"filii" poems
With all the fairest angels nearest God,
The ineffable true of heart around the throne,
There shall I find you waiting when the flown
Dream leaves my heart insentient as the clod;
And when the grief-retracing ways I trod
Become a shining path to thee alone,
My weary feet, that seemed to drag as stone,
Shall once again, with wings of fleetness shod,
Fare on, beloved, to find you! Just beyond
The seraph throng await me, standing near
The gentler angels, eager and apart;
Be there, near God's own fairest, with the fond
Sweet smile that was your own, and let me hear
Your voice again and clasp you to my heart.
2.5k
Dawn breaks. Sliver of light
through shutters, wakes Sister
Blaise, stirs her from sleep.
Bell rings. Chimes loud.
She sits up, legs over the
side of the bed. Bare feet,
wooden floor. Coldness bites.
Rubs arms, legs. Crosses
herself with middle digit,
in nomine Patris. Bright light
through shutters slices into
floor. Prayer said she rises
from her bed. Thoughts race
through her head. Drab night
gown, grey, long. She walks
to the enamel bowl, pours
cold water, washes face and
neck and hands. Et Filii, et
Spiritus Sancti. Lets water
run through fingers. Wash
me whiter. The Christ on
the wall hangs there in His
silence. Picture of Christ on
her desk, hands out stretched.
She runs water through her
fingers, wet, cold. Wash me,
cleanse me. She dries her
hands on the old white towel,
rubbing dry fingers, hands,
face and neck. Uncle used to.
Pushes thoughts of him away,
they slip back in place, eel like.
Uncle used to touch. Bless me
Father. She folds the towel,
places it neatly at the foot
of her bed. She removes the
nightgown. Dresses in her habit.
White and black. Mother said
nothing. Silence and the turning
of the head. Finger pressed
against lips. Dressed, she sets
about her cell. Tidying, sorting,
bed making. Uncle used to touch
her. For I have sinned. She opens
the shutters, lets light in, opens
the windows, fresh air, birdsong,
slight breeze. Father used to beat.
The Christ hanging from the cross
on the wall is silent. Nailed hands,
hands curled. She has kissed the
nailed feet. Now she stares at the
turned head, turned slightly to one
side, crown of thorns, wood carved.
Sister Clare is in the cloister. She
watches her walk. She stops. Looks
into the cloister Garth. Flowers
growing, neat rows, large bushes.
Mother said nothing. Beatings.
Lies told about Uncle he said.
Sent to bed, no supper. The sun
is warm, light on head. She walks
from the window and stands in
front of the crucifix. His hands
curled, nailed, old nails, pins.
Feet one on top of the other, nailed
in place. She kisses His feet.
Presses soft lips. Uncle used
to touch, said our secret, sin
to tell, little girl. She presses
lips to His feet. Mother weak,
said nothing, dying now, cancer,
pain, hurts. Father dead. Never
make old bones he said. Proved
right. She closes her eyes. Touches
His legs, runs finger along. Stiff,
cold, smooth. Uncle did; she never
told again. Father displeased, the
beating pleased. The bell rings again.
Echoes along cloister. She crosses
herself with middle digit. A bird sings.
Wind moves branches by window,
He calls, must leave, must go.
May 9, 2014
May 9, 2014 at 4:58 AM UTC
Lawrence Hall
[email protected]
Dispatches for the Colonial Office
Your Poems as Love-Letters to God
Gregariousness is always the refuge of mediocrities, whether
they swear by Soloviev or Kant or Marx. Only individuals
seek the truth, and they break with those who don’t love it
sufficiently.
-Doctor Zhivago, p. 9 in the Pantheon edition
You live, you have lived, and you will live
And because you live you will engrave your life
In elegant scansion, in noble lines
That shape chaos into beauty and truth
Not into metal or rocks or wood
But flung into Creation in gratitude
For the sacred life you have been given
For the strength of your love and thoughts
Each little line is a gathering-gift to God
Baptized in the Jordan and in the Hippocrene
To God, and to the Muses who smile on you
And to great Mysteries beyond the stars
Each little line is a gathering-gift to all
To read in the light of seven sacred lamps
The wisdom of patience and pilgrimage
Beside the banks of the river you know
You live, and so you write, you must, you must:
For there is meaning in tumbling in the grass
On a summer day that will live forever
Helped along in your written remembrancing
You live an eternal meaning in the why
Of laughter and puppy-kissings and grass-stained jeans
And that is why you must write it all down
For others in intellectually-sharpened rhythms
You live an eternal meaning in the why
Of love, of deeper kissings in the dark
Emotional confusions gone crazy-wild
Until they are sensed through crafted verse
You live an eternal meaning in the why
Of recruit training and sometimes war
The joys of learning wisdom from great books
Tentatively shaping your own new knowledge worthily
You live an eternal meaning in the why
Of leafy springs and apple-green summers
Golden autumns and winters of blue
Writing them as hymns of gratitude
You live an eternal meaning in the why
Of children in a home modest in wealth
But rich and layered in love, work, and prayer
“Is this poem about me?!” Oh, yes, child
You live an eternal meaning in the why
Of lonely nights, hospital stays, mistakes
Disappearing dreams, disappointed hopes
Memories of friends buried in the dust
You live, you have lived, and you will live
And because you live you will engrave your life
Love-letters as your gift to Creation
In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti*
Apr 8, 2025
Apr 8, 2025 at 8:54 AM UTC
So lay me down
in the coffin beneath
the sea, that's exactly
where I want to be.
Salt water building pressure
on the wood like the pressure
that you put me under each
and every day. Let the wood
splinter like so many lost lovers
and friends and let the water
fill my lungs and ears, bubbles
exploding from my mouth like
the arguments we use to have
to the backdrop of silverware
falling on linoleum. Let it fill my
body with **** and vinegar and
let the light that you cherished
so much fade away from my eyes
like headlights in the distance.
Feb 21, 2011
Feb 21, 2011 at 9:27 AM UTC
O, Lord forgotten please accept
Me upon my mission bereft,
I look to the stars in darkness and cry,
And teeming with demons I ask you why,
And how I can be rid of myself,
How may I ask you for help?
Please remain with me where others have left,
Please linger with me as I conquer each step,
Forgive my wrath, forgive my hatred,
Please stay in my destitute heart, my Savior.
In all my life I shall remember my words,
About the others who walk with the heard.
Nunquam animadverto paradisum,
Omnes perdes qui scitus I,
In nomine Patris et Filii,
Et Spiritus Sancti.
Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 7:27 PM UTC