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BY LEONARD FEENEY, S. J. NEW
YORK THE
MACMILLAN COMPANY 1935 Causa nostrae laetitiae, ora pro nobis. CONTENTS Stanzas For The Unastonishable Refusal To Cast The First Stone Boundaries
Over us and under Is a world of wonder: In between we blunder, Blunder in between The unseen and unseen, And on someone’s word Hear of the unheard. From our faiths and hopes In prophets and in popes, And in microscopes, Mites and sprites we know Are above, below, And vice versa so. Amoebas and archangels Send us their evangels: In between the ropes Where we stand and stare At the empty air; Seeing only sights That are lit by lights, Hearing only sounds That are kept in bounds By celestial sheriffs On their ghostly rounds In between the seraphs And the fleas on hounds. ADVICE TO VERSE-MAKERS
It is not information That causes inspiration. There are no lambs and Marys In any dictionaries; And no beanstalks and Jacks In any almanacs. Beauty’s a thing to earn More than a thing to learn. It comes from simply seeing The sharp bright point of being, Whose vein of gold is struck By labor linked with luck. And when a rapture fills The auricles and ventricles And gives the mouth through art Connection with the heart, One can assign the season, But never knows the reason. DIAGRAM
Elbows and knees are mysteries Of which I become aware, Dwindled at night to half my height And folded up in prayer. Where do they go? I do not know, When on my bed I’ve laid me; Crooked or straight may I give great Glory to God Who made me. REFLECTION ON A FLEA
Let not my little Muse Deceive you or confuse. Not in the pose of art Do I disclose my heart; Nor do I use to pray with The poems that I play with. Rhyme is my little toy To make-believe with and enjoy. Not listening in shells For the booming of beaches No tide ever swells, No ship ever reaches, Do I pretend to find Foundation for my mind. I loathe the aesthetic attitude, The literary languish, The anguish after anguish, The hunger for hunger, not for food, — The joy that is not jolly, The making tears a trade, The professional melancholy, The fear of being afraid. I hide my whole head under The sheets when I hear thunder. Things and not theories Frighten and make me freeze. And, by the way, Speaking of how to pray, Dogmas come first, not liturgies. The dilettante hand That took art seriously, That outlawed fairyland And stripped the Christmas tree, Now tries another trick And has revived Our Lord To go with the candle-stick It has so long adored. Of Faith it finds a clue In hyphenated points of view, Whose novelty is never new, And whose waste-land has got A penny watering-pot Filled up with drops of dew. A doubt is still a doubt, Even turned inside out. Truer tonight to me Is one small factual flea, Whose stinging certainty Impressed upon my nose Is not a poem, or a pose. STANZAS FOR THE UNASTONISHABLE
Their noses are assailed with smells, Their ears are beat upon by bells, They see the outward coverings And watch the surfaces of things, And relish to a slight degree The savory and unsavory, And knock their knuckles lightly on A door or two, and then are gone. Explore a clue or think it through — They find it too fatiguing to. Their yearnings all in yawnings end Who never to one fact extend The simple courtesy of wonder, That rends more reverently asunder The lips, and makes the mouth let go A less unpleasant “Ah!” and “Oh!” If Beauty be but bubble-fair, A breath of soap-surrounded air That bounces briefly like a ball And makes a moisture on a wall, Then must we leave them to their senses And save our own intelligences. Though Christ Himself be whelmed in wheat, They could not taste, so would not eat. REGINA COELI
Our single entrant in the race Of getting hailed as full of grace Outscored the angels, took the prize, And won all honors in the skies. From Revelation one infers She had no close competitors: — So Gabriel declared when he Announced the news upon his knee. No grudged encomium did he give, And spared no wild superlative Acclaiming her whose blood and breath Was native to our Nazareth. Beyond the level and the line Where stars explode and suns decline, Where moons and meteors cease to whirl, Our little globe enthroned a girl. Were there no Mary, this would be A jungle poem probably, Writ by a Zulu babbling rhymes To snakes in sultry summertimes. THE WHISTLER
Seldom the soaring rocket-light will rise Up from the flaming heart and reach the eyes. Often the song of ecstasy, half-sung, Will find no footing and fall back in the lung. But one sweet bird up-warbling from the south Will never miss the mouth. The whistler’s way is best, the school-boy’s scheme: The simple O that pipes away the steam Lightly escaping from a lonely dream. THE MOTH
