Clarion: Journal of Spirituality and Justice

Speculation

Blessed Bewilderment - by Corrie Block

Blessed Bewilderment

Thereforever I bewildered of the answer unfulfillered

To the question never nearer near to me than to my dearer

Answer there presented me the clever never foolery

The key to meaning's door betrayed me never near to thee it bade me

 

Yet the quest I daily heeded as love was all I ever needed

Had Jesus all the secrets held in perfect perfectness untelled?

Well not at all to my surprise, twas not good diet, nor exercize

Did not I find the answer heaven, nor which plus five makes forty-seven

 

What was all this living for, if making love instead of war

Made babies all the evermore? Exponential needy roar

Making warts and killing doves, succeeded we in forging loves

Forevermore we ever lurched from heaves of grace through lands unchurched

 

Till tossed was I like cookies from the Budda’s holly jolly bum

And crept through zealous spew toward the slave's eternal just reward

To find I'd lost in kind of frost a curiousness never crossed

And lived I evermore bewildered, cared not for answer unfufillered

Praise for the Master - Laura Merzig Fabrycky

TUESDAY, MAY 4, 2010
Amman, Jordan
© Laura Merzig Fabrycky

Praise for the Master
You, the Storyteller!
You, the Poet!
Great crafter of beauty and intrigue
   and the framing of images
   before the mind's eye of the
   awake and the alive,
   or the awakening and the enlivening
   or the asleep and the near dead.
You call us up, out, and through
   to images, to the fiery, detailed grandeur
of the story,
the words—jewels of your love.
The covenants—Master,
you are good,
over and through
it all.
You, the Creator of Creation!
You, the Creator of Context and Co-Creation,
        and of Co-Creators
You, the Envisioner of Imagination:
   l'histoire et de poésie--
   explicit and tacit
   lived and experienced--
we move within the pages of your verse,
  rest within the gulleys of your impasto
        on the yet-dried canvas in your studio,
  dance to the movement of your strings played
                    by the heavenly spheres,
  tread with fear within
           your language, yours words, and your language beyond language,
to find we are undone and remade by
   the play of it all
   the staging and lights
   (alongside its frightful reality).
We are living,
awed by your mastery.

Failing in Wartime - Laura Merzig Fabrycky

MONDAY, MAY 10, 2010
Amman, Jordan
© Laura Merzig Fabrycky

Failing in Wartime

It has never not been wartime.
They have always been dying and
grieving—deep,
rib-cage-gasps of lament.
And I have been idle at my computer,
checking my Facebook account for
the latest distraction from the terror,
disease,
death,
orphans,
women and children trafficked,
the cruel and nearly pitied lives.
Hands outstretched to my closed
driver’s side window.
The locked door.
I cannot breathe this kind of air for long.

                           What is required?
                           What can one do in
wartime when it is all wartime?

I hold them responsible. All thems.

Praise for the Master - Laura Merzig Fabrycky

TUESDAY, MAY 4, 2010
Amman, Jordan
© Laura Merzig Fabrycky

Praise for the Master

You, the Storyteller!
You, the Poet!
Great crafter of beauty and intrigue
  and the framing of images
  before the mind's eye of the
  awake and the alive,
  or the awakening and the enlivening
  or the asleep and the near dead.
You call us up, out, and through
to images, to the fiery, detailed grandeur
of the story,
the words—jewels of your love.
The covenants—Master,
you are good,
over and through
it all.
You, the Creator of Creation!
You, the Creator of Context and Co-Creation,
  and of Co-Creators
You, the Envisioner of Imagination:
  l'histoire et de poésie--
  explicit and tacit
  lived and experienced--
we move within the pages of your verse,
rest within the gulleys of your impasto
       on the yet-dried canvas in your studio,
dance to the movement of your strings played
            by the heavenly spheres,
tread with fear within
       your language, yours words, and your language beyond language,
to find we are undone and remade by
  the play of it all
  the staging and lights
  (alongside its frightful reality).
We are living,
awed by your mastery.

A Weapon of His Choice - Boyd Barrett

More, alas, to come! by Archbishop Lazar Puhalo

Paul
(early teens)

By an abandoned orchard,

of the forest trail,

          toward the peaks
          in silver grass
          in the hillside womb of afternoon;

the peace of death

curls around him

          far from the

wilderness

          of the world.

Silent now are the voices

that preached love,

          but killed him.

To download the whole collection, click link below:

Download More ALas, to come 

For Young Victims of Hate (Killed by Christians) - Archbishop Lazar Puhalo

For Trevor (14 yrs old)

 Wings close,

the swallow falls

          among

          abandoned avenues.

Glass cavern walls

          mirror him

swift on

shocks of air,

           hard pavement

           and a garden wall

cries of the heart

greater than any pain

            echo through the empty city

            invoking

the vanished

sun.

