Who Are You?

Over the last several years, I have had the unique experience of moving from one tightly-knit and well-established community to another, each time with little or no connection. Yet, each time, I have been taken in by people far better than myself and treated with such warmth and openness that I wonder how long such good fortune can last. But that is exactly what it is not. There is no good fortune. These people truly love, and such lack of reservation obliterates any petty differences. They show me themselves honestly, as I attempt to show myself, and nothing else is necessary. We can have our disagreements and our differences. We need not always take pleasure and enjoyment in each others' company. And still, we can find true friendship, for it rests on none of this. If the whole world loved as these people love, I doubt there would be a single unhappy person in it. Of course, no one is perfect, and neither are these people, but their love approaches much more closely to real love than anything else I have experienced. This poem is meant to capture that kind of love, and the way in which it does not merely exist between those who find shallow likenesses and commonalities. This love is human love, and the only likeness needed is the likeness which we all have as men, created in the image, and through the absolute love, of God.

Who Are You?

Who are you, that I know you so?

The years, as yet, are few

that carried us within the flow,

as years will tend to do.

There was no softly spoken word,

no touch upon the sleeve,

that caught the sound so seldom heard,

the creed so unbelieved.

Our thoughts did not find constancy

nor concert at a glance;

our conversation seldom free

to turn upon a chance.

Our smiles did not blaze with light,

as all the stars above.

No, friendship sprang, as friendship might,

from this alone: I love.

The Coalbiters

The beauty of writing, in any form, can be broken into two distinct divisions. First, writing can be beautiful because of 'what it says,' while, second, writing can be beautiful because of 'how it says.' Yet, all too often, prose tends towards the former, whereas poetry (at least of the more traditional variety) strives overly for the latter. Any truly great work of writing, however, will, and must, unite both these forms of beauty. Such perfect works are often very difficult to find. But this brings us to the real point: every truly great work deserves to be read aloud. Why? The beauty of the 'how' lies in many things, but one of the most essential is the sound and cadence of the words as they are spoken. To not read such a book out loud is to deny it a key part of its beauty. J. R. R. Tolkien formed a club, with C. S. Lewis, dedicated to such a task (at least with respect to ancient Nordic texts) and called it the Kolbitars, which refers to one who sits so close to the fire that he bites the coals - literally, a coal biter. Traditionally, such a name has a connotation of laziness in Icelandic culture (if one prefers to spend so much time in front of the warm fireplace that his face and stomach are black with soot, he will likely not be tramping about much in the snow and rain, gathering wood and food and whatnot), but I think that we, like Tolkien, shall stick with the more material interpretation of the word. So, cheers to coalbiters everywhere, but particularly to Stumptown's own coalbiter - Little My - who introduced me to the idea in the first place.


The Coalbiters

The pen once fell upon the page
and left a silent trail
in careful curlings of ink;
black-nighted bridal veil.

Then words arose, as mirrored stars,
a million or more,
and quietly they sat in state,
as mute as they before,

until we found their simple door
and set in it a key
that creased the tender turn of page
and called them out in glee.

For words were not writ down to be
imprisoned by the proud.
We are the brave; we coalbiters
shall carry them aloud.

This Happiest Night

God has given us so many beautiful things, scattered throughout our lives, that are yet nothing more than that - things. It is up to us to gather all these together and give them the meaning that can come only from a human; from a soul. A fire is, in itself, nothing more than the observable manifestation of the bonding of carbon and oxygen molecules; a cup of tea merely the dried leaves of camellia sinensis steeped in hot water; a book is a lump of methodically pressed and stained wood pulp. Gather these together in a man, though, and a miracle occurs. The simple things transcend their matter, to find meaning in the man. The whole becomes greater - so much greater - than its parts, as the soul places itself, lynchpin and cog, in the midst of a spiderweb of earthly things. The corporeal becomes spiritual, but so too, the spiritual must become corporeal, and both are better for the change. For, just as the things find meaning in the man, the man also finds fullness in the things. And so we gather all the accoutrements of winter around us which, alone, have no importance, but, taken into our hearts and souls, turn a cold and dead season into the happiest time of the year. Fire, tea, books, blankets, music, snow. What are these, by themselves? Things, and nothing else. But give them to a man, and he molds them into a grand and glorious piece of art. So enjoy your wintertide. I know I am.


This Happiest Night

We gather our feet by the fire's soft glow,
where the embers cast heat on the lingering snow
and the strains of the sweet music play soft and low,
on this chilliest time of the year.

A book in the hand and a blanket to keep
quiet watch on the land, where the flakes settle deep
and the cedar trees stand with their heads bowed in sleep,
while we, we have nothing to fear.

For trouble cannot enter into this hall,
when the hearthstones are hot and the flames ever tall,
and the kettle has caught up its whispering call
for us few, huddled restful and near.

So let us be light as the hours grow long
and we measure the night by the meter of song;
yes, within all is right, be the world so wrong,
on this happiest time of the year.

