Saturday, February 1, 2020


An Invitation
Welcome, weary traveler! Come and rest by my fire. I see that your boots are worn from the hard ways of the road and your fine cloak is rent by the thorns of the world. Come, then, and sit. Shall I tell you a story?

There is meat aplenty here, and fine ale for the taking. More than these, though, there are tales to be had – I spin them myself – and thoughts to be pondered; but that part is yours. It is for me to offer such things as I hope shall instruct, interest, and amuse you. It is for you to taste my offerings and see whether they are to your benefit, or whether you were better having never tried them. Remember as you take your nourishment (and as another fine author* once said) that the mind, too, has a kind of blood. As such, it, too, seeks good wine and bread – and, I would add, something more than those.

But come, then, I pray you. Be at your ease and listen as this Caitliceach Cailín unfolds for you legends no mortal tongue has told and shows you paths no Son of Adam’s foot has trod. Listen, stranger, and hear: the door to other Places is opening. Will you not come in?

* Willa Cather, “Shadows on the Rock”

Tuesday, May 8, 2018

Haikus from Home: Some Musings on Mothering


Dear Readers!

Here are a few brief poems composed largely - and with one hand - in the midst of mothering.  They come from a mixture of experience, hearsay, and conjecture about what it's like to have a wee little lass or lad in the family.  I hope that you will enjoy them!

Blessings.


New Parenthood: A Haiku on Falling Sta
nd
a
     rds.
First child: sterilize!
Second: just soap is enough.
Third: did you lick it?


Chores and How Not To Do Them

Washing white laundry;
Finally - it’s dry! Baby
Spits up carrots. Sigh. 


Fifth Commandment

Baby is sleeping;
Stranger slams his car doors.
Try not to throw things.


Peace

Watching baby sleep;
Who knew perfection was so
Little and fuzzy?


Inevitable

New, beautiful child:
Only cries out and spits up
In church and the store.


Birth

First moment is here:
Look at those eyes! Depthless and
Eager to love you.


Growing

New mother cries out,
“I can’t do this!” Then baby
Smiles; she wants ten more.


Better Than A Raise

So tired and fighting
To nurse; baby snuggles close -
May all time be this!

Saturday, May 5, 2018

The Joys of Life Go On

Dear Readers,

Forgive my absence, I pray!  

A strange, new, busy and beautiful time of life has struck: a brief while since, my husband and I welcomed a little daughter to our family.  

Below, then, are some thoughts that seemed fit for the occasion of my return amidst the great joys (and trials!) of raising her; I hope you will enjoy them.  I hope, too, that you may one day rejoice in the role of parent: truly, if you give yourself wholly and generously to this work, the rewards you reap will be beyond you.  Your children are your testament in time.  The hand that rocks the cradle rules the world, you know.  It is a blessing indeed.  

As to the poem, though it is uncharacteristically unrhymed, it is somewhat hyperbolic, though not in the lines where you will first think to find exaggeration.  Look deeper, reader.  You may see, if the eyes of your mind are unclouded.  Seek and ye shall find.

May Easter Blessings redound unto you and yours!



+JMJ+

Hidden

By Caitlin LoTruglio
Copyright 2018

For Anastasia

Holding you here –
The first place you ever were
When you came forth to greet us –
I begin to understand

You are more than the sum of two
An echo of the great I AM

Not merely innocent
Not merely perfection
Not merely young
Simply radiant

God’s castle blossoms in your soul –
Living stones.

My child –
Why does the whole world not rejoice?

Sunday, March 6, 2016

Pondering Amidst a Season of Penitence

A blessed Laetare Sunday to you, gentle reader!

In the spirit of Lenten sacrifice and keeping one's focus on things not of this world, I have for you today another, older, piece of mine that I lately found and polished up a wee bit.  It is, I admit, didactic, imperfect, and perhaps it will not quite please - but, then, were we made to be pleased?  Were we created for pleasure alone?  The answer, I would dare to say, is at once more simple and more complicated than it may seem.  But that is a question for another day.

In the meantime, then, I offer for your perusal and pondering this little tidbit which - I hope! - will encourage the practice of penance without itself being one.  But perhaps some queries are best left unaddressed...!


