Oh crowds of easy feelings make a start; They raise their hands, get caught up in the singing, And think the battle won. Too soon they’ll find The challenge, the reversal he is bringing Changes their tune.
All things without, which round about we see, We seek to know, and how therewith to do; But that whereby we reason, live, and be, Within ourselves we strangers are thereto.
You are neither here nor there, A hurry through which known and strange things pass As big soft buffetings come at the car sideways And catch the heart off guard and blow it open.
What began was a hunt for good Christmas poetry became an annual curation of art, poetry, and reflections. Here are some thoughts and links to many poems you may find helpful during the Advent season.
Cathedral Square Park & Cathedral of St. John the Evangelist, Milwaukee, WI circa 2015
Many years ago I started collecting poems that for the Advent season. Here is a list of twelve poems and some reflections. It is a three-minute read. Enjoy!
Saturday, the first weekend in April, snow fell thick all afternoon. A recording of Bach played from the living room stereo.
As I cleaned the kitchen, I remembered a conversation from earlier in the week. After a long thirteen-hour day, my co-worker asked what kind of books I’ve read recently. I shared a few titles. She replied, “Oh, wow, you read the classics. I only ready modern fiction.” It stung a bit. And I wanted to defend myself from being considered a fossil. The truth of the matter is that I do, in fact, read old books. And I enjoy reading them. But it does make conversations with people difficult.
I closed the dishwasher door and pressed the start button. I thought of another moment in the week. While troubleshooting a video looping file for a 42-inch display screen, I remembered how hungry I was that day. During lent, skipping one meal a day is manageable. Even if it was a long day. But it was more than “to keep/the larder lean. . . ” as Robert Herrick wrote in his poem “To Keep a True Lent.” [1] He concluded: “To starve thy sin,/Not bin;/And that’s to keep thy Lent.”
Another recollection while cleaning the kitchen. I read Geoffrey Hill’s translation of “Lachrimae Amantis.” [2] Hill’s poem was featured in an anthology. When I searched the public library system for his book Tenebrae I came up empty. (Not to be confused with his poem by the same name.)[3] Yet it seemed appropriate to consider “Lachrimae Amantis” on Passion Sunday.
At this dark solstice filled with frost and fire your passion’s ancient wounds must bleed anew
“Lachrimae Amantis” by Geoffrey Hill
There was some leftover oatmeal at the bottom of a pot on the stove. As I cleaned the kitchen, I finished the rest of the steel cut oats with a sprinkle of brown sugar, almonds, a dozen raisins, and a tablespoon of yogurt. Is this breaking a lenten fast? Maybe I shouldn’t have added the yogurt. I washed it down with cup of black tea. Then proceeded to wipe down the stove top and counter. The oats and raisins reminded me of a poem by Dylan Thomas. The poem contains no Latin and no “thys.” Just the “oat and grape.”
This Bread I Break[4] by Dylan Thomas
This bread I break was once the oat, This wine upon a foreign tree Plunged in its fruit; Man in the day or wine at night Laid the crops low, broke the grape’s joy.
Once in this time wine the summer blood Knocked in the flesh that decked the vine, Once in this bread The oat was merry in the wind; Man broke the sun, pulled the wind down.
This flesh you break, this blood you let Make desolation in the vein, Were oat and grape Born of the sensual root and sap; My wine you drink, my bread you snap.
Cloudy, wet, cold, and windy. Weather report? Or state of the soul? Friday, I left the office to catch the street car in order to take the last train out of the city. But the street car seemed off schedule. I picked up my two bags of work gear and hiked through the city streets to discover that the East St. Paul Avenue bridge was out of commission. Orange cones and barricades blocked both ends of the bridge. That explained the dilemma of the street car. No bridge. No street car. At that point, the bags carried felt twice as heavy as when I left the office. I headed north on foot to the next bridge and made it in time to board the train home.
For a moment, as I stood outside the Milwaukee Public Market, home seemed so far away, if not out of reach. The invitation of home a distant sound. Once on the train, I reread a poem by Bei Dao. I read it earlier in the day, but sought to pick up the thread and continue digesting the poem. But in my fatigue, I skipped ahead a few pages and read a poem by Gu Chen. In that poem the speaker reports that his dark eyes seek the light.
