the clay vessel

mud-mass

once scooped from earth 

by artisan hands

for lathering to a vessel of clay

spun and rounded round and round 

a russet face smiles broad; 

kilned and polished to beauty-best 

a finished art glints forth.

timbered bowl coated and sold 

to a lord for a flower-not 

but unctuous nard to hold.

unshelved to incense nooks 

of the house empty with stale air 

this once earth-slush 

now eye-chalice of the lord.  

grace-burned vessel 

and chosen nard phial

doth yeast the house with scents 

of its soul breathing through clay.

*...even with its deficiencies, sin itself can be put to work by God; granted that it happens, it at once begins to function as part of the providential ordering of all things for our good.  This is true even of our own sins.   To be humbled by our sins is, in the long run, far more profitable for us than for us to become conceited because of our moral success.

...in God there is no darkness at all (1 Jn. 1:5).  God does not see good and evil, as it were, sitting side by side, and choose between them.  God sees all that (God) has made, and it is very good (Gen 1:31).

*Simon Tugwell  

 

the well down deep

there's a war and riots and power black

to blacken black the hearts of all.

"more then?", quiz the screaming tongue

of peace and joy and hope of love;

turbid sounds spill o'er now chapped lips.

comes the prize ablaze

though black be speckled blood in red:

placards high 'neath concreted soles

with beards and hair strung for an avant-garde,

all unknowing  the Known once known

but hence the dead, the vaulted God.

our scene rests by the well down deep

wherein through which a tree-scarred lad

a pebble loosed to its thirsting floor

while weeping toward the nimbused sky.

*In moments of despondency we may perhaps look around and think that we should be much happier if we gave up trying to be good, if we could enjoy all the vices of the world around us.  But that is only a fantasy. The desire for goodness is really a much more robust desire than any alleged desire for evil.  And it is the desire for goodness which we must cherish.  Sometimes we can be too much occupied with seeming good, even with being good in the sense of conforming our outward behavior to external standards of correctness, and as a result ignore our own real needs.  We must be content to grow slowly towards goodness, taking, if need be, a long time to convalesce.  Most of us, maybe, will still be barely at the beginning of our recovery even when we die.  But that is better than killings ourselves pretending to be healthy.

We have trivilized ourselves, fobbing ourselves off with trinkets when we wanted a kingdom.

*Simon Tugwell

 

looking at the world ass-backwards

looking, I was looking out

 into the ever-fresh fields of rude

 magnolias flipping in the breeze of 

the summer days shouting Yellow

 Yellow, as brilliantly as they can

 to distract the hedge-trimmers with

 scythes in hand and I knew as they

 knew that their days were trim, that

 they'd be trimmed by the noon of 

day so they'd laugh and laugh

 with the brilliance of the hurricane 

rains smacking their heads against

 the shorelines of the patient land

 where the grasses wept when the

thatchers hewed the flowers gone

 the grasses chewed but waited till

 these immigrants would again depart

before coming forth again to pester

them in nature's ever-rule of land

and always win yes always win

 yes win their effort to control the mass

*It is the cross and only the cross that provides a constant point of reference in the chaos of our world, because there is all poverty and helplessness and pain, in our yearning and all our mutual injustice, taken up into the stillness of God's everlasting love and made into the instrument and revelation of God's unchanging will.  So in all of it, beatitude is formed in the depth of our individual and churchly lives, giving us at least a courage to persevere until all joy is revealed.  And so our hope comes to be focused on God's rule rather than on our own, and it comes also to expand, reaching far beyond the widest dreams of earthly planners, because it homes in on the fullness of blessing which God has in store for those who love God, which 'eye has not seen and ear has not heard and it has not entered the heart of humankind to conceive, (1Cor.2:9). 