+JMJ+

Brevity
By Caitlin LoTruglio (née Clancy)
Copyright 2015, 2016

Say not “I am not old”
Nor “I am well, I am healthy”
For in life you have no measure
You know not when you are wealthy

The boy on the playground swing
The man on the motorbike
The girl with her cat’s-cradle string
The working woman on strike

The one may fall from his height
The other meet with a crash
The child may take an infection
Her elder fall under the lash

No warning may precede each
A demise needs no clear call
Though warnings ever abound
One fate will soon befall all

Are you watchful, good sir, are you ready?
Little lamb, who will own your dolls?
Lad, do your playmates shout “steady”?
Lady, your Maker calls.

To each a solemn promise
To each a holy oath
Each day we arise from the ashes
Fall to dust as we plight our troth

Conceived in the glory of Heaven
Received by the frailties below
Made up by our doings and darings
Taken up or let down for to Know

So in your brief space of December
Which comes you know not how or when
Adam’s son, do your best to remember
That love is beyond mortal ken

One final injunction I leave you
One final thought to recall
Though the last of the last shall ensnare you
In the end it is gift to us all

Therefore, my dear,
Child of God’s breath,
Remember you are never more
Than an inch

From death.

Sunday, February 28, 2016

Curiosities Abound

Dear Readers!

A miracle has occurred.  I have posted twice in the same month!  I dare not hope to assure myself or your good persons that this will become regular habit - though I hope much it shall - but I do intend to post again soon.  I have a few poems in the works which, thus far, please me greatly.  I hope they will in time take sufficient shape so as to be presentable to your better judgments.

In the meantime, I found this curiosity locked away in one of the digital drawers of my written warehouse.  It was one I scribbled wantonly but pleasantly one day on the white board of a room at my alma mater.  I was surprised and delighted to return after the summer break and, upon opening the white board, found it still there.  I wonder if anyone read it.

In any case, for your present perusal and, I hope, pleasure, I present -


+JMJ+

Poem Written on the Board of Stowe Hall, Room 209Which Remained There All Summer

By Caitlin LoTruglio (née Clancy)
Copyright 2014

Have you ever stopped to wonder
‘Mid your breathing and the thunder

That each day presents a mystery –
A tapestry of history?

The rain upon the street
Has moistened Solomon’s feet

And the sun high overhead
Has looked upon Ulyssey’s bed

The breeze has brushed St. Paul
And heard John’s desert call

Jordan’s wavelets held a prophet
And her waters washed a God

Some stones have known the tread
Of Alexander or Boabdil, dead

And others known the sandals
Of Turks and ruddy Vandals

Each piece of earth has seen
Tyrants and their vices green

And watched the steps of heroes
And witnessed bloody Neros

I must finish this rhyme
Not at all or at another time

Suffice it here to say
As you go along each day

Be watchful as you rush around
Where you stand could be holy ground….

Sunday, February 14, 2016

Anticipation

Good day to you, gentle readers.

I fear I have left you long in darkness and silence.  Much has happened these past months, of both a joyful and sorrowful nature; too much to be properly penned here - too much to be catalogued, chronicled.  Let it suffice to say that in silence God's work is perhaps oftenest done to us and in silence life still shall be made to move.  But enough.

I doubt not that you are desirous of something more light, more literary.  I have written a number of works over the past weeks and the choice for which of these to present today was not an obvious one as it has sometimes been in months past.  After some thought, though, and in light of the Gospel readings of the day, I have here for your perusal a piece I left lingering a while but am at last desirous of uncovering.  I am, as ever, not perfectly satisfied with its sentiment and shape, but I think I have captured something not negligible.  I shall leave you to guess at what.  

May He Who Is be with you always!

+JMJ+

Anticipation: The Wedding Feast of the Lamb
By Caitlin LoTruglio
Copyright 2015, 2016

Flames erupting in a goblet
Ardor of the blest
The blaze of new wine
And laughter, hot laughter, in a girl’s calm breast –
Father, is this not how You love us?

Hot agony, pure ecstasy,
Sears me, scarlet lover,
Grieving through her fuller joy
I behold, my Lord, your Mother 

Beauty uncontainable
Blushes oceans, rivers forth
Repeatedly, repeatedly,
My Lord! Come to us speedily
Thoughts burning, yearning, greedily
Hearts parched for want of Thee

The phoenix of old resurrects himself
And from David assumes a new form
The roil of the ages lashes about
Burgeons and breaks in a blackening, beckoning storm
My Lord, is this not how You greet us?

