I went searching for this poem today. A beautiful description of what happens in heaven when we repent and return to the Lord.
Category: Sunday poems
Beloved is where we begin
This has to be one of my most favorite poems of Jan Richardson’s. We are always, always beloved to God.
Beloved Is Where We Begin
If you would enter
into the wilderness,
do not begin
without a blessing.
Do not leave
without hearing
who you are:
Beloved,
named by the One
who has traveled this path
before you.
Do not go
without letting it echo
in your ears,
and if you find
it is hard
to let it into your heart,
do not despair.
That is what
this journey is for.
I cannot promise
this blessing will free you
from danger,
from fear,
from hunger
or thirst,
from the scorching
of sun
or the fall
of the night.
But I can tell you
that on this path
there will be help.
I can tell you
that on this way
there will be rest.
I can tell you
that you will know
the strange graces
that come to our aid
only on a road
such as this,
that fly to meet us
bearing comfort
and strength,
that come alongside us
for no other cause
than to lean themselves
toward our ear
and with their
curious insistence
whisper our name:
Beloved.
Beloved.
Beloved.
—Jan Richardson
from Circle of Grace
I will still praise you
A Sunday poem from Ann Porter.
A Song of Fear and Fire
If when I die
Instead of going off to Purgatory
As I hope to do
I have become a tiny flake of ash
Still glowing with the spark
Of life you gave me
And if I’m tossed
Into a fearful nothingness
Beyond the stars
There to go whirling
Whirling round
Until m fire goes out
Until my fire goes out
I will still praise you.
When you are empty
I haven’t posted a Sunday poem in awhile because I was ill in December and ended up in the hospital followed by surgery. Here we go again with a poem by Meister Eckhart.
When you are empty
When you are empty,
feeling bereft,
or not feeling much at all,
hesitate before trying
to fix your situation,
because this happens
to be just what
you are: a vessel
awaiting the fill
of heavenly
fullness beyond any
this-worldly feeling.
Someone is hidden in this dark with me
This Sunday’s poem is one by Jessica Powers, written in 1948, an apt poem for today, usually the Feast of the Immaculate Conception but this year coinciding with the second Sunday of Advent.
Advent
I live my Advent in the womb of Mary.
And on one night when a great star swings free
from its high mooring and walks down the sky
to be the dot above the Christus i,
I shall be born of her by blessed grace.
I wait in Mary-darkness, faith’s walled place,
with hope’s expectance of nativity.
I knew for long she carried me and fed me,
guarded and loved me, though I could not see.
But only now, with inward jubilee,
I come upon earth’s most amazing knowledge:
someone is hidden in this dark with me.
~Jessica Powers, The Selected Poetry of Jessica Powers, p. 81.
Behold, the Bridegroom cometh
There is no other poem more lovely for the first Sunday of Advent than this one so I am resharing it. May you know his coming to you personally during this season.
A Blessing for Traveling in the Dark
I have shared Jan Richardson’s poems before. She’s perhaps on my mind because every Advent I pull out her book, Circle of Grace, to accompany me on my Advent journey. Here’s another of her poems that I love.
Go slow
If you can.
Slower.
More slowly still.
Friendly dark
or fearsome,
this is no place
to break your neck
by rushing,
by running,
by crashing into
what you cannot see.
Then again,
it is true:
different darks
have different tasks,
and if you
have arrived here unawares,
if you have come
in peril
or in pain,
this might be no place
you should dawdle.
I do not know
what these shadows
ask of you,
what they might hold
that means you good
or ill.
It is not for me
to reckon
whether you should linger
or you should leave.
But this is what
I can ask for you:
That in the darkness
there be a blessing.
That in the shadows
there be a welcome.
That in the night
you be encompassed
by the Love that knows
your name.
Orthodoxy
Last week I listened to a marvelous interview with Scott Cairns whose poetry (and autobiography) I love. I have thought back on it several times since then. I was especially caught by this poem of his and share it as a gift to you this Sunday.
Orthodoxy
by Scott Cairns in the June 2024 issue
—after Kapouzos [ΝΙΚΟΣ ΚΑΠΟΥΖΟΣ]
Yes, sweet, and very sweet the darkness
of the nave, and also very sweet
the observant surround, these icons
of our ancient fathers and our mothers,
whose images have acquired a warm
chiaroscuro from centuries
of fragrant smoke—incense, beeswax wafting
for centuries attended by seamless
petition and praise. Such prayers as these
yet fill the air with yet another
palpable sweetness.
So often, the world
appears wretched, choked by a broken,
angry and willfully cruel people.
So often, the world proves wretched indeed,
and its darkness is bitter. How then
to mitigate the assault waiting
just beyond the narthex? How to carry
at least some distance into the world
this fragrance, this sweetness, these images?
This poem appears in the June 2024 issue.
The cross we bear from others
Sally Read, a poet herself, shared this poem by Sarah Law about Thérèse in her dying, her complete abandonment to God, even to the love of her sisters who were, in fact, inhibiting her dying–and that becomes part of the cross that she embraces.
The Cross
Because she couldn’t breathe–
was wracked with breath’s lack,
too weak to raise herself,
Marie and Céline have lifted her
half-up from the bed, her
hurting arms spread and held
about their robed shoulders.
Tipped forward, she hangs
on the cross of herself,
as the night light flickers;
the last speck of sand has run
from the hourglass’s lung.
She is heavy as a world,
a dying sun. But Céline–
unready still–flings out her hand
to force the air to move again;
force the sickroom’s minutes back
into their fragile cycle,
and so they ease her down,
and she offers up their love.
I feel so blessed to have discovered this poet who has an entire book (!) of poems dedicated to Thérèse.
Cause of Our Joy
Cause of Our Joy
by Anne Porter
Rock crystal
Clearer than crystal
Stronger than rock
Snow crown of Sinai
Melting on the heights
Pouring through the valleys
In pure rushing water
And wine that sings of justice.
* * *
Chose from the chosen
Mystical rose
Your creature petals
Mirror that beauty
No one can see and live
You hide in your heart
Like dew simple and silent
That blazing majesty.
Small as you are, your fragrance
Fills all the world,
Fragrance of hope,
Fragrance of the gospels.
Come to the old woman
Whose lodging is the street
Come to the drugged boy
The landlord, the general
Come to the haunted hunter by his jungle river
Come to the banker, the prisoner, the torturer
The hungry, the shut-in, the runaway in danger
Come to the backward child.
Whether or not we know you
Come to the rich and poor
Come to us all.
* * *
Star of morning
There is still such darkness
Only by the light
Of your innocent fire
We know this is the morning.
But sweet in this dark morning
Is a freshness of new bread
And the newborn Word in his cradle
Is just beginning to stir.
Queen of Angels
You’re up early
Washing, baking, sweeping,
Young country girl
From a scorned province
Broken for the broken
Wife of a carpenter
Mother of a convict
Cause of our joy.
from An Altogether Different Language: Poems 1934-1994
Witnesses to Hope 