Category Archives: poetry

Be still, sad heart!

poetry, weather, , ,

THE RAINY DAY

The day is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
The vine still clings to the mouldering wall,
But at every gust the dead leaves fall,
And the day is dark and dreary.

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past,
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,
And the days are dark and dreary.

Be still, sad heart! and cease repining;
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;
Thy fate is the common fate of all,
Into each life some rain must fall,
Some days must be dark and dreary.

-Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

A mind like snow.

poetry, , , , , ,

This lighthearted (or sardonic – see the comments below) poem by Philip Larkin reminds me of a short conversation I had with a Christian friend about the possibility of my developing dementia in my old age, to the point where I would forget God. She gently rebuked me for not remembering that it is in my spirit, my nous, that I know God most truly, and I would never forget him, no matter what happened to my fragile intellect.

One aspect of the mind that I notice in the poem is its coldness, as it’s likened to snow. By contrast, we might think of those whose hearts are warmed by the love of God. If you have people like that around, radiating into your life, it doesn’t really matter what facts they have forgotten.

THE WINTER PALACE

Most people know more as they get older:
I give all that the cold shoulder.

I spent my second quarter-century
Losing what I had learnt at university.

And refusing to take in what had happened since.
Now I know none of the names in the public prints,

And am starting to give offence by forgetting faces
And swearing I’ve never been in certain places.

It will be worth it, if in the end I manage
To blank out whatever it is that is doing the damage.

Then there will be nothing I know.
My mind will fold into itself, like fields, like snow.

-Philip Larkin

 

Reading a Wife

poetry, the language, writing, , , ,

READING A WIFE

A wife is not composed of words, so
Unlike a novel that takes till dawn
To devour she cannot be read
through in a night

Repeating the uneasy lines of a poem
Over and over, rereading again and again
would be different, too (though it probably looks the same)

Yesterday, while driving the car
In a break in the din
I heard for a moment the beat of a bird’s wings
Ah, I thought

That ‘Ah’ was just for one moment, but
It would need an eternity to comprehend, never mind
My wife, who is before me sleeping or awake

Is it arrogant to even want to read a person?
Not her expressions or gestures
But to want to read that person, my wife
Unable to be satisfied with just living together?

My wife speaking to me from across the table
My wife wordlessly tossing and turning in bed
The one there that seems like
Loyal ladies-in-waiting serving a wife I can’t see

In the breath inscribed in each sentence
Punctuated by daily reality
Its draft turns the pages of my wife

I wish to grasp not the look but the way of the words
In a quiet place far from both my wife and myself
And like a twig that smells the approach of snow in the air
I want to read my wife

-Yotsumoto Yasuhiro

Bedouin Woman by César Gemayel

Bearing that secret, ancient flame.

feasts, poetry, , , , , ,

ELIZABETH TO HER COUSIN

After Jacob of Serug

Blessed are you, O Maiden; blest
The fruit which dwells within your womb,
Beloved in that holy rest
Whose secret comes to sacred bloom.
And blessed is this virgin birth
Which shall uproot sin from the earth.

Who grants this favor to me now,
That you should come, O Blessed One,
Bearing the great who is made low?
By his own will this thing is done.
The mother of a king, and yet,
It’s at my wooden door we’ve met.

Let every mouth speak out your praise,
And all the seraphim stand shaken.
Your womb contains the brilliant rays
That from a living flame shall waken
This world, whose sleep in sin-black night
Gives way before new life and light.

The gardener who clears the thorns;
A lion’s cub whose jaws shall roar
Louder than all of Joshua’s horns,
And drive all craven wolves before:
Such is the sun that all shall see
Arise from you as from the sea.

But who am I that you should come
Bearing the one who made the world,
Who is its savior and its sum,
And yet within you now lies curled?
I am unfit, Ancient of Days,
To welcome you or speak your praise.

But, Lady blest and full of grace,
I see your beauty and rejoice;
The radiant flush upon your face,
A living water in your voice,
Disclosing what alone you know,
That light and word within you grow.

No angel spoke this truth to me,
But he who grows within me stirred
The moment that my eyes could see
You, still far off, and my ears heard
Your call, as down the hill you came,
Bearing that secret, ancient flame.

-James Matthew Wilson