11-26-2012, 06:27 PM
One of cidermaid's posts in another thread reminded me of the Catholic poet mystics, whose work I've always loved, especially St John of the Cross and Therese of Liseux (my confirmation saint, so I'm biased). A very good friend of mine, David Hirt, is a Capuchin friar and an amazing poet -- on a regular basis he makes me wish I was a religious person, at least for the space of a poem. I keep meaning to get him back here, he did join up at one point. Anyway, I digress. One of my favourite poems is by Thomas Merton, a Trappist monk who wrote mostly from his Abbey in Kentucky.
Aubade -- The City
Now that the clouds have come like cattle
To the cold waters of the city's river,
All the windows turn their scandalized expression
Toward the tide's tin dazzle,
And question, with their weak-eyed stare,
The riotous sun.
From several places at a time
Cries of defiance,
As delicate as frost, as sharp as glass,
Rise from the porcelain buildings
And break in the blue sky.
Then, falling swiftly from the air,
The fragments of this fragile indignation
Ring on the echoing streets
No louder than a shower of pins.
But suddenly the bridges' choiring cables
Jangle gently in the wind
And play like quiet piano-strings.
All down the faces of the buildings
Windows begin to close
Like figures in a long division.
Those whose eyes all night have simulated sleep,
Suddenly stare, from where they lie, like wolves,
Tied in the tangle of the bedding,
And listen for the waking blood
To flood the apprehensive silence of their flesh.
They fear the heart that now lies quenched may quicken,
And start to romp against the rib,
Soft and insistent as a secret bell.
They also fear the light will grow
Into the windows of their hiding places, like a tree
Of tropical flowers
And put them, one by one, to flight.
Then life will have to begin.
Pieces of paper, lying in the streets,
Will start up, in the twisting wind,
And fly like idiot birds before the faces of the crowds.
And in the roaring buildings
Elevator doors will have begun
To clash like sabres.
Aubade -- The City
Now that the clouds have come like cattle
To the cold waters of the city's river,
All the windows turn their scandalized expression
Toward the tide's tin dazzle,
And question, with their weak-eyed stare,
The riotous sun.
From several places at a time
Cries of defiance,
As delicate as frost, as sharp as glass,
Rise from the porcelain buildings
And break in the blue sky.
Then, falling swiftly from the air,
The fragments of this fragile indignation
Ring on the echoing streets
No louder than a shower of pins.
But suddenly the bridges' choiring cables
Jangle gently in the wind
And play like quiet piano-strings.
All down the faces of the buildings
Windows begin to close
Like figures in a long division.
Those whose eyes all night have simulated sleep,
Suddenly stare, from where they lie, like wolves,
Tied in the tangle of the bedding,
And listen for the waking blood
To flood the apprehensive silence of their flesh.
They fear the heart that now lies quenched may quicken,
And start to romp against the rib,
Soft and insistent as a secret bell.
They also fear the light will grow
Into the windows of their hiding places, like a tree
Of tropical flowers
And put them, one by one, to flight.
Then life will have to begin.
Pieces of paper, lying in the streets,
Will start up, in the twisting wind,
And fly like idiot birds before the faces of the crowds.
And in the roaring buildings
Elevator doors will have begun
To clash like sabres.
It could be worse