Fencing Bear at Prayer

A badger's challenge Work within gentle limits Poetry for bears.

Here I am, raw.  Voiceless.  Naked before the world. And yet, not voiceless, but ever so practiced in making meaning with words. You listen, but you do not hear me.  I hear, but I do not listen. Look!  The world is born anew, I can see it now. But I am afraid, ever so afraid.  That you will judge me. That I will misjudge you. I have been locked away inside of myself for so long, I'm not sure I can hear clearly anymore.  That look, I know what it means. And yet, I don't.  I can't tell whether you like me or not. Perhaps you do, and it is I, not you, creating the barrier between us.  But I am afraid, because you have judged me before, I know. Or maybe I don't.  Did you say what I thought you said?  Did I listen?

"Hail, virgin, mother of Christ, you who by your purity merited to be called phoenix of virgins; hail, virgin, whose fruit gave to us the end of sorrow and the limit of lamentation. Hail, beautiful virgin, for whose praise neither rhythm nor meter suffices; hail, virgin, turning-post of evil, vein of life, through whom the theta of foul death is accomplished. Hail, glorious virgin, you who are the comment and gloss of prophetic scripture, whose gloss makes bare that which is veiled by the hard shell of the letter. Hail, virgin, key of heaven, hail, new ship weighed down with novel wares, through whom on full sails is brought the full light from heaven to the blind and wandering. Hail, maidenly gem, hail, bright star of the sea, hail, satchel of the divine will, hail, torch and lantern whom the supernal light sets light, firebrand of eternal light. Hail, virgin, whose womb diligently sealed swelled with a new growth; without pain and torment the splendor and figure of the Father wi...

Once I wrote a song of Mary Six in feet, its truth contrary. Now verse I draw from quiver rude; O grace, let me a poet prove. In praise I sharpen blunted pen To cry the Virgin's praise again. But, oh, that words would harmonize In style with that which I do prize. Vile, brief and rude though writing be, In praise of you, it's oratory. And all the writer bums become Like tongues of angels, cherubim. If all the world turned into quills And atoms scribes, for all their skills This host could not her praise reveal Nor even match the Virgin's heel. As many scribes as there are leaves, Rocks, pebbles, groves or dripping seas Could not the Virgin worthily Describe in all eternity. If scribes were numbered with the stars That twinkle in the face of Mars Or drops of rain that on earth fall, The matter's weight would crush them all. To praise, therefore, love urges me The Virgin in her majesty; And mildly she calls me to stand, The offered reed to take in hand. But I that pen acc...

"As with a Zen koan, one cannot understand a paradox, but one can apprehend it. Throughout the centuries, mystics of all faiths, including Christian gnostics,* Islamic sufis, and Jewish kabbalists, have delved into the paradoxical to reach beyond literal meaning to its underlying mystery, in the hope of at least a brief moment of epiphany. Using techniques such as allegorical interpretation, deep meditation, and even ecstatic dance, they aim at breaking down the dualistic intellect--or rather, leaping beyond it--to approach the ineffable. The paradoxical [as, for example, the Virgin Birth--FB] becomes not just a conundrum, but an essential tool to revelation. "In fact you could argue that a real religious sense cannot exist without paradox. Divinity must be paradoxical, or it loses its power to hold the imagination. Pascal maintained that the only lasting religion is one that goes 'against nature, and against proofs.' For what is the grandeur of the divine if it ...

To the tune of Te Deum . Te Matrem laudamus, te Virginem confitemur. We praise thee, O Mother; we confess thee Virgin. Te aeterni Patris, stella maris, splendor illuminat. The splendor of the eternal Father illuminates thee, star of the sea. Tibi omnes Angeli, tibi Caeli et universae Potestates; To thee all Angels cry aloud, the Heavens and all the Powers therein; Tibi Cherubim et Seraphim, humili nobiscum voce proclament; To thee Cherubim and Seraphim, in humble voice cry aloud with us. Virgo, virgo, virgo virginum sine exemplo! Virgin, virgin, virgin of virgins without exemplar! Ante partum et in partu, atque post partum. Before giving birth, in giving birth and after giving birth. Te gloriosam Apostoli praedicant. The Apostles preach you glorious. Te prophetarum, Virgo, canunt lineae. The lines of prophets sing your praise, Virgin. Te Martires sui Domini matrem esse testantur. The Martyrs bear witness that you are the mother of their Lord. Te per orbem terrarum, sancta confitetur Ec...

