Jameswoodward’s Weblog

He knew he was asleep and was dreaming
Of a beautiful poem. It seemed to be singing
Itself in the night, and he woke
In a bed in a room in an old hotel
And lay there, hearing the song go on
Though he could see the shape
Of his empty shirt on the straight chair
And his empty shoes on the patch of carpet
Made light, half by the moon
And half by the gray beginning
Of dawn. He could see the silhouette
Of his own hand against the window shade
Like a flower, open and waiting. He smiled
At the foolishness of loving his own poem
In his own dream, of accepting praise
From his own shadow. But his mind’s eye
Kept seeing that poem and his real ear
Kept hearing that same song.

From David Wagoner, The Good Night and Good Morning of Federico Garcia Lorca

W H Auden told Golo Mann

that “in each of us, there is a bit of Catholic and a bit of
Protestant; for truth is catholic, but the search for it is protestant,”

Auden  consistently saw the relation between the catholic truth and the protestant
search dialectically. As he said, analogously and repeatedly, “the way” rests
upon faith and scepticism, “faith” that the divine law exists and that our
knowledge of it can improve, and “scepticism” that our knowledge of these laws
can never be perfect

It is like the light coming through blue stained glass,

Yet not quite like it,

For the blueness is not transparent,

Only translucent.

Her soul’s light shines through,

But her soul cannot be seen.

It is something elusive, whimsical, tender, wanton, childlike, wise

And noble.

Joyce Kilmer

I speak this poem now with grave and level voice

In praise of autumn, of the far-horn-winding fall.

I praise the flower-barren fields, the clouds, the tall

Unanswering branches where the wind makes sullen noise.

I praise the fall: it is the human season.

Now

No more the foreign sun does meddle at our earth,

Enforce the green and bring the fallow land to birth,

Nor winter yet weigh all with silence the pine bough,

But now in autumn with the black and outcast crows

Share we the spacious world: the whispering year is gone:

There is more room to live now: the once secret dawn

Comes late by daylight and the dark unguarded goes.

Between the mutinous brave burning of the leaves

And winter’s covering of our hearts with his deep snow

We are alone: there are no evening birds: we know

The naked moon: the tame stars circle at our eaves.

It is the human season. On this sterile air

Do words outcarry breath: the sound goes on and on.

I hear a dead man’s cry from autumn long since gone.

I cry to you beyond upon this bitter air.

Archibald Macleish

patience

An absolute

patience.

Trees stand

up to their knees in

fog. The fog

slowly flows

uphill.

White

cobwebs, the grass

leaning where deer

have looked for apples.

The woods

from brook to where

the top of the hill looks

over the fog, send up

not one bird.

So absolute, it is

no other than

happiness itself, a breathing

too quiet to hear.

Denise Levertov, The Breathing

attain God…

he said, then realised

it had been done

with nothing

but sunflowers

from Nicolette Stasko, Conseil de Gauguin (advice from Gauguin)

Faithful living is mostly about spreading the good news through faithful relationships, built and nurtured over the long haul.

Con­gregations will continue to transform lives in new generations when they pay attention to what’s important: hospitality, the nur­ture of children and adults, and radical welcome to all who come seeking God.

Faith is fundamentally about relationship—and staying connected and working at those relationships when the going gets hard. Let us be known for our commitment to faithful, hospitable living.

A nothing day full of

wild beauty and the

timer pings. Roll up

the silver off the bay

take down the clouds

sort the spruce and send to laundry marked,

more starch. Goodbye

golden- and silver-

rod, asters, bayberry

crisp in elegance.

Little fish stream

by, a river in water.

James Schuyler, Closed Gentian Distances

yellow, sadness, colour fading: flower,

the sun and rain have had their way with you

and yet you are rich, you are immaculate

against all you kept your excellence intact.

I never knew the earth had so much gold—

The fields run over with it, and this hill

Hoary and old,

Is young with buoyant blooms that flame and thrill.

Such golden fires, such yellow—lo, how good

This spendthrift world, and what a lavish God!

This fringe of wood,

Blazing with buttercup and goldenrod.

You too, beloved, are changed. Again I see

Your face grow mystical, as on that night

You turned to me,

And all the trembling world—and you—were white.

Aye, you are touched; your singing lips grow dumb;

The fields absorb you, color you entire . . .

And you become

A goddess standing in a world of fire!

Louis Untermeyer, Feuerzauber