Advent Sunday by Christina Rossetti

Advent Sunday
by Christina Georgina Rossetti

Behold, the Bridegroom cometh: go ye out
With lighted lamps and garlands round about
To meet Him in a rapture with a shout.

It may be at the midnight, black as pitch,
Earth shall cast up her poor, cast up her rich.

It may be at the crowing of the cock
Earth shall upheave her depth, uproot her rock.

For lo, the Bridegroom fetcheth home the Bride:
His Hands are Hands she knows, she knows His Side.

Like pure Rebekah at the appointed place,
Veiled, she unveils her face to meet His Face.

Like great Queen Esther in her triumphing,
She triumphs in the Presence of her King.

His Eyes are as a Dove's, and she's Dove-eyed;
He knows His lovely mirror, sister, Bride.

He speaks with Dove-voice of exceeding love,
And she with love-voice of an answering Dove.

Behold, the Bridegroom cometh: go we out
With lamps ablaze and garlands round about
To meet Him in a rapture with a shout.

Advent Sunday:Christina Rossetti | Malcolm Guite

The Year by Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Ella Wheeler Wilcox 1850 – 1919

What can be said in New Year rhymes,
That's not been said a thousand times?

The new years come, the old years go,
We know we dream, we dream we know.

We rise up laughing with the light,
We lie down weeping with the night.

We hug the world until it stings,
We curse it then and sigh for wings.

We live, we love, we woo, we wed,
We wreathe our brides, we sheet our dead.

We laugh, we weep, we hope, we fear,
And that's the burden of the year.

The religion of the Left

 The Party's faith in Sustainability, a poem

(by Norma Bruce, based on an idea in How Sustainability is Becoming the One True Corporate Religion by Ellen Weinreb, Dec. 20, 2011)

Their Religion, the One True, is Sustainability 
Their Cult is Climate Change
Their Cathedrals are on every college campus
Their Priests are staffing corporate H.R. departments 

Their Sacrament is Abortion

Their Baptism is a sprinkle of mRNA

Their creed is a CRT screed

Their church fathers are Marx, Nietzsche, Sarte, Marcuse, and Foucault.

Their testimonies speak lived experience of oppression

Their scripture contains no objective truth

Their Revivals are George Floyd riots
Their Galileo's trial is a January 6 Committee 

Their boards deny Corpernicus a seat
Their choir directors creates castrati 

Their missionaries translate language into chaos

Their pulpits are filled with media CEOs and intersectional academics.

October by Robert Frost

Since it's October 1, I thought I'd post the October poem by Robert Frost, but some critic spoiled my plan by reminding the reader that Frost was writing about death. It's the crows. When poets write about crows, says the critic, that tells you death is coming. But critics know that, and I didn't.

Poetry Analysis: October, by Robert Frost | The Literary Dragon

So let's just go with face value of the poem. The rows of maples on Henderson and McCoy have just a touch of gold this morning. Always sad to see since we know what coming, but thankful for the beauty.

"Taken at face value, this poem speaks, with a simple elegance, of the unique beauty of a crisp October morning. With an attention to detail that is characteristic of Frost, the poem carefully lays out the scene: just a quiet morning in early October. The air is silent, “hushed” even, but for the distant sound of crows. Multicolored leaves paint the ground in bright colors-red and gold and brown. A simple scene, rendered instantly familiar to any New Englander. Who would think to look any further?"

I checked my blog, and I've written 3 other posts about Robert Frost. I’m old enough to have actually attended a poetry reading by Robert Frost, one of the 20th century’s most famous and favorite poets, when I was a student at the University of Illinois. (He died in 1963.) My date that night was someone I'd met at Chinese Student Club, and I'm not sure if he understood anything, but he was polite and listened carefully. My roommate Dora Lee was Chinese (her family escaped from Communist China) which is why I attended Chinese Student Club.

The poem ends with grapes.  Isn't that nice?   A symbol for communion for Christians, although I doubt Frost of thinking in that direction.