On why content matters and why I am not writing a book about prayer as a "human" phenomenon, but rather as a culturally specific art. Lewis is talking here about the problem of reading Milton: "How are these gulfs between the ages to be dealt with by the student of poetry? A method often recommended may be called the method of The Unchanging Human Heart. According to this method the things which separate one age from another are superficial. Just as, if we stripped the armour off a medieval knight or the lace off a Caroline courtier, we should find beneath them an anatomy identical with our own, so, it is held, if we strip off from Virgil his Roman imperialism, from Sidney his code of honour, from Lucretius his Epicurean philosophy, and from all who have it their religion [my emphasis--FB], we shall find the Unchanging Human Heart, and on this we are to concentrate. "I held this theory myself for many years [me, too--FB], but I have now abandoned it. I contin...

[Revised from original post] I'm not sure what this meter is. It's supposed to be iambic pentameters, but I'm struggling with hearing the beat: da-dum. Maybe it's dactyls. Poetry is hard! You all know the story, how Descartes read In Harvey of Caius that the heart pumps blood And came to insist that that's all it does. For ages now, we've believed this about Our hearts, that they were just muscular pumps, Nothing to do with our feelings or souls. Now it turns out that patients with transplants Tend to begin to resemble their donors Harboring hopes, thoughts, memories and fears Not their own, almost as if the hearts told Them their secrets just by pumping their blood. Da-dum, da-dum, da-dum, da-dum, da-dum. Perhaps, after all, all those pictures of Christ, baring his heart for love of the world Are more than just metaphors. What if the Heart really is the seat of the soul that Bleeds when we grieve for our loved ones and Clots when we cut ourselves off from t...

Another exercise in iambic pentameters: Da-dum, da-dum, da-dum, da-dum, da-dum. My father used to say that cutting hearts Was not an intellectual endeavor. You'd think to hear him it was easy, standing Wrist deep in another's blood, holding life In his hands; nowhere near as difficult As designing engines for his hot rod. But then cars are just machines, instruments Of our own making. Little wonder that The laws of thermodynamics must apply. With hearts, there's nothing we can do but pray That if we break them somehow they will heal.

Is it worth it? Is it worth it, Feeling like this Night after night, Just when you think You’re improving To be back, stuck, Unable to See what to do, Unable to Step at the right Time, blind, inept, An idiot Holding a foil? Not my best night. (Although it's interesting how writing bad poetry about it makes me feel a little bit better.)

An exercise in syllabic verse, count 7-5-7-5. All my life I've loved the rain. Water on hot rocks Smells like heaven to me, a Child of the desert. Storm clouds over the mountains Dark with promises. Today I will stay inside And listen to God.

What do you write about when you want to write but don't have anything very definite to say? I did my poetry exercise for the evening, but only came up with one decent line, a dactylic pentameter ending in a spondee: Sud denly one day in spring time the cows appeared in Grant Park . After which should come something about how cool it was returning to Chicago after a year down south at the Research Triangle to find statues of cows populating all of the sidewalks downtown. But nope, nothing. It's because I'm thinking too hard, of course. Nothing puts off the Muse better than wanting her to show up. It's not unlike what happens in fencing when you're trying to force the action: the harder you try, the more you get hit. And yet, last night one of my friends had me do a drill in which I would only score if I made the touch without any blade contact. The point of the drill was to force me to stop always trying to take the blade first, but how then was I supposed ...

An exercise in recognizing how good it is to be alive. In iambic tetrameter and trimeter. To the tune of "Sweet Spirits Do Surround Us Now." Sort of. My family's home, the fridge is full; No dishes in the sink. Our flat is warm, the laundry's done; There's time to sit and think. There may be more to say, but I can't think of it right now without getting somewhat sappy. At least, that's what my husband said about the next stanza that I wrote last night so I think I'll keep working on this one. Meanwhile, a little something for all those of you waiting for the next episode of Battlestar Galactica this Friday, again in iambic tetrameter and trimeter: A Cylon's not like you or me, Their spines glow in the dark. But get them on theology, And watch their conscience spark. And in trochaic tetrameter: Happy Cylons are a mystery, What they know and why they care. Number Six loves Doctor Gaius Hoping he will not despair. I have more in my notebook, but...

