To one to whom the world is dark, O dove, descend. The shadows where he sits are stark— does darkness end? O, wound us with your piercing spark, and wounding, mend.
Come forth on silent feathers, dove; drop down as rain. Turn graves to furrows—leaves spring up from sprouting grain— and let the one long lost to love take heart again.
For now we fear the flame that burns, the tongue that speaks: too much, too bright the heart that yearns for mountain peaks. Too soon, too soon the dark returns, the burnt heart breaks.
There is a darkness down beneath the waiting tomb, shadows behind the lion’s teeth, a hungry gloom. Unless some mercy you bequeath, this is our doom.
But open up the lion’s mouth, and we go free. Make deserts bloom, end our long drought, and let us see. O flame no wind could e’er blow out, now burn in me.
Upper: Descent of the Holy Ghost, Pedro Machuca, ca. 1520-1530. Museo de Arte de Ponce. The Luis A. Ferré Foundation, Inc. Gift of Samuel H. Kress Foundation, New York. Lower: Detail of same. Photos taken by author.
Jesus said to them, “There is no need for them to go away; give them some food yourselves.” But they said to him, “Five loaves and two fish are all we have here.” Then he said, “Bring them here to me,” and he ordered the crowds to sit down on the grass. Taking the five loaves and the two fish, and looking up to heaven, he said the blessing, broke the loaves, and gave them to the disciples, who in turn gave them to the crowds. They all ate and were satisfied, and they picked up the fragments left over— twelve wicker baskets full. Those who ate were about five thousand men, not counting women and children. —Matthew 14:13-21
Famine will not take us from you; still, O Lord, we long for bread. Drought cannot dispel our wonder, yet we thirst for rain instead. Fill the cloud that we lie under: Pour your mercy on our head.
We have spent our wealth on wishes, but the cup we pass is dry. Shattered cisterns, empty dishes: Nothing here can satisfy. All that’s left, some loaves and fishes— Feed us, Lord, or we shall die.
Take the little we can offer— nothing, truly, of our own but the gifts of sun and water, seed and harvest, seas of foam— offer it, then, to the Father; lay our gifts before the throne.
Here we dwell beneath a shadow— could it be your wings outspread? Here’s a table in the valley, where you give us wine and bread. All we give is changed and hallowed— here, oh, here at last, we’re fed.
I saw—or thought I saw—somewhere online the first part of something that started like, Five thousand fed? Imagine being the five-thousand-and-first in line! Of course, I can’t remember where I saw it, and I don’t even know if I read it correctly. I was already busy writing because it gave me an idea, which gave me an excuse to whine (my favorite kind of idea):
Five thousand fed, but oh, five-thousand-and-first I stand here watching others eat their bread, see baskets being filled, about to burst, and still I stand here waiting to be fed.
I know the taste of bitterness, of bile, resentment’s acid there, back-of-the-tongue, arising every morning. All the while, it is your word I’ve read, your songs I’ve sung.
And yet I stand here empty as a shell but for the memory of bread, the wish that I will someday taste the feast I tell and you will offer me the loaves, the fish.
The lines I write will crumble into dust or thrown upon the fire burn down to ash, and faulty lines, misplaced feet no longer clash as sounds fall silent, breathing loses thrust.
Yet what they whisper here before they fade remains beyond the passing of my breath. Unbounded by such little things as death or time, it stands when all else has decayed:
Before the stars began to burn, he was; before the oxygen that feeds the fire before the galaxies that spin in spire, he is, and he is here in all he does,
holding all things in being by his word. Then let the paper burn, the tide go out, and let the echoes die of my last shout. He speaks, and I have heard him. I have heard.
This will I know, though fallen to time’s sword, though all I write is written in the sand that even now is slipping through my hand, though I am naught, that I have seen the Lord.
German half-hour sand glass, first quarter of the 16th century, bronze-gilt and silver-gilt, height: 8.3 cm, diameter: 8.4 cm, Metropolitan of Art (New York City) By This file was donated to Wikimedia Commons as part of a project by the Metropolitan Museum of Art. See the Image and Data Resources Open Access Policy, CC0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=60163220
Two gallons of whole milk. A dozen eggs. Greek yogurt, and some peaches if they’re good. What meat’s on sale? Some boneless chicken legs— and rice with those, I think? I guess we could. Some crackers and some almonds and some prunes and something snacky, something chocolate to get us through the weary afternoons, and then the sales, and what did I forget? Slow patience if I find it on the shelf— they moved it when they rearranged the store— I need it more than ever with myself. Are strawberries in season? Get some more and I’ll make jam again and then some bread— reverse that so the bread has time to rise while the berries simmer. Somehow we’ll get fed. Let’s get some gentleness, for a surprise, some kindness, too, and maybe self-control— what aisle’s that in? And not the bargain kind. I need the good stuff crammed into my soul— not crammed, I mean. Just get what I can find. Have I got everything? Oh. Forgiveness. They don’t sell that. We’ll have to go without unless someone just hands it out, just gives us grace, clear water in a time of drought, sweet rain just pouring down. And mercy, too— I need as much of that as I can get, but for today the milk will have to do. I’ve waited long; I’ll wait for mercy yet.
