“Martin of Tours” a Poem by Charles L. O’Donnell, C.S.C.

On this feast day of St. Martin of Tours, I came upon this delightful poem penned by Father Charles L. O’Donnell. It is an account of Martin’s charitable act of giving a beggar half of his cloak. As it turned out, Martin would have a dream that the beggar was in fact Our Lord. [Read more...]

The Loneliness of the Military Historian

A poem by Margaret Atwood.

Margaret Atwood

Confess: it’s my profession

that alarms you.

This is why few people ask me to dinner,

though Lord knows I don’t go out of my way to be scary.

I wear dresses of sensible cut

and unalarming shades of beige,

I smell of lavender and go to the hairdresser’s:

no prophetess mane of mine,

complete with snakes, will frighten the youngsters. [Read more...]

Because Conversion Works Like This

At least this has been my experience. Perhaps this poem by Emily Henrietta Hickey can help me explain. [Read more...]

Gone to Look at Fall Colors

"River in Autumn" by Wu Li, SJ

So no blogging today folks. Get outdoors and enjoy Autumn before it disappears. The beautiful painting above, done by my favorite Jesuit, doesn’t do justice to the beauty beckoning us from Appalachia. So that’s where my family and I are heading. You should do something similar! Enjoy the handiwork of Our Lord.

CUL8R!

For Moments of Solitude

 

Solitude

Salvific beauty;
Openness to mystery.
Listening like a child;
Instinctively grasping
Truth.
Ultimately acknowledging
Discernment of vocation.
Encouragement for the Way.

For All Creatures, Great and Small

Howdy fellah!

This is Reason #374 why I don’t live in “the big city.” I rumbled up the driveway in the Mustang, and as I lined her up to back into the garage, I spied “Mikey” in all his camouflaged glory crawling up the side of the other car. Sounds like a lead-in for an article in Big Backyard magazine, doesn’t it?
[Read more...]

Thoughts (A Few Words for Wednesday)

I love this photograph of Fr. Abram J. Ryan. Maybe it’s his hair, or perhaps it’s his stare. He has that look about him that says “I don’t care who you are, here comes the goods.” Last summer I shared his Song of the Mystic, and his background information, in this space. There’s a connection between him and me because (for a time) he was the pastor of the parish where I attend daily Mass. I bet he was a great preacher too.

I can imagine hearing him raise his voice at times, opening his eyes wide to make a point, sweeping his mane aside and raising his hands to heaven. And within a moment, dropping his voice fall into a whisper that leaves you on the edge of your seat hungering for the nectar he has teased from the readings. A priest who had seen war in both the heights of it’s glory and the depths of it’s desolation, and then applied what he saw to the Word. I bet it was something to behold.

But he was a poet, see, not just some hell fire and brimstone preacher. He was a mystic, a man of prayer. As well as a thinker and a doer. He was no poseur, as a poet either, as a reading of the following verses will make clear.

Thoughts, by Fr. Abram J. Ryan

By sound of name, and touch of hand,
Thro’ ears that hear, and eyes that see,
We know each other in this land,
How little must that knowledge be?


How souls are all the time alone,
No spirit can another reach;
They hide away in realms unknown,
Like waves that never touch a beach.


We never know each other here,
No soul can here another see –
To know, we need a light as clear
As that which fills eternity.


For here we walk by human light,
But there the light of God is ours,
Each day, on earth, is but a night;
Heaven alone hath clear-faced hours.


I call you thus — you call me thus –
Our mortal is the very bar
That parts forever each of us,
As skies, on high, part star from star.


A name is nothing but a name
For that which, else, would nameless be;
Until our souls, in rapture, claim
Full knowledge in eternity.

See what I mean? Maybe you have to be Irish, but…this guy is good!

The Rainbow (A Few Words For Wednesday)

A wiser man than I once said,

When, indeed, the artist desires to teach us a great spiritual truth, he invariably expresses it under the form of an allegory or symbol. For the soul dreams ‘neath the star-sown sky of symbol. It is spiritually its lisping language—the divine form of its expression.

…Yes, verily, the true gods do sigh for the cost and pain in making a poet out of a man. He shall henceforth see all things not through a colored glass, darkly, but with that inner eye, which, to the material and gross is sealed, but which is full of vision to the inspired and chosen few. His soul henceforth shall be in touch with both the lowly and Divine, for the function and office of poetry is to interpret unto man the glory of God in the universe.

The words above are those of a man of letters, a teacher, a poet, a Canadian, and a Catholic. His name is Thomas O’Hagan, Ph.D., the son of Irish immigrants. His biography reads as follows,

The youngest son of John and Bridget (O’Reilly) O’Hagan, natives of County Kerry, Ireland, was born in ‘the Gore of Toronto,’ on the 6th of March, 1855, and was a babe in arms, when his parents, three brothers, a sister and himself, moved into the wilderness of the county of Bruce, Ontario. They located in the township of Elderslie, three miles from the village of Paisley. The other settlers were mostly Highland Scotch, and Thomas as a lad learned to speak quite fluently not only the Gaelic tongue of his neighbours, but also the Keltic Irish, which was spoken freely by his parents. He attended the public school of the settlement where the teachers were Scotch, and where he applied himself with such diligence and ability that he won a Second Class Teacher’s Certificate at the early age of sixteen

Few Canadians have devoted so much time to academic study as Dr. O’Hagan. After graduating from St. Michael’s College, a prize winner in Latin and English, he entered the Ottawa University and graduated B.A., in 1882, with honours in English, Latin, French and German. Three years later the same University conferred on him the degree of M.A. In 1889, he received the degree of Ph.D. from Syracuse University: and in subsequent years took postgraduate work at Cornell, Columbia, Chicago, Louvain, Grenoble and Fribourg Universities. In September, 1914, Laval University, Montreal, conferred on him the honorary degree of Litt.D.