At war is the soul reconstructed!
Divinity piercing the mind!
My Lord, My God, My Father,
Blaze – burn, flash, slash, and leave blind!

Whisper to us then in the darkness
When we, drooping to depths of the earth,
Ask –
Does emptiness reign in Your kingdom,
Or of feeling only is’t dearth?

Thorns and nails claw us, alive,
Incisions break open each mind
Thoughts belonging to others
Sink, bite deep, call others in kind

And there on the edge of the altar
At the brink of despair and the world
Flaming highly, my Lord, strikes white splendor –
From the pinnacle God is not hurled

Solace returns to the quiet
Interior fountains blue-flow
They softly, and softly, remember
The sigh of the love that they know

Tranquility seizes her triumph
And Peace thrusts his banner to stay
A silence burns over the stillness, burst
From the heart of a high holy day

Let the wine of triumph be poured
Let the heart of the lion breed flame
Let the wounds of the King be unveil’ed
Let the leper return without shame

And all that is left, the deluge of deeps,
Teeming with bright azure sheen –
All as it is as it was and shall be
My Lord – as it ever has been.


Sunday, November 15, 2015

Sonnets n' Such


Greetings, Faithful Friends!

Today's contribution is more whimsy than wit, but I hope it will meet with your approval nonetheless.   It is a lighthearted and, frankly, somewhat absurd example of that noble form known as the sonnet.  For those of you who don't know, may I direct you to: Sonnets! That webpage, though by no means a perfect textbook, ought to give you the basics.  I have also included, after some hesitation, an analysis of this poem that was (graciously?) penned for the purpose of accompanying it; I leave you to guess at the identity of the writer, who wishes to be nameless.  All I can say is that the author of that assessment is someone whom I sometimes fall into the vile delusion of admiring, but toward whom, in my soberer and saner moments, I like to think I bear a healthily critical attitude.   They smile as I write this.

Without further ado...

+JMJ
Tempus Fugit
By Caitlin LoTruglio
Copyright 2015

If time were worthier, did not decay,
If hours, earthen vessels, stood empty men
This verse were labor of a summer’s day
That might be fuller filled and filled again
So like unto the red-capped drinking bird
Sipping till ambriosious liquors’ spent
It bobs and nods as though it would be heard
And, nodding lastly, then would be content
But, prodigal, these hours are not to be
They, wispy, steal as smoke-foam from my tent
Gone off to tempt with yet more transient glee
And in some other soul provoke desire –
Wherefore this burdened writer pens in ire!



Analysis: 

The speaker appears to be the “author” of the poem who, it seems, has run short on time.  This person desires that time might be, as it were, recyclable -  they wish to get more out of each hour (they want each to be able to be “fuller filled and filled again”).  The writer/speaker, perhaps because they are so short on time when they are writing this poem, then makes a hilarious comparison to an ordinary object, dressing it in language that suggests something much grander.  Namely, they liken the hours to a drinking bird toy (probably very like this one, which you might find in a dollar store or similar establishment) dunking its head in a cup of tapwater until the water evaporates so much that the bird stops and stands finished; here, in the poem, the bird is treated like a noble animal sipping daintily at its godlike sustenance (some “ambrosious liquor”) and listening for a break in conversation (it bobs “as though it would be heard”) so that it may speak its piece and then stand “content.”  The sestet expresses clearly the writer’s frustration that the hours slip away from him/her like smoke from a camp fire – apparently deliberately, for they “steal” away and go to “tempt” another into desiring them to linger as this author has been tempted and, in consequence, the author writes about the situation angrily (hence also his/her characterization of time as unworthy, or at least less worthy than it could be, in the first line).  What seems unfathomable, though, (and perhaps also inexcusable) is the author's choice of the term "smoke-foam" which, while syllabically acceptable, nonetheless seems odd and very much a pathetic image.  I cannot say I commend her for it. 

Sunday, October 18, 2015

At Long Last...

Dear Readers,

Here I am again!  As promised, if a tad tardy.  I wish to most joyfully inform you of my recent good fortune: on August 22nd of this year, the patronal feast of the parish in which we were wed, I married a man I can only regard as the best in the whole world, and my name is changed to reflect this happy union - henceforth I am Caitlin LoTruglio. (Hence, also, further posts will be made under this name - but fear not!  'Tis I and no other who will continue, sporadically, to bring you wit, whimsy, and hopefully a touch or two of wisdom.)

