St Brigid’s Prayer
I’d love to give a lake of beer to God
I’d love the Heavenly
Host to be tippling there
For all eternity.
I’d love the men of Heaven to live with me,
To dance and sing.
If they wanted, I’d put at their disposal
Vats of suffering.
White cups of love I’d give them
With a heart and a half
Sweet pitchers of mercy I’d offer
To every man.
I’d make Heaven a cheerful spot
Because the happy heart is true,
I’d make the men contented for their own sake.
I’d like Jesus to love me too.
I’d like the people of Heaven to gather
From all the parishes around.
I’d give a special welcome to the women,
The three Marys of great renown.
I’d sit with the men, the women and God
There by the lake of beer.
We’d be drinking good health forever
And every drop would be a prayer.
TRANSLATED BY BRENDAN KENNELLY
Surprise Visitor
I dreamt death came the other night
And Heaven’s gate swung wide.
An angel with a halo bright
Ushered me inside.
And there! To my astonishment
Stood folks I’d judged and labelled
As ‘quite unfit’, ‘of little worth’,
And ‘spiritually disabled’.
Indignant words rose to my lips
But never were set free,
For every face showed stunned surprise –
Not one expected me!
ANONYMOUS
Walking out of History
I’ll walk, but not in old heroic traces
And not in paths of high morality,
And not among the half-distinguished faces,
The clouded forms of long-past history.
I’ll walk where my own nature would be leading –
It vexes me to choose another guide –
where the grey flocks in ferny glens are feeding,
where the wild wind blows on the mountain side.
What have these lonely mountains worth revealing?
More glory and more grief that I can tell:
The earth that wakes one human heart to feeling
Can centre both the worlds of heaven and hell.
EMILY BRONTË, 1818–1848
Beyond the Doom
It were my soul’s desire
To imitate my King,
It were my soul’s desire
His ceaseless praise to sing.
It were my soul’s desire
When heaven’s gate is won
To find my soul’s desire
Clear shining like the sun.
Grant, Lord, my soul’s desire,
Deep waves of cleansing sighs;
Grant, Lord, my soul’s desire
From earthly cares to rise.
This still my soul’s desire
Whatever life afford –
To gain my soul’s desire
And see Thy face, O Lord.
TENTH-CENTURY POEM
The Song the Devil Sang to St Moling
Pure gold, bright sky about the sun,
A silver goblet filled with wine,
An angel wise is everyone
That still hath done God’s will divine.
A caught bird fluttering in the snare,
A leaky ship that wild winds shake,
A wineglass drained, a rotten tree –
Even such they be that God’s law break.
A breathing branch that flowers in spring,
A vessel brimmed with honey sweet,
A precious ruby beyond price –
Such he that follows Christ’s own feet.
A hollow nut that none desire,
A savour foul, a rotten wood,
A flowerless Crabtree growing wild,
Are those defiled that Christ withstood.
The man that does Christ’s heavenly will,
He is the sun that warms the year,
God’s image through his heart doth pass,
He is a glass of crystal clear.
A racehorse straining for the goal,
Heaven is the mark for which he tries;
That chariot driven by a king,
A precious thing shall be his prize.
A sun that warms all Heaven round,
God loves him more than things of price:
A noble temple and divine,
A golden shrine of sacrifice.
An altar with the wine outpoured
Where sweet choirs sing in linen stoled,
A chalice with God’s blood therein
Of findruine or precious gold.
EIGHT-CENTURY POEM
I Can’t Remember!
Just a line to say I’m living,
that I’m not among the dead,
though I’m getting more forgetful
and mixed up in the head.
I got used to my arthritis,
to my dentures I’m resigned,
I can manage my bifocals
but God I miss my mind,
For sometimes I can’t remember,
when I stand at the foot of the stairs,
if I must go up for something,
or have just come down from there.
And before the fridge so often,
my poor mind is filled with doubt,
have I just put food away,
or have I come to take some out?
And there’s the time when it is dark
with my nightcap on my head,
I don’t know if I’m retiring,
or just getting out of bed.
So if it’s my turn to write to you,
there’s no need for getting sore,
I may think that I have written
and don’t want to be a bore.
So, remember that I love you
and wish that you were near
but now it’s nearly mail time
so I must say good-bye dear,
There I stand beside the mailbox
with a face so very red,
instead of mailing you my letter,
I opened it instead!
AUTHOR UNKNOWN
Poet’s Corner
The late Michael Hartnett (1941–1999) was one of Ireland’s greatest poets. One of his passions was for the poetry of St John of the Cross (1542–1591). Michael spoke to me about this interest:
‘I am fascinated by Christianity and the figure of Christ. I constantly marvel at the fact that those who are followers of Christianity believe that even before we were born and long after we die, there is at work a provident, gracious God who has created us and loves us and wants us to share in God’s own life. This view shapes the Christian’s moral life by enabling them to live in faith, in hope and in love. Accordingly, Christianity issues us with an invitation into the heart of what it is to be human. I love the idea of the divinisation being most tellingly revealed by our humanisation.
