The O Antiphons
December 17
O Wisdom, which camest out of the mouth of the most High, and reachest from one end to another, mightily and sweetly ordering all things: Come and teach us the way of prudence.
O Sapientia, quae ex ore Altissimi prodisti, attingens a fine usque ad finem, fortiter suaviterque disponens omnia: veni ad docendum nos viam prudentiae.
December 18
O Adonai and Leader of the house of Israel, who appearedst in the Bush of Moses in a flame of fire, and gavest him the law in Sinai: Come and deliver us with an outstretched arm.
O Adonai, et Dux domus Israel, qui Moysi in igne flammae rubi apparuisti, et ei in Sina legem dedisti: veni ad redimendum nos in brachio extento.
December 19
O Root of Jesse, which standest for an ensign of the people, at whom kings shall shut their mouths, to whom the Gentiles shall seek: Come and deliver us, and tarry not.
O Radix Jesse, qui stas in signum populorum, super quem continebunt reges os suum, quem gentes deprecabuntur: veni ad liberandum nos, jam noli tardare.
December 20
O Key of David, and Sceptre of the house of Israel; that openest, and no man shutteth, and shuttest, and no man openeth: come and bring the prisoner out of the prison house, and him that sitteth in darkness, and the shadow of death.
O Clavis David, et sceptrum domus Israel: qui aperis, et nemo claudit; claudis, et nemo aperit: venit, et educ vinctum de domo carceris, sedentem in tenebris et umbra mortis.
December 21
O Day-Spring, Brightness of Light, everlasting and sun of Righteousness: Come and enlighten him that sitteth in darkness, and the shadow of death.
O Oriens, splendor lucis aeternae, et sol justitiae: veni, et illumina sedentes in tenebris et umbra mortis.
December 22
O King of the Nations, and their Desire; the Cornerstone, who makest both one: Come and save mankind, whom thou formedst of clay.
O Rex gentium, et desideratus earum, lapisque angularis, qui facis utraque unum: veni, et salva hominem, quem de limo formasti.
December 23
O Emmanuel, our King and Lawgiver, the Desire of all nations, and their Salvation: Come and save us, O Lord our God.
O Emmanuel, Rex et legifer noster, exspectatio gentium, et Salvator earum: veni ad salvandum nos Domine Deus noster.
Monday, December 17, 2007
Timeless works of art
Cardinal Seán visits the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum, where one can find Sandro Botticelli's Virgin and Child with an Angel (c. 1470), and other fine works of holy inspiration; slowly scroll down.
Cardinal Seán visits the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum, where one can find Sandro Botticelli's Virgin and Child with an Angel (c. 1470), and other fine works of holy inspiration; slowly scroll down.
Saturday, December 15, 2007
A discovery
Sr. Genevieve Glen, OSB, editor of the daily offices in the monthly prayer book Magnificat, has her own blog : Take with You Words.
Sr. Genevieve Glen, OSB, editor of the daily offices in the monthly prayer book Magnificat, has her own blog : Take with You Words.
Hymn
O quickly come, great King of all;
Reign all around us, and within;
Let sin no more our souls enthrall,
Let pain and sorrow die with sin:
O quickly come; for you alone
Can make your scattered people one.
O quickly come, true Life of all,
For death is mighty all around;
On every home his shadows fall,
On every heart his mark is found:
O quickly come; for grief and pain
Can never cloud your glorious reign.
-- Lawrence Tuttiette (1825-97);
from Magnificat, December 2003, p. 82
O quickly come, great King of all;
Reign all around us, and within;
Let sin no more our souls enthrall,
Let pain and sorrow die with sin:
O quickly come; for you alone
Can make your scattered people one.
O quickly come, true Life of all,
For death is mighty all around;
On every home his shadows fall,
On every heart his mark is found:
O quickly come; for grief and pain
Can never cloud your glorious reign.
-- Lawrence Tuttiette (1825-97);
from Magnificat, December 2003, p. 82
Saint John Damascene
Mary opened to us the unspeakable abyss of God's love for us. Through her the old enmity against the Creator is destroyed. Through her our reconciliation with him is strengthened, peace and grace are given to us, men and women are the companions of angels, and we, who were in dishonor, are made the children of God. From her we have plucked the fruit of life. From her we have received the seed of immortality. She is the channel of all our goods. In her God was man and man was God. What more marvelous or blessed? I approach the subject in fear and trembling.
