In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti …
Clad in blue-gray woolly plaid, black oxfords
and pressed, pristine white uniform-blouse
on the morning walk from the dorms to the convent,
past the apple orchard dripping rubescent fruit,
past long-lashed benign cows gently grazing,
walking briskly across that green pasture land
into the greener wood rich in conifers and
the piney debris that crunches amicably under foot,
in single-minded pursuit of that brass-hinged door,
on into aprons, to Sister Mary Francis, the kitchen, bread.
… we therefore beseech thee, O Lord, to be appeased, and to receive this offering of our bounden duty, as also of thy whole household …
The romance was not with bread to eat,
but with yeasts to proof, batters to mix,
and dough to knead, and rest, and grow –
that beautiful, mystical living thing you have
before the baking and dying into bread, and with
the crackling timpani of wood-ovens firing up, pans crashing,
the rhythmic swish and sway of our community,
punctuated by the clicking of Sister’s rosary as she
monitors the students and novices in silent industry at bakers’ tables.
This is the sacred work of those meditative hours before Mass and school
and the business of music lessons and art classes and
the methodical ticking of Liturgical Hours until finally Compline, sleep and
the contemplation of that final sleep and dust-to-dust.
And this being Tuesday, the day to commemorate St. John the Baptist,
and the day to bake our bread for the week to come.
…order our days in thy peace; grant that we be rescued from eternal damnation and counted within the fold of thine elect. Through Christ our Lord …
The next bake day, Thursday, commemorates the Holy Apostles.
Oh, palpable Presence, we work in the silence of Adoration,
preparing pure wafers for a week of Masses.
In a solemn alcove reserved for this task,
we mix flour, salt, and holy water blessed by Father Gregory,
then the fragile process of baking on baking tongs,
silvery antiques, perhaps a hundred years old.
… which offering do thou, O God, vouchsafe in all things …
Receiving the Eucharist
knowing it was formed by my own hand.
…to bless, consecrate, approve, make reasonable and acceptable
that it may become for us the Body and Blood of thy most beloved Son,our Lord Jesus Christ…
Friday, The Cross and Theotokos (Mary),
mother of both God and man, Divine and human.
A girl, like me, perhaps a baker of breads.
…who the day before he suffered took bread into his holy and venerable hands, and with his eyes lifted up to heaven, unto thee, God, his almighty Father, giving thanks to thee …
Mysterious. Numinous. Inexplicable.
A lifetime ahead to figure it out.
Ecce Panis.
Take this Bread.
… he blessed, brake, and gave to his disciples saying: Take and eat ye all of this…
from the pastures and the woods, from the sky and the stream
from nature’s great cathedrals, everywhere present
... hoc est enim Corpus meum…
for this is my body
for this is my life
Amen.
“Where is God? Wherever you let him in.” Rabbi Menachem Mendel Morgensztern of Kotzk, Poland 1787
© 2011, poem rewritten in 2013, Jamie Dedes, previously published in The BeZine, All rights reserved; Virgin adoring the Host by Jean Auguste Donminique Ingres (1980-1867), public domain; Menachem Mendel Morgensztern bio.
WEDNESDAY WRITING PROMPT
What event or experience or time in your life (doesn’t have to be associated with religion) birthed for you the freedom to explore beyond the boundaries set for you? Tell us in a poem and share it or a link to it in the comments below. All poetry on theme will be published here on Tuesday next. You have until Monday at 8:30 p.m. PST to respond. All are welcome to come out and play no matter the status of your career: beginning, emerging or pro. Thank you!
ABOUT THE POET BY DAY
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- Beguine Again, regular contributor
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- Disclosure
Here is a link to my poem about leaving my small town limits.
https://wordpress.com/post/bilocalalia.wordpress.com/466
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I think this is a better link: https://bilocalalia.wordpress.com/2017/12/09/a-town-where-nothing-ever-happens/
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I’ll check it out when I’m done with Sunday Announcements. Thanks! 🙂 And thanks for coming out to play.
