Silence soft in prayer-clasped
hands—peace settles.
Release nettled
thoughts and
sift away time’s
dull demands.
Worries, naught but
grains of sand.
Showing posts with label spirituality. Show all posts
Showing posts with label spirituality. Show all posts
Sunday, March 23, 2014
Sunday, February 10, 2013
More "found" poetry in the words of Mildred Ratcliff
Last year I delved into various family history-related documents from the 18th and 19th centuries to "find" poems in the wonderful words and phrases contained within them. Correspondence was much more of an art form in the past, it seems, and even legal documents and Quaker meeting minutes have a certain rhythm and poetic feel to them. The Memoranda and Correspondence of Mildred Ratcliff is a particularly good trove; it is no wonder that Mildred was respected as a minister and prophetess among Quakers. The following poem is based on her words, contained on pages 36-37 of her Memoranda and Correspondence. I have added line breaks, edited and revised a bit to improve the rhythm and flow, but for the most part left the words as Mildred wrote them.
THE WONDERFUL GOODNESS OF MY GOD
Mildred Ratcliff; based on text from her Memoranda and Correspondence, pp. 36-37
First Month 1st, 1805
Oh! the wonderful goodness of my God!
Oh! the overflowing of thy love that I have felt this day.
The new found songs of praise that I have been favored to sing!
Yea, I will say hallelujah to thee.
Teach me, and I will declare of thy wonderful works,
whilst my hands are employed about the business of the day.
How thou hast arisen in my heart.
Thy animating love overcomes and reigns above all,
raising in my inward life new found praises,
adoration, thanksgiving, and supplications
unto thee, who liveth and abideth forever.
I have said in my heart, I am lost in love and praise;
for thou art holy! holy! holy!
Thy goodness extends to the smallest work from thy hands;
thy gracious care is to the sparrow upon the house-top.
Thou art worthy of all my affections.
THE WONDERFUL GOODNESS OF MY GOD
Mildred Ratcliff; based on text from her Memoranda and Correspondence, pp. 36-37
First Month 1st, 1805
Oh! the wonderful goodness of my God!
Oh! the overflowing of thy love that I have felt this day.
The new found songs of praise that I have been favored to sing!
Yea, I will say hallelujah to thee.
Teach me, and I will declare of thy wonderful works,
whilst my hands are employed about the business of the day.
How thou hast arisen in my heart.
Thy animating love overcomes and reigns above all,
raising in my inward life new found praises,
adoration, thanksgiving, and supplications
unto thee, who liveth and abideth forever.
I have said in my heart, I am lost in love and praise;
for thou art holy! holy! holy!
Thy goodness extends to the smallest work from thy hands;
thy gracious care is to the sparrow upon the house-top.
Thou art worthy of all my affections.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
FRIDAY PRAYERS
[Published on the Dead Beats Literary Blog, October 16, 2012]
FRIDAY PRAYERS
Late afternoon sun behind him,
his cab parked at the curb
outside the station;
his rug laid neatly on the sidewalk
between the parking meters,
he stands,eyes closed,
right hand on the left across his chest,
making his intentions known to his heart,
unaware of commuters
walking past, on their way home.
He bows, hands on knees,
and says, Allahu akbar—God is great—
then kneels and bows, head to ground.
He rises to his knees, then bows again,
continuing his prayers
as pedestrians pass by.
Prayers over, he rolls his rug,
and returns to his cab,
to wait for a fare.
Peace be upon us
and the mercy of Allah.
FRIDAY PRAYERS
Late afternoon sun behind him,
his cab parked at the curb
outside the station;
his rug laid neatly on the sidewalk
between the parking meters,
he stands,eyes closed,
right hand on the left across his chest,
making his intentions known to his heart,
unaware of commuters
walking past, on their way home.
He bows, hands on knees,
and says, Allahu akbar—God is great—
then kneels and bows, head to ground.
He rises to his knees, then bows again,
continuing his prayers
as pedestrians pass by.
Prayers over, he rolls his rug,
and returns to his cab,
to wait for a fare.
Peace be upon us
and the mercy of Allah.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
OUTSIDE THE ABUNDANT LIFE CHAPEL
[Published in Poetry Quarterly, Spring 2012]
OUTSIDE THE ABUNDANT LIFE CHAPEL
The congregants were rocking
in the spirit of the Lord
in the Abundant Life Chapel.
The Holy Ghost thudded out on the bass;
the Spirit thumped its saving grace,
out to the sidewalk
for all who have ears to hear.
