Of Mortality and Poetry

Today I brought out a poem that I wrote earlier this year and hadn't thought about in quite a while.  I'll not give an explanation of it at present - I think it is sometimes best to encounter a piece of writing on your own first and plumb the depths of thought behind it at a later date.  Nevertheless, I hope you will read it and, perhaps, find something in it that resonates with you.    

+JMJ

Of Mortality and Poetry

By Caitlin Clancy

Copyright 2012

In silence spin we

Golden lays,

The web to hold

Our works and days; 

In senseless time,

Unspoken hour,

The fruits of minds

Burst forth and flower,

But moments pass

And then are gone –

And who are we

To linger on? 

So humble pass we,

Leaving lays,

For silent works

And golden days.  

Xavier

The following is a very short story I drafted this past spring and read at last Friday's Agora Poetry, Song & Story Night.  (For those of you who don't know,  Agora nights are delightful & enriching cultural "get togethers" put on at regular intervals by the faculty and students of Belmont Abbey College.  Should you ever have the chance to attend one, I highly recommend you do.)

+JMJ

Xavier

By Caitlin M. Clancy

Copyright 2012

            A bright shimmer flashed across the rim of the sickle moon, tracing the pale crescent’s otherworldly edge with a fairy finger of light.  Below, the little watcher sighed, shifting his restless, tousled head among the fallen fir boughs.  It was quiet tonight.  Where are you going, son?  he heard his father ask again, the kind, rolling tones, drawn up as by a net from a fathomless sea, rising obediently from the recesses of his mind; a mind that, though young, was already deep and broad.  A mind like a vast, peaceful ocean at night – an ocean visible only to the watchful ear of a silent soul; an endless pool of breathing waves detectable only by its steady, thunderous tide washing in on unseen shores.  A mind, in fact, awake.   

            Xavier drew a steady breath of the cool, clear night air blowing in from off the lake.  It tasted of pine and fresh water and even, he imagined, of cloud.  He gazed up at the moon, his dark eyes bright with the sliver’s reflection, white as pearl yet sharp as the blade of a knife.  That, he decided, was why faeries danced of old.  That was why satyrs reveled in the dark of ancient woods and why nymphs crept out and played about the boughs of sacred groves, whispering their songs of joy and fear.  That was why he now lay with his own back upon fallen fir boughs, arms tucked behind his head, and thought with a boy’s mind the thoughts of men.  That, too, was why he spent hours silent, alone in the black woods, and listened for their voices – the voices of that marvelous company that walked the world before man dared to tread beyond his doorposts.  That was why he lay listening – listening, and longing, too, for another voice, a voice that would harmonize the clamorous murmurings of the ages, a voice that would teach them all to speak.  A voice he knew had come. 

            Where are you going, son?  Xavier recalled the room – small, old, and dim.  He remembered the touch of the doorjamb’s wet wood and the feel of the worn rug beneath his sandals.  He remembered, too, how, though his eager feet remained planted in the flickering light of the room, his hand had already plunged outside, where it rested, hidden, in the sable folds of night’s own cloak, long past the half-light cast by the fire.  Where are you going, son? his father asked, his shadow-veiled face calm and his imperceptible eyes deep, looking for all the world – and perhaps for something else, too – the fuller image of his child.  Where are you going? 

            To find it, Xavier replied, watching as a small, knowing smile touched his father’s features and played on his thoughtful visage; his face was now almost entirely hidden in the dusky light.  Go, then, he said, I am here for you.  Xavier took a step outside into the breezy night and the wind immediately reached out to ruffle his earthen-brown curls.  Xavier nodded, staring ahead into the massive, barely distinguishable ebony forms that were the trees.  Yes, he would go.  And perhaps he would understand.  And he would listen.  Speak, then, that I may know you, he thought, pleading silently with the voice he longed for, the voice he loved.  Your servant hears.  

And Now, A Cultural Interlude...

Plato said that “Music gives a soul to the universe, wings to the mind, flight to the imagination and life to everything.” *  In light of this most wise observation - and because I love the violin - here is an incredibly beautiful piece that a friend of mine introduced me to just yesterday:

 Bach's Chaconne for Solo Violin, Part 1

and

Bach's Chaconne for Solo Violin, Part 2

I hope you will enjoy it as much as I have.

* Thanks to http://www.goodreads.com/author/quotes/879.Plato for this quote. 

Riddle me this...

An addition to the "Riddles" page:

Riddle the Third:

I break but am not broken.

I wake but am not woken.

What am I?

Riddle the Fourth:

Artful, wise,

Has many eyes –

Fingerless does

Weaver’s work  

Hunts like

Vengeful, ruthless Turk. 

What is it? 

Answers may be found on the "Answers" page. Good luck!

Poem: Thoughts of a Young Bride

The following poem came into my head one day this summer while I was working as a volunteer for Gabriel Project & Project Rachel (of Arlington, VA).

While its content is, in some measure, self-explanatory, I nonetheless wish to point out that it attempts - in a very small way - to recapture part of a mentality we are not much used to in this day and age; namely, a mentality that accepts the concept of arranged marriage.

While I do not and would not say that we should make an about-face and return to the practice of choosing our children's partners, I do think that it is good for us to examine and remember how our predecessors were, sometimes literally, "given" in marriage.  I think (and take this as you will) that there is an overemphasis in our culture on feelings to the point that we have come to see them as the sole "glue" of the marital vows.  It therefore behooves us, I contend, to recall that the marriages of our forefathers, their arranged nature notwithstanding, were wholly valid. (I speak, of course, of those unions where both parties honestly consented, truthfully said "I do," whether they liked the idea or not - any "marriage" without said consent was not a marriage at all however it may have appeared, and thus is not the subject of my discussion.)

That said, let me offer a few questions for your reflection: first, why were (and are) arranged marriages lawful and valid?  Second, is our modern conception of marriage truly as superior to The Old Ways as we seem to think?  Lastly, what is it that we have gained by dispensing with the duty to marry (where one is not called to do otherwise), and what have we lost because of it?

Thoughts of a Young Bride

By Caitlin Clancy

Silk of my mothers

Runs through my fingers –

Cool, white, and beautiful.

So they all say.

Shall I be married, then,

As Papa wishes?

Shall I be wed upon

Michaelmas day?

Or shall I run away,

Run away far?

Forsaking my mother,

Grieving my father,

Leaving my brothers,

Run away far?

But child-thoughts leave me,

Run away far,

Chastened by duty,

Vanquished by fear,

Words of the prophets

My insolence mar.

Yes, I will meet you,

My lord and my master,

In fear though I greet you

The one I know not.

And I shall have peace then

As you gently lift me –

A dove on the threshold

Of marriage is caught.