SUIT OF STONE

I visited the graveyard

filled with stones of every

size and shape.

I felt I was in a clothing store,

wondering what suit of stone

would suit me well.

It was then, and only then, that

I realized it’s the numbers

that had the grab and the look.

How many days, how many years

do I get to play on planet earth,

before they bury me deep down below?

© Andy Costello, Reflections 2019

September  12, 2019 

Thought  for  today: 

“Father:  the  quietist member of the family unit.” 

Anonymous

COUNTRY  MUSIC  

AND  POETRY

Make sure you schedule into your schedule Ken Burns’ next documentary. It’s on Country Music.

It begins on September 15, 2019.

It will be 8 sessions - taking 16 and ½ hours.

I don’t know about you, but I like songs that I can hear the words.

I’ve been on many high school retreats - during which they played high school kids music.  Not my world. Not my words.

I can’t sing - but I do love poetry - so songs that allow me to hear the words - hear a story - get a message - are my world.

So check out Ken Burns’ documentary on Country Music and hear him get into memories and stories - the stuff of life - like his documentaries on the Civil War, Baseball, Jazz, The National Parks, etc.

Country Music tells us so much - especially through music.  If you don’t believe me check out the documentary on this particular blog piece on the musical trio: Dolly, Linda and Emmylou.

It's poetry and sound in motion!

FOUR   POETS 
FOUR  POEMS 

Since I mention 4 poets in my next piece, "Poet and Priest" - I thought I'd present 4 poems - poems from Mary Oliver, Denise Levertov, Dereck Walcott and Seamus Heaney.

WILD GEESE

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting -
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

by  Mary Oliver

THE SECRET

 Two girls discover

 the secret of life

 in a sudden line of

 poetry.

 I who don’t know the

 secret wrote

 the line.  They

 told me

 (through a third person)

 they had found it

 but not what it was

 not even

 what line it was.  No doubt

 by now, more than a week

 later, they have forgotten

 the secret,

 the line, the name of

 the poem.  I love them

 for finding what

 I can’t find,

 and for loving me

 for the line I wrote,

 and for forgetting it

 so that

 a thousand times, till death

 finds them, they may

 discover it again, in other

 lines

 in other

 happenings.  And for

 wanting to know it,

 for

 assuming there is

 such a secret, yes,

 for that

 most of all.

from “O Taste and See” (1967)
by Denise Levertov

THE FIST

The fist clenched round my heart

loosens a little, and I gasp

brightness; but it tightens

again. When have I ever not loved

the pain of love? But this has moved

past love to mania. This has the strong

clench of the madman, this is

gripping the ledge of unreason, before

plunging howling into the abyss.

Hold hard then, heart. This way at least you live.

by Dereck Walcott 

DIGGING

Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests; as snug as a gun.

Under my window a clean rasping sound
When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:
My father, digging. I look down

Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds
Bends low, comes up twenty years away
Stooping in rhythm through potato drills
Where he was digging.

The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft
Against the inside knee was levered firmly.
He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
To scatter new potatoes that we picked
Loving their cool hardness in our hands.

By God, the old man could handle a spade,
Just like his old man.

My grandfather could cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner's bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, going down and down
For the good turf. Digging.

The cold smell of potato mold, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I've no spade to follow men like them.

Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I'll dig with it.

By Seamus Heaney

POET  AND  PRIEST 

I am a poet. 

There I said it.
Dare I say it? 

I became a priest June 20, 1965

when Cardinal Spellman put his

hands on my head and said the words.

When can poets say that they are poets?

I’ve listened and read the poems of

Mary Oliver and Seamus Heaney  -

Dereck Walcott  and Denise  Levertov.

Am I being a bishop declaring them poets?

Or does a poet ordain herself or himself

a poet - by holding a book of poems -

in the air saying, “This is my body.

This is my blood - which I pouring out to you?”

These are my words made flesh,

my Listenings and my Cries …. But Silent.

© Andy Costello, Reflections 2019

Listenings is my first book of poems - 1980;

Cries … But Silent is my second book, 1981.

Both are out of print, but I’ve written

thousands of poems, most unpublished.

September  11, 2019 - Thought for today: 

“The moment to spend with a husband who loves me, or a sick friend, or a delicious new grandchild is here and now. Not some time later .... The nation learned this lesson all at once that horrible day in September 2001. The pictures stay with us -- the fires and falling debris, and, most hauntingly, the faces. Look how young so many of them were, people who thought there would be much more time, a lot of 'later' when they could do all the things they really wanted to do. I grieve for their families -- especially for those, like me, who haven't found any trace of the people they loved. But I grieve even more for the people who died that day. They couldn't know what we know now about the precious gift of time.” 

Cokie Roberts -  contributing 

senior news analyst for NPR News

WE  ALL  DON’T   SEE  ALIKE

INTRODUCTION

The title of my homily for this 23 Wednesday in Ordinary Time is, “We All Don’t See Alike.”

It’s a possible theme from today’s readings.

It’s an obvious message from today’s readings: we all don’t see alike.

We get frustrated when we forget this.  We think everyone is seeing what we’re seeing and the way we are seeing.  Nope.  We see differently.

We get better communication with each other when we accept this obvious human reality. We listen to each other better. We ask, “Well, how do you see this situation?”

FIRST READING

Paul is telling us in today’s first reading from Colossians 3: 1-11  that some people look at those in the crowd and they see Greeks, Jews, circumcised, uncircumcised, barbarians, Scythians, slaves and those who are free.

Then Paul says you don’t have to see that way. We can see Christ and he is all and in all of us.

GOSPEL

In today’s gospel from Luke 6: 20-26 we hear Luke  telling his listeners this:  what looks like poverty, hunger, weeping, and hatred could be a blessing if we see differently.

Take riches vs poverty.  The person who sees themselves rich with brains, smartness, better than others, might not bother to ask others their input or ideas.  Why? Well, they already  have the answer.

MESSAGE

So my message is obvious common sense:  we all don’t see alike. We all see differently.

Bring 10 kids together.  Give each kid a big piece of paper and a box of crayons. Then put a watermelon or a cat or a dog in the center of a room and tell the kids to draw what they see.

We’ll get 10 different pictures.

I just finished 17 years in a parish in Annapolis, Maryland - and every year there were 3 retreats for our high school kids.  In a talk on creativity, the speaker, a high school kid, would show a picture and kids were told to look at it and then draw it - or write a poem or a story about it - and the results                  were big time different - every time.

We all see differently.

TEDDY MEEHAN

We had an old priest as a history  teacher in the seminary. In a given 1 hour class,  he would ask  over and over  the question: “Do you see?”  The record was 263 times in one class.

I think every person is saying, “Do you see what I see?”

I hope every person asks the other: “How do you see what’s right in front of us?”

I think that is what Jesus says out loud to us 100 times per day: “Do you see what you’re seeing?”

I think Jesus is asking, “Do you see what I’m seeing?”

CONCLUSION

Communion: does not just take place  at Mass.