An exercise in iambic tetrameter (I hope; I'm still working on hearing the accents properly). Why is it when you have an inkling To write a poem or a book As soon as you put pen to paper All your ideas turn to muck? I have an image of myself now, A caterpillar, hugely fed, So full of facts that there is nothing For me to do but go to bed. I've feasted on the living history Of men and women centuries gone, Stuffed myself with facts and figures, Manuscripts, their prayers and songs. "What now," you say, "you're surely ready To start on chapters of your book." "But," I answer, "no, not really, I'm all a mess, just take a look. "There's nothing here that counts as writing, Outlines, yes, but where to start? With us, with them, or in the middle? With prayer, with Mary, or with art?" Someday soon I'll have to answer, Tremble though at first I may. Cocoons are nice, but flying's better, If only I could find the way.

Prose explains itself. Poetry bemuses, Manifest in its pentameters yet Veiled in its significance, like a pearl Hidden in an oyster, mystic, divine. I read an article this afternoon* About the death of inspiration, how Poets no longer look to heaven but Only within, their wounded souls the source Of all their musings. Once upon a time They prayed to God, opening their minds, shell-like, To the stars, as oysters awaiting the dew. Now, however, we no longer believe In dew-dropped pearls, wedding heaven and earth At their confection. Pearls, we say, are like Scabs, the oyster's self-protection against Invasion, excretions of nacreous Goo, hardly the stuff of poetry. Alas, Cold hard facts win. The spiritual sense Dies like shrimp in the oyster's briny maw, Enveloped by the hard coating of science, And poetry with it. Sing, Muse, of heaven's Kingdom--but the pearl-strewn path is gone, swept Away not so much by knowledge as by Poetry's dependence...

Diagnosis: flu. I hate being sick. Every muscle aches, nerve-endings stretched taut, A mask of pain across my cheeks, my throat On fire with pins. This sucks. What happened to My holiday? I had plans, things to do, Places to go, books to read, friends to see. Instead I'm stuck, here on the couch, dream-ridden, Lethargic, my sinuses an aching mass Of snot. Do you wonder that I'm pissed off? At least this year it's just the flu. Last year I wrecked our car on the ice. Some luck, eh? Still working on those iambic pentameters.

A prayer for camp, day three, product of a sleepless night, excess adrenaline and twitching muscles. Yet another exercise in iambic pentameters. Our goal: a conversation of the blades, A thing of beauty, work of art, a test Of skill and cunning, wrought in steel, a joy. You take my blade, I parry yours, blades clash. We stop, we fall out of step, tips up, points Off target. Watch the distance, do not rush. I waver. How to sneak past your attack? Must mine be pretty or just get the touch? Anger now, so ugly, nothing beautiful In this. Why won't you do the action right? It's your fault, not mine, we can't converse as well As such an ancient art deserves. Watch me; I'll show you how it's done. Hold your blade like this . How dare you baffle me with your mistakes? And yet I know to blame myself. Why can't I transform our stumbling into something Worth the name of fencing? This is just a mess Of foils. Must get back to basics. Breathe. Point On target. Br...

Yet another exercise in iambic pentameter, after a long soak in epsom salts. Advance, advance, retreat, retreat, advance. If only I could somehow learn the rhythm, Then maybe I could one day learn this art. How many years of practice will it take Before my verse takes flight into the skies? But I, you say, belong upon the ground, Not soaring through the air like Peter Pan. Something more age-appropriate becomes A woman of my stature; not this, not Verse : clumsy, inelegant, a-wandering From one thought to another. Point on target. Should I not try e'en though I'm past the age For whimsy? Teen-agers alone may be Forgiven dreaming; adults like me should Know their place. I don't, too bad! I'm here, trying Despite my years. I promise, tomorrow's Poem will be better. Just give me time. Retreat, advance, advance, retreat, attack!

An exercise in iambic pentameter. It's just not fair; I want to learn to fence. But here we are: one coach, eight kids and me. Am I a fool to try to do this now? My hair all white, my legs too stiff to move. My heart says yes, I need to learn this skill. But oh the pain to lose to someone new. Too old to win, too young to quit, that's me. If I quit now how will I ever know Was it too much to ask myself to dream?