Showing posts with label Ireland. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Ireland. Show all posts

Wednesday, February 12, 2025

St. Gobnait and the Place of Her Resurrection


   

On the tiny limestone island
an angel buzzes to Gobnait
in a dream, disrupts her plans,
sends her in search of nine white deer.

She wanders for miles across
sea and land until at last
they appear and rather than
running toward them

she falls gently to wet ground,
sits in silence as light crawls across sky,
lets their long legs approach
and their soft, curious noses surround her.

Breathing slowly, she slides back
onto grass and clover and knows
nothing surpasses this moment,
a heaven of hooves and dew.

Is there a place for each of us,
where we no longer yearn to be elsewhere?
Where our work is to simply soften,
wait, and pay close attention?

She smiles as bees gather eagerly
around her too, wings humming softly
as they collect essence of wildflowers,
transmuting labor into gold.

-- Christine Valters Paintner, Benedictine oblate, teacher, spiritual director, poet, artist, and Abbess of the online Abbey of the Arts.

February 12 is the feast day of St. Gobnait of Ballyvourney, the Irish patron saint of beekeepers (along with St. Ambrose and St. Valentine).

Image: Stained glass window of St. Gobnait, Honan Chapel, Cork, by Harry Clarke, 1914.

Tuesday, August 1, 2023

St. Patrick's Evensong (verse version)



Jesus, Son of God most high,
May your holy angels keep
Watch around us as we lie
In our shining beds asleep.

Time’s hid veil with truth to pierce
Let them teach our dreaming eyes,
High King of the Universe,
High Priest of the Mysteries.

May no demon of the air,
May no malice of our foes,
Evil dream or haunting care
Mar our willing, prompt repose!

May our vigils hallowed be
By the tasks we undertake!
May our sleep be fresh and free,
Without stop and without break.

-- translated into verse in A Celtic Psaltery, 1917.

St. Patrick's Evensong (prose)



May your holy angels, O Christ, Son of living God,
Guard our sleep, our rest, our shining bed.

Let them reveal true visions to us in our sleep,
O High Prince of the universe, O great King of the mysteries!

May no demons, no ill, no calamity or terrifying dreams
Disturb our rest, our willing, prompt repose.

May our watch be holy, our work, our task,
Our sleep, our rest without stop, without break.

-- translated as prose by Kuno Meyer in Selections from Ancient Irish Poetry, New York, 1911.

Friday, June 17, 2022

A Found Poem



Like everybody else, I bowed my head
during the consecration of the bread and wine
lifted my eyes to the raised host and raised chalice,
believed (whatever it means) that a change occurred.
I went to the altar rails and received the mystery
on my tongue, returned to my place, shut my eyes fast, made
an act of thanksgiving, opened my eyes and felt
time starting up again.
There was never a scene
when I had it out with myself or with an other.
The loss of faith occurred off stage. Yet I cannot
disrespect words like ‘thanksgiving’ or ‘host’
or even ‘communion wafer.’ They have an undying
pallor and draw, like well water far down.

– Seamus Heaney (1939- 2013) Northern Irish poet, Nobel Prize winner, Oxford Professor of Poetry, and one of the pre-eminent poets of the 20th century