Serendipity trivia:  While I was looking for a photo of Frost at the U. of I. on the internet, I took my 1959 Illio (yearbook) off the shelf.  It didn't have a good table of contents or index for special events so I started leafing through it.  I saw a photo of students at the first football game packed in like sardines, and there were two women from my house, McKinley Hall, Sandra McArthur and Mary Jo Brodd.  I also attended that game (got sick which is why I remember), so I studied it pretty carefully to see if we might have had a block of tickets, but I didn't see me.

A Biden gaff--he told the truth. He called the unborn baby a "child"

“I mean, so the idea that we’re going to make a judgment that is going to say that no one can make the judgment to choose to abort a child based on a decision by the Supreme Court, I think, goes way overboard.”-  Joe Biden, (May 3, 2022)

***
Did I say “a child”?....(I’m sorry!)
That’s not what I meant to say!
Heaven knows …what WAS I thinking?
Please forgive me…PLEASE I pray!!!

* * *

We uphold Self-contradiction.
It’s now codified to Law.
It’s the “virtue” we’re most proud of
(And delusion's gaping maw.)

 
Self-deception’s been upgraded
To a value we adore.
It’s the cornerstone of madness,
And we’re clamoring for more.

It’s the Fruit of Deconstruction.
It’s the snakebite from of old.
It’s The Lie that we all fell for,
And we love to have and hold.

It’s “the life” here East of Eden,
Where true up is known as down.
Where true truth's considered nonsense,
And the darkness is profound.

Used with permission. Tom Graffagnino. His book “No Border Land”, was published in 2020 and is available at Amazon. It is a book of poems and brief commentary dealing with cultural/secular issues that confront us from a Bible-believing perspective. https://www.amazon.com/No-Border-Land-Finding-Amazing/dp/1625861575

It's been a chilly April, but today should be warm

“The sun was warm but the wind was chill.
You know how it is with an April day.
When the sun is out and the wind is still,
You're one month on in the middle of May.
But if you so much as dare to speak,
a cloud come over the sunlit arch,
And wind comes off a frozen peak,
And you're two months back in the middle of March.”

― Robert Frost

How far is it to Bethlehem?

Start the day with a poem. "G.K. Chesterton’s beloved wife, Frances, had a special devotion to the Nativity. It was Frances, not Gilbert, who wrote the original poems for the Christmas cards they would send to their friends each year. Her lovely poem, “How Far Is It to Bethlehem?” has been set to music by several different composers."

How far is it to Bethlehem? Not very far.
Shall we find the stable room lit by a star?
Can we see the little child, is he within?
If we lift the wooden latch may we go in?
May we stroke the creatures there, ox, ass, or sheep?
May we peep like them and see Jesus asleep?
Great kings have precious gifts, and we have naught,
Little smiles and tears are all we brought.
For all weary children Mary must weep,
Then here, on his bed of straw, sleep, children, sleep.
God in his mother’s arms, babes in the byre,
They sleep as they sleep who find their heart’s desire.

A poem about Lakeside

We'll be putting our Lakeside house on the market soon (turn key) so I'm removing personal items. Came across this poem about our Lake Erie written on a dinner napkin (probably the Patio) by a guest, which my husband matted and framed. Duke taught a poetry class at the Rhein Center, and he and Bob went to high school together.

The lake swells and drops
In rolling rhythm
As the morning sun announces
The beginning of a new day.

Reflections of sunrise
Glisten in the water
As my eyes divert to keep
The brightness at bay.

Only the artist can capture
This spectacle of light and water
On a morning like this in a
Place as inviting as Lakeside.

