Discalced Carmelite Friars

Semi 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

The Lands of Sunrise and Sunset: Thirteen Found Poems


Thirteen Found Poems

~a pastiche of images and phrases drawn from the poetry of John Ashbery, Thomas Hardy, Lori Howe, John Keats, Denise Levertov, Vachel Lindsay, and William Blake



            1.

The Sun Comes and Goes



                        The warm autumn sun today,

Like having the closeness of others be air

To you, pressing you back into a startled dream

As sea-breezes greet a child’s face—

                                                            Yesterday

Each gutter and spout babbled ecstatically,

Unchecked in the busy way witless things are;

And mist, like a loose cloud of gnats,

Hovered over the riverbank—borne aloft

Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies.



What is it, then, that the pine trees know, what

Perplexities and wisdom do they exchange,

Unknown to me as were the thoughts

Of grownups?

                                    “The way the conifers

Hold new cones up to the light for blessing,

A truly festive rite”—

                                                Night falls,

And the moon sings her solo:  “We

Walked in a garden of dreams.  ‘Twas

yellow grass, and many orange-trees

Grew there in sand as white as glass”—

O Earth, return to us your mirth!

Arise from out the dewy grass!

The night is worn, release the morn,

Lift us from your slumbrous mass.

I see the wind tossing tumbleweeds

And rifling the pockets of black walnut trees

Eager for their green, round fruit—

Clothed in a pensive mood
I turn to face the gathering daylight.

Written by Fr. Bonaventure Sauer, OCD 
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