Jesus said to his disciples: “The kingdom of heaven is like a treasure buried in a field, which a person finds and hides again, and out of joy goes and sells all that he has and buys that field. Again, the kingdom of heaven is like a merchant searching for fine pearls. When he finds a pearl of great price, he goes and sells all that he has and buys it.” —Matthew 13:44-52
To find a pearl and walk away again, to leave its luster to the world and then begin to strip off everything you hold— a tedious process getting it all sold— and even then to find your hands too full to grasp it, oh, but still you feel its pull: The gleam you saw but once now fills your sight though you may walk in ever deepening night, so lay down everything you still possess, your hopes, your ever growing restlessness to see that light again; lay down the fire that burns for it; lay down your heart’s desire; let go the memory of what you saw, for you are changed by now—strict nature’s law— and when you see, it will be with new eyes, new hands to hold it in a new sunrise. Let go the world that holds the treasure yet; let go your own earth—dust to dust—forget what you have known or been or done or wanted. Lose everything and yet remain undaunted in your belief the pearl will be your own, once you yourself are but the pearl’s alone. Let go the thoughts and passions that have stormed within you, and let all things be transformed beneath your shell, and find then that the world has all been changed, and all things are empearled.
The soul that’s torn against itself and torn against itself and torn against itself stands on a shelf of rock. The gate of wisdom born opens below: Abandon hope and drag your bitter self downslope.
There is no other now. Alone and meeting only with itself the heart of iron, heart of stone, of adamant, looks down at death and never lifts its eyes above, nor ever remembers aught of love.
Alas, it needs no implements, no rack to ruin heaven’s part. Our torture is that we ourselves make shards of our divided hearts but join in nothing but despair. Abandon hope, who enter there.
Mercy, O Godhead one in three: Three out of one are torn in shreds. See this unholy trinity; have mercy on our divided selves! Save us—oh, save the fractured soul. O Unity, save and make us whole!
On a Rodin sculpture, The Three Shades, made to top his sculpture of the Gates of Hell. This set of three figures has been enlarged to be a freestanding sculpture on his own, which I saw at the Oklahoma City Museum of Art. Fascinatingly, the three figures are all the same figure, turned slightly and gathered around the same point.
Tell me how many words will be enough, how many books to hold them, how many shelves to hold the books, and houses for them all. How many stories, tell me how many selves to cram into my own to understand at last what I must do, Lord, to be saved, to rise again—or better, not to fall. Tell me the words—I’ll carve them on my hand, trace them from the books I’ve hoarded, craved, onto my skin to make me whole again, to make this fractured, shattered self all whole, and purify my heart, my mind, my soul and make me worthy, as I’ve never been. Tell me the words. The only word is love.
He said in reply, “He who sows good seed is the Son of Man, the field is the world, the good seed the children of the kingdom. The weeds are the children of the evil one, and the enemy who sows them is the devil. The harvest is the end of the age, and the harvesters are angels.” —Matthew 13:24-43
The hand of heaven made the mouse: Infinite care made gnawer’s teeth, fur like a shadow in the house, to pass as swiftly as a breath along the furrows of the wheat and nibble scattered seeds to death.
Oh, but the weeds are scattered, too: Their seeds afar by wind or hand into the furrow fall as dew, feast for the mouse in midnight glut. Yet there is fear in fertile land and owls soar where the plow has cut.
Then will the talons cut like plows— silent the flyer by heaven formed! Between the rows death stalks the mouse. The Lord who gives will take away by hunt or time, by drought or storm, and mouse or owl, not one will stay.
The weeds and wheat grow side by side, and who but angels knows the seeds? They grow up tall in strength and pride ‘til God who made them both gives word. God bless the wheat and bless the weeds; God save the mouse and save the bird.
For [Assyria] says: “By my own power I have done it, and by my wisdom, for I am shrewd. I have moved the boundaries of peoples, their treasures I have pillaged, and, like a giant, I have put down the enthroned. My hand has seized like a nest the riches of nations; As one takes eggs left alone, so I took in all the earth; No one fluttered a wing, or opened a mouth, or chirped!” —Isaiah 10:13-14
The eggs hear heartbeats thunderous beneath their mother’s breast, then silence falls and plunderous a hand sneaks to the nest.
No one is there to raise a cry: The silence stretches on. The nest lies empty to the sky and all the eggs are gone.
Who will console the mother bird in torments of her grief? Will all her anguish go unheard or justice flee the thief?
Look down, O God, on empty nests; look down on thieving hands. You know the sorrow in our breasts and weeping in our lands.
Swoop like a hawk upon the snake who steals the helpless ones. Strike for the shells that early break, whose fledging never comes.
Pierce with your talons death itself and spread your guardian wings over the young ones in their shells, over all weeping things.
Kate Bluett 