Duke Thomas Low 7-13-07

Throwing out the 4th draft of a 25 year old never published paper

 I think I'm in my 5th day of packing and pitching--my professional files (if you think I write a lot now, it's nothing like the 1990s), valentines from 3rd grade, letters to my parents, fiction and poetry I wrote in the 1990s. I can only do about 2 hours a day. Sad and disturbing. It's unbelievable what I've forgotten, but when I re-read those files, I don't want to throw away what I didn't know was stored in musty boxes. I have no recollection of applying for an exchange program to attend a Negro college in the south in 1958, but I told my parents about in a letter home from Manchester College.  And the next month there was a letter to them filled with my plans to attend the University of Illinois to study Russian.   And then. In a folder I found a photocopy of a poem written by Billy Collins (Poet Laureate of the United States from 2001 to 2003) and published in Harper's Magazine, October, 1994. It's called simply, "Forgetfulness." I checked the internet and found a YouTube of his own performance. The audience was laughing.  I wasn't--it's a very sad poem.  

 https://youtu.be/aj25B8JYumQ   https://poets.org/poem/forgetfulness

Poetry and music—how the schools and churches fail us

Although this is a challenge for Catholic schools and churches, it applies to all worship leaders and educators: poetry and music. Even when I was in school 60 years ago, my mother complained that we didn't have enough poetry in our curriculum.

"First, get rid of the lousy poetry and lousy music. Stupidity is always a vice, says Maritain. Nobody says, “It doesn’t matter what movies my child watches, so long as he watches movies,” or, “It doesn’t matter what my husband drinks, so long as he drinks.” Get rid of it. Nobody but the church performers enjoys it anyway. Replace it with real hymns. Don’t think you can get those from the big presses, OCP and GIA and such, because they have mangled the texts and dragged them through the mud. Sing the poems, as they were composed.

Second, return to poetry. The time is short, and the reward immense. Fifty lines of Tennyson can be committed to memory; five hundred pages of Dickens, not so fast. Have every student in your schools learn, say, twenty poems by heart. And their elders, too, might join in – have a Poetry Night in your parish, with the stipulation that every poem be written in meter.

We are suffering from cultural dementia, muddied and dulled by the strokes of the modern. It is time, little by little, for recovery."

https://www.thecatholicthing.org/2019/02/23/recovering-from-cultural-dementia/?

Not being Catholic, or even musical, I didn't know what OCP and GIA were, so I looked it up. The comments from the musical directors are hilarious.

https://forum.musicasacra.com/forum/discussion/8615/what-is-your-favorite-gia-or-ocp-hymnal-/p1

April is poetry month

Normal day, let me be aware   

           of the treasure you are.

           Let me learn from you,

           love you, savor you, bless you

           before you depart.  Let me not

           pass you by in quest of some rare

           and perfect tomorrow.

                              -Lynne Wilburn, 2011

Good fences make good neighbors

I’m old enough to have actually attended a poetry reading by Robert Frost, one of the 20th century’s most famous and favorite poets, when I was a student at the University of Illinois. My date that night was someone I'd met at Chinese Student Club, and I'm not sure if he understood anything, but he was polite and listened carefully.  In high school I can remember our English teacher, Mrs. Price, reading to us, “Mending wall.”  One of the most famous lines is, “Good fences make good neighbors,” but the poem actually begins with “Something there is that doesn’t love a wall,” which is his real message.  https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44266/mending-wall

Frost tells of meeting a neighbor who owns the property on the other side of the wall in the spring to repair the damage to their wall of boulders and stones, each one walking his own side, and in some areas because of the terrain, no wall is needed.  But Frost wants to ask his neighbor, why do we need a wall, we don’t have cows who can escape or wander away? “Something there is that doesn’t love a wall” and causes it to fall, like the hunter and his dogs chasing and shooting rabbits, or maybe elves? His neighbor seems to move in darkness, just repeating what his father said, “Good fences make good neighbors.” So it isn’t Frost who says this—he’s too cosmopolitan and sort of sees his neighbor as a rube—it’s his old neighbor born and raised in the 19th century quoting his own father whose wisdom and fears go back even further. (It’s actually an almost universal proverb common in many languages.)

So with all the talk about a wall--it’s called a fence in the legislation  Democrats Obama, Schumer, Clinton and Pelosi voted for—what does it keep out and what does it keep in? But like Frost’s neighbor there are reasons, seen and unseen, to believe we need walls.