Since its seems most appropriate given recent events, I wished to post what I regard as a pleasant if imperfect poem that I actually wrote back in 2014 - long before I was even engaged.  It contains some reflections and musings of my own on the matter of mothers, daughters, and - most of all - marriage; I hope it may prompt you also to thoughts of two-become-one.

God's blessings upon you!
Caitlin

August 22, 2015

+JMJ

Betrothed 
By Caitlin LoTruglio (née Clancy)
Copyright 2014

White silk
Smooth with lace
Fingered lovingly

Memory
In your face
Tells me how it used to be

Baby-child
At your breast
Nourished by white milk

Long ago
Baby-child
Now hers is white silk

White silk
In a trance
Holding it I abide

Wondering
If from the font
I was meant to be a bride

White silk
On baby-frame
And Communicant

One day
Solemnly
As the mourners chant

White silk
Birth to death
Purity in life

White silk
Till last breath
Clothes me as a wife




Sunday, August 9, 2015

Amidst Mayhem and Matrimony I Present: "The Death of the Winter Rose" !


Greetings, Friends!  

Once again I must crave your pardon for a long hiatus with no explanation.  Just when I thought finishing school was one of the last obstacles to a more regular posting schedule something else swept me up - joyfully! - into a whirlwind of activity: marriage!  Two weeks from now I shall have to log back on, if for no other reason than to change my name.  Splendid, no?  At any rate, God bless you all for being so patient.  Here is a little tidbit from a few years ago I thought you might enjoy...

The Death of the Winter Rose 


By Caitlin Clancy
Copyright 2011

Whistle the wind
And fly the wave
Break the crest
And snap the stave

Billow out
And draw the line
Swerve the shoals
Rend the chine

Hard the crash
Into the sand
Behold the bulk
Uncrew’d, unman’d

There she lies
Upon the shore
She will sail

Never more.

Sunday, June 21, 2015

Mind Murals - Acceptance!

Dear Readers,

I have joyful news!  Some of my poems and two photographs have been accepted to Sigma Tau Delta's 2015 edition of the regional online journal Mind Murals.  In anticipation of its upcoming publication, I thought I would put out this notice to alert you to the fact that - once they are published - you can read the accepted poems HERE.

In the meantime, a little something to whet your literary appetites (published in this year's Agora):

Exhalation
By Caitlin Clancy
Copyright 2014

“Consider the lilies, how they grow: they neither toil nor spin; yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not clothed like one of these. But if God so clothes the grass of the field, which is alive today and tomorrow is thrown into the oven, how much more will he clothe you—you of little faith!” (Luke 12:27-28)

Driven and driven and driven
And done
Riven and riven and riven –
The sun
The cart-horse, the apple
The leaf
And the spoon
Baldrics and blades
And the white
Of the moon
Time and cold space
And bold life
Burnt asunder
Leveling, leveling, leveling
Under
All in the death
In the breath
Of the thunder
Driven and driven and driven
And done.




Sunday, May 10, 2015

A Response to Emily Dickenson’s “Faith is a Fine Invention”

Just a Sunday tidbit.  Perhaps it is not very profound, but...!

A Response to Emily Dickenson’s “Faith is a Fine Invention”
By Caitlin Clancy
Copyright 2015

Faith is a fine dimension
When gentleman can’t see
But only faith and reason
Can truly make them free

Thursday, April 23, 2015

This Just In...

Greetings, Faithful Readers!

My hiatus from posting is now (mostly) at an end.  At long last, this year's issue of Agora has been published, and I am happy to say that two of my submissions were accepted, one of which I will share with you now.

So - enjoy!

