"missal" poems
THE VERY THING IT WAS REQUIRED TO BE SHOWN
( for J.L )
"I like birds
more than books."
a young Edward
Thomas thinks
scribbling it
in bad Latin
on the fly leaf of
an algebra book.
A chaffinch chuckles.
"Vink...vink...vink!" it urges
in a regional accent.
"Fringilla Coelebs!"
Edward addresses it.
"Sheld-appel...spink..blue cap!"
the bird disowns its names
content with being
itself and itself
only.
It looks as if it has
just stepped out of the 15th century
illuminated maunuscript
The Shelbourne Missal.
"A caterpillar skeletonising a leaf
mmm...breakfast mefinks!"
The year 1895
madly in love with its own
sunlight
never such sunlight
as this
the window holds the scene
as if it were
a living painting.
The bird behind the glass
poetry in just being.
The torture of
an algebra class
"Quod erat demonstrandum."
Feb 15, 2018
Feb 15, 2018 at 8:45 AM UTC
The Autumn missal has arrived,
A fall reminder of the coming cold,
Strange slanting light to shift the maple
Greens to furious red and gold.
High above the myriad travelers chant adieu,
As on their sky-road paths they sing,
A chorus glorious to southern waters blue
Where winter marshes serve a warm retreat.
A liturgy of highest order drives the world
Beyond the ken of time-old cycles round;
Hibernal instinct now in feral life unfurls:
Flogs squirrels outward on their oak-corn bounds,
Plushes wealth of wolves' warm winter fur,
Hardens bone and antler, deepens feathered down,
Adds harvest fat to beast and fish and fowl,
Drives sap below old Frost's attempt to burrow down.
_________________
Unspoken paen unheard by almost all,
A careless shivering passerby may dread
This ritual changing of the Fall,
But never mind, the liturgy is read,
And Nature safely tucks herself into her wintery bed.
Sep 19, 2013
Sep 19, 2013 at 9:53 AM UTC
The Poetry Barn wasn’t really a barn
It was merely an old farm house,
It sat on the acres of Eddington’s Farm,
Surrounded by sheep and by cows.
But Poets came over from Stuttersby Dell,
Drove over from Scatabout Wood,
To write in the air of the Poetry Barn
About things, when they ought and they should.
They came from Great Orton, they came from Rams Well,
They came from Glenn Wheatley and Grey,
The best and the worst of the poets you’d find
At the Poetry Barn, every day,
The rooms had been empty for many a year
So they all sat on bundles of straw,
And when they ran out they would send up a shout,
So some would go out and get more.
The mornings would see all the Elegies worked,
The Epics, the Odes and Quatrains,
The Poetry Barn would then grumble and groan
As the Dirges would enter the drains.
By noon the fair Sonnets came into their own
With just the odd wanton Lament,
When poets would seek out the culprit to find
One grinding his verse in a tent.
By evening they’d work on the Pastoral,
The Sestet, the Roundel as well,
And those at a loss after losing the toss
Would be stuck with the old Villanelle,
They’d all settle down when the Moon came up round,
And the stars twinkled boldly in rhyme,
When one asked the other, ‘pray, what rhymes with brother,’
And he’d say, ‘your Mom, all the time.’
The poems would stick to the inside walls,
Would tear at each other like knaves,
They’d fill up the aisles and lie flat on the tiles
And would damage the old architraves.
At night you could hear all the horses hooves
As they carried the good news to Aix,
And in came the wedding guest, him with the albatross
Counting his many mistakes.
I saw that they’d burned down the Poetry Barn
With one sad, incendiary rhyme,
A poet called Glover who wrote to his lover
‘My candle, you light all the time.’
The straw caught alight in his lover’s delight
And they fled from that bastion of verse,
I just penned this missal for someone to whistle,
The one that he’d written was worse.
David Lewis Paget
Nov 22, 2015
Nov 22, 2015 at 6:25 AM UTC
The day is gone, and all its sweets are gone!
Sweet voice, sweet lips, soft hand, and softer breast,
Warm breath, light whisper, tender semitone,
Bright eyes, accomplished shape, and lang'rous waist!
Faded the flower and all its budded charms,
Faded the sight of beauty from my eyes,
Faded the shape of beauty from my arms,
Faded the voice, warmth, whiteness, paradise—
Vanished unseasonably at shut of eve,
When the dusk holiday—or holinight
Of fragrant-curtained love begins to weave
The woof of darkness thick, for hid delight;
But, as I've read love's missal through today,
He'll let me sleep, seeing I fast and pray.
1.8k
Geografia I
Quando a Vila Jaiara era do mundo
O centro vital; se mais longe houvesse,
Lá chegara, aos saltos, de susto tomado
Em mim mesmo; silente rezava o missal.
