Category: Sunday poems

The cross we bear from others

Sr. Dorcee, belovedLeave a comment

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

Sr. Dorcee, beloved1 Comment

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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

Stay

Sr. Dorcee, belovedLeave a comment

I have a friend, Strahan Coleman. I know him mostly as an author because we met after I discovered his writing on IG, excerpts from his Prayer Volumes. Here’s an excerpt from Volume 3:

But what I wanted to share here is from his music, which just now, I am starting to listen to. So profound.

Stay

There is a whisper,
A quiet invitation,
Beckoning me to come,
A hand of kindness,
A good and trusting one,
A hand that will never fail.

My bags are packed but I’m glued to the phone,
Cause I’ve got nowhere else to go,
So I stay.

I have a mind that will wait for war to take it’s toll,
Before it will still itself,
But I’ve seen the face of love,
A chest that warms and welcomes,
A table that never fails.
Oh I’ve been running’ I’ve been fading to grey,

But I hear you calling my name,
Your voice is singing out like fire in the rain,
So I stay.

Oh you’re not finished yet,
This can’t be where it ends,
Come kick this barrenness out into the grave,
You promised better yet,
So I’m lookin’ at you my friend and I stay.

Check out Commoner’s Communion.

Be His still-remaining

Sr. Dorcee, beloved1 Comment

How a poem about our Lady on this Mother’s Day? This is a poem I have posted before. It’s also about the Ascension, about her experience after Jesus ascended. Seems doubly appropriate for today.

Our Lady of the Assumption

Fold your love like hands around the moment.
Keep it for conference with your heart, that exit
Caught on clocks, by dutiful scribes recorded
Less truly than in archives of yor soul.

Turn back from His going, be His still-remaining.
Lift the familiar latch on cottage door . . .
Discover His voice in corners, hear His footfalls
Run down the porches of your thoughts.  No powers

However hoarse with joy, no Dominations
Curved with adoration guess what whispers
Of “Mother, look!” and “Mother, hurry!”
Glance off the cottage walls in shafts of glory.

How shall your heart keep swinging longer, Mary?
Quickly, quickly, take the sturdy needle
Before your soul crowds through your flesh!  the needle
And stout black thread will save you.  Take the sandal

Peter left for mending.  After that,
The time is short, with bread to bake for John.

Mother Mary Francis

May the blessings

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For any and all being ordained to the priesthood this spring. A Sunday-poem by John O’Donohue, a priest himself.

May the blessings released through your hands
Cause windows to open in darkened minds.

May the sufferings your calling brings
Be but winter before the spring.

May the companionship of your doubt
Restore what your beliefs leave out.

May the secret hungers of your heart
Harvest from emptiness its sacred fruit.

May your solitude be a voyage
Into the wilderness and wonder of God.

May your words have the prophetic edge
To enable the heart to hear itself.

May the silence where your calling dwells
Foster your freedom in all you do and feel.

May you find words full of divine warmth
To clothe the dying in the language of dawn.

May the slow light of the Eucharist
Be a sure shelter around your future.

And I would add: May you always find your home deep, deep in the Heart of Christ and never venture from there. 

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In an empty church

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A beautiful short Sunday-poem. Using just a few words, Joseph Massey creates an exquisite image of prayer in an empty church. Do sit with it for a moment.

       In an empty church
in the middle of the day
dark but for stained glass
       flooded with sun, a prayer
held in the breath in my hands. 

 

You can find his latest bestselling book of poems here. 

I wish for a hidden hut

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An anonymous lovely, lilting poem from Sally Read’s 100 Great Catholic Poems that describes the longing of many of our hearts.

The Song of Manchán the Hermit

I wish, O Son of the Living God, O Ancient Eternal King,
For a hidden hut in the wilderness, a simple secluded thing.

The all-blithe lithe little lark in his place, chanting his lightsome lay;
The calm, clear pool of the Spirit’s grace, washing m sins away.

A wide, wild woodland on every side, its shades the nursery
Of glad-voiced songsters, who at day-dawn chant their sweet psalm for me.

A southern aspect to catch the sun, a brook across the floor,
A choice land, rich with gracious gifts, down-stretching from my door.

Few men and wise, these would I prize, men of content and power,
To raise Thy praise throughout the days at each canonical hour.

Four times three, three times four, fitted for every need,
To the King of the Sun praying each one, this were a grace, indeed.

Twelve in the church to chant the hours, kneeling there twain and twain;
And I before, near the chancel door, listening their low refrain.

A pleasant church with an Altar-cloth, where Christ sits at the board,
And a shining candle shedding its ray on the white words of the Lord.

Brief meals between, when prayer is done, our modest needs supply;
No greed in our share of the simple fare, no boasting or ribaldry.

This is the husbandry I choose, laborious, simple, free,
The fragrant leek about my door, the hen and the humble bee.

Rough raiment of tweed, enough for my need, this will my King allow;
And I to be sitting praying to God under every leafy bough.