OUR LADY OF THE WORD

OUR LADY OF THE WORD

Our Lady of the Word, calyx and cowl

who wraps a whisper round, who sheathes a thought,

else sears the tongue, else shrivels it as gall,

sums every other syllable to naught.

She mates His murmur with her raptured breath,

His ceaseless purling[1] is her pulse’s stir,

whose speech can touch her days to ecstasy

whose silence drowns the world of sound for her.

His echo down the hollows of her heart,

a roar through vibrant bone, through yearning vein,

an arsis[2] for the lilt of joy can start,

a thesis[3] for the threnody[4] of pain.

For spirit splinters with His muffled shout,

the song is shattered, rent the dream, the drum,

hard wisdom is her heritage, and Love

a bleating lamb before His shearers dumb.

Sister M Immaculata CSJ

America.  22 August 1959

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[1] Purling: the running of a rivulet or stream: the Divine Infant’s chattering.

[2] Arsis: a lifting of the voice to a higher note.

[3] Thesis: a changing of the voice to a lower note.

[4] Threnody: a song of lamentation; a dirge.

AT NAZARETH

AT NAZARETH

A lady, a Child and a tradesman brown[1]

walked through a street of Nazareth town,

and as they passed, the flowers sweet

blossomed in clusters at their feet.

A tree bent low that its boughs might press,

ever so gently, the lady’s dress.

The joyous birds sang long and clear,

and all of Nazareth stopped to hear

the golden notes of a tiny thrush,

who managed somehow his wings to brush

over the locks of the wondrous Child

holding the hand of the man, who smiled

at blossom and birdling and bending tree

giving their all to Infinity.

Sister M Immaculata SSJ

Messenger of the Sacred Heart.  Undated

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[1]  St Joseph was a carpenter.

THE HEART OF MARY

THE HEART OF MARY

She pondered all things in her heart[1],

the mother fair.

Ah!  Would that I might read the thoughts

enshrined there.

How often did she gaze on Him

the fount of grace,

the visible reflection of

the Father’s face

and wonder that the source of joy

in tears should weep,

and God’s eternal thought should smile

in childish sleep.

The wisdom hid in God from all

eternity

she learned by heart, caressing Him

upon her knee;

and gently washed the little face

and hands of Him

whose utter purity doth awe

the Seraphim.

What baby words did Mary teach

her little One –

that Word Who was with God ere time

had yet begun?

‘tWould seem that “Abba”[2] would be said

most easily

by Him Who did His Father’s love

in all things see.

But when great Wisdom, twelve years old,

did question men

and seem to learn – ah! Mother, thou

didst wonder then.

Sister M Imelda OP

Sign.  September 1931

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[1] Luke II:51

[2] Father (Daddy)

HER PICTURE

HER PICTURE

Love off-guard and love’s guarded sword

here by the flash are caught,

her deep eyes arched with an ageless will,

her soft hair crowned with thought ...

Here is the pattern for life unspoiled,

certain and sweetly strong,

gentler for every agony,

gayer for every song.

Hearts that are schooled in the splendour

shadowed in such a face have no defence ... she has handed us

quietly over to grace.

Sister M Ignatius

America.  23 December 1944

WOMANKIND TO MARY

WOMANKIND TO MARY

Until you come –

I was a sea-plane pounding through the waves

where unity between us was a chain

of coral polyp.  I staggered, broke and sank,

when force stayed me upon subjection’s main

for never can a toy match brawn and strength

of the white horses on the ocean lane.

Now that you came –

the chain is closer linked, and thus I soar

a native altitude in my demesne.

my flight is swift and accurate.  Although

the current dare constrain my natural pitch

and friction pull me from the stars, I fight

that “might makes right” may never rule again.

In this space age –

my craft holds super-charges; and it bears

a pitch-propeller, gadgets of a brain,

and sealed-in cabin – means to the stratosphere.

With these I may attain an apogee

as any satellite now launched at Cape

Canaveral, and my tomorrow trod the moon.

Sister M Honora OSF

Spiritual life.  1969

O MATER DULCIS

O MATER DULCIS[1]

In Nazareth, I’d peep some day,

to learn your rare unwonted way

to watch you, with your boy at play,

Dulce ridentem[2].