Corria pelos campos – a savana, cerrado.
O medo do sistema heliocêntrico
Ainda não perdera: o medo de ser
Só. Eu vivia com meus irmãos e irmãs –
Éramos uma centena de bichinhos
Em torno de nossa mãe adotada,
A quem chamávamos de Senhora.
E em torno dela, tudo girava, girava...
Os grandes mandavam-nos, sorrateiros,
Andar pelo cerrado em busca de tudo:
Gabirobas, cajuzinhos, goiabas ...
Na Vila Jaiara havia tanta coisa mais.
A casa de Helena; de deuses onde doces.
Que à caminhada tornava clara para nós.
Centro luminoso em que a ceia do Senhor.
Não havia São Paulo ou Rio de Janeiro –
No máximo: Belo Horizonte, Araxá
Povoavam nossos sonhos.
E talvez Ouro Preto e Divinópolis –
Onde Dora reinava...
- Goiânia, São Petersburgo e Tegucigalpa – só no Atlas.
Anápolis era outra estória: a cidade, o comércio longe demais...
Ali na Jaiara estava o centro de tudo
e no centro de tudo o amor:
Laíde Epifânia me nomeara “Maninho”.
Naquele tempo, na nossa vila, não passava um rio.
Mas havia a fábrica de tecidos, onde Jorge –
Noivo de minha irmã – tecia a união e afeto
E me ensinava a andar de bicicleta.
Do Vietnã, só soube no ginásio.
./.
Feb 7, 2016
Feb 7, 2016 at 5:28 PM UTC
Mausam bindaas hai
Fir bhi dil udaas hai
Sab kehte hain boondein khushiyaan lehraati hain..
Fir Kyun mujhko ye sisakte aanso lagte hain
Na jaane kaise ye reet hai..?
Shrishti ki khushi..meghon ke rone mein..
Dharti ka adhikaar ya aasmaan ka badappan..
Jaane kaun sahi hai kis roop mein..?
Adhbhut anokha..
Be-missal pyaar..
Na dharti per ** sookha..
na aasmaan ** kaala..!!!
Apr 10, 2018
Apr 10, 2018 at 8:28 AM UTC
Showers of promise punctuate your days,
The waters creek, mumble rise and swell,
Flowers, spark of youth, marching in the rains
And birds sing anew, bright pages, bursting-bell,
An earthy coronation, cleanse and glisten,
All the wood, shorn by Winters’ wane and fan,
*** and waltz in balmy breeze collecting
Ferns and Falls' forgotten blood red hands
Renewed, the grass and trees, heavens missal,
Wing-lipped leaves exploding green, just listen;
The washing rains parade, all resurrection.
Jun 1, 2012
Jun 1, 2012 at 9:55 PM UTC
Showers of promise punctuate your days,
The waters creek, mumble rise and swell,
Flowers, spark of youth, marching in the rains
And birds sing anew, bright pages, bursting-bell,
An earthy coronation, cleanse and glisten,
All the wood, shorn by Winters’ wane and fan,
*** and waltz in balmy breeze collecting
Ferns and Falls' forgotten blood red hands
Renewed, the grass and trees, heavens missal,
Wing-lipped leaves exploding green, just listen;
The washing rains parade, all resurrection.
Mar 20, 2013
Mar 20, 2013 at 2:37 PM UTC
Showers of promise punctuate your days,
The waters creek, mumble rise and swell,
Flowers, spark of youth, marching in the rains
And birds sing anew, bright pages, bursting-bell,
An earthy coronation, cleanse and glisten,
All the wood, shorn by Winters’ wane and fan,
*** and waltz in balmy breeze collecting
Ferns and Falls' forgotten blood red hands
Renewed, the grass and trees, heavens missal,
Wing-lipped leaves exploding green, just listen;
The washing rains parade, all resurrection.
Sep 17, 2012
Sep 17, 2012 at 1:46 PM UTC
Showers of promise punctuate your days,
The waters creek, mumble rise and swell,
Flowers, spark of youth, marching in the rains
And birds sing anew, bright pages, bursting-bell,
An earthy coronation, cleanse and glisten,
All the wood, shorn by Winters’ wane and fan,
*** and waltz in balmy breeze collecting
Ferns and Falls' forgotten blood red hands
Renewed, the grass and trees, heavens missal,
Wing-lipped leaves exploding green, just listen;
The washing rains parade, all resurrection.