‘Of course, as someone who has spent a lifetime studying, in various ways, words, I particularly admire the statement in the Gospel: “In the beginning was the Word and the Word was with God and the Word was with God.”
‘I love the idea of a religion that is based on love which is best summed up in the quotation from St Paul, “To live through love in God’s presence.” Every day I open the papers and I read stories about the absence of love in the world and it depresses me.
‘Love of God is expressed not only in prayer and Sunday worship, but must permeate every aspect of our lives. The Bible has no ambiguities on one issue: you cannot love God unless you love your neighbour. The Old Testament prophets were scathing in their criticism of those who sought to appease God by prayers and sacrifices while oppressing the powerless. Jesus told us that all the law and the prophets are summarised in the commandment to love God and thy neighbour. No words are minced when we are told: “Whoever claims to love God but hates his brother or sister is a liar.” All love invites love. God calls us to love.
‘I am enthralled by the compassion of God and Jesus to people. There are days when I’m very far away from this, but I’m always inspired by the image of Jesus in the Gospels. He was someone who brought the compassion of God to people, someone who didn’t judge or condemn. He was someone who was with people wherever they were, especially those who found themselves on the margins of society. That is why I really admire people like Sr. Stanislaus Kennedy because of the work she does with people who are unable to help themselves. One of the things that really interests me is the nature of goodness.’
In John’s vision, Christ is the archetype towards whom and in the likeness of whom all have been created. In Christ, the mystery of God is revealed. Paradoxically, the mystery is very simple to grasp – love. One of his most enduring legacies is a picture. He inspired Salvador Dalí to paint a picture which he entitled: Christ of St John of the Cross. The painting, which hangs in Kelvingrove Art Gallery and Museum, Glasgow, depicts Christ elevated on the cross and leaning forward in love over the world.
In the final stanza of his poem El Pastorcico (‘The Humble Shepherd’) St John of the Cross wrote:
At last he did what he alone could do:
mounting a tree, he stretched his arms out wide
and there remained in love until he died,
his heart by a deep wound of love pierced through.
A Common Misunderstanding
Michael continues:
‘One of his best-known poems is invariably always mis-named as “The Dark Night” or “The Dark Night of the Soul”. In fact, he never used either term in his poetry. However, he did write a massive commentary on this relatively short poem entitled The Dark Night of the Soul. This opus magnus gave a critique of the poem, drawing heavily on the scriptures and the teachings of the Fathers of the Church.
‘Ironically, the poem goes much closer to describing the mystical intuition, which prompted it than the lengthy exposé in the commentary. In his critique he was attempting the impossible – to explain the mystic state in prose. The commentary only provides the faintest of echoes whereas the poem offers loud echoes. The poem keeps the original inspiration intact. In marked contrast, the more assiduously he sought to explain it the more complexity it developed. It became clouded like an onion in a layer of words. In the midst of the weighty analysis, the essence was dissipated like a flower which begins to wither and loses its perfume.
‘The poem describes how the human heart made for God can become imprisoned by its own perverse desire for trying to find God in possessing things. The journey or pilgrimage of faith requires that we must liberate ourselves from the shackles of our false gods and take sanctuary in the triune God. Again there is a twofold movement – we become free with and for the hidden God.
‘In darkness, hid from sight
I went by secret ladder and sure –
– Ah, grace of sheer delight! –
so softly veiled by night,
hushed now my house, in darkness and secure.’
Oh, Happy Day
‘The poem is a happy one, a state of mind and soul where the human person has mystical union with God,’ Michael says.
‘However, before moving into the light, there is a period of total negation and darkness. Here he is close to themes in Eastern philosophy, the journey to union is a process: before attaining the zenith one must descend to the nadir. This journey of escape from what is not of God, from what is false, is a positive adventure of faith. It is also a gift of a loving God who takes the first step and waits patiently, silently, almost shyly for the human response:
‘Hidden in that glad night,
regarding nothing as I stole away,
no one to see my flight,
no other guide or light
save one that in my heart burned bright as day.
‘For John, life is a vocation, a call to seek this shy God. The value of the person is seen as inviolable only when the human person is seen as a creature of God. The personal meaning of life can only lie in religious communion with God. The mystery of God is a reality which pervades all of our creaturely life. The poem is a celebration of the love of God. Yet this love is ambiguous, a strange mixture of passionate intensity and painful discomfort, of closeness and distance. The poem is a fascinating dialectic of ignorance and enlightenment, silence and conversation:
‘Flame, white-hot and compelling,
yet tender past all telling,
reaching the secret centre of my soul!
Burn that is for healing!
Wound of delight past feeling!
Willing, you give me life for death’s distress.’