And this poor sinner, passing by,
stopped, and was cleansed
in the sound waves of Glory,
before continuing down the road
to the meetinghouse
where the Quakers sat in worship,
silence slipping out to the street.
And the Spirit was there, too,
walking quietly in the morning Light.
OUTSIDE THE ABUNDANT LIFE CHAPEL
The congregants were rocking
in the spirit of the Lord
in the Abundant Life Chapel.
The Holy Ghost thudded out on the bass;
the Spirit thumped its saving grace,
out to the sidewalk
for all who have ears to hear.
And this poor sinner, passing by,
stopped, and was cleansed
in the sound waves of Glory,
before continuing down the road
to the meetinghouse
where the Quakers sat in worship,
silence slipping out to the street.
And the Spirit was there, too,
walking quietly in the morning Light.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
I KILLED A CENTIPEDE TODAY
[Published in The Little Patuxent Review, Spring 2010]
I KILLED A CENTIPEDE TODAY
I killed a centipede today.
I don’t know why, but there I was,
sitting at the bottom of the basement stairs
waiting for the iron to heat.
I had just put on my socks
when it walked across the bookshelf.
God only knows where it was going.
I watched it for a moment,
then perhaps some primal instinct
that abhors bugs in houses
took over and led me
to grab it with a tissue, crush it,
and flush it down the toilet.
Do centipedes believe in fate?
Are they Calvinist or Arminian?
Is there a centipede family somewhere
wondering what became of their father, son, uncle,
unquestioningly accepting his loss
as the impetuous act of a callous god?
Or, explaining that their vengeful god
punished him for his sins?
Or, are they shaking their heads and saying
that he knew the risks yet chose to go
and now he’s gone and life continues?
I do not believe in fate,
or a vengeful god.
I chose to kill the centipede,
and now I am diminished.
I KILLED A CENTIPEDE TODAY
I killed a centipede today.
I don’t know why, but there I was,
sitting at the bottom of the basement stairs
waiting for the iron to heat.
I had just put on my socks
when it walked across the bookshelf.
God only knows where it was going.
I watched it for a moment,
then perhaps some primal instinct
that abhors bugs in houses
took over and led me
to grab it with a tissue, crush it,
and flush it down the toilet.
Do centipedes believe in fate?
Are they Calvinist or Arminian?
Is there a centipede family somewhere
wondering what became of their father, son, uncle,
unquestioningly accepting his loss
as the impetuous act of a callous god?
Or, explaining that their vengeful god
punished him for his sins?
Or, are they shaking their heads and saying
that he knew the risks yet chose to go
and now he’s gone and life continues?
I do not believe in fate,
or a vengeful god.
I chose to kill the centipede,
and now I am diminished.
Monday, January 4, 2010
AGE PARES AWAY THE FRUIT
[Published in The Beatnik, March 26, 2011, on-line at http://whollycommunion.blogspot.com/]
AGE PARES AWAY THE FRUIT
Age pares away the fruit of life,
to the heart,
to the kernel of spirit,
to be sown anew in the second spring.
The parts once thought tastiest
now lie discarded,
no longer digestible;
they do the soul no good.
The seed,
though hard and once thought bitter,
now is prized,
for it contains new life.
AGE PARES AWAY THE FRUIT
Age pares away the fruit of life,
to the heart,
to the kernel of spirit,
to be sown anew in the second spring.
The parts once thought tastiest
now lie discarded,
no longer digestible;
they do the soul no good.
The seed,
though hard and once thought bitter,
now is prized,
for it contains new life.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
READING LI PO ON A WINTER DAY
[Published in The Beatnik, March 26, 2011, on-line at http://whollycommunion.blogspot.com/]
READING LI PO ON A WINTER DAY
Sitting in the brown rocking chair
next to the window in my bedroom
waiting for the afternoon sun to stream in again,
I read Li Po.
Cold wind gusts outside,
whips round the eaves,
rattles the front door.
Outside the window, a shutter flaps against the house—
the same shutter I thought would fall off last year.
The afternoon sun streams through the window.
Some day I’ll have to fix that shutter.
READING LI PO ON A WINTER DAY
Sitting in the brown rocking chair
next to the window in my bedroom
waiting for the afternoon sun to stream in again,
I read Li Po.
Cold wind gusts outside,
whips round the eaves,
rattles the front door.
Outside the window, a shutter flaps against the house—
the same shutter I thought would fall off last year.
The afternoon sun streams through the window.
Some day I’ll have to fix that shutter.
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