After a few attempts at reading, I closed the book and watched the landscape pass by the window. I thought of a Lenten reading from Soren Kierkegaard: Christ sought followers not admirers. And John Donne’s meditation on the Scripture passage: they took My Lord away. Donne proposed that often “you yourself cast him away.” He offered that his followers diligently “seek him, . . . and seek him with a heavy heart, . . .” My mind pondered these thoughts. Do you want a comfortable life? An easy life on your own terms? Christ invites followers to something more.
The Risk by Marcella Marie Holloway
You take a risk when you invite the Lord Whether to dine or talk the afternoon Away, for always the unexpected soon Turns up: a woman breaks her precious nard, A sinner does the task you should assume, A leper who is cleansed must show his proof: Suddenly you see your very roof removed And a cripple clutters up your living room.
There’s no telling what to expect when Christ Walks in your door. The table set for four Must often be enlarged and decorum Thrown to the wind. It’s His voice that calls them And it’s no use to bolt and bar the door: His kingdom knows no bounds of roof, or wall, or floor.
Unseasonably warm for this time of year and this part of the country, my oldest children and I had an opportunity to go for a walk after a noon meal last week. The sun’s warmth felt good in spite of the wind. We discussed school and work and lent. At one point in the conversation I stated that three practices of the Christian faith include prayer, fasting, and almsgiving.
“What is almsgiving?” asked one child as we walked along a gravel path. I explained that almsgiving may be an antiquated term for giving to the poor and needy. Usually money and food. But may also include giving your time, energy and resources.
We walked a mile or so in the late-winter, Spring-like weather before returning to our tasks for that day.
My intention this lenten season was to share six poems — one for Ash Wednesday and five for the Sundays in Lent. But the search for good Lenten poems was quite challenging. Poems exploring prayer, repentance, self-denial, and generosity are difficult to find. At least poems that are crafted with integrity and sincerity.
Chris Davidson’s poem “Ash Wednesday” caught my attention. And the poem “The Risk” by Marcella Marie Holloway. Both of these poems I returned to and considered. This is the best way to understand a poem. Return to it and reread and meditate on it.
Malcolm Guite’s poetry, specifically his Stations of the Cross sonnets,[1] I recently discovered. In one sonnet, on the body of Christ removed from the cross, he ends with this couplet: “Yet in that prising loose and letting be/He has unfastened you and set you free.”
At this week’s worship gathering, after the Fraction and Eucharist the congregation sang “Holy Ground.”[2] Half way through the worship song is a bridge of double-word lines that punctuate the message. It was this song that reminded me of a Kathleen Norris poem.
Imperatives, Part 2 of Mysteries of the Incarnation by Kathleen Norris
Look at the birds Consider the lilies Drink ye all of it Ask Seek Knock Enter by the narrow gate Do not be anxious Judge not; do not give dogs what is holy Go: be it done for you Do not be afraid Maiden, arise Young man, I say, arise Stretch out your hand Stand up, be still Rise, let us be going . . . Love Forgive Remember me
‘Tis the season of ennui. That American season between the week before Christmas and the week after New Year’s Day. The seasonal binge of activities, food and drink. How do the faithful resist this powerful cultural vortex? For my household, almost all plans were canceled due to health concerns. Whether in my house or in others’ homes, the concern that a scratchy throat, a sneeze, or a cough may be something worse than a seasonal head cold.
Christmas Day. My wife and I woke early and walked through the village at sunrise. The village was quiet. One pickup truck passed by us; heading south. But that was all.
Edmund Spenser’s sonnet Amoretti LXVIII includes the lines: “This joyous day, dear Lord, with joy begin,/And grant that we for whom thou diddest die,/Being with thy dear blood clean wash’d from sin,/May live for ever in felicity.” Christmas Day was quiet and full of joy and gratitude.
I introduced the family to Gian-Carlo Menotti’s 1950 libretto “Amahl and the Night Visitors.” There was quiet resistance. It is not a Disney musical. There are no Marvel comics superheroes. The cast is spare: three kings, a disabled child, and his mother. Yet as the opera unfolded, like all good stories, the children were captivated by the narrative. They laughed. Asked questions, what is happening now? Why are they singing? Are they really kings? And at the tense, comedic, warm, pivotal moment of the libretto King Melchior sings of love alone. That may be the remedy to ennui. Quiet, persistent, patient love.