*Simon Tugwell

 

a brand new fright

where do you stand when you want to sit

when anything that moves you is still

and the next motioning is toward the edge of tomorrow

toward the edge of the past day awaiting something new

i wonder where to sit from time to time 

where all that moves is a flat grill of chill

and everything that chills is hot

hot with the cold-edge of dynamite still

so i write empty words on crowed papers

on the edge of scraps that seem newly fresh

pretending that i'm the sane biographer

of another genius who was recently lost

unknown to himself or any one else

waiting for release from the insanity bin

go then, go to wherever your int'rest drags you

to the harbor lights where nights get high

on to the daylight's somber attractions

where nothings drawn but another goodbye

seize the appropriate greeting

when whatever arises enters ones mind

when sweet-words seem full of tired urgings

that vomit like spent monies exiting a bank

i don't know what to tell you

when ten flies sit atop some barbecued manure

except that it stinks with the aroma of shit

knowing its the refuse of well-ground, discarded food

on we move while scenery blinds the sun anew

awaiting the rain that with thunder will erupt

awakening light beyond our present sight

into the delight of a brand new fright

*It is in the light of Calvary that we can see what it means for us to confess our poverty and our helplessness and to renounce the attempt to overcome them of our own.  It is there that we accept our suffering and turn it into a compassion with all the pains that people bear, bundled together as they are in the suffering of Christ. It is there that we discover and fortify our charitable earning for all rigtheousness to be reveled, while at the same time tempting ourselves and which we hope to share with all humankind.  And so we come imperceptibly to see everything more purely in the light of God's seeing of all  that God has made, and so we come to be able at least to whisper the truth of the infinite peace of God's will even  in the midst of the storms and contentions of life in this world.

*Simon Tugwell

Letting go

 

in a nowhere kind of land

being a somewhere kind of people  

in a nowhere kind of land  

is nothing special but ordinary 

ordinary like the work place 

of daily struggles to live 

and love to be good and make sense

 to fight for right, avoid evil and 

yet to know that each of these 

is territory of the normal 

the damned and the cursed 

the struggling poor for might  

for spouse and children

for fam'ly and kin 

for all those values that other people have 

wanting to be rich and happy  

bearing peace and health 

of watching children get married 

of going to war and burying our dead 

shedding tears, relishing a drink 

wearing a smile, avoiding the frown 

and be, just being...a ME wherever found 

in the hood or in the ground 

being a somewhere kind of person 

in a nowhere kind of land

*[The] process of declaring and making present God's peace and love into our world is the way in which we are brought more deeply into the truth of what we are as God's creatures and so, however much pain it causes, it will also inevitably bring us ever closer to the source of genuine vitality within us. If we jump for joy, it is because, in spite of everything, we discover the fountain of life bubbling up within us. The truth will set us free, as our Lord said; the truth of what we are will set us free from our stiffness and our grim propriety.  And even if it takes a bit of persecution to get us to the point of truth, we shall surely find an urge within us to give vent to our freedom and our sense of being alive.

*Simon Tugwell 

 

on watching a cloud in the wind

how unlike 

a cloud 

in the wind 

am i 

when 

what i 

use 

to shape 

my world 

my self 

my god 

ceases 

to blow 

in 

the wind

*Jerry Schroeder, Cap.

ode to an owl

who 

who 

who 

are you 

we 

ask 

eye 

to eye 

two 

appetites 

in 

the night 

one 

on a branch 

the other 

on delight

*Jerry Schroeder, Cap.

 

o ghost of rocker-chair longing

awaiting mem'ries to seat themselves

and ride the ridges of the hours 

into dusk or into death 

into stories told upon porches

 or only in ones head

stories of grace and sadness 

tales of joy and of pain 

tidbits of Life's strange myst'ries 

packed into the flesh of years

here you sit with empty seating 

and with the breeze of ev'ning sway 

until the passing of your season 

neglected and decayed

*Thoughts from Jean Sulivan

    Our spiritual struggle never ends.  No one knows from what direction the Spirit will emerge.

    When faith becomes what it is, interior liberation, it is spontaneously creative.  the Gospel is corrosive; had     you forgotten?

    By looking on Jesus as a free person I am able to make myself his ally, because he is on the side of               the poor and the weak, and against the multinationals and the oil companies and the coffee lobby-that is,       against everything that keeps men and women from being neighbors, from becoming close to each other in     the present moment,

    The absence of Jesus is the sign of God's love.  It prevents any of our cherishes schemes from becoming       finally installed.  The world is caught up in the wake of the impossible-which is also the necessary.

