"meam" poems
The sky was ablaze like glass in the church;
recumbent on stone floors / we had knocked out
the windows to let in only the blind light,
the blind arches that pointed heavenward, now yawning
narcoleptic houses of God grasping at sky and god
somehow / we captured daylight in our hands / we were
yearning for ourselves again between long hours of waiting
we believed in gods that breathed that great sky, we believed
in the breadth of cosmos more dazzling
than the church doors that we blew asunder
in that latter architecture where we decided the height
& breadth of the pillars in their proportions like
the proportions of man, exhausted & exaggerated,
man exalted, exaudi, exaudi, voca meam quam olim Abrahim
praises to all our lords on high, we sang in drunk
communion hailing, our communion with one another,
all of us there on the stone flags, hands in hands
we beat at the chests of each other, the eyes of each other
(we were just kids beating off to one thing or another)
and it was *** and chaos between those stone walls, it captured
us, bewildered us, those yawning heavens under the church ceiling,
the one that blazed with the dazzling color of windows
covered in dust like our skin the way it crept along the stone
and we craved it and the way that it seemed to creep,
the sky seemed to creep above us, seethed with light
some days we didn’t know which way was light, up
or lower down, it was usually easy to tell after you came
but we exhausted our voices, exaudi exaudi orationem meam
believing that something would hear us—we heard ourselves
more clearly in the throes of ****** nothing was more alive
more human, than anything, than anything that sang like that blazing
sky/ so we tossed ourselves forward into lightward, lightness
dazzling ourselves with light / it was the summer of everything closing /
the bewildering truth of our own god in cells and precious molecules
we made god in the throes of ****** worshipping in the dazzling sky
we had to propel ourselves forward, it was our stunning captivation
with that dazzling maze of flesh on the yearning sky, hands
searching inscrutably for hands, for god in the feverish sky, god
who doesn’t live in the sky, the god who climbs
with us, the god who screams in our ****** with us,
exaudi, exaudi, orationem meam, ad te omnes caro veniet…
Jan 8, 2012
Jan 8, 2012 at 11:46 AM UTC
Dominus misereatur
the nun said to Martha
what's that mean?
Martha said
Lord have mercy
the nun said
so why don't we say that
instead of talking to God
in a dead language?
Martha said
it is the language
of the Church
the nun said
and pointed out
other lines of Latin
to the rest of the class
Martha gazed at the black board
then lifted her eyes
to the huge crucifix
on the wall by the dark
wood boxed clock
there was dust and cobwebs
hanging from the arms
of the Crucified
and particles on
the crown of thorns
about His head
the plaster was aged
and here and there
it was worn through
to unpainted darkness
there was no hair
under His arms
as there was
under her da's arms
when he raised them
in his vest to brush
his receding hair
she mused
the nails had been
hammered into
hands and feet
causing the hands
to curl inwards like *****
exaudi orationem meam
the nun said
a girl raised her hand
what's it mean Sister Paul?
hear my prayer
the nun said
Martha wondered if
the Crucified had
been a Greek
whether he would have
worn a cloth
about his mid-drift
or been stark naked
like some Greek statues were
she'd seen in books
His eyes were half open
looking upwards
His beard had a long
string of cobweb
hanging down
needs cleaning
Martha mused
needs a good wash
she muttered
looking at the clock
tick-tocking beside Him
at half-past ten
and she muttered
a soft Amen.
May 2, 2016
May 2, 2016 at 3:36 AM UTC
i'm so ******* tired of writing about you
miserere mei deus
i'm sick of all these ******* dreams
secundum magnam misericordiam tuam
i'm fed up with the sleepless nights
et secundum multitudinem
the daylight hauntings
miserationum tuarum
the midnight ******* tears
dele iniquitatem meam
i hate that flutter in my gut that i only feel when i think of you
miserere mei deus
i hate that my heart rises in my throat only when i hear you laugh
secundum magnam misericordiam tuam
i hate that i love you
et secundum multitudinem
i hate that i love you
miserationum tuarum
i hate that i love you
dele iniquitatem meam
May 20, 2015
May 20, 2015 at 2:02 AM UTC
Elegy for a little girl, lost
by Michael R. Burch
. . . qui laetificat juventutem meam . . .
She was the joy of my youth,
and now she is gone.
. . . requiescat in pace . . .
May she rest in peace.
. . . amen . . .
Amen.
NOTE: I was touched by this Latin prayer, which I discovered in a novel I read as a teenager. I later decided to incorporate it into a poem. From what I now understand, “ad deum qui laetificat juventutem meam” means “to the God who gives joy to my youth,” but I am sticking with my original interpretation: a lament for a little girl at her funeral. The phrase can be traced back to Saint Jerome's translation of Psalm 42 in the Latin Vulgate Bible (circa 385 AD). Keywords/Tags: Latin, translation, Saint, Jerome, Vulgate, Bible, prayer, elegy, eulogy, hymn, joy, youth, death, peace, rest, consolation
Mar 4, 2020
Mar 4, 2020 at 9:23 PM UTC
In public,
I wear it well —
A mask of smiles,
Words sharp and light,
Jokes like armor,
Eyes that never seem to waver.
You see the me I've crafted —
But not the pain,
Not the struggles,
Not the tears,
Not the humiliations I've endured.
All of it — covered, hidden by:
Persona, protege me ab ulterius hominibus qui de me ridebant, semel ostendi infirmitatem meam, et ideo omnes non solum curaverunt, sed etiam me contumeliis affecerunt.
But with the mask,
All seems like fine, smooth glass —
Perfect, flawless,
Untouched.
Yet beneath that glass,
Cracks grow deeper,
Thin lines of truth,
Splitting under pressure.
Waiting for the moment
It all will break —
And when it breaks,
Will they see me?
