Sunday, June 30, 2019

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




[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



[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




[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



[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



[1] John XIX:36
[2] Litanies:  Chains of petitions read out by a leader and responded to by a congregation.