain for any place of rest:
“Foxes have holes, and every bird its nest,
I, only I, must wander wearily,
And bruise My feet, and drink wine salt with tears.”

Wilde did just that until he lost his duel with the wallpaper on November 30th, 1900. But having received the last rites of the Church, perhaps he is already in heaven as a saint. One can only imagine what he would think of his portrait bedecked with a golden halo.

A Challenge in Honor of the Sophianic Heart of Mary

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Sorrowful and Immaculate Heart of Mary, pray for us sinners. (Source).

August is consecrated to the Sorrowful and Immaculate Heart of Mary. Thus, it is a month in which the Church invites us to peer into the profound and luminous abyss of light at the very center of the Mother of God’s Sophianic life. In celebration of this occasion, I’ve decided to dedicate myself to producing or working on something creative every day for the rest of the month. Today, I have already written one poem and started an art project. The latter is especially exciting for me, as it’s been years since I last produced any real art. Too long, really. Pray for me in this sophiological endeavor! I would recommend the same challenge to any Catholic hoping to redeem this particular time.

Poem: “Passing a Cemetery Seen From a Train”

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One of my ancestral cemeteries in Pennsylvania. (Source).

Alright, here’s another original piece. I think I’ve decided that I might as well publish a few things every now and then, since I seem to be getting a good response.

Passing a Cemetery Seen From a Train

We are not to count them,
the ones we make rare.
Nor should we come too close
stepping in would strip
the varnish from our eyes,
making us like them
too soon. No, let this hill
rise away from me,
spangled with the dead
and watered with the whispers
of those not yet able to speak.

The Poetry of St. Philip Neri

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He would be 502 years old today. (Source).

In honor of St. Philip Neri’s birthday today, I reproduce here the translations of two of his three surviving sonnets, taken from the Liturgia Latina collection of Oratorian materials. That site reports that the translations from the original Italian are by Fr Henry Ignatius Dudley Ryder, of the Birmingham Oratory.

I.

The soul derives from God her being high,
In one keen instant out of nothing brought,
Not painfully through second causes wrought;
How should she, then, submit to things that die?

To hope, desire, to joy, to enmity;
To her confusion by these guides mistaught,
Of One confronting her she knoweth naught,
One glimpse of Whom would lift her to the sky.

How should the baser nature dare rebel
Against the higher, nor, as meet, consent
To do its bidding, but essay to quell?

Why prison bars the aspiring soul prevent
From leaving earth, above the stars to dwell,
To die to self, to live to God, intent.

II.

I love, and loving must love ceaselessly,
So whole a conquest in me love hath won;
My love to Thee, Thy love to me doth run,
In Thee I live, and Thou dost live in me.

Surely the day is nigh when I may flee
From this dark gaol, for ever to have done
With vanity and blind oblivion,
Where, exiled from myself, I used to be.

Earth laughs and sky, green branches and soft air,
The winds are quiet, and the water still,
No sun before has shed so bright a day;

The gay birds sing, love’s joy is everywhere;
My heart alone has no responsive thrill,
My powers flag and shrink from joy away.

Poem: “To the Romanian”

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Romania. Photo taken by the author, March 2011.

Since the response to my last two original poems has been so positive, I thought I’d publish a little more. I wrote this piece a few years ago.

To the Romanian

I am opening a window in my mind again.
I am peering into the sodden landscape
Of stone, snow, and parted lips of lead,
The chalice which catches the wax
Imported from Carinthia—like the
Ring that snags on the
Crow’s ashen teeth.
The shudders are snapping in the wind;
Smoke is rising from the valley.

Why I Am a Catholic

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The North Rose Window of Notre Dame de Paris. (Source).

Right around January of 2016, Mr. Owen White (formerly?) of The Ochlophobist, issued a challenge to the religious blogosphere asking writers why they adhered to their faiths. The challenge lay in the rules; if memory serves correctly, you could only answer with five or so selections of media by figures who, to the best of your knowledge, were outside that faith. I wrote up my own list, but as I wasn’t blogging at the time, I didn’t publish it anywhere. I just found it again, decided to add an extra two pieces, and thought I’d put it here for anyone who might care. 

The dove descending breaks the air
With flame of incandescent terror
Of which the tongues declare
The one discharge from sin and error.
The only hope, or else despair
Lies in the choice of pyre of pyre-
To be redeemed from fire by fire.

Who then devised the torment? Love.
Love is the unfamiliar Name
Behind the hands that wove
The intolerable shirt of flame
Which human power cannot remove.
We only live, only suspire
Consumed by either fire or fire.

TS. Eliot, “Little Gidding”

 

O sages standing in God’s holy fire
As in the gold mosaic of a wall,
Come from the holy fire, perne in a gyre,
And be the singing-masters of my soul.
Consume my heart away; sick with desire
And fastened to a dying animal
It knows not what it is; and gather me
Into the artifice of eternity.

W. B. Yeats, “Sailing to Byzantium”

 

Rest your cheek, for a moment, on this drunken cheek.
Let me forget the war and cruelty inside myself.
I hold these silver coins in my hand;
Give me your wine of golden light.
You have opened the seven doors of heaven;
Now lay your hand generously on my tightened heart.
All I have to offer is this illusion, my self.
Give it a nickname at least that is real.
Only you can restore what you have broken;
Help my broken head.
I’m not asking for some sweet pistachio candy,
But your everlasting love.
Fifty times I’ve said,
“Heart, stop hunting and step into this net.”

Rumi, “The War Inside,” trans. Kabir Helminski

 

Somehow it has all
added up to song
earth, air, rain and light,
the labor and the heat,
the mortality of the young.
I will go free of other
singing, I will go
into the silence
of my songs, to hear
this song clearly.

Wendell Berry, “A Song Sparrow Singing in the Fall”

 

Helplessness Blues” by Fleet Foxes

 

The Tree of Life, by Terrence Malick

 

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“Mother of the World,” Nicholas Roerich, 1924. (Source).