The Oracles of St-Etienne

Christe, eleison, Christe, eleison,
Eleison, eleison

All creatures have roots,
Bird and beast, stock and stone,
All living things have roots

You have heard the names
In passing,
Whispered through the tall grass,
Whispered through human lips,
Whispered through lips to ears

Lonesome and loving,
With pain in the chest,
Heard the names
In passing

Be kind to each other, babies,
Be kind—little children,
Love one another,
We are all the people we have
And we must make each other last

You may have felt the pinch of fingers,
But be unafraid: all hands are not
Raised in anger
Behold the mender,
Made unmade

Kyrie, eleison
Eleison, eleison

Kyrie, eleison, eleison
Kyrie

The Oracles of Fitzgibbon

You have lingered
overlong in this
abstracted air
portrait of a man in freefall

Linger, linger
little finger

Spoon and knife
croon to wife
shatter, clatter
pitter-patter

The tides ran their fingers
through your tangled hair
lady of the deep
gravity in silver light

Stronger, stronger
rumormonger

Plate and chain and iron bands
hungry men have teeth and hands

Rubber hissing on the street
abrasive to my infant sleep

Harm, charm
car alarm

Goodnight, my dear,
I love to hear
Your voice at night
By firelight


Behold the pride
of the edifice
at the moment of collapse

.
.
.
.

Enumerate

One God, eternal, one book, one church,
One lord: one kingdom given on the earth,
One Word, under two testaments,
One church, given two (or seven) sacraments
(Whether effectual or semiotic,
Ask Johnny first, then Huldrych),
In the Godhead, three persons,
At the watershed (which worsens
Or betters, as you see fit,
The church—we could argue for a bit)
Three loud dissenting voices
Making relatively low-churchly choices,
Three days complete the ministry,
Three persons amounting to a mystery,
Four gospels revealing our salvation,
Five cries to summarize the revelation,
Six centuries (and a bit) between dear Constantine
And the cataclysm they call the East-West Schism,
Eight days before the covenantal sign
(Male children only submit to it—
Girls in this are fortunate),
And the fruit of the Spirit numbers nine.
For all seasons, God gives a time—
Even (perhaps) for a foolish rhyme.

The Holy Year

Less love? Less love! Less love
cannot be the answer, mon Jean
de la Croix (not to say mein
kleiner Johann Kreuzens), never
less but more and more: love
transfigured, love restored,
regenerating caritas, some
vivified amor. Less love! you say!

Where grace is not can be no nature:
he is in all places,
he is at all times,
now in wrath
and now in mercy,
never in dilution
or diminution,
and always in grace, for

where grace is not can be no nature.
Cruciform earth, shaped in love,
that sea-green sphere of fire,
poised in air without
foundation. Wo und wer
ist sicher Grund? Der HERR.
Where grace is not can be no nature.

In Vita Veritas

I. I believe in the power of
talking bullshit, in the
surge of small words in a
small circle, in a puff of
smoke and the smell of beer.
I want to be reminded of
the petty and the stupid, so
long as we can laugh. Give
me the sacrament of armchairs,
the liturgy of liquor and friends.

II. The flame of Horeb is all-
consuming, begun without
kindling- it cannot die.
Remind me (God! I will
forget) that pity is for
others, anger for myself.

III. Pity good men because they
suffer. Pity bad men because
they are yours, your
bones, your blood, your
brothers. Pity: I have little
else, and nothing so sweet to give.

Bones Like Wax

On the sidewalk and I cannot
breathe in this melody. It tears
me to bits. Feet like drums.
Lungs like razors. The
palm is a liar's tree- why,
then, do I hate it so?

Expand, they tell you, enlarge!
Dream of empire, swing from the
heels! Craven hearts, lacking the
courage of collapse, disdaining
the bravery of cowards. To be well
is hard enough. Banality is beyond us.

Was I true? I was never true.
I am only pretending to be a
person. The savage claws and
bites himself- I have only
words. I have no words at
all. Bloody eyes and bleary
hands, I wake to greet the sun.

And Sarah Shall Have a Son

You came twisting into sight
like a world in miniature—
dark and warm and smelling
of some distant sea. Howl,
howl, distempered heart! Howl
to God and hail to God
in violent Christophany.

Teach your servant to repent—
he knows not how—teach
him to be contrite. Teach
him how to live, broken-hearted,
rejoicing, in lenten jubilee.
Behind all acts, the actor, thou—
teach your servant to repent.
He knows not why, nor how.

You drifted out, away from
sight—giddy grieving garishly—
a room writ large, a wayward
cosmonaut. You are the ghost
that haunts the dawn. You are
the stillness of the clock
in the violence of Christophany.