With Mary, the prophetess, O youthful souls, let us sound our musical instruments, mortifying our members on earth, for this spiritual music. Let our souls rejoice in the Ark of God; the walls of Jericho will yield, I mean the fortresses of the enemy. Let us dance in spirit with David; the Ark of God is at rest. With Gabriel, the great archangel, let us exclaim, "Hail, full of grace, the Lord is with you." Hail, inexhaustible ocean of grace. Hail, sole refuge in grief. Hail, cure of hearts. Hail, you through whom death is expelled and life is installed.
-- meditation in Magnificat for Thurs. 4th December 2003
Mary opened to us the unspeakable abyss of God's love for us. Through her the old enmity against the Creator is destroyed. Through her our reconciliation with him is strengthened, peace and grace are given to us, men and women are the companions of angels, and we, who were in dishonor, are made the children of God. From her we have plucked the fruit of life. From her we have received the seed of immortality. She is the channel of all our goods. In her God was man and man was God. What more marvelous or blessed? I approach the subject in fear and trembling.
With Mary, the prophetess, O youthful souls, let us sound our musical instruments, mortifying our members on earth, for this spiritual music. Let our souls rejoice in the Ark of God; the walls of Jericho will yield, I mean the fortresses of the enemy. Let us dance in spirit with David; the Ark of God is at rest. With Gabriel, the great archangel, let us exclaim, "Hail, full of grace, the Lord is with you." Hail, inexhaustible ocean of grace. Hail, sole refuge in grief. Hail, cure of hearts. Hail, you through whom death is expelled and life is installed.
-- meditation in Magnificat for Thurs. 4th December 2003
Friday, December 14, 2007
Thursday, December 13, 2007
Monday, December 10, 2007
At the Commonweal blog
(which I rarely explore)
... a fascinating thread about classics that you never intend to read.
I wouldn't rule out Lord of the Rings, but I haven't read it yet, and probably never will.
I'll never read Middlemarch, or anything else written by a woman named George.
I was supposed to have read at least one Jane Austen novel in high school, but somehow avoided it.
Proust I might tackle, if I have a free decade.
(which I rarely explore)
... a fascinating thread about classics that you never intend to read.
I wouldn't rule out Lord of the Rings, but I haven't read it yet, and probably never will.
I'll never read Middlemarch, or anything else written by a woman named George.
I was supposed to have read at least one Jane Austen novel in high school, but somehow avoided it.
Proust I might tackle, if I have a free decade.
On this date in 1968
The Trappist monk and author Thomas Merton died.
Some of his books were influential in bringing me back to the Church after a long absence.
He may need our prayers. Requiescat.
The Trappist monk and author Thomas Merton died.
Some of his books were influential in bringing me back to the Church after a long absence.
He may need our prayers. Requiescat.
Sunday, December 09, 2007
Saturday, December 08, 2007
Renew me, grown old from senseless sins, O most Immaculate One
Midnight Song to the Most Holy Mother of God. From the Eastern Church.
Midnight Song to the Most Holy Mother of God. From the Eastern Church.
Booooorrrrrrrinnnnngggggg .......
Now, I'm fairly open-minded when it comes to poetry, perhaps culpably "catholic," but this is horrid.
It's not only nonsense (and I can take a little bit of nonsense; I have a high surrealism-tolerance quotient), it's uninteresting nonsense.
"[A]nticipating site-specific specificity ..." Wow. How ... transgressive, how radical, how ...
Vide supra. Title of this post.
Now, I'm fairly open-minded when it comes to poetry, perhaps culpably "catholic," but this is horrid.
It's not only nonsense (and I can take a little bit of nonsense; I have a high surrealism-tolerance quotient), it's uninteresting nonsense.
"[A]nticipating site-specific specificity ..." Wow. How ... transgressive, how radical, how ...
Vide supra. Title of this post.
More on Romney
Peggy Noonan. Mostly praise for his performance. But there was this bit I liked:
Noonan also wonders why Romney doesn't include agnostics and atheists in his "moving portrait of the great American family." In fact, he does take appear to take a shot at them in his speech.