Excerpt from “Amahl and the Night Visitors” by Gian-Carlo Menotti
The child we seek doesn’t need our gold. On love, on love alone he will build his kingdom. His pierced hand will hold no scepter. His haloed head will wear no crown. His might will not be built on your toil. Swifter than lightning,
he will soon walk among us. He will bring us new life, and receive our death, and the keys to his city belong to the poor.
Christmas Day.[1] Last year. The Advent candles lit and allowed to burn all day. And into the evening hours. And until they extinguished themselves. With a death in the family, last year’s Christmas day was surreal and somber. Many activities that would have normally taken place did not due to pandemic restrictions.
This photo, from last year, captures many memories and thoughts. The white candle, sometimes called Christ’s candle in the Advent wreath, represents light, purity, and victory.
Light shines brightest in the dead of winter, in the confusion of depression and folly, and in the feeble snatching after victory from the gutter of defeat.
The poet, speaking in the voice of the magnus, asks “Birth or Death?” Whether King Baltazar, Kasper, or Melchior, the poet does not reveal. “I should be glad of another death.” This line echoes in my mind. Why not, I should be glad for another death? Or, I should be glad of death? Wrestle with this poem during the “worst time of the year.” Consider if the liotodes in the poem is “satisfactory.” Avoid googling what it means. Close the laptop. Turn off the mobile device. Watch the candle light and ruminate.
The Journey Of The Magi[2]
by T. S. Eliot
“A cold coming we had of it, Just the worst time of the year For a journey, and such a long journey: The ways deep and the weather sharp, The very dead of winter.” And the camels galled, sore-footed, refractory, Lying down in the melting snow. There were times we regretted The summer palaces on slopes, the terraces, And the silken girls bringing sherbet. Then the camel men cursing and grumbling and running away, and wanting their liquor and women, And the night-fires going out, and the lack of shelters, And the cities hostile and the towns unfriendly And the villages dirty and charging high prices: A hard time we had of it. At the end we preferred to travel all night, Sleeping in snatches, With the voices singing in our ears, saying That this was all folly.
Then at dawn we came down to a temperate valley, Wet, below the snow line, smelling of vegetation; With a running stream and a water-mill beating the darkness, And three trees on the low sky, And an old white horse galloped away in the meadow. Then we came to a tavern with vine-leaves over the lintel, Six hands at an open door dicing for pieces of silver, And feet kicking the empty wine-skins. But there was no information, and so we continued And arriving at evening, not a moment too soon Finding the place; it was (you might say) satisfactory.
All this was a long time ago, I remember, And I would do it again, but set down This set down This: were we led all that way for Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly We had evidence and no doubt. I had seen birth and death, But had thought they were different; this Birth was Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death. We returned to our places, these Kingdoms, But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation, With an alien people clutching their gods. I should be glad of another death.
Early. An hour before sunrise. Coffee and poems at the kitchen counter. All the apartment was asleep. I read: “Fyre, erd, air, and watter cleir,/To Him gife loving, most and lest,/That come into so meik maneir;/Et nobis puer natus est.”
I love old things. Ancient verse among my favorite. These lines from William Dunbar’s poem “On the Nativity of Christ”[1] take a bit of reading and rereading to unpack the Scottish and Latin lines. And the poem “Veni, Creator Spiritus”[2] by John Dryden features the lines: “And peace, the fruit of love, bestow;/And, lest our feet should step astray,/Protect, and guide us in the way.”
What poem best fits the fourth Sunday of advent? The angels announced that the promised Messiah had come to bring peace.
Distracted. For many minutes I was distracted by a web site with images of famous paintings[3] of the adoration of the shepherds. Maybe it was an hour of distraction. I was frying eggs and toasting bread while looking at the paintings. William Blake’s illustration of Milton’s work[4] is omitted from the collection. His imagination of a brilliant ball of angels in the sky above shepherds[5] remained with me.
Then there was an explosion of household morning activities and responsibilities.
It was not until after the noon meal that my thoughts returned to this meditation. The fourth Sunday of Advent. Peace. The priest mentioned in the sermon that there is a liturgy of life we all participate in daily. He encouraged us to ditch the device and be present. Presence. That reminded me of the following poem by Denise Levertov.
