the Journey of the Magi, a poem

The Journey Of The Magi 

'A cold coming we had of it,
Just the worst time of the year
For a journey, and such a long journey:
The ways deep and the weather sharp,
The very dead of winter.'
And the camels galled, sorefooted, refractory,
Lying down in the melting snow.
There were times we regretted
The summer palaces on slopes, the terraces,
And the silken girls bringing sherbet.
Then the camel men cursing and grumbling
and running away, and wanting their liquor and women,
And the night-fires going out, and the lack of shelters,
And the cities hostile and the towns unfriendly
And the villages dirty and charging high prices:
A hard time we had of it.
At the end we preferred to travel all night,
Sleeping in snatches,
With the voices singing in our ears, saying
That this was all folly. 

Then at dawn we came down to a temperate valley,
Wet, below the snow line, smelling of vegetation;
With a running stream and a water-mill beating the darkness,
And three trees on the low sky,
And an old white horse galloped away in the meadow.
Then we came to a tavern with vine-leaves over the lintel,
Six hands at an open door dicing for pieces of silver,
And feet kiking the empty wine-skins.
But there was no information, and so we continued
And arriving at evening, not a moment too soon
Finding the place; it was (you might say) satisfactory. 

All this was a long time ago, I remember,
And I would do it again, but set down
This set down
This: were we led all that way for
Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly
We had evidence and no doubt. I had seen birth and death,
But had thought they were different; this Birth was
Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death.
We returned to our places, these Kingdoms,
But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation,
With an alien people clutching their gods.
I should be glad of another death. 

~T. S. Eliot

the kind of writing I want to do when I grow up

                             Crabapple holding in arms

what almost has

vanished,

selvage and leaf-lavish open.

Pumpkin seed in the hand,

lick the salt after.

What remains, after.

Bowl fill with woodpecker’s shavings of cedar.

Door of the beak, release attic.

Voice remain fragrant.

Love hold the lungs again open.

By the bed, here.

By silence and whiteness,

by staying.

Carved scent of orange-oil, open.

By rise of the woodpecker’s question,

of crabapple fruiting,

clasp now this room that is given.

Open with flood what is given,

once again fragrant and here.

       ~Jane Hirshfield,                                                  

“Spell to Be Said After Illness”                        

in The Hungry Ear: Poems of Food & Drink

+   +   +   +

I’m a big fan of Heather King’s writing.

I’ve mentioned this exceptional Catholic writer before, but just in case you missed it… check out her blog here, and go here to read about Redeemed, my introduction into Heather’s writing.

It’s not just Heather’s quality of thought and of writing—which is, indeed, brilliant.

Perhaps what I enjoy and appreciate the most is Heather’s ability to take an intellectual concept (or an academic idea, or a conceptual artistic expression), and in genuine Ignatian fashion, deliberately and honestly explore, question and challenge herself -- until she discovers and is able to describe God’s presence there.

It’s the type of writing I want to do when I grow up.

It seems fitting, therefore, on this feast of St. Ignatius of Loyola, to connect once again with Heather’s blog, a place where I so frequently feel invited –and provoked – to experience God, day by day.

From one of her blog posts last week:

"There is a custom which I have met only in Thailand, whereby a person composes a small cookbook before her or his death, so that it can be distributed as a keepsake to the mourners attending the funeral.

The recipes, typically no more than a score, are likely to be those which the deceased especially enjoyed. They need not have been composed or used by the deceased, but often are. Sometimes they incorporate little anecdotes and attributions. . . .

The idea is attractive. With what better keepsake could one depart from a funeral? What other would equally well keep one's memory green among friends?”

“Funeral Cookbooks” by Alan Davidson,

 in The Penguin Book of Food and Drink

Check out the rest of her blog post—and Heather’s personal recipe for Tuscan Rosemary and Pine Nut Bars—here!

What an interesting idea, to create a keepsake of recipes for the mourners at my funeral. What would you put in yours? 

My Funeral Cookbook would definitely have to begin with a good paella recipe... and plátanos maduros... and Cuban rum cake...

what do You want of me?

If You want me to rest,

I desire it for love;

If to labor,

I will die working:

Sweet Love say

Where, how and when.

What do You want of me?

Calvary or Tabor give me,

Desert for fruitful land;

As Job in suffering

Or John at Your breast;

Barren or fruited vine,

Whatever be Your will:

What do You want of me?

Be I Joseph chained

Or as Egypt’s governor,

David pained

Or exalted high,

Jonas drowned,

Or Jonas freed:

What do You want of me?

Silent or speaking,

Fruitbearing or barren,

My wounds shown by the Law,

Rejoicing in the tender Gospel;

Sorrowing or exulting,

You alone live in me:

What do You want of me?

Yours I am, for You I was born:

What do You want of me?

~Teresa of Ávila,       

                                            from the poem “In the Hands of God”

Over the next few months I will publish here some of my favorite poems and writings in celebration of the 5^th centenary of the birth of Saint Teresa of Ávila (1515-2015)—a woman whose life, faith and candor has profoundly formed and influenced my faith journey!

[photo of floor mosaic:  St. John Neumann Catholic Church, Austin @SJNAustin]

wednesday wonder: God is today, a poem

God is Today 

God is today. 

He is not yesterday. 

He is not tomorrow.

God is the dawn, wakening earth to life; 

the first morning ever, 

shining with infinite innocence; a revelation 

older than all beginning, younger than youth. 

God is the noon, blinding the eye of the mind 

with the blaze of truth. 

God is the sunset, casting over creation 

a color of glory 

as He withdraws into mysteries of light.

God is today. 

He is not yesterday. 

He is not tomorrow. 

He never is night.

~Jessica Powers, Sister Miriam of the Holy Spirit,

in “The Selected Poetry of Jessica Powers”

To learn more about Jessica Powers and her poetry, go here! 

beach scenes: Malibu, CA, 2014

It is Midday: a poem

Amiens, France, 2013

San Diego, CA

"It is Midday"

It is midday. I see the church

open. I must enter.

Mother of Jesus Christ, I do

not come to pray.

I have nothing to ask

and nothing to offer.

I come only, Mother, to look at

you.

To look at you, to cry for joy,

to know that I am your son

and that you are there. Only

for a moment while everything 

stops. Midday!

To be yours, Mary in this

place where you are.

Saying nothing, but looking at

you and letting my heart sing

in its own language....

Because it is midday, because

we are here today, because

you are always there, simply

because you are Mary, simply

because you exist, Mother of

Jesus, be thanked.

                                  ~Jean-Pierre Prévost,

                                                                as published in Magnificat, 

                                              February 7, 2015

Cane, France, 2013

Guatemala, 2011

San Alfonso Retreat House, NJ

Rome

what we need is here

Mont Saint-Michele, France
2013

The Wild Geese Horseback on Sunday morning,harvest over, we taste persimmonand wild grape, sharp sweetof summer’s end. In time’s maze
over the fall fields, we name names
that went west from here, namesthat rest on graves. We opena persimmon seed to find the treethat stands in promise,pale, in the seed’s marrow.Geese appear high over us,pass, and the sky closes. Abandon,as in love or sleep, holdsthem to their way, clear,in the ancient faith: what we needis here. And we pray, not
for new earth or heaven, but to bequiet in heart, and in eyeclear. What we need is here. 

~Wendell Berry, “The Selected Poems of Wendell Berry”