We should perhaps distinguish between someone who has a secular world-view and is virtuous, merciful, charitable, etc., etc., and the militant secularist, who has the intractable desire to expunge every trace of religion from the public square. When Romney spoke of those who would elevate secularism to a "religion," he clearly meant the latter sort of person.
Peggy Noonan. Mostly praise for his performance. But there was this bit I liked:
His text was warmly cool. It covered a lot of ground briskly, in less than 25 minutes. His approach was calm, logical, with an emphasis on clarity. It wasn't blowhardy, and it wasn't fancy. The only groaner was, "We do not insist on a single strain of religion--rather, we welcome our nation's symphony of faith." It is a great tragedy that there is no replacement for that signal phrase of the 1980s, "Gag me with a spoon."
Noonan also wonders why Romney doesn't include agnostics and atheists in his "moving portrait of the great American family." In fact, he does take appear to take a shot at them in his speech.
We should perhaps distinguish between someone who has a secular world-view and is virtuous, merciful, charitable, etc., etc., and the militant secularist, who has the intractable desire to expunge every trace of religion from the public square. When Romney spoke of those who would elevate secularism to a "religion," he clearly meant the latter sort of person.
Romney
At Erik's Rants and Recipes, we have an impassioned plea to Catholics: don't "swallow the kool-aid and vote for the Mormon"!
I should fess up. I voted for Romney in '02 for Massachusetts governor. His opponent, Shannon O'Brien, was a Roman Catholic who, in addition to having all the other baggage of your average Democrat, favored lowering the age of consent for prenatal infanticide from 18 to 16. So I voted for the Mormon, who maintained the status quo.
Now we have a Christian governor here in the Bay State, Deval Patrick, a Presbyterian who hasn't done what Ms. O'Brien promised to do, but who has expanded the buffer zone for protests around abortuaries to something like six and a half miles (actually, 35 feet). Mr. Patrick is also, predictably enough, an enthusiast for embryonic stem-cell research. But it's a good thing we don't have an infidel in the corner office!
Having said all that, I should say that I'm not in the Romney camp as far as the presidential primary goes. And the more I learn about Mormonism -- a late-night radio talk-show host around here recently devoted some time to enumerating some of their beliefs (e.g., Jesus and Satan are brothers) -- the more I detect some insalubrious eccentricities!
At Erik's Rants and Recipes, we have an impassioned plea to Catholics: don't "swallow the kool-aid and vote for the Mormon"!
I should fess up. I voted for Romney in '02 for Massachusetts governor. His opponent, Shannon O'Brien, was a Roman Catholic who, in addition to having all the other baggage of your average Democrat, favored lowering the age of consent for prenatal infanticide from 18 to 16. So I voted for the Mormon, who maintained the status quo.
Now we have a Christian governor here in the Bay State, Deval Patrick, a Presbyterian who hasn't done what Ms. O'Brien promised to do, but who has expanded the buffer zone for protests around abortuaries to something like six and a half miles (actually, 35 feet). Mr. Patrick is also, predictably enough, an enthusiast for embryonic stem-cell research. But it's a good thing we don't have an infidel in the corner office!
Having said all that, I should say that I'm not in the Romney camp as far as the presidential primary goes. And the more I learn about Mormonism -- a late-night radio talk-show host around here recently devoted some time to enumerating some of their beliefs (e.g., Jesus and Satan are brothers) -- the more I detect some insalubrious eccentricities!
Friday, December 07, 2007
Sonnet
Of an excellence belying its author's claim that it is merely an exercise : In California from Meredith of For Keats' Sake.
Of an excellence belying its author's claim that it is merely an exercise : In California from Meredith of For Keats' Sake.
Thursday, December 06, 2007
Dream
Last night I dreamt ...
that I was at a Trappist monastery with a priest-acquaintance of mine, on retreat. I turned to him and said something like, "It is good for us to be here" ... a sentiment which soon changed as the Mass began and the opening "hymn" was ... "Start Me Up" by the Rolling Stones.
Last night I dreamt ...
that I was at a Trappist monastery with a priest-acquaintance of mine, on retreat. I turned to him and said something like, "It is good for us to be here" ... a sentiment which soon changed as the Mass began and the opening "hymn" was ... "Start Me Up" by the Rolling Stones.