• Those who are anti-wall would not deny a security firewall for the Wi-fi at their office or home. It keeps others from cyber mischief, or stealing bandwidth or passwords and codes. 
• Those who are anti-wall would not deny themselves a guard dog—maybe a Rottie or shepherd mix, or more than one—to protect their home and children.  They may just have a small poodle or Chihuahua to make noise and alert them someone is on their property.
• Those who are anti-wall have keys or codes to lock their house, their car, their safe, their work files. Yet all those things may first be secured within a gated community, and some gated communities have a guard in addition to walls, fence, gate, treacherous terrain and alarm bells.
• Those who are anti-wall would not deny us privacy and safety within our own person.  We have Constitutional guarantees that wall off government from telling us where we can go to church or what we can think or say. 
• Those who are anti-wall believe we have a right to personal behavior codes of modesty and safety that wall off our bodies and which should protect our sexuality and personhood from rape, assault, insult and bigotry, some are even codified in law, even if they aren’t in common sense or tradition.
• Those who are anti-wall are also in the midst of a big cultural controversy brought about because the only wall left for sexual behavior seems to be “consent,” and that’s a "he said, she said" unwritten law wall. A pat, slap or flirt of 20 years ago has become grist for a law suit or career failure. There were/are no clear boundaries.

And then there are the municipal invisible fences or walls, like when I drive one mile north on a snowy day, I clearly know where Upper Arlington ends, and Columbus begins because the streets aren’t plowed.  There’s no sign or fence, but there is an invisible and actual boundary which provides different schools, tax rates, building codes, environmental regulations and city services which in turn put different values on homes and a variety of rents on businesses, insurance rates, and regulations for shopping centers. 

The Scioto River has a bridge, as does the Olentangy, and they have flood plains which prohibit building, but the real wall is the different township lines and city limits jurisdiction of Hilliard, Columbus, Upper Arlington, Grandview Heights, Clinton Township and Dublin. The birds and wildlife go back and forth freely, and to some degree, so do the people.  These communities with their visible, invisible and natural boundaries all cooperate on certain things, but no one I’ve ever met who lives in them has suggested we just become one big municipal blob called simply the Columbus Metropolitan Area, even if map makers and politicians think of us that way.

Back to Robert Frost.  Although he lived in a rural area when he wrote “Mending wall” he wasn’t a farmer, and he culturally wasn’t rural. He was born in San Francisco, had lived in the Boston area and had been living in Europe before purchasing his New Hampshire farm.  He’s sort of poking fun at the ideas of his neighbor’s concept that the wall actually improve their relationship.  Would Frost have purchased property where no one knew the boundary?  Were there once cows or sheep kept by former owners, but they were stolen or wandered away before the wall? Were the boulders and stones he and the neighbor replace when they’ve fallen down, once brought there by a glacier and by repurposing them into a wall, was the land made more useful?

And of course, by living in a rural farmhouse surrounded by a fence and inhospitable terrain as well as peace and quite, Frost himself built another kind of wall, at least temporarily, so he could write, teach and lecture. And become famous.

The Train, author unknown

THE TRAIN: At birth we boarded the train and met our parents, and we believe they will always travel by our side. As time goes by, other people will board the train; and they will be significant i.e. our siblings, friends, children, and even the love of your life. However, at some station our parents will step down from the train, leaving us on this journey alone. Others will step down over time and leave a permanent vacuum.

Some, however, will go so unnoticed that we don't realize they vacated their seats. This train ride will be full of joy, sorrow, fantasy, expectations, hellos, goodbyes, and farewells. Success consists of having a good relationship with all passengers requiring that we give the best of ourselves.

The mystery to everyone is: We do not know at which station we ourselves will step down. So, we must live in the best way, love, forgive, and offer the best of who we are. It is important to do this because when the time comes for us to step down and leave our seat empty we should leave behind beautiful memories for those who will continue to travel on the train of life.

I wish you all a joyful journey.

I've seen this essay and some similar attributed to various people; at this point I don't know who the author is.

 

November [poem]

November
By Maggie Dietz

Show's over, folks. And didn't October do
A bang-up job? Crisp breezes, full-throated cries
Of migrating geese, low-floating coral moon.

