Contemplative Haven

He who binds to himself a Joy
Doth the winged life destroy;
But he who kisses the Joy as it flies
Lives in Eternity’s sunrise.

[He Who Binds to Himself, by William Blake]

Autumn Closing (Bliss Carman)

The show is over, and the leafy tent
All gold and crimson where the sunlight lingered
Through the slow afternoon, is coming down.
The bittersweet is scarlet on the bough
Reluctant to be gone, though frosts have strewn
Patins of glory on the forest trails,
While tatters of torn splendour go to feed
The smoky bonfires in the village street.
What singer pipes the closing autumn hush
With surest note of cheer in all the wild?
A dauntless minstrel of the changing year,
Chickadee of the wilderness! He knows
What sweetness gathers in the winter’s heart,
What saving oracles the North Wind sings.

Wondrous truths, and manifold as wondrous,
God hath written in those stars above;
But not less in the bright flowerets under us
Stands the revelation of his love.

[From Flowers, by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow]

…the revelation of His love.

When you looked at me
your eyes imprinted your grace
in me;
for this you loved me ardently;
and thus my eyes deserved
to adore what they beheld in you.

[St. John of the Cross, The Spiritual Canticle, Verse 32]

The Last Supper
(by Rainer Maria Rilke)

They are assembled, astonished and disturbed
round him, who like a sage resolved his fate,
and now leaves those to whom he most belonged,
leaving and passing by them like a stranger.
The loneliness of old comes over him
which helped mature him for his deepest acts;
now will he once again walk through the olive grove,
and those who love him still will flee before his sight.

To this he has summoned them,
and (like a shot that scatters birds from trees)
their hands draw back from reaching for the loaves
upon his word: they fly across to him;
they flutter, frightened, round the supper table
searching for an escape. But he is present
everywhere like an all-pervading twilight-hour.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

On the night he was betrayed,
he took bread and gave you thanks and praise.
He broke the bread, gave it to his disciples, and said:

Take this, all of you, and eat it:
this is my body which will be given up for you.

When supper was ended, he took the cup.
Again he gave you thanks and praise,
gave the cup to his disciples, and said:

Take this, all of you, and drink from it:
this is the cup of my blood,
the blood of the new and everlasting covenant.
It will be shed for you and for all
so that sins may be forgiven.
Do this in memory of me.

Effortlessly (by Mechtild of Magdeburg)

Effortlessly,
Love flows from God into man,
Like a bird
Who rivers the air
Without moving her wings.
Thus we move in His world
One in body and soul,
Though outwardly separate in form.
As the Source strikes the note,
Humanity sings –
The Holy Spirit is our harpist,
And all strings
Which are touched in Love
Must sound.

Found on the Poetry Chaikhana site.

Si Bheag, Si Mhor, with Mark Harmer

Snow (by Louis MacNeice)

The room was suddenly rich and the great bay-
   window was
Spawning snow and pink roses against it
Soundlessly collateral and incompatible:
World is suddener than we fancy it.

World is crazier and more of it than we think,
Incorrigibly plural. I peel and portion
A tangerine and spit the pips and feel
The drunkenness of things being various.

And the fire flames with a bubbling sound for world
Is more spiteful and gay than one supposes -
On the tongue on the eyes on the ears in the palms
   of one’s hands -
There is more than glass between the snow and the
   huge roses. 

Sometimes just being there is enough
When words would be an encumbrance upon sacred silence
That lends itself so well to contemplation.

Sometimes just being there is enough
Presenting oneself, body, mind and spirit
In an act of trust
When Love pours itself out of a ruby-rimmed cup
And all of me fills with longing.

[Taken from:
The Blueness Above, by Ann Murray]

Please visit Ann at her Poetry, Prayer, and Praise blog for some excellent news.

Normally when I use the tag “Canadian” on a post, it is with a sense of joy and a feeling of pride.  Sadly, this is not the case today, on our country’s 141st birthday. 

Today, to our eternal shame, the Order of Canada, the highest honour Canada awards to anyone, was presented to Henry Morgentaler (I refuse to use the misnomer “doctor” in front of his name), Canada’s abortionist/abortion-rights crusader par excellence and the dead-man-walking epitome of the culture of death. 

The Order of Canada “is the centrepiece of Canada’s honours system and recognizes a lifetime of outstanding achievement, dedication to the community and service to the nation. The Order recognizes people in all sectors of Canadian society. Their contributions are varied, yet they have all enriched the lives of others and made a difference to this country. The Order of Canada’s motto is DESIDERANTES MELIOREM PATRIAM (They desire a better country).”  Well, apparently not anymore.

The Order of Canada was awarded to Henry Morgentaler (despite a huge outcry from a cross-section of Canadians several months ago and also over the last forty-eight hours) by Governor General Michaelle Jean (who herself just a few short days ago attended the 49th International Eucharistic Congress).  Is there a stronger word for shame?  It just doesn’t seem to cut it.

So much dishonour.  Dishonour to the voice of the people.  Dishonour to Saint Joseph, our patron saint.  Dishonour to the millions of murdered babies.  Dishonour to thousands of other worthy recipients of the Order of Canada for promoting a culture of life through their efforts in all walks of life, including the sciences, the arts, and heroic efforts to save the lives of complete strangers.

Where shall the word be found, where will
the word
Resound? Not here, there is not enough
silence
Not on the sea or on the islands, not
On the mainland, in the desert or the rain
land,
For those who walk in darkness
Both in the day time and in the night time
The right time and the right place are not
here
No place of grace for those who avoid the
face
No time to rejoice for those who walk among
noise and deny the voice.”
[An excerpt from T. S. Eliot's Ash Wednesday]

The Prayer (by Jones Very.  American poet, 1813-1880)

Wilt Thou not visit me?
The plant beside me feels thy gentle dew,
And every blade of grass I see
From thy deep earth its quickening moisture drew.

Wilt Thou not visit me?
Thy morning calls on me with cheering tone;
And every hill and tree
Lend but one voice, – the voice of Thee alone.

Come, for I need thy love,
More than the flower the dew or grass the rain;
Come, gently as thy holy dove;
And let me in thy sight rejoice to live again.

I will not hide from them
When thy storms come, though fierce may be their wrath,
But bow with leafy stem,
And strengthened follow on thy chosen path.

Yes, Thou wilt visit me:
Nor plant nor tree thine eye delights so well,
As, when from sin set free,
My spirit loves with thine in peace to dwell.