Monday, December 03, 2007
Hate crime in East Boston
A white firefighter was dining in a Latin-American restaurant in East Boston when he was approached by six Hispanic men who told him, "We don't want no gringos in here." He left, and drove to his fire station. The men followed him there, began punching him, and stabbed him twice in the chest. His injuries are described as non-life-threatening.
Heard this on the radio last night, WBZ (1030 AM). Can't find the link to the story on their website, nor can I find the story in either of Boston's two major daily newspapers.
Update : Here it is, from the Boston Herald.
But do I need to tell you, dear readers, that the incident was not described by the folks at WBZ as a hate crime?
Here we have a stabbing, where the victim is told he's being stabbed because he's a member of the "wrong" racial group. Not a hate crime.
Can someone please explain?
A white firefighter was dining in a Latin-American restaurant in East Boston when he was approached by six Hispanic men who told him, "We don't want no gringos in here." He left, and drove to his fire station. The men followed him there, began punching him, and stabbed him twice in the chest. His injuries are described as non-life-threatening.
Heard this on the radio last night, WBZ (1030 AM). Can't find the link to the story on their website, nor can I find the story in either of Boston's two major daily newspapers.
Update : Here it is, from the Boston Herald.
But do I need to tell you, dear readers, that the incident was not described by the folks at WBZ as a hate crime?
Here we have a stabbing, where the victim is told he's being stabbed because he's a member of the "wrong" racial group. Not a hate crime.
Can someone please explain?
Saturday, December 01, 2007
December
by Adam Zagajewski (b. 1945)
December, herald of destruction,
takes you on a long stroll
through the black torsos of trees
and leaves scorched in autumn’s fire,
as if to say: so much then for
your secrets and your treasures,
the fervent trill of small birds,
the promises of summer months.
Your dreams have been dissected,
the blackbird’s song now has a rationale,
plants’ corpses clutter the herbarium.
Only the laboratory’s hard stone remains.
Don’t listen: they may take everything away,
but they can’t have your ignorance,
they can’t take your mysteries, strip you
of your third homeland.
Don’t listen: the holidays draw near
and frozen January, snow’s white paper.
What you’ve waited for is being born.
The one you’re seeking will begin to sing.
[Translated by Clare Cavanagh]
by Adam Zagajewski (b. 1945)
December, herald of destruction,
takes you on a long stroll
through the black torsos of trees
and leaves scorched in autumn’s fire,
as if to say: so much then for
your secrets and your treasures,
the fervent trill of small birds,
the promises of summer months.
Your dreams have been dissected,
the blackbird’s song now has a rationale,
plants’ corpses clutter the herbarium.
Only the laboratory’s hard stone remains.
Don’t listen: they may take everything away,
but they can’t have your ignorance,
they can’t take your mysteries, strip you
of your third homeland.
Don’t listen: the holidays draw near
and frozen January, snow’s white paper.
What you’ve waited for is being born.
The one you’re seeking will begin to sing.
[Translated by Clare Cavanagh]
Friday, November 30, 2007
From the Boston Daily Globe
Wednesday morning, November 1, 1911
CROWD ATTACKS CHINAMAN.
He Draws Revolver and Holds Men at Bay -- Was Punishing Boy Who Played Halloween Tricks on Him.
A party of boys started a disturbance early last evening at the corner of Massachusetts and Shawmut avs. when they played Halloween tricks upon a Chinaman.
Armed with bean blowers they bombarded the Chinaman's shop and pelted him with their beans. One missile hit the Chinaman in the eye and hurt him severely. He chased the boys and caught one, whom he proceeded to punish. A crowd of colored men heard the lads cries for help and started after the Chinaman.
Then the laundryman backed into a corner and drew a revolver. He held the angry men at bay until their passions were somewhat cooled. He finally escaped to his laundry.
Some excited citizen telephoned to police headquarters, and Lieut Daly of the East Dedham-st station was asked to send out his men to quell the disturbance, which was promptly done.
_______________
A few things are noteworthy here:
(1) Obviously, how the language referring to ethnic groups has changed over the last ninety years;
(2) How the attitude toward brandishing firearms has changed over the last ninety years;
(3) How the attitude toward corporal punishment has changed over the last ninety years (Massachusetts is considering a ban on spanking);
(4) How journalistic prose has changed ("until their passions were somewhat cooled").
