A Found Poem

Seamus Heaney

The famous Irish poet Seamus Heaney was not particularly religious, but this poem gives us a glimpse into the power of the liturgy for him and the words that comprise it. The words may appear simple, but their pull is profound “like well water far down.”

A Found Poem

Like everybody else, I bowed my head
during the consecration of the bread and wine,
lifted my eyes to the raised host and raised chalice,
believed (whatever it means) that a change occurred.
I went to the altar rails and received the mystery
on my tongue, returned to my place, shut my eyes fast, made
an act of thanksgiving, opened my eyes and felt
time starting up again.
There was never a scene
when I had it out with myself or with another.
The loss of faith occurred off stage. Yet I cannot
disrespect words like ‘thanksgiving’ or ‘host’
or even ‘communion wafer.’ They have an undying
pallor and draw, like well water far down.

 – Seamus Heaney (2005)

Thirst

In her beautiful poem, “Thirst,” Mary Oliver reminds us that we are all thirsting for something we do not have, longing for the thing that will complete us and make us both whole and holy. We must be patient for the moment when we come to understand and also ready for that moment of revelation and epiphany.

Another morning and I wake with thirst
for the goodness I do not have. I walk
out to the pond and all the way God has
given us such beautiful lessons. Oh Lord,
I was never a quick scholar but sulked
and hunched over my books past the hour
and the bell; grant me, in your mercy,
a little more time. Love for the earth
and love for you are having such a long
conversation in my heart. Who knows what
will finally happen or where I will be sent,
yet already I have given a great many things
away, expecting to be told to pack nothing,
except the prayers which, with this thirst,
I am slowly learning.

— Mary Oliver, Thirst

I Am Not Italian

Billy Collins reminds us that when we travel, even if we are not natives in the country, we can “do as the Romans do” and enjoy the delights of the local culture. By drinking an espresso in a “little white cup,” the speaker – not an Italian – can taste “the same sweetness of life” as the locals.

I am Not Italian, Billy Collins

I am not Italian, technically speaking,
yet here I am leaning on a zinc bar in Florence
on a sunny weekday morning,
my foot up on the smooth iron railing
just like the other men, who,
it must be said, are officially and fully Italian.

It’s 8:40 and they are off to work,
some in offices, others sweeping the streets,
while I am off to a museum or a church
to see paintings, maybe light a candle in an alcove.
Yet here we all are in our suits and work shirts
joined in the brotherhood of espresso,

or how is it said? La fratellanza dell’espresso,
draining our little white cups
with a quick flourish of the wrist,
each of us tasting the same sweetness of life,
if you take a little sugar, and the bitterness
of its brevity, whether you choose to take sugar or not.

Billy Collins

I recently listened to a performance of Billy Collins reading a collection of his poems. Not all poets read their own poems well, but Collins's readings are superb, the cadence and tone of his voice a perfect vehicle for the poems on the page. Listening to his poems, it is no surprise to me that Collins is so wildly popular. His poems speak of the ordinary and the everyday in a new and often very ironic way that illicits laughter and delight. 

Humor is one of the most distinguishing characteristics of his poetry. He knows how to be both clear and mysterious, simple and profound. Whether he is spoofing love poems that pile on excessive metaphors on the beloved - as he does in "Litany," or describing the poignant vulnerability of a building ruined by an explosion - as he does in "Building With Its Face Blown Off," he is a master of his craft.

Clouds and Daffodils

I recently thought of Wordsworth's "I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud" when I was watching all the cloud formations as I drove through New Mexico and Arizona. Of course, the poem is really about daffodils and memory, the clouds being simply a simile to describe the speaker's wandering: "lonely as a cloud." But I was glad to be reminded of daffodils, too, especially as winter gives way to spring this April. The daffodils in the poem are "sprightly" and "jocund'" as they "flutter in the breeze." 

As the speaker watches them, he has no idea how much joy they will bring him later, when he conjures them up in his memory and "dances with the daffodils."  So powerful is memory that it can reproduce a vivid scene from our past as though it were with us in the present: we experience not only the visual vista but also the emotional experience. 

Thirst

^{Thirst takes many forms, such as the physical thirst for water or the emotional thirst for love. There are also spiritual thirsts, which long to be quenched, as Mary Oliver reminds us in her poem.}

Thirst by Mary Oliver

Another morning and I wake with thirst


for the goodness I do not have.

I walk
out to the pond and all the way God has


given us such beautiful lessons.

Oh Lord,
I was never a quick scholar but sulked

and hunched over my books past the
hour

and the bell; grant me, in your
mercy, a little more time.

Love for the
earth and love for you are having such a
long conversation in my heart.

Who
knows what will finally happen or
where I will be sent, yet already I have
given a great many things

away, expecting to be told to pack nothing,

except the
prayers which, with this thirst,

I am
slowly learning.

St. Francis and the Sow

On this Valentine’s Day, I would simply offer up this poem that reminds us that we are all lovely and loveable.

St. Francis and the Sow

Galway Kinnell

The bud

stands for all things,

even for those things that don’t flower,

for everything flowers, from within, of self-blessing;   

though sometimes it is necessary

to reteach a thing its loveliness,

to put a hand on its brow

of the flower

and retell it in words and in touch

it is lovely

until it flowers again from within, of self-blessing;   

as Saint Francis

put his hand on the creased forehead

of the sow, and told her in words and in touch   

blessings of earth on the sow, and the sow   

began remembering all down her thick length,   

from the earthen snout all the way

through the fodder and slops to the spiritual curl of the tail,   

from the hard spininess spiked out from the spine   

down through the great broken heart

to the sheer blue milken dreaminess spurting and shuddering   

from the fourteen teats into the fourteen mouths sucking and blowing beneath them:

the long, perfect loveliness of sow.

The Value and Beauty of Hard, Physical Work

In Marge Pierce’s poem “To Be of Use,” she sings the praises of people who work hard in useful endeavors, who pull their weight and make things happen. I worked in a bakery for the first time over the holidays and saw up close people“who do what has to be done, again and again.” I saw the bakers “move in a common rhythm when the food must come in or the fire be put out.” I came to appreciate more than ever the value and beauty of hard, physical work.

People everywhere are made whole through useful, purposeful, “real” work, the end results of which are made visible through careful focus on the task at hand. That end result is filled with satisfaction and even joy, not only for the maker of the bread but also, of course, for the receiver of the loaves.