Bluedragonfly10's Weblog

Gentleness

bluedragonfly10 — Thu, 05 Nov 2009 19:54:26 +0000

A hunter in the desert saw abba Antony enjoying himself with the brothers, and he was shocked. Wanting to show him that it was necessary sometimes to meet the needs of the brothers, the old man said to him, ‘Put an arrow in your bow and shoot it.’ So he did. And the old man said, ‘Shoot another,’ and he did so. Then the old man said, ‘Shoot yet again,’ and the hunter replied, ‘If I bend my bow so much, I will break it.’ Then the old man said to him, ‘It is the same with the work of God. If we stretch the brothers beyond measure, they will soon break. Sometimes it is necessary to come down to meet their needs.’

Daily Reading With The Desert Fathers

Pulitzer Prize in Poetry 1923

bluedragonfly10 — Wed, 04 Nov 2009 19:27:44 +0000

Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892-1950) won the Pulitzer for The Ballad of the Harp-Weaver: A Few Figs from Thistles: Eight Sonnets in American Poetry, 1922. A Miscellany

Wild Swans

I looked in my heart while the wild swans went over.
And what did I see I had not seen before?
Only a question less or a question more;
Nothing to match the flight of wild birds flying.
Tiresome heart, forever living and dying,
House without air, I leave you and lock your door.
Wild swans, come over the town, come over
The town again, trailing your legs and crying!

Pulitzer Prize in Poetry 1922

bluedragonfly10 — Tue, 03 Nov 2009 23:57:27 +0000

Edwin Arlington Robinson (1869-1935) Portrait by Lilla Cabot Perry, 1916. Robinson won the Pulitzer for his book of Collected Poems.

Credo

I cannot find my way: there is no star
In all the shrouded heavens anywhere;
And there is not a whisper in the air
Of any living voice but one so far
That I can hear it only as a bar
Of lost, imperial music, played when fair
And angel fingers wove, and unaware,
Dead leaves to garlands where no roses are.

No, there is not a glimmer, nor a call,
For one that welcomes, welcomes when he fears,
The black and awful chaos of the night;
For through it all—above, beyond it all—
I know the far-sent message of the years,
I feel the coming glory of the Light.

Hospitality

bluedragonfly10 — Tue, 03 Nov 2009 18:37:22 +0000

It was said of an old man that he dwelt in Syria on the way to the desert. This was his work: whenever a monk came from the desert, he gave him refreshment with all his heart. Now one day a hermit came and he offered him refreshment. The hermit did not want to accept it, saying he was fasting. Filled with sorrow, the old man said to him, ‘Do not despise your servant. I beg you, do not despise me, but let us pray together. Look at the tree which is here; we will follow the way of whichever of us causes it to bend when he kneels on the ground and prays.’ So the hermit knelt down to pray and nothing happened. Then the hospitable one knelt down and at once the tree bent towards him. Taught by this, they gave thanks to God.”

Daily Reading With The Desert Fathers

Pulitzer Prize in Poetry 1919

bluedragonfly10 — Mon, 02 Nov 2009 20:30:31 +0000

Carl Sandburg (1878-1967) won the Pulitzer for his book Corn Huskers

Falltime

Gold of a ripe oat straw, gold of a southwest moon,
Canada thistle blue and flimmering larkspur blue,
Tomatoes shining in the October sun with red hearts,
Shining five and six in a row on a wooden fence,
Why do you keep wishes on your faces all day long,
Wishes like women with half-forgotten lovers going to
new cities? What is there for you in the birds, the birds, the birds,
crying down on the north wind in September, acres
of birds spotting the air going south ? Is there something finished? And some new beginning on the way?

The Kingdom Within

bluedragonfly10 — Sun, 01 Nov 2009 19:51:29 +0000

When blessed Antony was praying in his cell, a voice spoke to him, saying, “Antony, you have not yet come to the measure of the tanner who is in Alexandria.” When he heard this, the old man arose and took his stick and hurried into the city. When he had found the tanner . . . he said to him, “Tell me about your work, for today I have left the desert and come here to see you.”

He replied, “I am not aware that I have done anything good. When I get up in the morning, before I sit down to work, I say that the whole of this city, small and great, will go into the Kingdom of God because of their good deeds, while I alone will go into eternal punishment because of my evil deeds. Every evening I repeat the same words and believe them in my heart.”

When blessed Antony heard this he said, “My son, you sit in your own house and work well, and you have the peace of the Kingdom of God; but I spend all my time in solitude with no distractions, and I have not come near the measure of such words.”