If this same incident had occurred on Halloween 2007, the Chinese man would have been arrested, for punishing the young hooligan (presumably by beating him), and for aiming the revolver at the crowd of African-Americans.
Wednesday morning, November 1, 1911
CROWD ATTACKS CHINAMAN.
He Draws Revolver and Holds Men at Bay -- Was Punishing Boy Who Played Halloween Tricks on Him.
A party of boys started a disturbance early last evening at the corner of Massachusetts and Shawmut avs. when they played Halloween tricks upon a Chinaman.
Armed with bean blowers they bombarded the Chinaman's shop and pelted him with their beans. One missile hit the Chinaman in the eye and hurt him severely. He chased the boys and caught one, whom he proceeded to punish. A crowd of colored men heard the lads cries for help and started after the Chinaman.
Then the laundryman backed into a corner and drew a revolver. He held the angry men at bay until their passions were somewhat cooled. He finally escaped to his laundry.
Some excited citizen telephoned to police headquarters, and Lieut Daly of the East Dedham-st station was asked to send out his men to quell the disturbance, which was promptly done.
_______________
A few things are noteworthy here:
(1) Obviously, how the language referring to ethnic groups has changed over the last ninety years;
(2) How the attitude toward brandishing firearms has changed over the last ninety years;
(3) How the attitude toward corporal punishment has changed over the last ninety years (Massachusetts is considering a ban on spanking);
(4) How journalistic prose has changed ("until their passions were somewhat cooled").
If this same incident had occurred on Halloween 2007, the Chinese man would have been arrested, for punishing the young hooligan (presumably by beating him), and for aiming the revolver at the crowd of African-Americans.
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Playing with templates
and fonts and colors
Well, this is it, for the time being. The "Snapshot Sable" template, with the Times font for the text.
There are some things I don't like about this one, but I think I'll keep it for a while.
***
Update, Friday morning
Changed back to Rounders 3. I couldn't enlarge the type on the Snapshot Sable template without throwing it out of whack (a big gray square would interpose itself between the header and the most recent post); green fonts came out as blue, for some reason, and the problem with the youtube screens was also difficult to fix ...
and fonts and colors
Well, this is it, for the time being. The "Snapshot Sable" template, with the Times font for the text.
There are some things I don't like about this one, but I think I'll keep it for a while.
***
Update, Friday morning
Changed back to Rounders 3. I couldn't enlarge the type on the Snapshot Sable template without throwing it out of whack (a big gray square would interpose itself between the header and the most recent post); green fonts came out as blue, for some reason, and the problem with the youtube screens was also difficult to fix ...
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Recent reading
Touched with Fire: Manic-Depressive Illness and the Artistic Temperament by Dr. Kay Redfield Jamison. Fascinating. Two "skimmable" chapters of too much jargon, charts and graphs -- skimmable for me, perhaps of interest to the diagnostician -- and a whole chapter dedicated to Lord Byron, whose poetry I've never cared for -- but an interesting study, citing the lives of many poets, painters, and composers. It poses the question: Is a certain amount of mania necessary to the creative process? It raises concerns about eugenics: how, in the not too distant past, the mentally ill were sterilized. I didn't regret reading this book.
Saint Benedict on the Freeway by Corinne Ware. Contemplative "chic" by a modern Episcopalian. It has its silly moments, which, alas, outnumber the moments of genuine insight.
Cushing of Boston: A Candid Portrait by Joseph Dever. From 1965. A very enthralling biography, and a time-machine of American (and especially, Bostonian) Catholicism. For instance, we read about "the hard-shell conservatism of the New England Jesuit province" (!). I'm a little more than halfway through this one, and I'm enjoying it thoroughly. For instance, when the biographer mentions the prelate's "sometimes too lengthy eloquence of pulpit and platform," I'm reminded of my mom's anecdote about Cardinal Cushing speaking to her high-school graduating class. It was June 4, 1963 -- the day after Pope John XXIII died. The archbishop kept the graduates in the sweltering 90-degree heat as he eulogized the late pontiff at sesquipedalian length. To most readers of this blog, this book will be unfindable. But it is highly recommended.
The Letters of Vincent van Gogh. I've often heard that this is a literary masterpiece, but for some reason I can't quite get into this one. To anyone who has read the collection of the painter's letters and derived enjoyment therefrom: Should I give it another chance?
