The late Australian poet Les Murray shared with Aquinas, another fat genius, a devotion to the Unmoved Mover and dedicated each of his thirty books to the greater glory of God. He was not a voice crying out in the wilderness. He was a poet sweating out in the bush. Continue Reading »
The kingdom of heaven is likea hummingbird nest, the luckiestcup of air to hold a breastof solitude, but no, not luck but the bitter work of a long beak.Not work, but a thousand grassesof kisses. This is time collapsedto an empty watch after a week building, sewn and lined with down,and feathers, a . . . . Continue Reading »
The snow this morning falls on brook and rushIn great flakes wending slantwise without purpose,The sky above a wakening tent of grey.So does my daughter wake, and say she’s sad.For, sorrow sometimes strikes us with its bolt,But mostly is a kind of atmosphere.It doesn’t enter us. We enter it,And . . . . Continue Reading »
If in due course you happen to pick up and read any of these titles, I’d love to hear back from you. Happy reading. Continue Reading »
Algis Valiunas joins the podcast to discuss the brilliant and short life of Giacomo Leopardi, a poet still widely ignored in English-speaking circles. Continue Reading »
This year, France’s presidential election is being fought almost entirely on the terrain of national identity. Not on the question of who is best suited to govern France, but on the question of what France even is to begin with. So much public discourse circles on the same questions: Are we . . . . Continue Reading »
Now is the timeto be still and listen,This is the beginning,Help us to hear,Rooted and rising,The sound of the sea,A whisper, a murmur,Help us to beFluid and flowing,The womb of creation,Rising in water,Rooted in earth,The Sacred is risingIn time to give birth,Mother and daughterSister and . . . . Continue Reading »
When a man proclaims nature malignant in all its parts and professes to hate life itself, one’s first suspicion is that something is profoundly wrong with him. The man’s grievance against creation must be the effect of some personal deficiency in body or soul or both, rather than a sound . . . . Continue Reading »
Finches at all my feeders flash and bickerin ritual consternation and all weather,jangle at me with never-ending want,need me compliant but omnipotent.Within the nearby pine, push comes to shoveas the shrill chorus nags me, makes me leavethe cool deck and my chair and drink and bookto fetch seed . . . . Continue Reading »
I. Nourishment O Vitality!true blush and bloomof those who’ve diedbut live nowin Heaven, to you, Aliment of the enfeebled,who sustain uswith that lasting Sweetness—honey of your own fleshthat soaks, cell by cell,our hunger— thanks. Because you who are Foodlet yourself be fed:you . . . . Continue Reading »
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