What tipped me off to him was a slim volume I had added to the Bookshelf over yonder (see right sidebar) a while back. Entitled, Essays on Catholic Life, I perused it anew in search of a poem. In it I found the thoughts that began this post, as O’Hagen presented poems of Tennyson, Browning, and Elizabeth Barret Browning in an essay on The Office and Function of Poetry. Go check it out.

But I also found some of his own poetry and you can now find a number of his books on the handy, dandy, YIMCatholic Bookshelf, you know, over yonder. I’ll share this short poem he wrote because this has become an altogether too long, and probably the longest post, that has ever run under the title “A Few Words for Wednesday.”

The Rainbow
A covenant of the peace that reigns
Between two great strong lands,
Whose glorious heritage of worth
Is gift of God—not hands;
Where Truth and Honor have a home
An altar bright and fair—
Pure as the lily of the field,
Wrapt in deep slumb’rous air.
O beauteous arch of faith and love!
Shine through the mists of life,
And fill our dreams of toil and care
With gift of prayer—not strife;
Light with thy beams our darkest days,
Rain down in mystic love
The joyance of the star-clad hours
That fills each life above.
Link with a bond of sweetest joy,
In memory fair as thine,
The hearts that plan, the souls that pray,
Within Loretto’s shrine,
That in the blossoming years afar
May shine out nobly good
The virtues of that Convent home
Where dwells true Womanhood.

St. Mary’s Basilica, Krakow Poland
Photo Credit: Sonia Marcus

Thoughts On New Media And Evangelization

I’m not a “new media” expert.
But to me,
“New Media” is old media
without editors,
without barriers,
without bosses.
At least not in its initial form.

Through this medium,
I can risk looking silly
by writing thoughts
in a strange style
with no fear of damaging
“the brand,” you see.

But “new media”
is quickly being co-opted,
if not dominated,
by old media companies.
Repackaging their messages,
paying people to share them,
and you wouldn’t even know that
if you weren’t careful.
Then, of course,
there are the revolutionaries.

The “new media” and “new evangelization”
are the old ways, actually.
But with direct access
to connecting people
globally,
electronically
instead of personally.
You know,
face to face,
working alongside them,
witnessing to them
by our daily
observable habits.
Sharing our stories
and struggles with them.
Falling down,
and picking each other up
As people naturally do.

New Media can fool you
into thinking you know the person
who is sharing that message with you today
this recommendation,
that hint or thought.

Again, I’m no expert
but I think these new ways
are very good,
but easily manipulated.
Orson Wells caused a panic
with a mere radio show
and we laugh
at the people’s naïveté
from our lofty perch.

How different are we
from them?
I suspect not very.
As Qoheleth said so
long, long ago:

Nothing under the sun
is new,
neither is any man able to say,
“Behold this is new!”
For it hath already
gone before
in the ages
that were before us.

Of course, Qoheleth could not
send his message
at the speed of light
from where he sat
to where it would be found
by someone
in a remote village
in Bhutan.
Today.
Right now.

That is the promise
of the New Media and
the hope of the
New Evangelization.
The peril
is that the message
of Christ’s love,
for the whole world,
is forgotten
in our awe of
the Medium.

Just a reminder
(If only for myself).

A Convert’s Lament To Mary (A Few Words for Wednesday)


Our Eastern brethren have been observing the Dormition Fast since the first of August. It continues until August 15th this year and concludes on the Feast of the Dormition, which Western Catholics celebrate as the Feast of the Assumption. In honor of this tradition, I will be sharing some of our Marian posts. This one is from October of last year…

Edward Caswall was another Anglican priest who converted to Catholicism in the mid 1800′s. He also joined the Oratory of St. Philip Neri, like his friends Blessed John Henry Newman and Frederick William Farber.  And, like them again, he was a prolific poet and hymnist.

Below is one of Caswall’s fine poems included in his book of verse entitled The Masque of Mary. This particular  poem really resonates with me.

As a convert to Catholicism, I pretty much ignored Our Lady my whole life. Lately, I’ve been making it a point to pray the Little Office of the Blessed Virgin Mary, and pray the Rosary regularly with my family. Although I’m not always 100% successful in this effort, I can truthfully say that I’ve been coming around to recognizing the significance of The Blessed Virgin as both the Mother of God and the Queen of Heaven.

Much like Caswall, though, I wish I would have come around sooner (but better late than never).

A Convert’s Lament to Mary

Among the thoughts that in my heart
Awaken grief sincere,
Causing with sudden pang to start
The unexpected tear,
Is this, that in the days gone by,
Star of the wintry sea!
Blinded by darkest heresy,
I thought so light of thee.

O Mother of my Lord and God,
Whom none invoke in vain;
O Path of life, which all have trod,
Who now in glory reign!

Had I but learnt in earlier years
To seek thine aid above,
To offer thee my infant tears,
Thy loving glance to love,—

How many deeds of sin and shame
Which now my heart appal,
Scar’d at the sound of thy pure name,
Had not been done at all!

How many a desolated space
Of vainly wasted hours,
Had bloom’d beneath thy smile of grace,
With paradisal flowers!

Mother! receive thine erring child;
Look tenderly on me;
From thy dear bosom long beguil’d,
I now return to thee.

More of Edward Caswell’s poems are here in The Masque of Mary, along with other of Caswell’s works on the YIM Catholic Bookshelf.


CLOSE | X

HIDE | X