C. S. Lewis: Letters to an American Lady and Mere Christianity. I found myself wishing that the Letters occupied more than the scant 120 pages. I was thoroughly edified, entertained, and instructed by this slim volume. And Mere Christianity has been lauded elsewhere: a salutary reminder of the basics of orthodox Christian faith.
Touched with Fire: Manic-Depressive Illness and the Artistic Temperament by Dr. Kay Redfield Jamison. Fascinating. Two "skimmable" chapters of too much jargon, charts and graphs -- skimmable for me, perhaps of interest to the diagnostician -- and a whole chapter dedicated to Lord Byron, whose poetry I've never cared for -- but an interesting study, citing the lives of many poets, painters, and composers. It poses the question: Is a certain amount of mania necessary to the creative process? It raises concerns about eugenics: how, in the not too distant past, the mentally ill were sterilized. I didn't regret reading this book.
Saint Benedict on the Freeway by Corinne Ware. Contemplative "chic" by a modern Episcopalian. It has its silly moments, which, alas, outnumber the moments of genuine insight.
Cushing of Boston: A Candid Portrait by Joseph Dever. From 1965. A very enthralling biography, and a time-machine of American (and especially, Bostonian) Catholicism. For instance, we read about "the hard-shell conservatism of the New England Jesuit province" (!). I'm a little more than halfway through this one, and I'm enjoying it thoroughly. For instance, when the biographer mentions the prelate's "sometimes too lengthy eloquence of pulpit and platform," I'm reminded of my mom's anecdote about Cardinal Cushing speaking to her high-school graduating class. It was June 4, 1963 -- the day after Pope John XXIII died. The archbishop kept the graduates in the sweltering 90-degree heat as he eulogized the late pontiff at sesquipedalian length. To most readers of this blog, this book will be unfindable. But it is highly recommended.
The Letters of Vincent van Gogh. I've often heard that this is a literary masterpiece, but for some reason I can't quite get into this one. To anyone who has read the collection of the painter's letters and derived enjoyment therefrom: Should I give it another chance?
C. S. Lewis: Letters to an American Lady and Mere Christianity. I found myself wishing that the Letters occupied more than the scant 120 pages. I was thoroughly edified, entertained, and instructed by this slim volume. And Mere Christianity has been lauded elsewhere: a salutary reminder of the basics of orthodox Christian faith.
Sunday, November 25, 2007
Psalm 122. Laetatus sum.
1 I was glad when they said unto me, * We will go into the house of the LORD.
2 Our feet shall stand in thy gates, * O Jerusalem.
3 Jerusalem is built as a city * that is at unity in itself.
4 For thither the tribes go up, even the tribes of the LORD, * to testify unto Israel, to give thanks unto the Name of the LORD.
5 For there is the seat of judgment, * even the seat of the house of David.
6 O pray for the peace of Jerusalem; * they shall prosper that love thee.
7 Peace be within thy walls, * and plenteousness within thy palaces.
8 For my brethren and companions' sakes, * I will wish thee prosperity.
9 Yea, because of the house of the LORD our God, * I will seek to do thee good.
1 I was glad when they said unto me, * We will go into the house of the LORD.
2 Our feet shall stand in thy gates, * O Jerusalem.
3 Jerusalem is built as a city * that is at unity in itself.
4 For thither the tribes go up, even the tribes of the LORD, * to testify unto Israel, to give thanks unto the Name of the LORD.
5 For there is the seat of judgment, * even the seat of the house of David.
6 O pray for the peace of Jerusalem; * they shall prosper that love thee.
7 Peace be within thy walls, * and plenteousness within thy palaces.
8 For my brethren and companions' sakes, * I will wish thee prosperity.
9 Yea, because of the house of the LORD our God, * I will seek to do thee good.
Friday, November 23, 2007
Thursday, November 22, 2007
Happy Thanksgiving!
The first snow of the season came to the Boston area on Tuesday ... mixed with a little rain ... no accumulation, alas! (Can you tell I don't drive?)
It's supposed to hit 60 today. I'm glad we've reached the time of the year when such temperatures are considered unseasonable ...
A good day to one and all ...