Nothing left but fool's gold in the trees.
Did I love it enough, the full-throttle foliage,
While it lasted? Was I dazzled? The bees

Have up and quit their last-ditch flights of forage
And gone to shiver in their winter clusters.
Field mice hit the barns, big squirrels gorge

On busted chestnuts. A sky like hardened plaster
Hovers. The pasty river, its next of kin,
Coughs up reed grass fat as feather dusters.

Even the swarms of kids have given in
To winter's big excuse, boxed-in allure:
TVs ricochet light behind pulled curtains.

The days throw up a closed sign around four.
The hapless customer who'd wanted something
Arrives to find lights out, a bolted door.

Photos taken at our condo grounds on November 7, 2016

Poem for the government agenda

They came for the bakers, 
but I had nothing to sell, and said so;

they came for the florists, 
but I had no wedding, and looked away;

they came for the ladies restroom, 
but I had a place to go.

they came for the pastor,
 but I was not in the pew and had nothing to say.

When I'm an old lady (years from now)

When I'm an old lady, I'll live with each kid
Joanne Bailey Baxter (see comments in this blog)
 http://suitableformixedcompany.blogspot.com/2005/04/when-im-old-lady-and-live-with-my-kids.html

·

When I'm an old lady, I'll live with each kid,
And bring so much happiness just as they did.
I want to pay back all the joy they've provided.
Returning each deed! Oh, they'll be so excited!
When I'm an old lady and live with my kids.

I'll write on the walls with reds, whites and blues,
And I'll bounce on the furniture wearing my shoes.
I'll drink from the carton and then leave it out.
I'll stuff all the toilets and oh, how they'll shout!
When I'm an old lady and live with my kids.

When they're on the phone and just out of reach,
I'll get into things like sugar and bleach.
Oh, they'll snap their fingers and then shake their head,
When I'm an old lady and live with my kids.

When they cook dinner and call me to eat,
I'll not eat my green beans or salad or meat,
I'll gag on my okra, spill milk on the table,
And when they get angry I'll run if I'm able!
When I'm an old lady and live with my kids.

I'll sit close to the TV, through channels I'll click,
I'll cross both eyes just to see if they stick.
I'll take off my socks and throw one away,
And play in the mud 'til the end of the day!
When I'm an old lady and live with my kids.

And later in bed, I'll lay back and sigh,
I'll thank God in prayer and then close my eyes.
My kids will look down with a smile slowly creeping,
And say with a groan, "She's so sweet when she's sleeping!"

I slipped His fingers, I escaped His feet

I heard this lovely poem recited at the end of a very complex lecture on theology and history by Charles Craigmile, but without attribution.  I googled the first line, and found it is often attributed to Bishop Fulton J. Sheen, but kept looking, and found it in one of his addresses from 1940.  It is so lovely.  Some say the name of the poet doesn't matter, but she does. The Sheen source attributed it to Elizabeth Cheney (b. 1859).
    
"I slipped His fingers, I escaped His feet,
     I ran and hid, for Him I feared to meet.
     One day I passed Him, fettered on a Tree,
     He turned His Head, and looked, and beckoned me.

    "Neither by speed, nor strength could He prevail.
     Each hand and foot was pinioned by a nail.
     He could not run or clasp me if He tried,
     But with His eye, He bade me reach His side.

    "For pity's sake, thought I, I'll set you free.
     'Nay -- hold this cross,' He said, 'and follow me.
     This yoke is easy, this burden light,
     Not hard or grievous if you wear it tight.'

    "So did I follow Him Who could not move,
     An uncaught captive in the hands of Love."

         -- (Attributed to) Elizabeth Cheney (in a Sheen address found on a blog)

But I kept looking (it's a librarian thing) and found a version with a  different message attributed to Cheney--more evangelistic, perhaps more social justice, but without Christ's words. Neither poem provides the truth of the resurrection. The poet Cheney is best known for a small poem about birds and anxiety that appears on plaques. So perhaps the Sheen version and the Cheney version are not one, but different treatments of the same theme.