Making Peace by Denise Levertov
A voice from the dark called out, ‘The poets must give us imagination of peace, to oust the intense, familiar imagination of disaster. Peace, not only the absence of war.’ But peace, like a poem, is not there ahead of itself, can’t be imagined before it is made, can’t be known except in the words of its making, grammar of justice, syntax of mutual aid. A feeling towards it, dimly sensing a rhythm, is all we have until we begin to utter its metaphors, learning them as we speak. A line of peace might appear if we restructured the sentence our lives are making, revoked its reaffirmation of profit and power, questioned our needs, allowed long pauses . . . A cadence of peace might balance its weight on that different fulcrum; peace, a presence, an energy field more intense than war, might pulse then, stanza by stanza into the world, each act of living one of its words, each word a vibration of light—facets of the forming crystal.
Glad for weariness? The idea that things would slow down last week was an illusion I tried to maintain. My desire was to avoid the hectic and dwell deeply during this Advent season. But the pace of projects at work and helping neighbors and family with medical appointments propelled me and my household through the week.
So, my thoughts remained on the themes of the second week of Advent. Though it is now Gaudete Sunday. The annunciation continues to capture my attention.
In Bernard of Clairvaux’s “Annunciation Dialogue,” he considered the gospel of Luke account. “Be it unto me according to your word,” said Mary. There is wonder, mystery, and humility in the story that I can not escape.
From a sea of fractured thoughts, I washed ashore from the shipwreck of last week. I drew a quick ink study of Viktor Paul Mohn’s no room illustration. The plan was to post the drawing, a thought, and a poem. But the thought and poem disappeared. The notes I left myself read:
Shepherd’s Candle
rose or pink
shepherds rejoice at the announcement from the angels
joy and rejoicing
Though the drawing above does not match the following poem, I am reminded of what Fr. Olsen shared to congregants this weekend. From the gospel of Luke, he said, that people were in expectation. The annunciation may have been a secret to all but a few, but there was an unexplained expectation in the hearts and minds of people.
The Shepherd’s Song
by Georg Johannes Gick
I am the shepherd’s song, I sing here in the stable’s shadow, and all men come; like lambs I bring them to the Christmas meadow.
I call them through the winter night, lost out there in the bitter cold; Oh come and see how love is bright in the Good Shepherd’s fold!
If there should come some weary one still late at night that I could bless, I’ll be content my singing’s done and glad for weariness.
On a note card is written thoughts and themes about the second week of Advent.
Love
Faith
Bethlehem
purple candle
the prophet, Micah, foretold the birthplace in Bethlehem
the city of David
preparation for the king
My desire was to compose some meaningful prose to mark the celebration.
But, very early this morning, I watched sleet turn to snow and then to rain. My mind drifted in this irrational season. Eventually, I put the pen down, stuffed the notecard in my pocket and went for a long walk with a friend and brother. This poem by Madeleine L’Engle seems most appropriate for this second week.
After Annunciation
Madeleine L’Engle
This is the irrational season when love blooms bright and wild. Had Mary been filled with reason there’d have been no room for the child.
The youngest child asked, “Why is the candle purple?”
I lit the first candle of the Advent wreath as we gathered around the dining table and prepared to celebrate the first Sunday of Advent.
It is called the “prophets candle” and it is purple to represent royalty, I said. The first candle reminds us of the hope God’s people had that a King was promised.
How does it do that? the child asked.
Let’s read and find out.
We read passages from the prophet Isaiah and the gospel of Luke.
After the first Sunday of Advent celebration, my tired mind tried to find a suitable poem. Thankfully, I had set aside a half dozen poems for consideration last year. This Sabbath poem from Wendell Berry seems to fit with the theme of the prophets candle.
Sabbath Poem VII
Wendell Berry
The clearing rests in song and shade. It is a creature made By old light held in soil and leaf, By human joy and grief, By human work, Fidelity of sight and stroke, By rain, by water on The parent stone. We join our work to Heaven’s gift, Our hope to what is left, That field and woods at last agree In an economy Of widest worth. High Heaven’s Kingdom come on earth. Imagine Paradise. O Dust, arise!
Coffeehouse Junkie 