The first snow of the season came to the Boston area on Tuesday ... mixed with a little rain ... no accumulation, alas! (Can you tell I don't drive?)
It's supposed to hit 60 today. I'm glad we've reached the time of the year when such temperatures are considered unseasonable ...
A good day to one and all ...
Monday, November 19, 2007
The Bridge of Sighs
by Thomas Hood (1799-1845)
One more Unfortunate,
Weary of breath,
Rashly importunate,
Gone to her death!
Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care;
Fashion'd so slenderly
Young, and so fair!
Look at her garments
Clinging like cerements;
Whilst the wave constantly
Drips from her clothing;
Take her up instantly,
Loving, not loathing.
Touch her not scornfully;
Think of her mournfully,
Gently and humanly;
Not of the stains of her,
All that remains of her
Now is pure womanly.
Make no deep scrutiny
Into her mutiny
Rash and undutiful:
Past all dishonour,
Death has left on her
Only the beautiful.
Still, for all slips of hers,
One of Eve's family
Wipe those poor lips of hers
Oozing so clammily.
Loop up her tresses
Escaped from the comb,
Her fair auburn tresses;
Whilst wonderment guesses
Where was her home?
Who was her father?
Who was her mother?
Had she a sister?
Had she a brother?
Or was there a dearer one
Still, and a nearer one
Yet, than all other?
Alas! for the rarity
Of Christian charity
Under the sun!
O, it was pitiful!
Near a whole city full,
Home she had none.
Sisterly, brotherly,
Fatherly, motherly
Feelings had changed:
Love, by harsh evidence,
Thrown from its eminence;
Even God's providence
Seeming estranged.
Where the lamps quiver
So far in the river,
With many a light
From window and casement,
From garret to basement,
She stood, with amazement,
Houseless by night.
The bleak wind of March
Made her tremble and shiver;
But not the dark arch,
Or the black flowing river:
Mad from life's history,
Glad to death's mystery,
Swift to be hurl'd
Anywhere, anywhere
Out of the world!
In she plunged boldly
No matter how coldly
The rough river ran
Over the brink of it,
Picture it think of it,
Dissolute Man!
Lave in it, drink of it,
Then, if you can!
Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care;
Fashion'd so slenderly,
Young, and so fair!
Ere her limbs frigidly
Stiffen too rigidly,
Decently, kindly,
Smooth and compose them;
And her eyes, close them,
Staring so blindly!
Dreadfully staring
Thro' muddy impurity,
As when with the daring
Last look of despairing
Fix'd on futurity.
Perishing gloomily,
Spurr'd by contumely,
Cold inhumanity,
Burning insanity,
Into her rest.
Cross her hands humbly
As if praying dumbly,
Over her breast!
Owning her weakness,
Her evil behaviour,
And leaving, with meekness,
Her sins to her Saviour!
_______________
I cherish the rhyme of "family" and "clammily" ...
by Thomas Hood (1799-1845)
One more Unfortunate,
Weary of breath,
Rashly importunate,
Gone to her death!
Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care;
Fashion'd so slenderly
Young, and so fair!
Look at her garments
Clinging like cerements;
Whilst the wave constantly
Drips from her clothing;
Take her up instantly,
Loving, not loathing.
Touch her not scornfully;
Think of her mournfully,
Gently and humanly;
Not of the stains of her,
All that remains of her
Now is pure womanly.
Make no deep scrutiny
Into her mutiny
Rash and undutiful:
Past all dishonour,
Death has left on her
Only the beautiful.
Still, for all slips of hers,
One of Eve's family
Wipe those poor lips of hers
Oozing so clammily.
Loop up her tresses
Escaped from the comb,
Her fair auburn tresses;
Whilst wonderment guesses
Where was her home?
Who was her father?
Who was her mother?
Had she a sister?
Had she a brother?
Or was there a dearer one
Still, and a nearer one
Yet, than all other?
Alas! for the rarity
Of Christian charity
Under the sun!
O, it was pitiful!
Near a whole city full,
Home she had none.
Sisterly, brotherly,
Fatherly, motherly
Feelings had changed:
Love, by harsh evidence,
Thrown from its eminence;
Even God's providence
Seeming estranged.
Where the lamps quiver
So far in the river,
With many a light
From window and casement,
From garret to basement,
She stood, with amazement,
Houseless by night.