Or just the shattered pieces?
Will they reach out,
Or step on the shards?
Will I be free,
Or filled with insults of my weakness?
And so, I wear the mask.
Mar 13, 2025
Mar 13, 2025 at 3:50 AM UTC
…Who Gives Joy to my Youth
Introibo ad altare Dei. Ad Deum qui laetificat juventutem meam.
I will go in to the altar of God: to God who giveth joy to my youth.
-Daily Missal, 1962
For Brother Simon
A child thinks joy is all about the child
And so it is. And maybe an old man feels
That joy just isn’t for him anymore
To kneel his creaking joints before the truth
But it is
A wise man knows that he is still a child
An infant playing before the cave of winds
A Moses borne upon the ancient Nile
A shivering youth stepping into the Jordan
Though the lad be strong and the man be frail
Both are joyful children at the altar rail
Jan 13, 2018
Jan 13, 2018 at 3:57 PM UTC
This is a poem I wrote for Fr. Raph’s 90th birthday this spring. Last night - 29 October 2020 - he died truly in the fullness of years, in the prayerful company of his brothers at the Abbey, and so I re-send this as my poor valedictory for him on his happiest birthday of all:
Father Raphael Barousse, OSB
Abbey St. Joseph, Covington, Louisiana
Monk, Missionary, Muleskinner, Writer, Teacher,
Scholar, Raconteur, Uncle Bubby,
Friend
To God, Who Gives Joy to Our Youth
For Reverend Raphael Barousse, OSB
Father Raph - Uncle Bubby - on His Birthday
Introibo ad altare Dei
Ad Deum qui laetificat juvenitutem meam
You look into the mirror and ask yourself
“Who is that old man staring back at me?”
Your friends tell you you’re lookin’ good - for your age
And your uncooperative body in protest creaks
But you and all of them are wrong because
You still approach the Altar as a child
As you once were, and are, and will be forever
For God will have it so, will have you so -
Enchanted by His magic - a little boy
A little boy in Sunday shoes and shirt
Who hears his Mama whispering to him, “Don’t squirm!”
As the Mass hums through a summer morning
Until that moment when you encounter Him:
The universe spirals through its sunlit dance
Creation spins around, in, and down
Eternity circles the paten and cup
Miraculum
Eternity circles the paten and cup
Around and out and up, Creation spins
Through its sunlit dance the universe spirals
And only little children understand that
And only little children are invited
And so God gives joy to your forever-youth
And your forever-youth gives joy to God
Oct 30, 2020
Oct 30, 2020 at 2:45 PM UTC
O! soft! mine heart
For it begins!
An "I suppose"--
After still
An' pause....
Dec 16, 2015
Dec 16, 2015 at 1:13 AM UTC
Molehills in the monk's graveyard,
I mowed the grass in between stones,
vide humiliatiónem meam et éripe me,
quia legem tuam non sum oblítus,
bell tolled from bell tower,
Dom Peter humble walked
across from cloister to tower,
warm sunshine, clouds passed,
sorrow for sin is indeed necessary,
but it should not be
an endless preoccupation Bernard said,
I tongued her sweet flower
arms outstretched like the Crucified,
see my distress, rescue me,
the mower hummed
in the afternoon sun,
sweat on brow, I wiped away,
Gareth said the limits of language
means the limits of our world
quoting Wittgenstein,
the things that we love
tell us what we are
Thomas said, incense smell
in the church after Mass,
Latin on my tongue bittersweet,
come my love enter me she said,
None office before tea in the garth,
I sipped tea and watched the monks
gather around the trolley
in the afternoon break,
I have not forgotten you law
but have gone beyond sometimes,
George spoke of the cold of winter
how it could break him down,
I kissed her with passion
like one about to drown.
Dec 24, 2015
Dec 24, 2015 at 12:01 PM UTC
Dully, the dewy eyes make their way towards a bed
And not, before something should be said:
The cure seems to be tomorrow.
The panacea for all death, lethargy and sorrow
Is tomorrow, which washes over us
A wave, the new day, fresh salt and water
And anything sad and onerous
Goes away, or at least can be approached by the daughter
Of today’s dying mother cell, and all hope lies
In the next day, because if not now, then mañana, demain, zavtra
Therein lies the happy ever after, after
After today, as the loom of life keeps on weaving
And the thread of life keeps on beading
And the sighs of life keep on leaving
And the tides of life keep on receding
And washing in again upon the shore
Washing my beached body evermore
Until I choose to stand up as I may
Stand, rise, up and seize the day –
By Jove, how am I so bare, so salted, so lost?
“Day one, or one day, you decide”
Oh prefect of 2017, where am I to hide
From your words? Where am I to hide from a host
Of other words, phrases, calling me out on “laissez-faire”?
The tide will wash over and over
The tide will erode the cliffs of Dover
The tide will erode me with time and lack of care
Because the rhythm cares not,
Though it bares us on
The music won’t stop,
As we dance as one
The machine keeps grinding
The barons keep minding
The hurdy-gurdy keeps winding
And Time keeps binding
And the poet keeps writing
And keeps writing, and biting
Her nib
And her lip
And thinking this sounded better in my mind
Than put down to pages unlined, undefined
Nothing can be defined, only compared
There is no pen that can know,
No knowledge that may be shared
Only pondering
Wondering
Musing, when the muse gives
When one feels one lives
When one feels, one lives
When one reels, one gives
When the world keeps reeling
And I keep feeling
And this page is keeling
And your eyes are peeling
But I did not come to write horror –
I wanted to give hope for tomorrow,
Which will surely come, but, audi vocem meam
Te imploro: *** venit, carpe diem.
Mar 7, 2021
Mar 7, 2021 at 6:30 AM UTC