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| Detail of stained glass window depicting St. Patrick. St. Benin's Church, Kilbennan, County Galway, Ireland |
�The Rose does not preen herself to catch my eye.
She blooms because she blooms.
A saint is a saint until he knows he is one.�
She blooms because she blooms.
A saint is a saint until he knows he is one.�
�We need saints without cassocks, without veils - we need saints with jeans and tennis shoes. We need saints that go to the movies that listen to music, that hang out with their friends (...) We need saints that drink Coca-Cola, that eat hot dogs, that surf the internet and that listen to their iPods. We need saints that love the Eucharist, that are not afraid or embarrassed to eat a pizza or drink a beer with their friends. We need saints who love the movies, dance, sports, theatre. We need saints that are open, sociable, normal, happy companions. We need saints who are in this world and who know how to enjoy the best in this world without being callous or mundane.
Midweek Motif ~ Saint
Saintliness
In the USA, Ireland and many other countries, tomorrow is St. Patrick's Day, which, oddly enough, is celebrated by drinking beer. Wikipedia records that this practice occurs because the restrictions of Lent, a Christian pre-Easter period of becoming closer to God, are suspended for the day.
Saintliness can have a religious definition and/or a metaphorical one. If you say "He's a saint" or "They're not saints" you are talking about extreme goodness.
Saintliness can have a religious definition and/or a metaphorical one. If you say "He's a saint" or "They're not saints" you are talking about extreme goodness.
Perhaps you celebrate this day, have stories of Saints and miracles, or know a saintly person?
Your Challenge:
In a new poem, celebrate a Saint or a saint who is meaningful to you.
In a new poem, celebrate a Saint or a saint who is meaningful to you.
BY FRANK DELANEY
"Hail glorious Saint Patrick dear saint of our isle
On us thy poor children look down with a smile �"
But I'm not singing hymns and I'm not saying prayers
No, I'm gritting my teeth as I walk down the stairs
And into the street with these louts fiercely drinking
And screeching and lurching, and here's what I'm thinking �
They're using a stereotype, a narrow example,
A fraction, not even a marketing sample
To imitate Ireland, from which they don't come!
So unless that's just stupid, unless it's plain dumb,
All these kids from New Jersey and the five boroughs
And hundreds of cities, all drowning their sorrows,
With bottles and glasses and heads getting broken
(Believe me, just ask the mayor of Hoboken)
All that mindlessness, shouting and getting plain stocious �
That isn't Irish, that's simply atrocious.
I've another word too for it, this one's more stinging
I call it "racism." See, just 'cause you're singing
Some drunken old ballad on Saint Patrick's Day
Does that make you Irish? Oh, no � no way.
Nor does a tee-shirt that asks you to kiss them �
If they never come back I surely won't miss them
Or their beer cans and badges and wild maudlin bawling
And hammered and out of it, bodies all sprawling.
On us thy poor children look down with a smile �"
But I'm not singing hymns and I'm not saying prayers
No, I'm gritting my teeth as I walk down the stairs
And into the street with these louts fiercely drinking
And screeching and lurching, and here's what I'm thinking �
They're using a stereotype, a narrow example,
A fraction, not even a marketing sample
To imitate Ireland, from which they don't come!
So unless that's just stupid, unless it's plain dumb,
All these kids from New Jersey and the five boroughs
And hundreds of cities, all drowning their sorrows,
With bottles and glasses and heads getting broken
(Believe me, just ask the mayor of Hoboken)
All that mindlessness, shouting and getting plain stocious �
That isn't Irish, that's simply atrocious.
I've another word too for it, this one's more stinging
I call it "racism." See, just 'cause you're singing
Some drunken old ballad on Saint Patrick's Day
Does that make you Irish? Oh, no � no way.
Nor does a tee-shirt that asks you to kiss them �
If they never come back I surely won't miss them
Or their beer cans and badges and wild maudlin bawling
And hammered and out of it, bodies all sprawling.
They're not of Joyce or of Yeats, Wilde, or Shaw.
How many Nobel Laureates does Dublin have? Four!
Think of this as you wince through Saint Patrick's guano �
Not every Italian is Tony Soprano.
How many Nobel Laureates does Dublin have? Four!
Think of this as you wince through Saint Patrick's guano �
Not every Italian is Tony Soprano.
(from NPR: A St. Patrick's Poem On Shamrocks And Stereotypes, March 17, 2012.)
When no one else would listen, Saint Anthony
preached seaward, his words fishnet for the lost
souls of the heretics. Caught up in despair, we plea
to the one who will listen: Saint Anthony,
please return T?a�s teeth or the misplaced key
to our bolted hopes. Patron retriever of all we�ve tossed
when no one else would. Listen, Saint Anthony,
teach us to steward this world, all our netted loss
Source: Poetry (June 2014).
Used by permission.
Used by permission.
Oh you saints,
Let me enter your society,
If only as a statistician.
You�re old,
Perhaps the years are
Getting you down by now,
Laying themselves over you
In layers of color.
Just let me take care
Of your dirty work in
All the nooks and crannies.
For example I could
Swallow light
At the Last Supper
And exhale your halos
After the devotionals.
From time to time,
At a distance of half a wall,
I could
Form my hands into a horn
And shout,
Now for the believers,
Now for the unbelievers
Hallelujah! Hallelujah!
From Hands Behind My Back, translated by Gabriela
Dragnea, Stuart Friebert, and Adriana Varga.
Copyright � 1991 by Oberlin College Press.
No permission, sorry.
No permission, sorry.
Please share your new poem using Mr. Linky below and visit others in the spirit of the community.
(Next week Susan's Midweek will be ~ Climate)
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