August

Maybe I should write a blank sonnet
in the manner of the late Robert Lowell --
topical, free, energetic, nervous,
yet not without evidence of erudition.


Maybe I should curl up with my rosary,
pondering the Woman in Wisdom chapter seven,
seeking the intercession of the Virgin,
drifting to sleep as angels finish my prayers.


Maybe I should pray Compline with the help
of the website that posts the breviary
to fortify the pious and the backsliding --


maybe I should lie abed, dreaming of heaven
as the AC breathes its husky litany
of grateful coolness in the August heat.

Dom Anscar Vonier, OSB

This, then, ought to be our great Christian mentality:
a readiness to admire the things of God,
a readiness to admit that he does great and marvellous things,
that he is great in nature;
great in heaven,
great in grace,
that he is the Creator of earth and heaven;
that, in the words of Our Blessed Lord,
heaven is God's throne and earth his footstool;
that there is nothing in the vast universe
which is not the handiwork of God,
and that therefore it is full of endless glories,
possibilities and marvels.
We have but one thing to do --
a very easy thing at first sight --
just to admire it,
to love it for its beauty and riches,
to clap our hands in surprise at its glories
and its mysteries.

(via Magnificat, July 2011)

And speaking of sonnets

Z at 365 Sonnets has written and posted his three hundred sixty-fifth!  This fine poet promises a 366th, as an epilogue or "epitaph."  We look forward to anything that Z has to offer, and pledge to explore with greater depth that which he has already written.

And we are glad to be reminded that he has another poetry blog, Some Turbid Night.  And from that blog, a poem that would favorably impress even the sternest reader, Mélisande.

Charles Vion d'Alibray

Maintenant qu'un air doux nous ramene un beau Jour,
Considere, Phyllis, cette Saison nouvelle,
Comme elle rit au Ciel, et luy parle d'amour,
C'est parce qu'elle est jeune, et parce qu'elle est belle.

Cette fleur qui blanchit les arbres d'alentour,
Ce n'est pas une fleur qui doive estre éternelle
Desja dedans son sein la terre la rappelle,
Desja le chaud hasté la brule à son retour :

Et tu perds cependant le temps de ta jeunesse
Sans suivre les advis d'une bonne Maistresse,
De Nature, qui monstre à chacun son devoir :

Ah si cette saison ne fond enfin ta glace,
Si pour te faire aimer elle a peu de pouvoir,
Qu'elle t'apprenne au moins comme la beauté passe.

*

(A paraphrase by Daniel Mark Epstein of the poem above may be found here.)

Ballad of Catholic Writers

Bernard Basset was from Britain;
William Barry's a Yank:
For what these Jesuits have written,
Them I should like to thank.

I'm curious about Joyce Rupp
And her prolific pen.
You won't get Sister Rupp mixed up
With the nuns on EWTN.

I once read a book about prayer
By David Steindl-Rast.
About sin, he was cavalier,
And left me quite aghast.

Henri Nouwen wasn't sarcastic:
A kind soul, to be certain.
But when my appetite's monastic,
I'll pick up Thomas Merton.

Some theologians have a way
I find less than enchantin':
Bring back the good old days, I say.
Three cheers for Fr Manton!

Carlo Carretto lived in the heat
Of the desert fierce and mean.
He had a peace of soul, so sweet,
Almost like Bishop Sheen!

Reading books from Ignatius Press
Might save your soul from hell,
And no one's likelier to impress
Than Benedict Groeschel.

Thomas Howard and Peter Kreeft
Write prose that fairly sings,
But no lay writer's wit or craft
Surpasses Heather King's!

There are progressive writers, too:
The Chittisters and Rohrs.
They might not be heretical;
They're likely crashing bores.

My library is packed quite full
With spiritual writing.
You might find this stuff rather dull,
But I think it's exciting!

Uses of a magic wand?

flaky snow.

Cooler weather! An end to the current heat-and-humidity wave.

Abraham Joshua Heschel

Prayer is not a stratagem for occasional use, a refuge to resort to now and then. It is rather like an established residence for the innermost self. All things have a home: the bird has a nest, the fox has a hole, the bee has a hive. A soul without prayer is a soul without a home. Weary, sobbing, the soul, after wandering through a world festered with aimlessness, falsehoods and absurdities, seeks a moment in which to gather up its scattered life, in which to divest itself of enforced pretensions and camouflage, in which to simplify complexities, in which to call for help without being a coward. Such [a] home is prayer. Continuity, perseverance, intimacy, authenticity, earnestness are its attributes. For the soul, home is where prayer is.

"On Prayer," from Moral Grandeur and Spiritual Audacity: Essays, ed. Susannah Heschel (Farrar Straus Giroux, 1996), p. 258

A Catholic "Anything Goes"

I have chosen to remove this post, only because I think I was a mite too flippant, and perhaps a bit too judgmental of the celebrities that I mentioned in the little ditty.