 +JMJ
On the Wayside
By Caitlin Clancy
Copyright 2014

To my mother

On the crest of a bare vermillion hill
Bathed in bold breeze, wind’s breath like thunder
Gold in the glow and red thereunder
He fastened his purple cloak asunder
And took the wind like wine

Full fair of face and flushed in cheek
Standing like the brazen gods of old
He wore his purpose, a priestly cope
Eyes blazing and blue, burgeoning hope
With an ice that refused the cold

From that earth-proud brow he strode below
And knelt at the wood-hewn shrine
And he thought upon the waves that laugh
And the mysteries of the world, and Bath
And the heathen praise that was a calf
Gold that is all too fine

The figures’ wood had stilled their gaze
But yet their eyes with tears seemed raw
Her night-blue cloak long rain had faded
And the God-child’s whiteness no traveler aided
But both as one seemed too poor to be raided
The last sign Njal’s race saw

Power-carved hands clutch at fiercer face
His memory is pain
For they who strew maiden’s death and run
Took the fine filly-mares black and dun
Baptized and blessed and given by none
Save the sacrament of a grave sun

He wept then and was not ashamed
But for his countrymen’s curse and their vibrant sin
But still he thought the Child looked on him
And the Lady softly smiled

He remained as still and wood as they
While the wind buffeted, dried his face
And he knew the lot of the Northern blood
The last of those who fled the Flood
The bane of Adam’s race

Rising then there rose with him
A dignity restored
No more the fearsome living death
With dragon’s fire and demon’s breath
Could cloud one from the line of Seth
The third of Adam born

Down the sea road he strode again
Back to the ships that sway
But first he rev’renced his Mother dear,
And her God-child at play

Soon came the wind-night and swallowed them all
Into soft, velvety maw
The shrine in the white of Diana’s ray
Saw the ships go with the passing of day
But still he looked back through the dawn-mist grey
For the faded blue that he could almost say
Was deeper sapphire than the woodless way
On this, his Mother’s day.





Sunday, November 16, 2014

Let's Hear it for Hopkins: an Analysis of "As kingfishers catch fire"

Greetings, friends!

Something remarkable dawned on me today - I have a blog!  And I have been characteristically remiss about posting.  Unfortunately, until I am out of school in May I fear my posts will remain sporadic; however, I hope to make those few that do appear quite engaging.

That said, regarding Hopkins: an English writer during the Victorian period, Hopkins was a Catholic priest (a Jesuit) known for his rather curious style (known as "sprung rhythm") and his inventions of the terms "instress," "inscape," and "selving."  If you are unfamiliar with his life and with these terms (and in the interests of not prolonging this already necessarily lengthy post), may I direct you to his page on the almighty Wikipedia?

Though, I now note, that page has a section on the very poem I have examined (by the way, you can find the original poem online HERE), I have not used this article in preparation of my own interpretation and, as such, any similarities to that text are purely coincidental.

Very good.  And now....

