God declines to endorse the work of his saints
Whoever they are.
We know the stories of the persecuted disciples
And murdered messiah.
Redemption is one thing.
I’m talking about the ones who die
On airplanes, oops, and other accidents.
Those who die for nothing,
Who were making real progress
In God’s work on earth. Those whose demise
Were provocation for atheists. Thomas Merton
Who was pulling taut the thread that bound
the exposed fringes of Catholicism around
the exposed fringes of Buddhism died
In a shower in Thailand
Of a crazy electrocution when he slipped and grabbed
A badly wired fan.
So stupid
Many have had to believe it was murder, even suicide
Would be better than this—O, God. O, God
Of love who doesn’t need us, ever quick
To let us know, although he's always talking
He’s never saying anything
In words.
Wednesday, March 28, 2018
Saturday, March 10, 2018
Fractures in Time
I prefer the idea of fractured time
And infinite universes
To that of eternal return—the idea
That every possible fork of every moment
Is somewhere taken
That somewhere Kathy, who smiled at me that weekend
At the football game in such a way that made me
Wonder if she liked me,
Didn’t get on that motorcycle
After that party
And a universe in which
The EMTs arrived in time
To stop the bleeding
And that somewhere there’s a universe
In which I did not slide past her
With goofy shy and false insouciance
But smiled again and spoke
And one in which I walked beside her to the bleachers
And one where we spent that evening someplace
Where no one had a motorcycle,
And more than you can count
Where I never felt a reason
To write this poem.
And infinite universes
To that of eternal return—the idea
That every possible fork of every moment
Is somewhere taken
That somewhere Kathy, who smiled at me that weekend
At the football game in such a way that made me
Wonder if she liked me,
Didn’t get on that motorcycle
After that party
And a universe in which
The EMTs arrived in time
To stop the bleeding
And that somewhere there’s a universe
In which I did not slide past her
With goofy shy and false insouciance
But smiled again and spoke
And one in which I walked beside her to the bleachers
And one where we spent that evening someplace
Where no one had a motorcycle,
And more than you can count
Where I never felt a reason
To write this poem.
Thursday, March 8, 2018
All Creation Yearns for Freedom
And Satan with all his host flew to God and said, “Father, we want to be free. They, those souls you have roiling in paradise, they too want to be free. All that you have made yearns for freedom.” Nor would Satan be appeased by any reply God might make. And so he said, “You are angels, made of the spirit stuff of the eternal heaven. You are capable of all freedom. Therefore be free.” And lo, into hell was Satan cast with all his host. And all the souls in heaven who saw this begged, “we too want to be free, like Satan. He hath told us the wonders of freedom.” And the lord of hosts replied, “You are capable of much freedom. And he granted their wish as much as it was possible to grant it and sent them to the world to grunt and sweat under the heavy weight of freedom.
Thursday, March 1, 2018
Shakespeare's Henry V: Tragic Hero
"For what shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?"
The more I read Shakespeare's Henry V and reflect by on I and II Henry IV, the more the plays seem to be a serious answer to this rhetorical question. This is what it will profit a man: A French Queen and two kingdoms that he will hold onto for a few years and then leave to the chaos of a near-permanent war culminating in the Elizabethan police state.
The character starts as a conniver. Perhaps he believes his conniving is in the long run for the good of himself and England. But he has to play with hearts along the way, worry his father to death, sidle up to and then reject the man who thought he was his best friend, leave others in delusion. He never stops lying and grandstanding--in the English Court, at Harfleur, at Agincourt where he gives a ridiculous but perfect pep-rally speech to his officers or perhaps his entire army. They buy it, the Saint Crispen's day speech. He doesn't mean it. He couldn't. But he always says what has to be said, and this after a prayer which is really the culmination of his soul-emptying life.
He has a parade. He seduces a princess. In the end he has everything, and what he doesn't yet possess he has promises of--every but the soul he sold to get there. He's empty. So empty that he doesn't know he's empty. But he's been dragged there and he's dragged his audience there with him. Whole theaters, all of Britain in time of war, jumping and cheering for Henry, England and St. George.
But Shakespeare knew better. Outside of Harfleur the soldiers mock Henry's "Once more into the breach" speech. And at Agincourt the absurdity of the appeal to honor is made manifest when Cambridge wishes everyone home but himself and Henry to fight the French. The dauphin's messenger undercut Henry's honor-quest before it ever began, and Montjoy is there to deflate the king at every turn. Henry's subtle, unlike Richard III, unlike Iago, unlike the obvious villains, so subtle he fools even his audience, so subtle he fools himself. But he's a failure in the end because, though he gained the whole world, he had to sell his soul to do it.
The more I read Shakespeare's Henry V and reflect by on I and II Henry IV, the more the plays seem to be a serious answer to this rhetorical question. This is what it will profit a man: A French Queen and two kingdoms that he will hold onto for a few years and then leave to the chaos of a near-permanent war culminating in the Elizabethan police state.
The character starts as a conniver. Perhaps he believes his conniving is in the long run for the good of himself and England. But he has to play with hearts along the way, worry his father to death, sidle up to and then reject the man who thought he was his best friend, leave others in delusion. He never stops lying and grandstanding--in the English Court, at Harfleur, at Agincourt where he gives a ridiculous but perfect pep-rally speech to his officers or perhaps his entire army. They buy it, the Saint Crispen's day speech. He doesn't mean it. He couldn't. But he always says what has to be said, and this after a prayer which is really the culmination of his soul-emptying life.
He has a parade. He seduces a princess. In the end he has everything, and what he doesn't yet possess he has promises of--every but the soul he sold to get there. He's empty. So empty that he doesn't know he's empty. But he's been dragged there and he's dragged his audience there with him. Whole theaters, all of Britain in time of war, jumping and cheering for Henry, England and St. George.
But Shakespeare knew better. Outside of Harfleur the soldiers mock Henry's "Once more into the breach" speech. And at Agincourt the absurdity of the appeal to honor is made manifest when Cambridge wishes everyone home but himself and Henry to fight the French. The dauphin's messenger undercut Henry's honor-quest before it ever began, and Montjoy is there to deflate the king at every turn. Henry's subtle, unlike Richard III, unlike Iago, unlike the obvious villains, so subtle he fools even his audience, so subtle he fools himself. But he's a failure in the end because, though he gained the whole world, he had to sell his soul to do it.
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