To Download the whole collection, click the link below:

Download FOR YOUNG VICTIMS OF HATE(Killed by Christians)

God Sent Snakes - Poem by Jeff Imbach

God Sent Snakes
(Numbers 14)

God sent snakes.
 
Killed the bastards
            for complaining
 
just because their
            great, epic
            pilgrimage
            became
inconvenient.
 
What did they expect?
 
I can hear them now:
 
“We didn’t sign up for 
food shortage.
 
We anticipated a triumphant procession
            into a plush and plenty
                        freedom.
 
We had enough suffering
            in the Old Country”

I don’t blame God, really.
            At least,
            I can feel my own vindictive
            bile rise when they
 
bitch like condo owners at an AGM.
 
But come now, God! Let us reason together;
 
I want to let go of my judgmental
                                    retaliation.
 
                        And you ...
 
Are you so high and mighty that you can
                        just off anyone who complains
                        because they are
                                    threatened with starvation?
C’mon!
 
Why should I trust you with
            my very guts
                        if I can’t even
 
whimper
occasionally?

 

"It Is Completely Fire" - poetry by Katie Kilcup

"It is Completely Fire" Katie Kilcup

Icon: Maximos the Confessor

The Made Makers 

We are the made makers,

the makers of the made.

We cannot make geese

or the infinite web of feathers

and wind tangled in blades

of light,

or thickets of slight sun

wavering in underwater labyrinths.

 

We make the second made,

feather pillows and forks,

skyscrapers and silly-putty.

The given we have taken

and baked in the furnace mind,

until the tangle of the original

is laid straight in rulers,

clocks, kingdoms.

 

We are the puppet makers,

imitators all.

The grid of intention cages us,

beautiful parrots, glorious in color and song,

our language longs for height.

We are the made making,

furious with brows furrowed,

the sea escapes our cups. 

The Distant Wind by Sheila Murray-Nellis

The Distant Wind 

It's because of the flatness all about, beyond these green hills

that bulge up along the thrashing river,

 

It's because of the distant flatness and the way

the wild wind whips past that brings this hissing in the trees,

 

This constant motion, that lifts the turkey vultures,

that brings the rumbling thunder, that makes

 

Trees fall broken-hearted, trees that had once sprung up

curving their roots around and under solid granite.

 

It's because of the song that lifts through my larynx,

the wind that enters the flow of wind,

 

And where this wind comes from and where it goes,

singing notes that called into being these very notes within.

 

It's because of the sweet motion of the river that lifts up

singing through the wind's song with its own rushing

 

And that of the sea to which it flows.

I wait below. If you hear me sing you'll know

 

It's not my song alone: I'm singing the wind;

I'm singing the sound of the waters;

 

I'm singing you home.

 

'The Moon Wouldn't Let the Sky Be Dark' and 'While Alone, Thoughts Escape' by Sheila Murray-Nellis

The Moon Wouldn't Let The Sky Be Dark

You were the one whose name I heard

when the wind moved through the valley.

I heard the trees whisper it, but

you weren't listening at the time. 

The moon kept pouring more and more

silver into the sleeping lake. 

I saw your eyes snap open:

That's when you began to shimmer.

See how the waters wait for your voice's ripple.

See how the still waters shine back the light.

'Tangled' and 'The Finch' by Sheila Murray-Nellis

Tangled

 We found the finch,

eyes clear but wings

limp as string,

its spindly feet

twisted in wire.

 

Untangling toes,

you were quick to stroke

ruffed feathers;

then you hung back:

the small body

fluttered to the oak.

 

You wear your fatigue

like feathers; I stretch

out my hand; your feet

lock in to what snares

you even more.

 

With your every twist

my heart is pierced

with barbs.

 

'What's beneath the surface' and 'The Taste of Wind' by Sheila Murray-Nellis

What’s Beneath The Surface

If you were someday

to rise out of the foaming waters of the sea

to count the stones and broken shells of my heart,

 

If you were to listen there

and to separate the gull’s cry

from the sucking sounds of stones beneath inhaling waves,

 

If only you were there at night

when shivering stars gaze with longing,

if you added your breath to the wind that tangles my hair

 

And strokes my neck with cold fingers,

then you would lift the pebbles to expose the sand

ground to softness by weather.

 

Once home in your room

you would put the spiraled shell to your ear

and listen to my whispered lament.

 

You would unwind the ribbon of kelp

from your heart and reveal the cords

that bind it to my own.

The Year Begins with War -- Wendell Berry

From A Timbered Choir, 1991:1 (p. 125-6).