Feb 11, 2014
Feb 11, 2014 at 1:26 PM UTC
Showers of promise punctuate your days,
The waters creek, mumble rise and swell,
Flowers, spark of youth, marching in the rains
And birds sing anew, bright pages, bursting-bell,
An earthy coronation, cleanse and glisten,
All the wood, shorn by Winters’ wane and fan,
*** and waltz in balmy breeze collecting
Ferns and Falls' forgotten blood red hands
Renewed, the grass and trees, heavens missal,
Wing-lipped leaves exploding green, just listen;
The washing rains parade, all resurrection.
Feb 20, 2015
Feb 20, 2015 at 12:56 PM UTC
Advent Remains Unoccupied
Advent remains at peace, unoccupied
There are no Advent trees to buy or steal
No seasonally-discounted lingerie
No Advent hymns background the lite-beer ads
At Mass: a wreath, a candle every week
And music set to God, not to the sales;
The missal now begins again, page one
And through the liturgy so too do we
Almost no one notices this season, and thus
Advent remains at peace, unoccupied
Dec 3, 2017
Dec 3, 2017 at 8:43 AM UTC
Showers of promise punctuate your days,
The waters creek, mumble rise and swell,
Flowers, spark of youth, marching in the rains
And birds sing anew, bright pages, bursting-bell,
An earthy coronation, cleanse and glisten,
All the wood, shorn by Winters’ wane and fan,
*** and waltz in balmy breeze collecting
Ferns and Falls' forgotten blood red hands
Renewed, the grass and trees, heavens missal,
Wing-lipped leaves exploding green, just listen;
The washing rains parade, all resurrection.
Nov 10, 2013
Nov 10, 2013 at 3:18 PM UTC
At least five a day! Stop smoking!
Enough messages to fatten a
health freak, sprinkling my consciousness
like drizzle pimpling a window pane.
On Dali time - I wander
a nightmare hall of mirrors.
My watch slow, slow - marching
past the appointment hour.
Incubating my ***** sample,
I watch a young man bending forward
like a scribe studying his text.
Someone silently mouthing
her missal or her shopping list.
Ping! Will William Shaw
please go to room five.
Back to the slow march.
Please let me be next.
Nov 18, 2015
Nov 18, 2015 at 6:22 AM UTC
The day is gone, and all its sweets are gone!
Sweet voice, sweet lips, soft hand, and softer breast,
Warm breath, light whisper, tender semi-tone,
Bright eyes, accomplish’d shape, and lang’rous waist!
Faded the flower and all its budded charms,
Faded the sight of beauty from her eyes,
Faded the shape of beauty from my arms,
Faded the voice, warmth, whiteness, paradise –
Vanish’d unseasonably at shut of eve,
When the dusk holiday – or holy night
Of fragrant-curtain’d love begins to weave
The woof of darkness thick, for hid delight,
But, as I’ve read love’s missal through to-day,
She’ll let me sleep, seeing I fast and pray.
Sep 6, 2015
Sep 6, 2015 at 12:22 PM UTC
Showers of promise punctuate your days,
The waters creek, mumble rise and swell,
Flowers, spark of youth, marching in the rains
And birds sing anew, bright pages, bursting-bell,
An earthy coronation, cleanse and glisten,
All the wood, shorn by Winters’ wane and fan,
*** and waltz in balmy breeze collecting
Ferns and Falls' forgotten blood red hands
Renewed, the grass and trees, heavens missal,
Wing-lipped leaves exploding green, just listen;
The washing rains parade, all resurrection.
Jan 16, 2013
Jan 16, 2013 at 2:52 PM UTC
Akkha khola te saamne tu hove,
Rabb tou aiyo dua mangdi ve.
Zindagi da koi mol ni tere baigair,
Tere baajo adhuri aa teri heer.
Tere ch mai apda khuda labheya,
Qismat wali aa je tu mera saaya baneya.
Har koi kise di majburi ni samjhda,
Par tu har vele mainu labhda.
Kise shayar tou ohda dard na pucheyo,
Dard nu vi inni khubsurti naal aakhe oo.
Ki sabnu pyaar ** jave,
Tere dil ch thandi chawa ve.
Shukar dateya tera,
Khushi aa ki oo sitara mera.
Aasmaa tou tott ke mere jholi paaya,
Rooh ch meri sirf ohi samaya.
Tuhadi dewa mai ki missal,
Tussi ** hi bemisaal.
Zindagi da har ik panna rangeya tussi,
Tuhadi mukhde te hove har pal khushi.
Nov 13, 2019
Nov 13, 2019 at 8:36 AM UTC
~
Showers of promise punctuate your days,
The waters creek, mumble rise and swell,
Flowers, spark of youth, marching in the rains
And birds sing anew, bright pages, bursting-bell,
An earthy coronation, cleanse and glisten,
All the wood, shorn by Winters’ wane and fan,
*** and waltz in balmy breeze collecting
Ferns and Falls' forgotten blood red hands
Renewed, the grass and trees, heavens missal,
Wing-lipped leaves exploding green, just listen;
The washing rains parade, all resurrection.