“[W]hat in God’s eye he is – ”: Hopkins’s View of Selving in “As kingfishers catch fire”
By Caitlin Clancy
Copyright 2014
            In his vibrant poem “As kingfishers catch fire,” Gerard Manley Hopkins expresses the action of selving as he believes it occurs both in all of created beings and also, in a very particular way, in man.  For Hopkins, it seems that man not only selves differently than the animals, plants, or inanimate objects of the world, but also that man selves in a higher way – towards a higher end.  Man’s selving, in the view of Hopkins, poet and Catholic priest, is meant to make him more like the God in whose divine image he was created.  Human selving is, therefore, for Hopkins a process marked by acts of goodness, and thus of conformity to the will of God and the person of Christ.
At the outset of his work, Hopkins writes: “As kingfishers catch fire, dragonflies draw flame; / As tumbled over rim in roundy wells / Stones ring; …” (1-3).  The first part of Hopkins’s poem focuses on the created world and on all inscapes, living and nonliving, that exist within it: he highlights “kingfishers,” “dragonflies,” and “Stones.”  In these, Hopkins seems to – characteristically – see an expression of God and God’s glory: for him, “kingfishers catch fire” and “dragonflies draw flame” – that is, he associates these animals with the brightness and power of the element fire, itself often associated with God the Holy Spirit.  Moreover, Hopkins views these creatures as active, and as participating in God, the Prime Mover, through their own motion; the “kingfishers catch fire” and the “dragonflies draw flame” (1, emphasis added).  Even the nonliving beings, for Hopkins, here possess motion and action: the “Stones ring” as they are “tumbled over rim in roundy wells” (3, 2, emphasis added). 
Further, this action of created beings seems to constitute part of selving.  Hopkins writes that,
…like each tucked string tells, each hung bell’s
Bow swung finds tongue to fling out broad its name;
Each mortal thing does one thing and the same:
Deals out that being indoors each one dwells;
Selves – goes itself; myself it speaks and spells
For Hopkins, the “kingfishers,” “dragonflies,” and “Stones” (and by extension, other created beings as well), are “like” the individual “tucked string[s]” which “[tell]” of themselves: “myself it speaks and spells” (1, 3, 7).  Thus their action, their motion, is directed towards attaining and expressing the fullness of their being. These creatures are, too, like “each hung bell” whose “Bow” through action (when it is “swung”) “finds tongue to fling out broad its name” – that is, proves able to communicate what it itself is (Hopkins 3, 4).  And this, moreover, they do with great energy, as Hopkins’s verbs convey: they “catch,” “draw,” are “tumbled,” “ring,” and “fling” (1, 2, 3, 4).  In Hopkins’s view, the essence of this energetic selving action is that “[e]ach mortal thing does one thing and the same”; put differently, all living beings, for Hopkins, selve – through a process of becoming more fully what they are and ought to be, they outwardly express their essence (5).  Every one of them “[d]eals out” its own “being” which “dwells” inside it (or “indoors,” as he puts it) (Hopkins 6).  Thus, all creatures display through their selving something of the glory of God with which they are endowed.
But while merely mortal beings – such as the animals and inanimate objects Hopkins mentions – may selve into inscapes simply by becoming more fully themselves alone, by each “go[ing] itself” and “speak[ing]” and “spell[ing]” its “myself” in the world, still human beings, for Hopkins, seem to be able to experience a higher kind of selving (7).  Hopkins indicates this when he transitions to his second stanza.  He states: “I say more:” – indicating both by direct wording and by punctuation that he is about to go beyond what he previously stated (Hopkins 9).  “I say more:,” Hopkins declares, adding, “the just man justices” (9).  This line is notable first for the fact that it is the first time in the poem Hopkins speaks directly of man – and thus his transition highlights all the more the difference he sees between the selving of human and non-human beings.  Moreover, when he does here refer to man, he speaks of “the just man” in particular who, apparently, “justices” (Hopkins 9).  Hopkins here cleverly changes a noun – justice – into an unusual verb (“justices”) (9).  What Hopkins here suggests, apparently, is that a human being, like all other beings, selves and becomes more what he is: in this case, “the just man” becomes more just by doing just actions (9). 
Hopkins, however, takes the matter further: for him, such a man “[k]eeps gráce: that keeps all his goings graces; / Acts in God’s eye what in God’s eye he is – / Chríst…” (10-12).  Thus, man, or at least “the just man,” maintains grace within his soul (and so “[k]eeps grace”) by acting always in accordance with the grace and law of God and never contrary to it (he “keeps all his goings graces”).  Moreover, in so doing, such a man behaves, in God’s view, in a holy manner – that is, as Christ would – and in this way all the more “[a]cts in God’s eye what in God’s eye he is” (Hopkins 11).  For the man who lives according to the law of God necessarily imitates Jesus and thus becomes like Him; hence, “the just man… / …in God’s eye” is, in a way, “Chríst” (Hopkins 10-11, 12).  It may also be said – and perhaps Hopkins deliberately means to intimate something of the sort – that not only is “the just man” in particular like Christ but, indeed, all men are, in a way, like Christ in God’s view, for He sees all human beings as his sons and daughters, and because Christ died to redeem all mankind.  Thus, as Hopkins, a Catholic priest, surely knows, all men ought to be like Christ – and so, in this way, it would seem that men are meant to selve into Christ-like beings.  They are intended to become “in God’s eye, what in God’s eye” they are – that is, the living image of His Son (Hopkins 11).
Hopkins expresses this sentiment again when he writes, “…for Christ plays in ten thousand places / Lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his / To the Father through the features of men’s faces” (12-14).  It is men – men who live justly and according to God’s grace – who make Christ present in the world.  Through their actions and conformity to Christ’s image, men, far more so than any animal, plant, or object, are able to bring Christ to others and are the only earthly beings able to – like Christ – consciously do the will of the Father.  And, thus, through them “Christ plays in ten thousand places” and men become “[l]ovely” to God through their own beings (“through the features of [their] faces”) because they conform to His desire in the context of their own individual callings (Hopkins 12, 13). 
Thus man, for Hopkins, selves in a special way that the animal, vegetable, and mineral inscapes of the world cannot.  Man alone, for Hopkins, selves in such a way that he becomes not only more fully man, but also transforms to become more fully God-like.  Men, in contrast to other, lower, inscapes, selve by doing a will that is beyond their own. Hopkins states of the lesser beings in nature that they “[cry] Whát I dó is me: for that I came” – that is, their sole purpose would seem to be fulfilling their own limited existence through expression of their own essence and nothing more – but man’s task is much different (8).  Like Christ, who said, “For I have come down from heaven, not to do my own will, but the will of him who sent me” (words that Hopkins echoes, and seems to deliberately use for purposes of juxtaposition, in referring to the selving of lesser creatures) man is meant to act according to God’s will rather than his own desire (John 6:38).
Hence, while it remains true that, in Hopkins’s view, “[e]ach mortal thing does one thing and the same” – that is, selves – still the manner of that selving proves different for creatures in different orders of being.  For Hopkins, because man is part of a higher created order than animal, vegetable, and mineral life, he selves in a singular way.  That is, man becomes more fully the likeness of the God in whose image he was uniquely made.  It is men, and men alone, who can please God in this way: through “the features of men’s faces” – and not those of any other created beings – does “Christ [play] in ten thousand places” and become “[l]ovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his / To the father” (Hopkins 12, 13-14, emphasis added).  To do this, moreover, man must become “just” and “[keep] all his goings graces” by imitating Christ and so, to some extent, becoming Christ in the view of the Father: he selves by “[acting] in God’s eye what in God’s eye he is” (Hopkins 9, 10, 11).  That is – man selves by becoming conformed not to himself, but to Christ.