At even I’d love to linger too,

hearing old mysteries made new,

to learn true pondering from you

Dulce loquentem.[3]

And dare I ask that it might be

my grace to feel awake in me

that love, which held thee by the tree,

Dulce dolentem?[4]

Sister Grace RSU

America.  6 December 1924

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[1] Oh, sweet Mother

[2] Sweetly laughing

[3] Sweetly speaking

[4] Sweetly mourning

WINTER SONG

WINTER SONG

Out of stillness deep as sunken stone

light comprehends the night’s intended drift:

clear stars that find their certitude alone

strike glory from the planets till the after-image

widens to the stirred pool’s rim.

Oh lightly rides the heavens’ weight

(as Spirit broods and starbirds skim)

where waters sing under their burden of delight

the Virgin Mother’s flowering.

Sister M Gilbert SNJM

Commonweal.  29 December 1961

THE MAID OF NAZARETH

THE MAID OF NAZARETH

A little Maid of Nazareth

in sweet delight caressed

a downy, bright-eyed fledgling

fallen from its nest.

In answer to its frightened cry,

like the flurry of breeze

anxious twittering songsters

fluttered from the trees.

The same sweet Maid of Nazareth

gently to her pressed

the little truant Son of God

soft-breathing there, at rest.

In swift and eager answer

to His first waking sigh

a myriad of angels

swept from the sky.

Sister M Genoveva CSC

In: Robert.  1946

THE VIRGIN’S NAME WAS MARY

THE VIRGIN’S NAME WAS MARY

Your name is as oil poured out

on our smarting spirits,

on our groaning hearts,

O Mary,

your name is oasis in our wasteland of waiting,

it is wine after the black bread of regret,

after love’s white fast.

Your name is like a silence full of bells.

Mary, your name is a pause in song,

it is the moment before flight,

your name is a waterfall of fragrance,

it is a crystal dance of sound,

Mary,

your name is a basilica of cool darkness

for the frightened, the deserters

who have no place to pray.

Your name is as oil poured out

on the troubled waters of the world.

Your name is like a silence full of bells.

Mother M Francis PCC

Friar.  April 1974. Used with permission

QUEEN OF THE WORLD

QUEEN OF THE WORLD

Lady, your hard throne lurches

on our careening lives.

                            What sovereign sits              

so perilous on exaltation, Mary,

as yours, borne on your children’s gaucherie?

Summon to homage all the painted fans

of eyelashes, impel the exhibited knees

down to obeisant dust before your slender

security of love, queen!

“Queen!” a husky-throated

world will sing on faltering pitch forever

because you dare to speed our sweating highways,

ride our air pockets, swim our brine of tears.

Filigree lady, you outwear the leather

of disillusion.  You unsnarl despair

to hope’s bright skein.  No perilous exaltation

is yours who sit in state our blundering.

Mother M Francis PCC

Friar. January 1969. Used with permission

QUEEN OF CRAFTSMEN: AN ADVENT SONG

QUEEN OF CRAFTSMEN: AN ADVENT SONG

Blow on exquisite blow,

the crystal hammers of her love

fasten the careful joinings of His bones.

Prophets have sung this craft:

how man may number

these bones, but never break an one of them.[1]

What blueprint guides you, Queen of architects,

to trace sure paths for wandering veins

that run Redemption’s wine?

Who dipped your brush, young artist, so to tint

the eyes and lips of God?  Where did you learn

to spin such silk of hair, and expertly

pull sinew, wind this Heart to tick our mercy?

Thrones, Powers, fall down, worshipping your craft

whom we, for want of better word, shall call

most beautiful of all the sons of men.

Worker in motherhood, take our splintery songs,

who witness What you make, in litanies[2]:

Queen of craftsmen, pray for us who wait.

Mother M Francis PCC

Friar. December 1961.  Used with permission

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[1] John XIX:36

[2] Litanies:  Chains of petitions read out by a leader and responded to by a congregation.

PSALM FOR THE MOTHER OF GOD

PSALM FOR THE MOTHER OF GOD

Sleeved and skirted in sun, informed with Spirit,

invade the moments of our history,

Mary with all your terrible bright battalions.

You are less cadence than sinew of our songs,

girl whose smiles run down our joys, O woman

whose fiat blames our sleep of sorrow, Mary,

loop our feet retreating with your glances –

ropes of lilacs stouter than any chain!

Virgin of perspective, focus us

fast on your Son, and catch our straying glances,

little foxes[1], in your trap of hands –

less cadence be than sinew of our songs.

Mother M Francis PCC

Spirit.  1963-64. Used with permission

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[1] Song of Songs II:15