 

 a misty episode

i read book that's writing me 

a novel autobiography 

recorded in my bones 

nestled in my mind 

faded o'er the passing years 

arisen through a quickened dream

it lit like fire burning in the night 

my limbs and soul aflame 

like some ancient prima dona 

desirous to be thunk again 

her arms a watery flab 

her toes weakened by weight

the text fell softly 

like shavings from a sharpened lead 

preparing to jot another chapter 

onto the pages of my awakening mind

the story held briefly 

images bunching in a continuous stream 

that upon my arousal 

floated into ghosts exiting Halloween 

twas a misty episode 

playing out some phases of my life 

authored by my deeds undone 

and deeds seeking repeat

ghostly phrases now write themselves 

as images to be read some future night

*Evil cannot be destroyed; it can only be redeemed.

-Anon

*To kill evil one must kill the significance.

-Anon

*Every happiness is the child of a separation it did not think it could survive.

-Rainer Maria Rilke

 

giv'away

i can't give you ev'ry piece*

i need some reminder

some visual recollector

calling me Home

i am child of tangibles

the touchy-feely movement of life

it anchors the "not-enough"

it's ev'rything though not All

i need turn to Silence

 to Nothing hanging in the air

in doors beyond the sensate

to That to which all points 

i need 

i need - blindness

to pass ev'ry need and gadget

  ev'ry madness of addictions

ev'ry self-binding prison

barring me from Life

to gain myself again

and give myself away

to lay stretched before the Light

 in which the world proceeds:

there in that Void 

is where i need to flow

no, i can't give you ev'ry piece

i might then lose my soul 

*religious art

*Leper

i do not

touch  

nor am I

touched

by all that 

is

beyond my

grasp

*Jerry Schroeder, Cap.

 

the new normal

with the new normal

 our want of security

 we talk round and round our sore 

so that all else is prattle 

words passing by 

but never through

ours are shallow reckonings 

weak and slaughtered

enough to humor  

pretend we're alive 

grasping for a cord of life

we induce suicide 

leaping past pain 

and splattering of blood

 the flooding tears

so, round and round we talk  

with the cool hatred of cowards 

our scabs hardening into rock 

until, until...until

the closet door is open

we  can grab our coats and run

or sit together and still

until, until...until

there is a new beginning

altered wills that free our hearts

our armored shells that blast apart

until, until...until

we prep our mouths to move again

adjust our eyes to see again

relax our lives and breathe again

until, until...until

we shut the door again

Terror comes instead

 

war it's said

war it's said 

is rape

is pleasure for pain

to kill spirits and flesh 

to burst open 

the web of trust 

to disguise care 

like a mother nursing 

her young to grow 

as human

war it's said 

is laughter abolished 

smothered in blood

coloring relations 

and painting fences 

'round prisons of freedom 

and the healthy society 

war it's said 

is fun for children 

and worth the expense 

of shaping economy

and ev'ry murder 

to save the immaculate nation

from the scourges of war 

it's said

war's Hell 

i said

Life is more difficult than death

 

Parousian Shout

From their fanfare of shock

rising from the rich o'er the poor 

the strong o'er the weak 

will be a roar of praise 

the underlings alone can mouth 

a day of renewal and acclamation 

of huggings and embrace 

when the down'll be up 

and the high-flung thrown into doubt 

wondering "How could this be 

when all my labors were for You 

even though they suffered for  love of You 

when all my claims were for staking You 

for giving You reign o'er the terrorists of earth 

o'er the realm of the Fiend; 

how could this be?

Ah, praise there'll be 

that heaven will ne'er tire to hear 

cause all the strong and rich 

the grand upon the earth 

will be drawn into its arms 

by the victims of their might 

by their pains to rid the land 

of the dregs of Adam's sin. 

The Sin will have been them 

brought through the Golden Gate 

by the forgiveness of the pained 

and the blood of the Lamb

pimps

pimps are their girls inside-out

clones of their mothers roarin' within

pretty-boys for the making and the taking 

twisted youths with envious flesh 

they're booty-butts struttin' their stuff

perfumed and jeweled 

furred and flashy-curled sought in the dark 

they hope ne'er to be caught 

their manhood a booty-fuck

pimps are their girls inside-out 

clones of their mothers roarin' within

abba

I want

to begin with ah

and end with ah

to be

and be

in between

Listen

 

*The apostle of our time does not have the social prestige of earlier times; he is incapable of glorying in his role or crying victory, thereby arousing envy or hostility.  Living more deeply, he experiences his own unbelief so well that he is the brother of atheists and unbelievers, not just in intention and words-that is, in illusion.  The Word of the Gospel and of the Church has become so much his own that he is like a humble innkeeper who rejects no one, whom one feels the need to visit, whether to be quiet or to talk, just as one visits a healer or a guru-although he has nothing in common with a guru.  Lucid, cured of many hopes and fears, no more virtuous than any one else, capable of solitude and silence, without need of recognition, skilled in reading on someone's lips words other than those that were spoken, in gently uncovering the lie within sincerity, he's not afraid of enjoying himself, without which one can't give to anyone else.

