Pied Beauty - my last 24 hours

Pied Beauty

Glory be to God for dappled things -
For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;
For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings;
Landscape plotted and pieced - fold, fallow, and plough;
And áll trádes, their gear and tackle and trim.

All things counter, original, spare, strange;
Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:
Praise him.

- Gerard Manley Hopkins

The Mad Farmer Liberation Front

MANIFESTO: THE MAD FARMER LIBERATION FRONT
by Wendell Berry

Love the quick profit, the annual raise,
vacation with pay. Want more
of everything ready-made. Be afraid
to know your neighbors and to die.
And you will have a window in your head.
Not even your future will be a mystery
any more. Your mind will be punched in a card
and shut away in a little drawer.
When they want you to buy something
they will call you. When they want you
to die for profit they will let you know.

So, friends, every day do something
that won't compute. Love the Lord.
Love the world. Work for nothing.
Take all that you have and be poor.
Love someone who does not deserve it.
Denounce the government and embrace
the flag. Hope to live in that
free republic for which it stands.
Give your approval to all you cannot
understand. Praise ignorance, for what man
has not encountered he has not destroyed.

Ask the questions that have no answers.
Invest in the millennium. Plant sequoias.
Say that your main crop is the forest
that you did not plant,
that you will not live to harvest.
Say that the leaves are harvested
when they have rotted into the mold.
Call that profit. Prophesy such returns.

Put your faith in the two inches of humus
that will build under the trees
every thousand years.
Listen to carrion - put your ear
close, and hear the faint chattering
of the songs that are to come.
Expect the end of the world. Laugh.
Laughter is immeasurable. Be joyful
though you have considered all the facts.
So long as women do not go cheap
for power, please women more than men.
Ask yourself: Will this satisfy
a woman satisfied to bear a child?
Will this disturb the sleep
of a woman near to giving birth?

Go with your love to the fields.
Lie easy in the shade. Rest your head
in her lap. Swear allegiance
to what is nighest your thoughts.
As soon as the generals and politicos
can predict the motions of your mind,
lose it. Leave it as a sign
to mark the false trail, the way
you didn't go. Be like the fox
who makes more tracks than necessary,
some in the wrong direction.
Practice resurrection.

HT: The Ochlophobist

Newborn

Sensuous, birth is full of contrasts and archetypes, meaning. It is the intercourse of heaven and earth. It is God encountering woman in her pain and joy, sweat, blood, expectancy. A kiss. A rendezvous. A revelation. We are enamored. God's breath, awake, unveiled; the Divinity reaching into clay and pulling a person from it. Two. Three.

Surprised at surprise. Caught unprepared again, thirty-eight years in, I stir to.

Life is too great, too glorious. There is suffering. There is pain. But there is, also, limitless joy that leans out from little things, like an upturned, red-capped mushroom, a defeated umbrella pooling rainwater. Like morning glory bedding on a rusted sign. Like a newborn covered in blood and vernix, trembling. Joy entwines itself in the pain, curls about it, over it, and purples. Glory subsumes all suffering, at a glance.

Our Lady of Guadalupe

Ave Maria

Hail Mary, thou blessed among women, generations shall rise up to greet,
After ages of wrangles and dogma, I come with a prayer to thy feet.
Where Gabriel's red plumes were a wind in the lanes of thy lilies at eve,
We love, who have done with the churches, we worship, who may not believe.
Shall I reck that the chiefs we revolt with, stern elders with scoff and with frown,
Have scourged from thine altar the kneelers, and reft from thy forehead the crown?
For God's light for the world has burnt through it, the thought whereof thou wert the sign,
As a sign, for all faiths are as symbols, as human, and man is divine.
We know that men prayed to their image and crowned their own passions as powers,
We know that their gods were their shadows, nor are 'shamed of this queen that was ours:
We know as the people the priest is, as the men are the goddess shall be,
And all harlots were worshipped in Cyprus, all maidens and mothers in thee.

Who shall murmur of dreams or be sour when the tale of thy triumph is told,
When thy star rose a sun and a meteor o'er empires and cities of old?
When against the dim altars of passion, the garlands of queens god-embraced,
Come the peace of a poor Jewish maid in the lily-like pride of the chaste,
Came weak, without swords of the flesh, without splendours of lyres or of pen,
As a naked appeal to things pure in the hearts of the children of men;
And e'en as she walked as one dreaming, sweet, pale as the evening star,
The spell of the wanton was snapped, and the revel of gods rolled afar,
And she brightened the glens that were gloomy, and softened the tribes that were wild,
Till the world grew a worshipping choir round the shapes of a mother and child.