 Whenever there is silence around me
By day or by night—
I am startled by a cry.
It came down from the cross—
The first time I heard it.
I went out and searched—
And found a man in the throes of crucifixion,
And I said, “I will take you down,”
And I tried to take the nails out of his feet.
But he said, “Let them be,
For I cannot be taken down
Until every man, every woman, and every child
Come together to take me down.”
And I said, “But I cannot bear your cry.
What can I do?”
And he said, “Go about the world—
Tell every one that you meet—
There is a man on the cross.”

Elizabeth Cheney

Incidentally, not only is there a modern Elizabeth Cheney (daughter of the former vice president), but there was an English Elizabeth Cheney in the 15th century who because of her two marriages was the great-grandmother of Anne Boleyn, Jane Seymour, and Catherine Howard, three of the wives of King Henry VIII of England, thus making her great-great-grandmother to King Edward VI, the son of Henry VIII and Jane Seymour, and Elizabeth I, the daughter of Henry VIII and Anne Boleyn. Her first husband was Sir Frederick Tilney, and her second husband was Sir John Say, Speaker of the House of Commons. She produced a total of nine children from both marriages.

Isn't the internet amazing? It's not often you can get a 15th century royal, a 19th century poet and a 20th century priest worked into the same article.

A writing prompt from Tweetspeak Newsletter--Home

“If, many years from now someone were to live in your home, what would you want them to know about it? What does house and home mean to you? Talk about its comforts and your favorite spaces. What might be different? What will always remain the same? Write your answer in poetry.” December 12, 2015

Memories of Home
Norma J. Bruce
December 12, 2015

Home.  Where is that located?
Is it Kenbrook where memories
Are daily, brief and quiet.
Where we moved in January
And I was then hospitalized?

Home. What would it look like?
Is it Abington with memories
Of babies, birthdays and weddings?
What will the current owners risk
And remodel beyond recognition?

Home. When a horse was pastured?
Is it Hannah where memories
Push a porch swing with Polka-dot,
When boyfriends stopped by for dates,
And we went to movies and dances.

Home. Why not a whole village?
Is it Forreston whose memories
Of  friends hold  to this day
Why when some have moved or died,
And we are always children.

Home. Would it be war time?
Is it Alameda’s bay area memories
With trips to the zoo and playground.
Would I hear White Christmas in fog
And walk to kindergarten?

Three Word Wednesday—the Obituary

Three Word Wednesday gives writers, poets and those who journal a mid-week jolt of creativity. Each week, three words are selected; you create something with the words. Then come back and post a link to your contribution.

Obituary,  a notice of a death
Placid, not easily upset or excited;  calm and peaceful, with little movement or activity.
Resonant,  deep, clear, and continuing to sound or ring;  filled or resounding with (a sound); having the ability to evoke or suggest enduring images, memories, or emotions;

The obituary
by Norma J. Bruce
December 8, 2015

She died.
Two days later, he died.
The obituary was clear on the dates.
Death notices are often dry and placid,
It took my breath away as I thought back.
With careful wording and verbs about the destination.
Brief paragraph, not resonant with the muffled sounds of the past
Of young love, quarrels and misunderstandings,
When sixty years ago they had hoped for a future that
Was not to be. Ever.  At least on this side.

Three Word Wednesday—The Christmas Letter

Three Word Wednesday gives writers, poets and those who journal a mid-week jolt of creativity. Each week, three words are selected; and participants create something with those words. Then they return to the website and post the link. This week’s suggestions:

Lackadaisical, adjective: lacking enthusiasm and determination; carelessly lazy.
Makeshift, adjective: serving as a temporary substitute; sufficient for the time being; noun: a temporary substitute or device.
Nude, adjective: wearing no clothes; naked; depicting or performed by naked people; (especially of hosiery) flesh-colored; noun: a naked human figure, typically as the subject of a painting, sculpture, or photograph; flesh color.

The Christmas Letter
by Norma J. Bruce
December 2, 2015

The page is almost nude, missing inspiration.
The 2015 Christmas letter has stalled.
It looks makeshift, a temporary substitute
For the lively travel log and holiday schedule
I had hoped to create.
My lackadaisical attitude is pushed by a short time frame,
And so  I start again. It reappears on the back of the card.
Problem solved.