Works Cited
Hopkins, Gerard Manley. Poems and Prose. “As kingfishers catch fire.” London: Penguin, 1963. 51. Print. 
The Holy Bible: Revised Standard Version Catholic Edition. London, Eng.: Oxford UP, 1966. Print.


Friday, September 26, 2014

On the Verge of October...

Or very nearly that, anyway.  It seemed meet to me that I get in at least one pseudo-post before September was out.  And how that month has flown away from me!  As ever, dear readers, I crave your indulgence for my extended leave....

For the present, then, I offer a few literary morsels to tease your little grey neurons.  Two have made their appearance already in The Crusader, and one (the first) is on its way to publication hopefully in this coming month's issue.  Good luck, then, and guess away!  Answers can be found on the "Answers" page above.

1M.
I point with three hands
I run without feet
I count without words
What am I?
  
2M.
Spreading arms
Above, below
Falling hands,
New ones grow
What is it ?

3M.
Tied to the floor
Laps at the roof
Mouth is the door
Jailer, the tooth
What is it?

Saturday, August 30, 2014

Finally! A Return to the More Poetic Side of Things....

Fair welcome back to you, friends!  My latest offering I provide you here, after somewhat of a long dearth of poetic productions; make of it what you will!  Just one reminder before you forge ahead: the world is not always as it seems....


+JMJ

Stille Nacht*

By Caitlin Clancy
Copyright 2014

“He said, ‘Go out and stand on the mountain before the Lord, for the Lord is about to pass by.’ Now there was a great wind, so strong that it was splitting mountains and breaking rocks in pieces before the Lord, but the Lord was not in the wind; and after the wind an earthquake, but the Lord was not in the earthquake; and after the earthquake a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire; and after the fire a sound of sheer silence.  When Elijah heard it, he wrapped his face in his mantle and went out and stood at the entrance of the cave.”
            1 Kings 19:11-14

The lamb cries out
In the sheltered fold
Against the cold
Against the cold
The lamb cries out
In the sheltered fold
And the ewe answers back

The wild white starts
Burn in the night
Ever so bright
Ever so bright
The wild white stars
Burn in the night
And the young child looks on

Softly the wind
Walks in the dark
Caressing the lamb
Fondling the lark
Softly the wind
Walks in the dark
And the prostrate world lies still.




*German for Silent Night.

Saturday, August 9, 2014

Hot Off the Presses...

Riddles!  Hopefully some more poetry to follow soon;  I have had a few rather good ideas in recent days.  For now,  here are a few of my latest brain-benders.  Answers provided in the customarily indicated location (above).  Bon appétit! 

1L.
I am uncontrollable
Uncritical
And uncautious;
Women sought me
Bacchus taught me
Ophelia I drowned
Ludwig I crowned
What am I?


2L.
Hand of the leg
Prostrate on the ground
Moves to seek new places
Never knows what’s found
What is it?