(G.K. Chesterton, The Debater, Feb. 1893)

These are the first two of five stanzas. HT: The Magnificat

Again in Spring

I need rain, lazuli skies suggesting sweaters, coloring trees, the unashamed cry of flowers, fat snow, and even, on some days, the clean heat of summer. The seasons whisper Gentle and Trust.

In winter, Mother Mary holds her naked Son. And again in spring.

But the sun has wings. Hair grays, eyes wrinkle, my sons revel in strength, my daughters grow in beauty, and my wife is no longer young. And though I say that she is beautiful, she doesn't hear.

And I grow wintry. My back is cold and my eyes are weak. Less than I should be. Less father, less husband. More doubt than faith. Less poet. I am poor. And I am poor. And my wife, though she says that I am more, I do not hear, for the wind is in the trees.

Leaves pirouette to the ground. Oranges, browns, reds, and yellows grace dead grass.

The world is old, I say. And tired.

Babbling brooks and crocus buds answer me.

My faith is gone, I say. I am lost, I say. And dead.

Golden-leaved pecan trees whisper Peace and Good, Peace and Good.

Ah, Sweet Christ! I need faith. Ah, pardon and peace. Ah, body and blood. I need the green days. I need the purples and the reds. I need the white days.

In winter, Mother Mary enthrones her Son. And again in me. She whispers Yes.

Life pours out of her naked Son's side. Be drunk with Me.

Poetry. Argh.

I'm entering a poetry contest tomorrow. I'm still working on revisions and am feeling, the entire time, my inadequacy as a poet. Don't get me wrong - I love poetry and I love writing poetry. But I do feel inadequate with my poetry at times, which is certainly another way of saying I am unsure about my ability as a writer in general. All writing is poetic at some level.

Here at the blog, I just kind of spew out the words with little revision. When I am forced to present my best - through hours of work - that's when I begin to get nervous. That's when my present ability is put under the microscope. Though it is, to some degree, a subjective view.

After reading over what I've written, it almost feels too personal for a contest - that it's simply a family poem and lacks universality. Ugh. It feels immature somehow (the poem itself, not the content). Anyway, I'll try to post the finished poem here tomorrow. I still want to pour over it some - though it's a relatively short thing. I'm still working on it and I hope to have a more beautiful piece tomorrow when I submit.

Say a prayer for me and my muse today, if you would.

Full of Love

Sonnets are full of love, and this my tome
Has many sonnets: so here now shall be
One sonnet more, a love sonnet, from me
To her whose heart is my heart’s quiet home,
To my first Love, my Mother, on whose knee
I learnt love-lore that is not troublesome;
Whose service is my special dignity,
And she my loadstar while I go and come
And so because you love me, and because
I love you, Mother, I have woven a wreath
Of rhymes wherewith to crown your honored name:
In you not [three]score years can dim the flame
Of love, whose blessed glow transcends the laws
Of time and change and mortal life and death.

- Christina Rosetti

It Is the East, and Juliet Is the Sun

My favorite writer is William Shakespeare. Yesterday was the 391st anniversary of his death. And some would say the 443th anniversary of his birth. You see, his baptism was on April 26. So some believe, since the baptism usually took place two or three days after the birth that perhaps he was born and died on the same day. All of which is conjecture and doesn't amount to a hill of beans.

I love the man's work. My first son is named after him. And when I hear a line from one of his plays, such as the famous one above pulled from the balcony soliloquy, my soul responds. Poetry is visceral. It grabs the attention of the heart, the soul.

Now not all poets are created equal. Some are quite bad. But Shakespeare, he did it well.

Spring speaks.

Spring speaks.

First came the shy, perfect stutterings of narcissus and hyacinth. Forsythia followed with an unabashed soliloquy. And then entered the beautiful but immature boldness of the Bradford pear, bloomed and greened, turning verse awkwardly.

But now, now enter the sovereigns of song: redbud and dogwood.

Redbuds sing praise with purple pastorals, filling valleys with their wild Lenten hues, pulling hearts toward Pascha. Dogwoods float along hillsides like clouds. They are sweet processions of speech, gladdening crucifers. Theirs is a romantic conceit, whispered in a lover's ear. Their limbs are twisted under the weight of proclamation, bent and sprained with Teresa's beauty. Tender petals, perfect and pierced, unfold from crooked hard wood.

On creation's lips is Christ.

The earth erupts; bright choruses of tulips sing hallelujahs, sweet antiphons.

Me, Today

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HT: Martha, Martha

Winter's Eve

Leaves and ribbon race across the ground, frustrated
By passing whirlwinds, holly and chain-link.

A snake scribbles over red clay, like a memory,
Crawling under the sun and the bare river birch.
The sun shines in gold indifference. It's untroubled
By fading linens, by daydreams and bright lipstick.