The little muslin moth, Whose food is flame and cloth, Flitting in rapid flight From linen-chest to light, In its intense desire To be dissolved in fire, Many manoeuvres made Around by red lamp-shade That so enchanted me — To it I faithfully Promise appropriate praise In my verse, one of these days, As soon as I can get And put on paper down, Some nimble epithet And little noiseless noun. THE DONKEY
I saw a donkey at a fair When sounds and songs were in the air; But he no note interpreted Of what the people sang or said. Hitched by a halter to a rail He twitched his ears and twirled his tail; In every lineament and line He was completely asinine. Though I had heard in local halls Some eulogies on animals, I thought it would be utter blindness To show him any sort of kindness. It seemed to me that God had meant To make him unintelligent, And wanted us to keep our places, I in my clothes, he in his traces. And so I turned my mind to things Like banners, balls, balloons and rings, For which I had to pay my share And went on purpose to a fair. But down the midways while I went On all the pageantry intent, I stopped, and started to remember A little stable in December, Battered by wind and swathed in snow, Nearly two thousand years ago, When one poor creature like to this Saw Mary give her Child a kiss. So back I sauntered to the rail, And stared at him from head to tail, And gave his cheek a little pat, Or two, — and let it go at that. THE ROSE
Perfume and petal Are qualities That test love’s mettle With too much ease. Bramble and briar Will soon discover Who is the liar And who the lover. THE WHALE
Out in the bay arose a whale; And in a flash from surf to sight, From far-off wave to steamer-rail, A whale a millionth of its size Was matrixed in a beam of light, And wriggled nimbly through my eyes — Then plunging wildly in my brain Became enormous once again. Somewhere a whale is still in motion, Lashing an ocean in a motion; He dives through breaker, brine and billow, Locked in a skull upon my pillow. How such a wondrous whale can be Remains a mammoth mystery; But I must let him splash and spout Till deep sleep dries his image out. THE BEE
God to some Sticky stuff Not yet alive In a hive, Said, “Come! Hum! Glorify Me! Be My bee And buzz. As I bid!” And sure enough, It was! And it did! RABBIT
Rabbit’s eyes are pink, And they are, I think, Less to watch with than to wink With: they are ornamental: Sight in them is incidental. All sensation goes In through rabbit’s ears and nose. Rabbit runs around With jump and rebound, Sniffing every sound, Listening to the light Falling on the clover. Rabbit wants to be afraid: He delights in fright, And is soft all over. He is lovable and white, Unmistakably was made Out of man some tenderness to take, Just for pity’s sake. IN THE BARNYARD
On my way to the coops, On
my way from the pens, As I was going over From
the pigs to the hens, I met a small object Of
not any use, A poor little pin-feathered Baby-girl
goose, Who was on her way back From
the hens to the pigs, And was paddling in puddles And
treading on twigs, And who left me enchanted From
then till I die With the pretty gold picture She
put in my eye. SNAILS
Snails obey the Holy Will of God slowly. A RIDDLE
A shower of silver, A shower of gold: But you cannot guess why Till the riddle is told. In a yard in New Hampshire In a shower of rain, I chucked at some chickens A shower of grain. ORTHOGRAPH
In my figurative furbelow, figurative frill, I was sitting one evening, as old poets will, And unrolling a parchment and inking a quill, When a lightning-bug dropped on my window-sill. And this cheap little modern-American blighter Kept flicking the flint in his cigarette-lighter; But because by a trifle my room became brighter, I tapped him this tune on my tin typewriter. THE FEATURE FEATURE
The owl is meant to emphasize Especially the art of eyes. The elephant’s long rubber hose Insists upon the art of nose. The ostrich runs around and begs Attention for the art of legs. The art of neck belongs to the Giraffe quite unmistakably. The pretty peacock will prevail In making known the art of tail. The elk extends its chandeliers To crown the lovely art of ears. The art of mouth is obvious, Due to the hippopotamus. The art of chin is left to man, Assisted by the pelican. ADMIRING MAURA
The metaphysics of a dimple Is rather more involved than simple. But when she smiles, at seven weeks, Two pretty nothings in her cheeks Make Maura most admired where she Is Maura most reluctantly. For nature capers most with grace Through unfulfillments in her face; And one sees most to rave about By looking at what God left out. MEASURING A CRIB
