Friday, June 16, 2017
John Strong Sycamore the apologist
has a neat little beard, ten published books;
writes watertight blogs; the Pope's death is his wish.
He lights his pipe and says, between puffs,
"That sounds like socialism!" and other rebuffs.
The Old Men's Club, the American Deacon's Club,
the esoteric homespun Traddy Know-it-all Club,
the Butterfly Priests Club, the Latin Fantard Club,
the Thick Steak and Cigar after Latin Mass Club,
the Medievalist's Anglo-Saxon Strawberry Tea Club,
the We Can't Barely get any Readers Worth a Damn Club
so name it something convenient like the Remnant,
We Few, We Grumpy Few, or some such name Club.
I'll take my subscription elsewhere, I think.
Perhaps some Eurotrash mag where they still write poems
in a vulgar free form. At least they haven't lost their hearts.
Beaver the Cleaver had bad dreams
about the man in white on the Baroque facade.
"He came in with a super-soaker filled with holy water
to bomb Dearly Missed Benedict's traditional asperges
when Emeritus took the hydro gun from Bergoglio
and smashed it on the pew (which is a Protestant tainting), saying,
"Nein! Nicht!" and Bergoglio stalked out in a huff with a scowl.
I woke gasping for air and weeping soaked my pillow."
He's an uncanny type of the anti-prophet to come, perchance.
Beaver's orthodox tears spare us another year. Thanks!
Thursday, June 15, 2017
Tuesday, June 13, 2017
Sunday, June 11, 2017
By the good drumming, the funny drumming,
you know the pileum sail, the torch head
storied wood and shade are flummoxed at, this
coat hook and door knock, filled with crazy trill,
speeding up the dead tree rot, piercing bill,
tilting tomahawk athwart, at home in
vertical axis planes, timber listening
close to the crevices, insect presence within.
The crasher is known by his tittering
wings and strange aim, messy and meticulous;
that no place proves his gauntlet who pocks
the skulking grubs from dark: what tweak and peck
his chip-tossing labour; his dynamic neck
like Rublev's Savior, suppleness uncontested:
what flex of freedom he calls singly from
an unbreakable bridge between heart and head.
Sunday, June 4, 2017
Wanderers have made swales in the stone stairs
in Jerusalem's dolorosa;
harrow of their penitence and prayers
lithoed to melt, candled to cry hosanna.
Water garments like flags at fountain side,
roots of knees to fuel the blooming deltoids,
with thrashing paddle on the tablet's hide
they've washed and world left; footing fuller's joy.
Last instant that his feet felt earth, the Son
left imprints on the hard hill; blameless soles
pierced and holy, that were ever missioned,
that dunned went to the soiled, and water strode.
Quarried crown in turn with pilgrim touching,
as sculptures whittled to bone at the woundings,
has gristed, hollowed more the mastered rock;
by the small who follow him, little flock.
Sunday, May 28, 2017
A little forest was torn up to build some boring sports complex/ice arena. While the immediate ruins lie, amid the mud and unearthed roots, greenfast starts again; even saplings come, as the site hangs briefly in suspension.
That is an image of time: the lowly green coming on between the wreckage without bewailing, as if no venerable forest was destroyed in a day. That is the quickness the forest had all along, when one would have called the forest old.
This is why certain memories can seem older and further away than others, though sequentially they are not ordered so. The event of one memory will seem far away which happened at a more recent date, while one that is sequentially older seems more recent: because there are certain points in time - like a time of crisis or a time of particular peace - that are an aggregation of previous points of time. This aggregation reveals those old memories in a new way, rather than making all those memories older. And the only time this happens is in the present.
It shows that we are born of suffering, and more often than not, we die from pleasure, or at least pleasure passes, and passing, becomes old. A time of trial though sends one bounding away from that point in time at a certain soaring rate, plumb into the present, which puts recent memories further away than older memories, while the older ones gain a newness.
While people like to say that time flows, the truer statement is that time aggregates.
One of the deepest things that T.S. Eliot wrote: "The past is about to happen."
The crucifixion that took place on Calvary is present on the altar when the consecration of the bread and wine takes place. No pious posturing necessary: you are present at Calvary and the Last Supper. This is the Bread of Life. This, and only this, truly fills you, moves, animates, brings joy and peace to you, beyond all understanding. And not for a moment only, but for your lifelong journey that is your life.
The power of absolution, the washing away of your sins, in a concrete moment in time, the forgiveness that Christ already won for you applied now in the present, after which you are a new creation, is the light in which you see your sins and past truly - in the soothing consolation of God's absolution.
I remember once driving with my Dad along some country road and I imagined in the forests we were passing, two companions walking. One of them was a priest, and at certain points, the man would make confession to the priest, and they would then carry on, till again, they would stop and the man would yet again make confession; over logs and creeks and around trees, they went forward as new creations, until yet again they would stop and the man would again make confession, and so on, and on; and every time they stopped, all time previous aggregated, and then unfolded as they went forward; and this never became tired to them.
On the contrary, their going forward like this was the very healing of time itself.