From the window I watch the sky slip into color.
Sunlight and clouds conspire beauty. And the wind
Chases dead leaves in fitful bursts of curious
Distraction. My hair, old wire, plays gray. And brown
Leaves huddle against the diamond hem of your fence.

I close my eyes imagining you, and I breathe.

Evening (draft)

Leaves and frayed string race across the ground, distracted
By cars and transitory whirlwinds and chain-link.
A snake scribbles through gravel like a memory,
Writing something old and dusty, half-forgotten.

The sun shines on unaware and gold, distracted
By cars and cool water, by lipstick and chain-link.
From the porch I watch the sky slip into color
As sun and clouds conspire beauty. And the wind

Chases dead leaves in fitful bursts of curious
Distraction. My hair, old wire, plays gray while brown
Leaves huddle against the diamond hem of your fence.
I close my eyes imagining you, and I grieve.

I Arise Today

A stanza from "St. Patrick's Breastplate." Have a blessed St. Patrick's day.

Christ with me, Christ before me, Christ behind me,
Christ in me, Christ beneath me, Christ above me,
Christ on my right, Christ on my left,
Christ when I lie down, Christ when I sit down, Christ when I arise,
Christ in the heart of every man who thinks of me,
Christ in the mouth of every one who speaks of me,
Christ in every eye that sees me,
Christ in every ear that hears me.

Expecting You

I keep expecting you to walk into the room, to ask me if I’ve seen your brush, to sit next to me, to lay your head on my shoulder. But you don’t. I wait for you to come down the stairs from your shower. But you don’t. I keep expecting you, but you are not here.

I thought I’d see you as I turned the corner into the dining room, but the table was empty and there was only food for me.

And as the sun set and the children fell asleep, I was sure you would be in your chair with your legs curled under you – knitting, reading, or growing tired. But the chair is quiet and empty, because you are not here.

---

Sweet Afton

FLOW gently, sweet Afton! amang thy green braes,
Flow gently, I’ll sing thee a song in thy praise;
My Mary’s asleep by thy murmuring stream,
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

Thou stockdove whose echo resounds thro’ the glen,
Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den,
Thou green-crested lapwing thy screaming forbear,
I charge you, disturb not my slumbering Fair.

How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills,
Far mark’d with the courses of clear, winding rills;
There daily I wander as noon rises high,
My flocks and my Mary’s sweet cot in my eye.

How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below,
Where, wild in the woodlands, the primroses blow;
There oft, as mild Ev’ning weeps over the lea,
The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and me.

Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides,
And winds by the cot where my Mary resides;
How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave,
As, gathering sweet flowerets, she stems thy clear wave.

Flow gently, sweet Afton, amang thy green braes,
Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays;
My Mary’s asleep by thy murmuring stream,
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream.

- Robert Burns

Yeats, for Laura

The Young Man’s Song

I WHISPERED, ‘I am too young,’
And then, ‘I am old enough’;
Wherefore I threw a penny
To find out if I might love.
‘Go and love, go and love, young man,
If the lady be young and fair,’
Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny,
I am looped in the loops of her hair.

Oh, love is the crooked thing,
There is nobody wise enough
To find out all that is in it,
For he would be thinking of love
Till the stars had run away,
And the shadows eaten the moon.
Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny,
One cannot begin it too soon.

When You Are Old

WHEN you are old and gray and full of sleep
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true;
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face.

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead,
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

She Could Not

Anna is five years old today. Five. I do not want to believe it, but it is true. I wrote a poem about her when she was only three months old. She was only a baby: She could not race around the house like a horse or prowl like a lion. She could not draw so purely, so passionately. She could not sing songs praising the beauty of the evening or of the One who sowed the moon and the stars in the black, fertile soil of Night. She could not tell me, with tears, how she missed her grandparents. She could not gently remind me about the apology I owed her for yelling. She could not swing so riotously, scraping the clouds with her toes. She could not love pizza. She could not play in the bay window, wrapping herself and her sisters in story. She could not reach her arms about me as she would a too-wide tree and say, I love you, Daddy. She could not do any of these things.

But she was Anna - full, even then, of grace.

She watches me write; I watch her be.
Peace newly born,
Clumsy-handed grace,
Turtle-tongued.
Bright-eyed, we watch together.

I'm still watching, Anna. I'm still amazed. I'm still in love.

To Be

To breathe a life, to live a breath,
Inhale, in deep, and put off death.
To be, to think, a being thought,
A light and salt, and seeing, sought.

To move in rhythm with the stars,
To dance with Venus and pierce Mars.
To laugh, to play, to be a song,
To do justice, to right what's wrong.

To write a poem poetically,
To run a race heroically.

But I am lost and helpless too,
Though found, though loved, though graced by you.
And I cry, and I hurt (I live).
And I'm breath, and I'm dirt (I live).