#liturgy
Lawrence Hall
[email protected]
Dispatches for the Colonial Office
Disturbances in Church
The more I am disturbed by liturgical novelties
The less I am disturbed by God
The less I am disturbed by liturgical novelties
The more I am disturbed by God
All of which is logical, not odd
Aug 10, 2025
Aug 10, 2025 at 9:17 AM UTC
Your voice, a lullaby
to my restless nights—
an embrace from
someone I’ve never known.
It lays down with me
here in my tomb,
awaiting ascension.
It knocks at the sepulchre
of my subconscious.
I yearn to know you.
Your rituals are devotions.
I long to learn from the gods.
Divinity has graced this sepulchre,
tapping the hard walls of this tomb.
Is this the voice of salvation,
or an echo of loss?
Am I ascending to heaven,
or are you descending with me to hell?
Your voice digs deep into my core,
down to my stone-cold being.
My flesh has rotted—
bled down to the marrow—
yet the feathers of your wings
have graced my lost soul.
In this sepulchre,
you knocked at my tomb.
You offered no redemption—
yet your presence is a confession.
A siren with feathers,
your presence lingers,
even without knowing you.
Your soul echoes within me.
Your songs, are sacred runes—
they cry and bleed,
like the river that flows through me.
Something ancient awakes,
knocking on these sepulchre walls.
It transcends heaven, hell, and earth—
an otherworldly communion,
carved out beyond mortal flesh.
Your voice lies beside me in this tomb.
A lingering presence,
keeping me grounded
as I await ascension.
- N.V. 🥀
Jul 14, 2025
Jul 14, 2025 at 10:59 PM UTC
Lawrence Hall, HSG
[email protected]
Thank God That’s Over
St. Therese of Lisieux is said to have said
After an especially long liturgy
“Thank God that’s over!”
And who am I to argue with a saint?
Apr 2, 2024
Apr 2, 2024 at 2:12 PM UTC
if you don’t know by now,
going to early mass is not my thing,
as I am one of those peeps of the tribe
that for your sins, died and then, again, and again
‘bout 6:00am, exchanging messages with
my fellow Indians (nooo, I’m not Indian) poets
on mundane subjects like tradition, grandchildren,
nagging wives, profits, revenues and earnings, expenses
(of that, more later)
now that we are living on the isle-no-elation,
the distractions are numerous though varied,
so I find myself unloading the dishwasher,
chopping, peeling, red, yellow peppers, cucumbers
then to a puzzle I am sent, how to fit in two
big cases of water into a Manhattan-sized
closet which shall we say, with largesse, isn’t
large-esse, comes pre-crammed from urban foraging
which means it’s coffee prep time so more
cleansing of yet another device, which happily
annoys by providing step by step, non-negotiable demands,
what me, just another human pretense machine, must execute
ménage a trois, three poems are pre-forming in
a mind that says concentrate, please don’t slice a fingertip,
but if you must, that romanesque nose, certainly
could use a trimming, if you are so energized & inclined
and it’s Sundae morning and I deliver the coffee,
making the route I’ve been plying for many morn,
this one is black, this one is oat milk, extra hot,
this one is awake, cause she’s giggling at **** emojis
oh yes indeed, a liturgical motet, a prayer to a lord,
I’ve never seen, but who insists on interrupting me,
when the mood is upon him, as if we humans were his own
coffee machine toys, don’t forget to make him herbal tea
and you say this is not a poem, and you whine,
overly long, and I laugh and say please, please,
don’t read it, I’ve got plenty others that garnered
accolades of multiple thousands and love this one better
feeling so holy, feeling so hollywood, my tasks nearly
completed, return to bed, when the nagging begins,
what have I forgotten, **** my own coffee hides,
in the microwave and by now needs a reheating twice
and while I must off to write of Indian traditions,^
the gains and losses of grandchildren, grandmothers,
a new debate rages, how shall I end this morning-prayer,
and
I offer myself
three choices,
in a language I speak in the original,
Hallelujah, Amen, and Selah.
8:49am
Manhattan Island
May 17
2020
May 17, 2020
May 17, 2020 at 8:58 AM UTC
*Keanu, salvum fac pópulum tuum.
et benedic hæreditati tuæ;
Dona ad victoriam imperator,
super hostes eorum.
et ex quo imperium tuum,
habitationem tuam substravisti.*
Nov 27, 2019
Nov 27, 2019 at 6:48 AM UTC
Oh crucified Messiah!
You walk along
The Messi street
Here in Kozhikode playgrounds,
Alone,
Head hung.
You used to write poetry
With your foot
In the green field.
Green pens of press rooms.
How swiftly did they
Turn to red underlines.
—————
I am writing to you
From this land
Where poets will
Always get red card in
Playgrounds of poetry.
You should get down at Kozhikode one day.
I shall introduce you to
MoyduVanimel,
A journalist as old as Kozhikode.
We should roam all around Kozhikode
With him.
We should listen to Vanimel tales,
Sipping hot tea,
At Malapparambu, Puthiyara and Kallayi,
Everywhere that remained under
The spell of your foot.
—————
There is a mosque cemetry
Full of Meezan stones
By the beach.
Tombs
Tattooed with
Foot poetry
By many souls
Who died
Many deaths
In the playground.
You can see,
From your flight itself,
Those Henna trees
That lean towards these tombs
And nod lazily in drizzle.
There,
I shall kneel down
And repeat
The Liturgy for the Losers,
For You.
Apr 2, 2019
Apr 2, 2019 at 1:35 AM UTC