Feb 10, 2017
Feb 10, 2017 at 8:22 PM UTC
It is towards a slow keeping-together of themes
from a missal-thrush memory
that words keen and are made.
The place matters little:
a furrow of ponds, a wet landscape
curved like a dish, the brittle stare and awkward movement
of spread-eagling duck on a cup of ice –
what do these matter? unless
the memory keels to the retina a shape of things to come,
teases and minnows them down to a flashing fin
in a chamber of shapeless streams, in a chamber
of crosses and thrushes.
May 2, 2017
May 2, 2017 at 11:51 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
I miss you
Three words.
So intense
They tare apart my soul
They're all I hear
You're all I see
I can't dare respond
I have to let it be
At least in this moment
For tonight
Let me dream of those words
I miss you
It took my breath away
Seeing those three words, so clear
I miss you
YOU miss me
How's that possible
It was so abrupt
The last words
The heat of the moment
Now those three innocent words make that all disappear
I want to be somewhere with you
But for now I'm not
I miss you
I close my eyes
Let it sink in
The beauty of the meaning
I miss you
I look at those words till I fall asleep
Till they're etched in my mind
I take it in
Breath
Inhale
Exhale
I miss you
I miss you
Don't respond
I don't wanna hear what comes next
I want this moment to be perfect
I want your words to be real
I miss you
Will you always miss me?
A part of me wonders
A part of me never wants to find out
Jun 16, 2014
Jun 16, 2014 at 8:39 PM UTC
he has become a gray man in a graying world
eyes fixed forward purposefully
codified rules, missal
clutched tightly in hand
betrayed by trust
refuted in insipid halls
were learning no longer matters
unable to discern
wisdom bleeds out to folly
applauded by the mob
their gray eyes and atrophied souls satisfied
May 22, 2017
May 22, 2017 at 7:28 AM UTC
It is towards a slow keeping-together of themes
from a missal-thrush memory
that words keen and are made.
The place matters little:
a furrow of ponds, a wet landscape
curved like a dish, the brittle stare and awkward movement
of spread-eagling duck on a cup of ice –
what do these matter? unless
the memory keels to the retina a shape of things to come,
teases and minnows them down to a flashing fin
in a chamber of shapeless streams, in a chamber
of crosses and thrushes.
May 24, 2017
May 24, 2017 at 9:01 PM UTC
Mother won't bleed--
Mother won't bleed again to the breaking song
according to the gospel of insanity of man:
She says life is in the hands of a madman,
she says Sunday is not enough to bless the
memories of her son who lost in the hands of astraying bullets.We'll hold down Borno;
Mother won't bleed--
Mother won't bleed again in that house on
the other side of the street holding this tale
of her daughter with the etagere before she
took her last picture from the universe.
And the pastor said to her ghost
"dust & unto dust you shall return"
It was ash Wednesday & the frond hasn't
been burnt to ashes, would mother bleed again?
The leather missal is no more & Mary
could not attest to it provocative missing...
When we saw tears in the eyes of God,
We knew this house on the other side of
the street started this--the madness in us all.
We could not see also the body of the missing Christ.the figurine. the chaplet.the rosary.
Mother won't bleed again to this course...
But her memories did not start in Benue
Where she beheld laughing ghost of humans
celebrating how her homeland tortured them,
It started here in that house on the other side
of the street where her two children died in fear. anxiety. depression. tears. forgotten.
& she taught us how to dry our eyes before Sunday service.
©John Chizoba Vincent
#TheSage.
Jan 22, 2019
Jan 22, 2019 at 4:25 AM UTC
THE VERY THING IT WAS REQUIRED TO BE SHOWN
( for Jeremy )
"I like birds
more than books."
a young Edward
Thomas thinks
scribbling it
in bad Latin
on the fly leaf of
an algebra book.
A chaffinch chuckles.
"Vink...vink...vink!" it urges
in a regional accent.
"Fringilla Coelebs!"
Edward addresses it.
"Sheld-appel...spink..blue cap!"
the bird disowns its names
content with being
itself and itself
only.
It looks as if it has
just stepped out of the 15th century
illuminated maunuscript
The Shelbourne Missal.
"A caterpillar skeletonising a leaf
mmm...breakfast mefinks!"
The year 1895
madly in love with its own
sunlight
never such sunlight
as this
the window holds the scene
as if it were
a living painting.
The bird behind the glass
poetry in just being.
The torture of
an algebra class
"Quod erat demonstrandum."
Feb 25, 2023
Feb 25, 2023 at 12:01 PM UTC