A Clanging Cymbal

The rumble and buzz of cars

that blots out birdsong

is but one bleating sound

in a constellation of noise,

a devil (if I believed in the devil)-

designed distraction from

the voice in the cave

of my heart

that I do believe in.

So, I will arise and go now,

and go to New Camaldoli

and there a cell of silence seek,

a shady seat beneath

the fruiting fig tree, and

            Mother Pacific,

            O Father Sky,

a view of blue further than I can see.

Drench me in Your breezy quietude

and remind me in the cooing of the dove

that I am nothing if I have not love.


With appreciation to St. Paul (1 Corinthians 13:1-3) and W.B. Yeats (The Lake Isle of Innisfree)

A collage of sunbeams streaming into the sanctuary at New Camaldoli, a bench on  a cliff overlooking the ocean, and a garden


The Nobility of Quiet

Turn off the TV

and silence your phone.

Outside your window

soft rain shimmers

like a silver veil.

Listen to its serenade,

drops hitting leaves,

splashing into the birdbath.

Then attune your ears

to the silence under

this murmur and patter.

What do you hear?

The Lord of the Dance

calling to you,

ephphatha!

Be opened!

 

After reading Mark 7:32-34. Title from “The Winter Apple” by David Whyte. Just published in my parish newsletter, Holy Cross Community Voices.

The River That Mines the Silence of Stone

Image courtesy of Sarojani Rohan

 

After the light

beams into the inner chamber

 

on the shortest day,

after the souls of the dead have departed,

 

silence fills the hollow space

like the beat of the drum just did.

 

The underland will feed it

like a candle perpetually snuffed,

 

scent of melted wax and burnt wick

in the dark.

 

Above, nights pass

and days come

 

in the temple of time

that makes equals of us all.

 

The earth blooms into spring,

flowers and fruits through summer,

 

and releases once more into fall.

On that first winter day,

 

when the priestess returns

before dawn,

 

lint and tinder in her pouch,

but guided by memory and touch,

 

this is what she hears:

the silence of stone.

 

No words, no message,

just the time-nourished silence.

 

Rebirth is the gift of the deep,

to return as servant once more –

 

lover and light-bearer,

priestess and poet reborn.

 

Title from Rilke’s Book of Hours, I,16

 

At Newgrange August 2019