’Tis the year’s midnight, and it is the day’s,Lucy’s, who scarce seven hours herself unmasks.— John Donne, “A Nocturnal upon St. Lucy’s Day,Being the Shortest Day” Afternoons end early, in December. When the day dissolves in night, remember Lucy, who took on the night, embodied . . . . Continue Reading »
Mary’s long white armslift the baby high above her head.He is seated in her palms, a pose precarious—his head droops, an eerie portent of the cross. Through the open doorway shepherds mosey closer with their crooks. The mule slobbers grain from the trough. Blue shadows ring Joseph’s eyes. . . . . Continue Reading »
One more dead party, and, off to the sideAmong the knick-knacks and the curios,In a blue blazer you assume the poseOf one whose patterned noose is loosely tied,Of one belonging here, one clearly meantFor artificial lights and merriment. The revelers, snug in their ugly sweaters, Swill booze and . . . . Continue Reading »
An arching bridge that spans a crystal streamAttracts attention. People tend to pause,To gaze beneath the surface and to dreamTheir silent dreams: a knight without a cause;A painter who has put away her brush;An old philosopher. The waters rushUnceasingly across the sun-flecked bedOf sunken leaves, . . . . Continue Reading »
August is the silent time.Caroline Dormon, Bird Talk (1969) It happens every year almost the same And always late in August when we pause Just long enough to see what time has done,Sly changes nearly imperceptible Moment to moment holding us at lastWhile molting birds gone quiet watch the . . . . Continue Reading »
Mark Edmundson joins the podcast to discuss his recent book, Song of Ourselves: Walt Whitman and the Fight for Democracy. Continue Reading »
I read R. R. Reno’s charitable words on Karl Barth with great interest (“Karl Barth,” May) and would like to offer my own remarks as a supplement. At the Protestant Theologicum in Tübingen (1974–5), I spent a year sharing an office with Reno’s mentor, Ronald Thiemann. Ron’s background . . . . Continue Reading »
Imagination is a monarchy;They cannot rule where they cannot decree.Just think of Solzhenitzyn underground,His manuscripts in danger, not his mind.Trust not in princes is for poets too;To order what’s within is up to you.They’ll never rule where they cannot decree—Imagination is a . . . . Continue Reading »
Some say it like a charmin the face of words heavy as stone,or a riddle of subtle pebbles thrown,each sticking point like a firearm.As if the saying would erase the harm.Raging fire or cold as ice, we’ve knowntoo well where words can send us.Words can cut us to the boneand even end us. . . . . Continue Reading »
Between Christ’s first and second advents, the truths of redemption are always now. Continue Reading »
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