After Father Hopkins
I consider the wisdom of putting to flame
all my life’s writings
so as to leave behind in ashes
my worldly attachment to my words.
Then morning dawns with you.
How terrible are your bright wings
when compared to my chemical physics,
such that as you read these words
my words are already burning for you?
After Father Hopkins
The Icon of Disorder at Key West
A mass of stained glass stands in place,
centered in the opening of the Western wall.
The key has been locked in the solder
where the door ought to have opened.
Attend to the door
by opening the window
to Eastern light.
If I should reach out would you remember, still, the touch of my hand or perhaps the smell of my neck?
Such is intimacy.
At times both safe and ruinous. At once both familiar and queer.
Like a portrait capturing a single moment from a thousand brushstrokes, every story has led us here, to this time and to this place.
Every whispered word, every raucous pushback, has overtaken the one before
I’ve been laid a bit low this week. I hope to be back blogging shortly.
Please, in the meantime, enjoy one of my favorite Advent hymns (found on YouTube):
Comfort, Comfort Oh My People
Comfort, comfort oh my people,
Speak of peace, thus saith our God;
Comfort those who sit in darkness,
Mourning ‘neath their sorrow’s load.
Speak unto Jerusalem
Of the peace that waits for them;
Tell of all the sins I cover,
And that warfare now is over.
Hark the voice of one who’s crying
In the desert far and near,
Bidding all to full repentance,
Since the kingdom now is here
Parvus error in initio magnus erit in fine
-After John 10: 1-2
Believe me when I tell you this; the man who climbs into the sheep-fold by some other way, instead of entering by the door, comes to steal and to plunder: it is the shepherd, who tends the sheep, that comes in by the door.
Where the doors
are out of place
those entering by them
become thieves by design
of a thief’s designation.
Everywhere I look, there are traces and shadows.
Traces of the man I once was, shadows of the man I must one day leave behind.
But memories are often bitter frauds, plying us with regrets that were built solely upon mundane moments. Ones that distracted us through much of the day as we did our very best to cope.
And those second chances so often longed for? They’d likely have changed nothing at all
I find that I am all to pieces, so much so that I can hardly write.
Today I conveyed Jean-Baptiste to Bois-de-Bas, where I had not been since being hurried away to L’Isle de Grand-Blaireau back in July. Marc is away with the better part of our young men, seeking alliances and harrying the Provençese wherever they can, so long as it is far distant from here, and so things are quiet in our vicinity. Thus, when Jean-Baptiste came to me and said that he must speak to Brigitte’s father—an event long foreseen, at least by Amelie and I—it seemed much the most natural thing to fly him down myself, and as his friend to vouch for him.
I am happy to say that that all went quite well, and if all remains calm we shall bring a party down from the island on Samedi for the weddingPlease visit Zymurgia House to read the full post.
Carry yourself back to yesterday’s dreams, the ones that demanded only a child’s enthusiasm or a feigned willingness to suspend the day’s disbelief. The years in between have whispered seductive lies, convincing us that time is plentiful and patient and tame.
It is none of those things.
While distractions may have dulled our pain, loneliness has warped our bodies. The nighttime now cradles our brokenness, and dreams best measure our lossesPlease visit Grace Pending to read the full post.