The way of the master is inscribed in the Gospel and in the very nature of the "inner" Christianity revealed "to the apostles and the little ones"; this makes it possible for them to avoid the illusion of general ideas proper to that external Christianity that only reaches the mind, when it reaches anything.  The master reveals God and eternal life in sympathy, in the every instant, not through an abstract morality that leaves us foreign and indifferent when it doesn't produce guilt.
-Jean Sulivan

the eve of departure

ready

bristling to leave

like swans for the nesting grounds

settle in

 build a nest 

lay eggs

hatch a brood

ready to fly

bags packed

engine warm

lunch prepared 

gas in the tank

ready to move

let's go

not looking back

few regrets

energy for the next

i'm ready

let's roll

i'm off

catch me if you can

a swan heading for the nesting grounds

 

Felix culpa suppresssed

We'd like to save ourselves

but can't

tripping deeper into the human hole

dug denying the first

the First Cause being blamed

We blind ourselves to our escapades

escaping, if possible, our fall from grace

It's tragedy we long

responsibilities we set aside

Felix culpa we sing at the Easter font

yet quickly suppress its freeing words

wrapped in their prophetic tones

With difficulty we accept ourselves

the state of our and those we love

For sure God loves us still

forever and forever more

*To tear down the idols that exits outside oneself doesn't mean much.  To destroy idolatry within oneself is far more difficult.

-Jean Sulivan

 

*Naturally, God doesn't need prayer.  Let's stop turning God into a potentate anxious for homage.  It's you and I who need prayer so that we will no longer be alone, in order to get out of our shells and rejoin the universal body of love.  We can't link up with others without passing through what is furthest away; to get there it's necessary to lose ones identity.  It's in that loss that I can find you, that you can find yourself.  To pray is therefore to introduce love, humor and death into every action and ideology.  Hence prayer is the revolutionary act par excellence, the very opposite of alienation.

To count sheep or the cracks in the sidewalk, to surrender to habit in order to feel we've settled accounts with ourselves and with God-why not?  It can happen that the most wretched prayer is lifted up by love, to the confusion of all hypocrites.  But the person who wants to hold back, to keep everything locked up, secretly refusing the flux of time and death, is only pretending.  It's the same as multiplying formal gestures of courtesy when love departs.  Politeness is the surest way of keeping one's distance.
-Jean Sulivan

The new normal

With the new normal

our want of security

we walk round and round our sore

so that all else is prattle

words passing by 

never through

Ours are shallow reckonings

weak and slaughtered

enough to humor

pretend we're alive

grasping for a cord of life

We induce suiscide

leaping past pain

the splattering of blood

the flooding of tears

So, round and round we walk

with the cool hatred of cowards

our scabs hardening into rock 

 

*A person who asks if it's necessary to pray today makes it clear that she's still speaking from within the framework of ideology.  We don't have to: prayer rises up from the heart of life.

But prayer can also become a terrible weight and be abandoned; then one day it begins to invade one's existence. We don't decide-it happens or doesn't happen. "Prayer is nor perfect," Cassien says, "if the one who prays is aware of himself and realizes that he is praying."

Prayer is often auto-suggestion, set in motion by words.  We need to make use of words against words, to unmask complacency and dishonesty, and to realize that we often try to use God as a tool.  Praying is a struggle.  It's a matter of going beyond faith in one's own thoughts in order to rediscover the original faith. Business executives are imprisoned in their steel or glass towers, but those dedicated to the interior life and religious ideas can just as easily be walled up inside their cloisters.  Let's not have too much reverence for the interior life; it's a production like any other until a breakthrough takes place, which is prayed for and expressed in action.  We can then speak of a certain greatness of soul whereby a person becomes a partner in God's creation.
-Jean Sulivan