Two feet long and one foot wide: But no more Maura on either side! No more Maura above, below — Maura begins at that downy hair, Maura extends to that tiny toe! No more Maura wherever you go: Round and round in the fathomy air, England or China or anywhere; No more Maura in any place Save in this limited little space! But oh, what infinite condescenscions Heaven has made to this crib’s dimensions! Satan has measured a hole in Hell; But Mother Mary is watching well, Jesus remembered the day He died, The Holy Spirit has sanctified: Two feet long and one foot wide. SONG OF INDIA
Maura
has come to the rubber age: Turned,
so to put it, a rubber page; Wants
to be rolling a rubber ball, Wants
to be squeezing a rubber doll; Floats
in her bath-tub a rubber fish: All
of her playthings are rubberish; Chews
on a red rubber teething-ring; And
when she goes out for a ride in spring, A
noiseless nurse-maid on rubber heels Perambulates
her on rubber wheels. And
lately a cut rubber cold she took, And
sneezed — God bless us! — like this: “Caoutchouc!” EXPERIMENT
All one needs to say Is, “Where’s the little kitty? . . . The one you loved so well, That wore a silver bell? . . . And did it run away? . . . Well, isn’t that a pity!” And shut will go the eyes Till memory supplies The pleasure of the purr, The rhythm of the fur, The tinkle in the ears, — The trickle of the tears. COMPUTATION
Betty tried hard to do All that God asked her to, Which, being such and such, Was not so very much, Nor would be much again, Seeing she died at ten. And of that half a score, Three years or little more Were all she really spent Being intelligent — By which I mean to say, In an authentic way. From that three take a third For sleep: upon my word, This leaves but two years out Of ten to talk about! Divide that two in half To let her play and laugh, Run errands for her mother, And mind her little brother: Then cut from that schedule Almost a year for school, — How long a period Have we got left for God? Allow this little maid, When she knelt down and prayed, Some suitable subtractions For her small mind’s distractions: — Maybe one day is all One could compose and call Strictly devotional. Peace, darling!, do not frown Looking from Heaven down At my crude computation Of your sweet soul’s salvation! One day was quite enough; Blow out your candle — puff! — That burnt so pure and bright One morning, noon and night, And gave for God’s delight Twenty-four hours’ worth Of perfect praise on Earth! HILARION
Bath-robed, slippered, collar-less, Face unshaven, feet on fender, Groggy now for good I guess, Bent in body, spent in splendor: O my poor Hilarion, Where has all your glory gone? Prim and proper in your prime, Handsome once upon a time, Rollicking, but never rude, Proud, but not a prig or prude, Somewhere in your day a dude, — Now you sit in solitude, Curled up by the kitchen fire, Dressed in dowdiest attire, Dead in dreams and in desire. Come, my gay Hilarion, Put your silken top-hat on! Do not let untidiness Desecrate your last distress. Pin another sweet-to-smell Rosebud on your coat lapel! Polish up those Sunday-best Silver buttons on your vest! Go and get your cuffs and cane; Wear your goat-skin gloves again; Make a flourish till you die With your spats and spotted tie! Stand up and unfurl your banners! Meet your death with your nicest manners! Be a dandy, live or dead; Send your calling card ahead: Let the anxious angels know They will soon behold a beau, Slick and sleek at sixty-seven, Strutting down the streets of Heaven! AFTER THE SHOWER
After the shower I went abroad: All the wells in the world were full; Lightning elapsed in the goldenrod, Thunder subsided inside the bull. Worms were soaking above the sod; Lambs regamboled and birds resang. God flung a violet boomerang, Arched the ocean from coast to cape, And, oh, it was gorgeous again to gape At Hope set up in a horse-shoe shape! PROMENADE
It is not wise to dally with despair. It should be promptly taken out to air — Follow the route from here to Railroad Square. A corner constable is there to view Gesticulating gorgeously in blue. A muscular mechanic may be seen Inflating tires or pumping gasoline. A pencil-seller will intrigue the mind To guess if he be bogus or be blind. A splendid shiner of unpolished shoes Will block your hat and fill your head with news. And when you pass her papa’s peanut-stand Where small Maria, lollipop in hand, Sticks out her sticky tongue at peevish faces, Your grudges, grumpinesses, griefs, grimaces, Will melt like butterscotch, and be beguiled By the sure, sharp, sweet satire of a child. |