Discalced Carmelite Friars

Province of St. Therese

Poet and Contemplative

“From the abundance of his spirit [the poet] pours out secrets and mysteries rather than rational explanation” (Prologue, The Spiritual Canticle).

“In contemplation God teaches the soul very quietly and secretly, without its knowing how, without the sound of words” (Chapter 39, The Spiritual Canticle).

In the spirit of St. John of the Cross, this blog reflects on the contemplative experience and the poetic experience, sometimes separately and distinctly, sometimes in common, as mutually enlightening.

I will also post to this blog, from time to time, my own poetry, with a short interpretive note attached.

~ Fr. Bonaventure Sauer, OCD

Easter Sunday

The two departed for Emmaus late morning;The heat of the day flopping itself downIn front of them like a hound dog.  Soon the crowdsWould swell and clog the road.                    The dayWas overcast, our two pilgrims downcast—He whom they called Master having become outcast.It almost works with “grown”
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Holy Saturday

Swaddled in white air, the great ash tree sleeps fitfully.Shadowless at noon I walk out among the roses and coriander,A patch of geraniums nearby, all smiles.  Here one talksAbout love poems, without the will to write one.“Oh, I wish I could play the piano like a pro.  Clear and crispMy interpretation of Prokofiev’s Toccata would be…”So a voice in my head distractedly
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Good Friday

Veneration of the Holy Noose began at 3:45And lasted a total of 20 seconds.  Only twoFrom a church full of worshippers stepped forwardTo kiss the rope and genuflect before the slowlySwaying, twisting corpse.  The rest stayedIn their pews, put off by the spectacle,Unwilling to engage in the travesty.    *Canyons roar in the wind.  Trees creak sadly.Waves throw themselves
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Three Christmas Poems – Part 3

III.The Fourth of the MagiAnd I took to the road on footWhere tree limbs bent low, clawing at me.Beasts lurked in the shadows, beasts I'd never seen before,And owls hooted even at noon.They say wild men haunt these placesClothed in prickly boar's hide.On their heads sit wreaths with leaves the size of a giant's hand.Some, it's rumored, grow tailsThat sprout an inch a yearFor each year of their madness. 
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