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Hi Jamie,
My second response:
Path Of Seeds
O, Lady of the breath,
selfish and in control
you decide the path of seeds
you carry and drop in my grove.
Landscape architect place
an acorn here, a daisy here,
chestnut over there. No negotiation.
Blow my intricate clocks into half spheres,
my Sycamore immigrants spin
through your gusts.
Shoot moss into these worn mortared walls.
Broadcast grass between these carefully
laid pavements.
With you I have no choice
you deliver into me
whatever you hold.
I welcome your unexpected gifts
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Hi Jamie,
Here’s my first response:
O, Lady Of The Breath (Six Vacanas)
1. You Rise
from my forest and leave
out of the gob and earth falls.
It shivers renewed,
welcomes a similar you
into my gob.
You excite my spring buds,
allow the earth to rise, again.
2. Can’t Let
you stay long in the dark,
or the earth will rot.
I can’t let you out for long,
or the earth will rot.
Let’s follow this pattern.
I’ll briefly allow you into my dark wood,
But please don’t take woodsmoke, car fumes,
coal dust, iron filings, water in with you,
else I’ll hack you out. These companions
quicken the rot.
3. Help With The
tasting snake in my cave
form the words I need to say.
Take my words out into air
loud enough for others to hear.
Please don’t say you are weak
and can’t carry such a weight.
Please don’t say I failed to welcome
enough of you into the forest.
4. My Dad Let You
in with pungent watercolours on his back,
stink of Clwyd cowpats and fresh mountain air,
but when he scraped boilers you secretly
took into his forest asbestosis strands
that speed his rot and ruin. I can’t understand
your thought in all of this
5. My Sister Threw You
out over her steering wheel,
her forest crushed by molded plastic.
She tried to welcome you back
but the wood was gone,
so you gust over her grave
under an overseeing tree.
O, my lady of the breath.
I welcome your coming and going.
6. Your Cheyne Stokes
delay before my unconscious Nanna
let you in.
I waited a minute, a 10-20
second episode of
stopped breath
suddenly her welcome
let you in
deeper and again
deeper in and out.
then delay
then delay
then delay
her welcome of you
and delay I watched seven days
until she refused your entry for good.
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Such a cool poem— I love a sense of the evocation of childhood. I cannot think of poems right now but maybe will think of a pic. Thanks for your very kind visits. K .
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Ps — also I love your generosity! All of the prompts and information and the lovely poems. K.
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Thank for YOUR very kind visit and words, especially considering how busy you are. A pic would be lovely too instead of a poem.
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“Beliefs”
(Raanana, December 4, 2016)
That I know what my wife is feeling,
That my love will be enough to protect her
From the lovelessness around her,
That my particular being might have some worth
In the eye of the Grand Schemer of Things,
That the sun will climb over the eastern mountains tomorrow,
That the ground on which I walk
Is as solid as any reality,
These are small beliefs I think
That won’t hurt anyone else,
At least I don’t believe so.
But there are grander beliefs
That grow stronger
With every man and woman who believes them,
That only the grandest edifices
Can house them,
These beliefs,
Like who’s a chosen people
And who’s a virgin, an only son, or a true prophet,
Beliefs that hurt those who don’t believe them.
These are the beliefs I don’t believe
Are any good for anything
That’s not a building.
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“An Agnostic’s Prayer”
(Raanana, January 23, 2014)
Just for the record
I don’t believe in you
So there’s no point in capitalizing, is there?
That doesn’t mean I don’t wish you were
Here, there, somewhere.
God knows I do,
Well, maybe not the you
Of everybody else.
You know exactly what I mean,
Someone who’s not always
Making clever excuses
Why he’s never around
When we need him.
I’d like to see you try that on my wife.
She wouldn’t fall for it.
She’d tell you
You’re either here or you’re not here,
So don’t bother trying to be
Somewhere in between.
She’d say if you want someone to believe in you
Then be there, front and center,
Instead of hiding behind the guy
Who’s hiding behind the curtain
Hoodwinking the true believers.
