Mary Oliver: from her poem “Praying”.

It doesn’t have to be

the blue iris, it could be

weeds in a vacant lot, or a few

small stones; just pay attention, then patch

a few words together and don’t try

to make them elaborate, this isn’t

a contest but the doorway

into thanks, and a silence in which

another voice may speak.

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John V. Taylor: Poem…“Over the swinging parapet…”

Over the swinging parapet of my arm
your sentinel eyes lean gazing. Hugely alert
on the pale unfinished clay of your infant face,
they drink light from this candle on the tree.
Drinking, not pondering, each bright thing you see,
you make it yours without analysis
and, stopping down the aperture of thought
to a fine pinhole, you are filled with flame.

Give me for Christmas, then, your kind of seeing,
not studying candles – angel, manger, star – but staring as at a portrait, God’s I guess,
that shocks and holds the eye, till all my being,
gathered, intent and still, now you are ,
breathes out it’s wonder in a wordless yes.

– John V Taylor

Not sure of the actual title.

Ann Lewin, poem on prayer

Prayer is like watching for the

Kingfisher. All you can do is

Be there where he is likely to appear, and

Wait.

Often, nothing much happens;

There is space, silence, and expectancy.

No visible sign, only the

Knowledge that he’s been there,

And may come again.

Seeing or not seeing cease to matter,

You have been prepared.

But sometimes, when you’ve almost

Stopped expecting it,

A flash of brightness

Gives encouragement.

– Ann Lewin, “Candles and Kingfishers”, quoted in Lost In Wonder , Esther de Waal, without title.

“No need to wonder…” – Ruth Bidgood

No need to wonder what heron-haunted lake

lay in the other valley,

or regret the songs in the forest

I chose not to traverse.

No need to ask where other roads might have led,

since they led elsewhere;

for nowhere but this here and now

is my true destination.

The river is gentle in the soft evening,

and all the steps of my life have brought me home.

–   Ruth Bidgood  (as quoted in “Lost In Wonder: Rediscovering the Spiritual Art of Attentiveness”, by Esther De Waal.   Please let me know if this is not accurate.)

Thomas Merton: “The Trappist Abbey: Matins”

When the full fields begin to smell of sunrise
And the valleys sing in their sleep,
The pilgrim moon pours over the solemn darkness
Her waterfalls of silence,
And then departs, up the long avenue of trees.
The stars hide, in the glade, their light, like tears,
And tremble where some train runs, lost,
Baying in eastward mysteries of distance,
Where fire flares, somewhere, over a sink of cities.
Now kindle in the windows of this ladyhouse, my soul,
Your childish, clear awakeness:
Burn in the country night
Your wise and sleepless lamp.
For, from the frowning tower, the windy belfry,
Sudden the bells come, bridegrooms,
And fill the echoing dark with love and fear.
Wake in the windows of Gethsemani, my soul, my sister,
for the past years, with smoky torches, come,
Bringing betrayal from the burning world
And bloodying the glade with pitch flame.
Wake in the cloisters of the lonely night, my soul, my sister,
Where the apostles gather, who were, one time, scattered,
And mourn God’s blood in the place of His betrayal,
And weep with Peter at the triple cock-crow.

from Thirty Poems, 1944

“God’s Grandeur” (Gerard Manley Hopkins)

God’s Grandeur

The world is charged with the grandeur of God.
It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;
It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
And wears man’s smudge and shares man’s smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.

And for all this, nature is never spent;
There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
And though the last lights off the black West went
Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs—
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.