The bleak wind of March
Made her tremble and shiver;
But not the dark arch,
Or the black flowing river:
Mad from life's history,
Glad to death's mystery,
Swift to be hurl'd
Anywhere, anywhere
Out of the world!
In she plunged boldly
No matter how coldly
The rough river ran
Over the brink of it,
Picture it think of it,
Dissolute Man!
Lave in it, drink of it,
Then, if you can!
Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care;
Fashion'd so slenderly,
Young, and so fair!
Ere her limbs frigidly
Stiffen too rigidly,
Decently, kindly,
Smooth and compose them;
And her eyes, close them,
Staring so blindly!
Dreadfully staring
Thro' muddy impurity,
As when with the daring
Last look of despairing
Fix'd on futurity.
Perishing gloomily,
Spurr'd by contumely,
Cold inhumanity,
Burning insanity,
Into her rest.
Cross her hands humbly
As if praying dumbly,
Over her breast!
Owning her weakness,
Her evil behaviour,
And leaving, with meekness,
Her sins to her Saviour!
_______________
I cherish the rhyme of "family" and "clammily" ...
The 1970s
The blogger at Enchiridion has posted the lyrics (in Spanish and English) to the song "Eres tú" by Juan Carlos Calderón. I remember hearing the song on AM radio in the '70s, when I was quite young. Here it is on YouTube as performed by Mocedades:
The blogger at Enchiridion has posted the lyrics (in Spanish and English) to the song "Eres tú" by Juan Carlos Calderón. I remember hearing the song on AM radio in the '70s, when I was quite young. Here it is on YouTube as performed by Mocedades:
Sunday, November 18, 2007
John Berryman
1914-72
Eleven Addresses to the Lord.
Not a perfect poem -- the record of a man trying to talk himself into faith, or to talk himself into not losing the little faith he has -- but there are some fine moments:
Jonquils respond with wit to the teasing breeze
and
Unite my various soul,
sole watchman of the wide & single stars.
1914-72
Eleven Addresses to the Lord.
Not a perfect poem -- the record of a man trying to talk himself into faith, or to talk himself into not losing the little faith he has -- but there are some fine moments:
Jonquils respond with wit to the teasing breeze
and
Unite my various soul,
sole watchman of the wide & single stars.
I think continually of those who were truly great
by Stephen Spender (1909-95)
I think continually of those who were truly great.
Who, from the womb, remembered the soul's history
Through corridors of light, where the hours are suns,
Endless and singing. Whose lovely ambition
Was that their lips, still touched with fire,
Should tell of the Spirit, clothed from head to foot in song.
And who hoarded from the Spring branches
The desires falling across their bodies like blossoms.
What is precious, is never to forget
The essential delight of the blood drawn from ageless springs
Breaking through rocks in worlds before our earth.
Never to deny its pleasures in the morning simple light
Nor its grave evening demand for love.
Never to allow gradually the traffic to smother
With noise and fog, the flowering of spirit.
Near the snow, near the sun, in the highest fields
See how these names are fêted by the waving grass
And by the streamers of white cloud
And whispers of wind in the listening sky.
The names of those who in their lives fought for life
Who wore at their hearts the fire's centre.
Born of the sun, they traveled a short while toward the sun
And left the vivid air signed with their honour.
by Stephen Spender (1909-95)
I think continually of those who were truly great.
Who, from the womb, remembered the soul's history
Through corridors of light, where the hours are suns,
Endless and singing. Whose lovely ambition
Was that their lips, still touched with fire,
Should tell of the Spirit, clothed from head to foot in song.
And who hoarded from the Spring branches
The desires falling across their bodies like blossoms.
What is precious, is never to forget
The essential delight of the blood drawn from ageless springs
Breaking through rocks in worlds before our earth.
Never to deny its pleasures in the morning simple light
Nor its grave evening demand for love.
Never to allow gradually the traffic to smother
With noise and fog, the flowering of spirit.
Near the snow, near the sun, in the highest fields
See how these names are fêted by the waving grass
And by the streamers of white cloud
And whispers of wind in the listening sky.
The names of those who in their lives fought for life
Who wore at their hearts the fire's centre.
Born of the sun, they traveled a short while toward the sun
And left the vivid air signed with their honour.
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