Then tell them they have only
One life in this godforsaken universe
And that one life is so gut-twistingly precious
That they should get up off their knees,
Walk out into the sunshine,
And smell just how blue the sky is.
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“A Lasting Image”
(Raanana, April 5, 2008)
Frozen shards of light litter the dusty ground and
The moon-colored skulls of creatures whose blood
Once warmed the earth and sated its thirst
If only for a moment.
There is a trail I must follow
Through this forest dark and mordant
That snakes its wending way from
The womb of my first love
To the parched throat of my last.
I think sometimes of the ancient ones
And the things of their world
Of which they were certain.
It is not so hard to believe in a God,
An animus for every animal
Or a hoary herald above the spheres.
But a monstrous God
Who plots to devour our innocence
And rend our hearts with the cruel beauty of its beings,
Indifferent yet demanding our prayers and oblations;
Such a God I believe in:
A God of holocausts and broken promised lands.
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Tears.
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“A Certain Silence”
(Raanana, September 22, 2015)
There is a certain silence
On a day like this
That carries you on its wide wings
But only those whose souls are weightless
A silence that muffles the shouts of children
And banal chatter of adults on mundane matters
But only for those whose souls are transparent
A silence that vows to be true
Even when we live among lies
But only among those
Whose souls are consumed by other souls.
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Thank you, Jamie for clarification. I offer you this poem, which is also written in the picture of a great artist. The theme is the same. A little explanation – the poem is rather complicated with multiple references. Not subject to a literal reading.
Repenting Peter (El Greco)
since as
everything is Uttered
a land to even up
the eye
you touch grope about
the walls
more and more high
(on) cracks
the third road is the hardest
nowhere somewhere
the third road is the easiest
am I
I
cursed
cursing
swear
in net
(Peter)
“that the mighty angel tugs
along with net of fishermen”*
*G. Seferis
*https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Giorgos_Seferis
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Nicely done, bogpan. Thank you!
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Pheidippides Defiant
A legend has
A courier
Who ran and ran
And told, and died,
Per Lucian,
Pheidippides’
“We win–rejoice!”
The dying words
Of this young man.
A summer day
In ’84
Ten thousand ran
On Market Street,
And skirted San
Francisco Bay,
And saw through fog
The Golden Gate,
And past its Park,
And up a hill
So steep a man
In wheelchair
Went but four in-
Ches at a time.
We crossed the thrice-
Blessed Finish Line
At Union Square
To cheering crowds,
To honor dead
Pheidippides,
Who, truth be told,
Did not exist,
Or, if he did,
Not quite the way
The legend tells.
But there WAS strife
In ancient Greece,
And Persians died
At Marathon,
The site now known
As the event,
A footrace long
and arduous.
And when I ran
In ’84,
I briefly WAS
Pheidippides,
Defiant of
Impossible,
Horizon breached,
My battle won,
And I rejoiced
And did not die.
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🙂
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. no horizontal line .
early it came,where there are no roads, no silent killer.
spinning. set me free. let me see swallows return to
nest.
let us cause a reaction, turn our heads quickly. no one
is looking, there is no one here. we are not afraid of
the night.
we spin.
soft cottons, whimsy thread, mothlike.
turn about hour on hour. your time is
come.
we spin.
to spite silent killers.
sbm.
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. tudor .
it seems that in moving the body we can free the mind, from one place to another. slightly out of focus.
time is moving forward.
that is the theory……
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Thanks Jamie
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Look forward to yours.
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Powerful in its imagery, touching in its revelation!! Beautifully done, Jamie Dedes!!
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Thank you for reading and taking the time to comment … and so positively. Appreciated.
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I am very pleasantly surprised! I did not expect such a topic. I have a question. Why can not it be a religious theme? For me the freedom is in the Holy Spirit. My understanding coincides with Berdjaev.
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It CAN be. It just doesn’t have to be. Thanks for asking for clarification.
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Lovely video of the consecration. Thank you, my friend.
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