The Carolers' Prayer

After three wonderful nights of caroling, I have come to the realization that caroling is a lost art, but, even more so, is the art of greeting the carolers. I have lost track of how many times we were met, and then sent off, with a smile given more out of politeness and social necessity than actual happiness. And, while we won't be found performing at the Met any time soon, our singing was certainly far from bad. In fact, our harmonies were generally pretty spot on. The worst instance occurred when a husband and wife asked if we would leave so they could shut the door; they didn't want to let out any more heat. But, every once in a while, someone comes along who makes all the chill and damp and unfriendly houses worth it. Even if it happens only once in a night, it is sufficient. Usually, it's an older couple or a family, and they invariably offer not only hot drinks and cookies, but a place to sit and the sort of wonderfully pleasant conversation that one only gets between two complete strangers, who are yet connected by something far more foundational - far more important - than a low heating bill. God bless them; they make the season.

The Carolers' Prayer

A wind is falling through the trees,

so burdened by the snow,

as, with our lanterns lifted high,

a-caroling we go.

Our footprints track from door to door,

our herald-knock is bold,

and though our cheeks be rosy-red,

our hands and feet are cold.

Our song is one of ages past,

and yet is just as sweet,

for time cannot dilute the joy

it brings to those we greet.

And all we beg: do not forget

your duty at the door;

we seek a little joy, too;

we cannot ask for more.

So call us in to warm our toes;

we shan't stay long, no fear.

A cookie and a drink is all,

and we'll return next year.

Past Three O'Clock

I went caroling today, and it was absolutely wonderful. The wind was blowing, the snow was falling, and our toes were frozen, but the surprise and happiness on people's faces when they opened their doors to a burst of song made up for all of it. Of course, it also helped that there was a roaring fire and hot tea waiting for us when we were done. This poem is taken from 'Past Three O'Clock,' which began as a song for the London waits, or town watchmen, of the 1600's, and ended as a 19th century carol.


Past Three O'Clock

Past three o'clock, the campans ring
upon the frosty morning air;
past three o'clock, awake and sing;
the morrow's come and Christ is near.

Born is He, so innocent,
of God, and of a man,
and forth the seraphs' praises went
since ere the world began.

Past three o'clock, the campans ring
upon the frosty morning air;
past three o'clock, awake and sing;
the morrow's come and Christ is near.

All creation cries 'Nowell'
in one triumphant word,
so stay not, sirs, but rise and tell
the coming of the Lord!

Past three o'clock, the campans ring
upon the frosty morning air;
past three o'clock, awake and sing;
the morrow's come and Christ is near.

The Holly and the Ivy

I've been singing old Christmas traditionals with this dear soul for the past month or so, and it has opened up a world of wonderful carols that I never knew existed. So, to do my own little part in passing these on, I thought it fitting to write a series of poems, as we approach Christmastime, that pay keen and humble homage to their sadly fading memory. This first is taken from 'The Holly and the Ivy,' an English folk carol set down in the latter half of the 19th century.


The Holly and the Ivy

The holly and the ivy set
their roots upon the earth,
and of the two, the holly, true,
recounts the Savior's birth.

The sun, the deer, the organ clear
all echo hymns above,
as choirs praise this day of days
when Mary bore His Love.

The holly bears a flower white
and stainless as the snow,
and Mary bore the Savior for
us sinners here below.

The sun, the deer, the organ clear
all echo hymns above,
as choirs praise this day of days
when Mary bore His Love.

The holly bears a berry red
and ruddy as the sword,
and Mary bore the Savior for
to herald Heaven's word.

The sun, the deer, the organ clear
all echo hymns above,
as choirs praise this day of days
when Mary bore His Love.

The holly bears a prickle sharp
and keen as winter chill,
and Mary bore the Savior for
to carry all our ill.

The sun, the deer, the organ clear
all echo hymns above,
as choirs praise this day of days
when Mary bore His Love.

The holly bears a bark as bitter
as His agony,
and Mary bore the Savior for
to set us captives free.

The sun, the deer, the organ clear
all echo hymns above,
as choirs praise this day of days
when Mary bore His Love.

The Thorn

All I have to say is, if you've never read anything by Monsignor Luigi Giussani, go out to your local bookstore or hop on Amazon and purchase 'Is It Possible to Live This Way?' You won't regret it. And then, look into the Communion and Liberation movement (don't worry - despite it's suggestive name, it has absolutely nothing to do with Communism or liberation theology). You'll be setting yourself up for the greatest journey of your life.


The Thorn

Set against the thorn, the thick
blood rolls as quick as ready water,
drop for drop, up from the prick,
the point married to the matter,

letting out the life in waves,
with every pulse upon the vein,
but pouring forth, in pouring saves,
and holds the moment by the pain.

For only through this loss is found
the compass turn of destiny,
that leads the soul, no longer bound,
desire of the blinded, free,

to fill the vessel, emptied out
of every darkness in the glass.
The life that was a life without
has found a final life at last.