Daily Readings With The Desert Fathers

Poem of the day, Oct. 28 2009

bluedragonfly10 — Wed, 28 Oct 2009 16:17:38 +0000

Pine

The first night at the monastery,
a moth lit on my sleeve by firelight,
long after the first frost.

A short stick of incense burns
thirty minutes, fresh thread of pine
rising through the old pine of the hours.

Summer is trapped under the thin
glass on the brook, making
the sound of an emptying bottle.

Before the long silence,
the monks make a long soft rustling,
adjusting their robes.

The deer are safe now. Their tracks
are made of snow. The wind has dragged
its branches over their history.
……………………..
by Chase Twichell (born 1950)

Pulitzer Prize in Poetry 1919

bluedragonfly10 — Tue, 27 Oct 2009 23:15:25 +0000

Margaret Widdemer (1884-1978) won the prize for her book "The Old Road to Paradise"

The Singing Wood

I followed far from the roadway
After my golden ball
(How could I tell the way it went
Where it might lie or fall?)

And coaxing vines from the Singing Wood
Came twining around my feet
And scent of flowers from the Singing Wood
Oh, it was sweet, was sweet!

Once I met a satyr,
Once I was with a faun,
Once I spoke with a woman o’ doom
Spinning from dusk till dawn,

Once I followed a will-o’-the-wisp
Dancing along the fen . . .
Never the sun in the Singing Wood
Never a bird-loud glen!

All the trees were sighing,
All of the brooks were tears,
All of the flowers were bleeding-hearts
Scarlet with hopes and fears,

All of the vines were hands that clung
Twisting about my heart . . .
Oh, the thorns of the Singing Wood
Sharp they can tear and smart!

I might have won to the rainbow’s end,
But never for all o’ me
Shall my feet stray into the Singing Wood
For any fair things that flee . . .

Here on earth are the day and night,
Human women and men–
And oh, ’tis good to be out o’ the wood,
Into the world again!

Pulitzer Prize in Poetry 1918

bluedragonfly10 — Tue, 27 Oct 2009 23:14:45 +0000

Over the next few months, I will be posting poems by Pulitzer Prize winners in poetry, beginning with Sara Teasdale in 1918. When I am able, I will post poems from the books for which they won the prize. Teasdale won the prize for her book Love Songs.

Sara Teasdale (1884-1933)

The River

I came from the sunny valleys
And sought for the open sea,

For I thought in its gray expanses
My peace would come to me.

I came at last to the ocean
And found it wild and black,

And I cried to the windless valleys,
“Be kind and take me back!”

But the thirsty tide ran inland,
And the salt waves drank of me,

And I who was fresh as the rainfall
Am bitter as the sea.

Poem of the day, Oct. 26 2009

bluedragonfly10 — Mon, 26 Oct 2009 17:46:55 +0000

If I Were Paul

Consider how you were made.

Consider the loving geometry that sketched your bones, the passionate symmetry that sewed
flesh to your skeleton, and the cloudy zenith whence your soul descended in shimmering rivulets
across pure granite to pour as a single braided stream into the skull’s cup.

Consider the first time you conceived of justice, engendered mercy, brought parity into being,
coaxed liberty like a marten from its den to uncoil its limber spine in a sunny clearing, how you
understood the inheritance of first principles, the legacy of noble thought, and built a city like a
forest in the forest, and erected temples like thunderheads.

Consider, as if it were penicillin or the speed of light, the discovery of another’s hands, his oval
field of vision, her muscular back and hips, his nerve-jarred neck and shoulders, her bleeding
gums and dry elbows and knees, his baldness and cauterized skin cancers, her lucid and
forgiving gaze, his healing touch, her mind like a prairie. Consider the first knowledge of
otherness. How it felt.

Consider what you were meant to be in the egg, in your parents’ arms, under a sky full of stars.

Now imagine what I have to say when I learn of your enterprising viciousness, the discipline
with which one of you turns another into a robot or a parasite or a maniac or a body strapped to a
chair. Imagine what I have to say.

Do the impossible. Restore life to those you have killed, wholeness to those you have maimed,
goodness to what you have poisoned, trust to those you have betrayed.

Bless each other with the heart and soul, the hand and eye, the head and foot, the lips, tongue,
and teeth, the inner ear and the outer ear, the flesh and spirit, the brain and bowels, the blood and
lymph, the heel and toe, the muscle and bone, the waist and hips, the chest and shoulders, the
whole body, clothed and naked, young and old, aging and growing up.

I send you this not knowing if you will receive it, or if having received it, you will read it, or if
having read it, you will know that it contains my blessing.
………………………………
by Mark Jarman (born 1952)