The year begins with war.
Our bombs fall day and night,
Hour after hour, by death
Abroad appeasing wrath,
Folly, and greed at home.
Upon our giddy tower
We’d oversway the world.
Our hate comes down to kill
Those whom we do not see,
For we have given up
Our sight to those in power
And to machines, and now
Are blind to all the world.
This is a nation where
No lovely thing can last.
We trample, gouge, and blast;
The people leave the land;
The land flows to the sea.
Fine men and women die,
The fine old houses fall,
The fine old trees come down:
Highway and shopping mall
Still guarantee the right
And liberty to be
A peaceful murderer,
A murderous worshipper,
A slender glutton, or
A healthy whore. Forgiving
No enemy, forgiven
By none, we live the death
Of liberty become
What we have feared to be.

-Wendell Berry, 1991

The Heretical Commentary: Essay 1 -- Alfred Sergel IV

The Heretical Commentary: Essay 1

"Why do you live like you're going to die, Alfred?"

Heresy comes to mind when I think about the insanity of actually making this internal inquiry public.

I'm either losing my mind or actually beginning to get it back "...for this was not revealed to" me "by flesh and blood, but by" the everlasting "Father in heaven."

It's interesting...

We exhaust ourselves trying to mend the veil that tore when He died.
Are we mending the veil so we can hide behind it like Adam and Eve hid behind the bush?

We toil....and in this vain effort...we tire ourselves in mind, body and spirit...and we tire those around us.

Too tired to love...both God and neighbor.

The 'found' get lost.

We make His words good advice rather than good news. And the yoke just gets heavier and heavier.

The Sabbath becomes a day, rather than the Way.

Are we walking out of the Garden....again?

It's right in front of you Adam.
It's right in front of you Eve.

The Spirit whispers and the snakes yell....but don't be distracted...not now.

Seek first the firstborn of the dead...
See your life in His life and find life, abundantly....

Ever. Lasting.

So...?

"Why do you live like you're going to die?"

Wherefore wait? Maurice Baring

One day I heard a whisper:  ‘Wherefore wait?

Why linger in a separate porch?

Why nurse the flicker of a severed torch?

The fire is there, ablaze beyond the gate.

Why tremble, foolish soul? Why hesitate?

However faint the knock, it will be heard.’

I knocked, and swiftly came the answering word,

Which bade me enter to my own estate.

Maurice Baring

 

Lament -- by Eric H. Janzen

 

This shredded flag hangs low

like the burdened shoulders

of a visionary watching the

vision of his passion fade

'what is necessary is not necessarily

good' says the wind as it

moves the flag aside, passing

with the memory of resistance,

the recollection of the desire

to make something distinguished

and like George Grant

witnessing the dream so slowly

extinguished, a northern fire

smouldering like so much smoke and ashes

rising now falling free to mark

the mourning few and leave

the shredded flag to hang askew

over a hill pondering the loss of

the true north and its strength

given over for weakness.

 

 

Love III by George Herbert

Love bade me welcome, yet my soul drew back,

        Guilty of dust and sin.

But quick-ey'd Love, observing me grow slack

        From my first entrance in,

Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning

        If I lack'd anything.

“A guest,” I answer'd, “worthy to be here”;

        Love said, “You shall be he.”

“I, the unkind, the ungrateful? ah my dear,

        I cannot look on thee.”

Love took my hand and smiling did reply,

        “Who made the eyes but I?”

“Truth, Lord, but I have marr'd them; let my shame

        Go where it doth deserve.”

“And know you not,” says Love, “who bore the blame?”

        “My dear, then I will serve.”

“You must sit down,” says Love, “and taste my meat.”

            So I did sit and eat. 

The still point of the turning world -- excerpt from T.S. Elliot's Four Quartets

At the still point of the turning world. Neither flesh nor fleshless;
Neither from nor towards; at the still point, there the dance is,
But neither arrest nor movement. And do not call it fixity,
Where past and future are gathered. Neither movement from nor towards,
Neither ascent nor decline. Except for the point, the still point,
There would be no dance, and there is only the dance.
I can only say, there we have been: but I cannot say where.
And I cannot say, how long, for that is to place it in time.
The inner freedom from the practical desire,
The release from action and suffering, release from the inner
And the outer compulsion, yet surrounded
By a grace of sense, a white light still and moving,
Erhebung without motion, concentration
Without elimination, both a new world
And the old made explicit, understood
In the completion of its partial ecstasy,
The resolution of its partial horror.
Yet the enchainment of past and future
Woven in the weakness of the changing body,
Protects mankind from heaven and damnation
Which flesh cannot endure.
Time past and time future
Allow but a little consciousness.
To be conscious is not to be in time
But only in time can the moment in the rose-garden,
The moment in the arbour where the rain beat,
The moment in the draughty church at smokefall
Be remembered; involved with past and future.
Only through time time is conquered.