National Poetry Month Continues

by

The Windows

LORD, how can man preach thy eternall word ?
        He is a brittle crazie glasse :
Yet in thy temple thou dost him afford
        This glorious and transcendent place,
        To be a window, through thy grace.

But when thou dost anneal in glasse thy storie,
        Making thy life to shine within
The holy Preachers, then the light and glorie
        More rev’rend grows, and more doth win ;
        Which else shows watrish, bleak, and thin.

Doctrine and life, colours and light, in one
        When they combine and mingle, bring
A strong regard and aw:  but speech alone
        Doth vanish like a flaring thing,
        And in the eare, not conscience ring.

— George Herbert

10 thoughts on “National Poetry Month Continues”

  1. I look into my glass,
    And view my wasting skin,
    And say, “Would God it came to pass
    My heart had shrunk as thin!”
    For then, I, undistrest
    By hearts grown cold to me,
    Could lonely wait my endless rest
    With equanimity.
    But Time, to make me grieve,
    Part steals, lets part abide;
    And shakes this fragile frame at eve
    With throbbings of noontide.
    –Thomas Hardy

  2. You really need to hear the Leighton version of this, but the poem will suffice for now:
    The Christ-child lay on Mary’s lap,
    His hair was like a light.
    (O weary, weary were the world,
    But here is all aright.)
    The Christ-child lay on Mary’s breast
    His hair was like a star.
    (O stern and cunning are the kings,
    But here the true hearts are.)
    The Christ-child lay on Mary’s heart,
    His hair was like a fire.
    (O weary, weary is the world,
    But here the world’s desire.)
    The Christ-child stood on Mary’s knee,
    His hair was like a crown,
    And all the flowers looked up at Him,
    And all the stars looked down.
    – GK Chesterton

  3. A Christmas Hymn
    A stable-lamp is lighted
    Whose glow shall wake the sky;
    The stars shall bend their voices,
    And every stone shall cry.
    And every stone shall cry,
    And straw like gold shall shine;
    A barn shall harbor heaven,
    A stall become a shrine.
    This child through David’s city
    Shall ride in triumph by;
    The palm shall strew its branches,
    And every stone shall cry.
    And every stone shall cry,
    Though heavy, dull, and dumb,
    And lie within the roadway
    To pave His kingdom come.
    Yet He shall be forsaken,
    And yielded up to die;
    The sky shall groan and darken,
    And every stone shall cry.
    And every stone shall cry
    For stony hearts of men:
    God’s blood upon the spearhead,
    God’s love refused again.
    But now, as at the ending,
    The low is lifted high;
    The stars shall bend their voices,
    And every stone shall cry.
    And every stone shall cry
    In praises of the child
    By whose descent among us
    The worlds are reconciled.
    — Richard Wilbur

  4. In my wrist
    veins twist
    blue flames
    to the heart’s nest
    a torqued force,
    centrifugal,
    spinning out
    from any center
    it finds. It burns,
    it blinds, it takes
    life from
    my life, flared
    fist, jealous
    furnace, assassin
    reeling in fevered
    rings. My angels dance
    on the tips of matches.
    They have no wings.
    – Karen Volkman

  5. Glory be to God for dappled things
    for sky couple-color as a bridled cow
    for rose-moles all in stipple on trout that swim
    fire-fall, chestnut fall, finches wings,
    for land pierced and patched, fold, fallow, plow
    for all trades, tools, tackle and trim
    for all things counter, original, strange
    who knows how
    with swift-slow, sweet-sour adazzle dim
    He fathers forth beauty unchanged; praise Him.
    That’s from memory, so it isn’t exactly word perfect. The author’s name is Manley, I think. Something Gerald Manley.

  6. lily, how lovely that you can recite it from memory 🙂 The author is Gerard Manley Hopkins.
    Stillness
    by James Elroy Flecker
    When the words rustle no more,
    And the last work’s done,
    When the bolt lies deep in the door,
    And Fire, our Sun,
    Falls on the dark-laned meadows of the floor;
    When from the clock’s last time to the next chime
    Silence beats his drum,
    And Space with gaunt grey eyes and her brother Time
    Wheeling and whispering come,
    She with the mould of form and he with the loom of rhyme,
    Then twittering out in the night my thought-birds flee,
    I am emptied of all my dreams:
    I only hear Earth turning, only see
    Ether’s long bankless streams,
    And only know I should drown if you
    Laid not your hand on me.

  7. the Windows. ah.. i once wrote this haiku for a Windows Anti-Trust Haiku contest, on Salon:
    It does not matter
    where you want to go today
    we are in control
    —
    it got an Honorable Mention. which is just like losing, but slightly worse, since people see that you bothered to try.

  8. the Windows. ah.. i once wrote this haiku for a Windows Anti-Trust Haiku contest, on Salon:
    It does not matter
    where you want to go today
    we are in control
    —
    it got an Honorable Mention. which is just like losing, but slightly worse, since people see that you bothered to try.
    (2nd try posting)

  9. the Windows. ah.. i once wrote this haiku for a Windows Anti-Trust Haiku contest, on Salon:
    It does not matter
    where you want to go today
    we are in control
    —
    it got an Honorable Mention. which is just like losing, but slightly worse, since people see that you bothered to try.
    (2nd try posting)

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