Accounted Beautiful - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Accounted Beautiful

“…things long by catholic consent accounted beautiful”

-Quiller-Couch

An act forbidden now, we go to weep
On Skyros at the grave of that rare youth
Where buried with him are the unities
Of all: the good, the beautiful, the true

For men have flung away their thoughts, their songs
Their verse, their noble instruments of work
And scream abuse at all those forms of art
With which their sires hymned chaos into peace

A cause forbidden now, we work to keep
For all: the good, the beautiful, and the true

On the Nature of Work - column

Mack Hall, HSG
Mhall46184@aol.com

On the Nature of Work

“What should they find incredible, since they no longer believed in a rational universe?”

-C. S. Lewis, That Hideous Strength

In Mr. Johnson’s 6th grade science class we kidlets learned that work is defined as the transfer of energy from one object to another. For many of Mr. J’s students work was further defined by their parents as farming. Still, I’m not sure how many joules are required for a small boy to urge balky jersey cows x 24 from the woods to the dairy barn at five in the morning with the sleet rattling. The small boy, now all grown up, knows only that he is thankful daily that he will never, ever have to do that again.

In a movie set in Nazi-occupied Poland, a number of folks gather discreetly to view a play, which is forbidden. While waiting, a man asks the woman next to him what her occupation is. She mentions that she was studying law before the war, and asks the man his job. “I break rocks,” he replies proudly.

The scene is a bit contrived, but is meant to demonstrate the Christian concept that all honest work is noble. This is why attorneys and quarrymen belong to the same country clubs. Still, the concept of the dignity of good and useful labor obtains.

Last week a young American woman’s dissatisfaction with her useless work appears to have motivated her to violence, resulting in the wounding of others and her own death.

Her work was neither in law, milking cows, or quarrying rock, but in taking pictures of herself for a scheme on the InterGossip.

This, in contemporary slang, is A Thing.

A man take pictures of his dachshunds or his children or himself doing awkward things and posts them to YouTube on the InterGossip. If enough people – really, really, really bored people with no purpose or direction in life – are determined by a corporate matrix (that sounds like something from cheesy outer-space films from the 1950s) to watch certain moving pictures, advertisers are matched with the little films and the poster receives a small stipend for every contact, or “hit.”

Apparently a favored few make a living by humiliating their dachshunds, their children, and themselves for the amusement of the unfocused.

This is said to be work, but it produces no food, no music, no fencing, no housing, or anything else of utility or joy.

This poor woman took humiliating pictures of herself glaring at the camera, dancing awkwardly, and giving opinions. She received money for doing so.

She felt she wasn’t being paid enough money for her specialness, although she had enough disposable income to buy herself a pistol and then drive to YouTube headquarters to shoot people she had never met.

The unhappy woman promoted herself as an “athlete, artist, comedian, poet, model, actor, singer, director, producer” (http://www.nydailynews.com/news/national/youtube-shooter-nasim-aghdam-left-behind-twisted-online-trail-article-1.3914285) as well as a vegan bodybuilder and an animal rights activist. Human rights, nahhhhhh.

Apparently she felt that real work – milking cows, breaking rocks, practicing law – was beneath the dignity of an artist, and was so obsessed with making and watching images of herself on a little plastic screen that in the end she ceased to exist at all.

Poor, sad woman – if only she had herded a few cows or worked the counter at the fast-foodery or volunteered at the local charity re-sale shop she might have realized through her aching feet and tired muscles that she was a child of God who was both useful and needed.

-30-

Breakfast with Old Man Briggs - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Breakfast with Old Man Briggs

“Why, then, God’s soldier be he.”

-Shakespeare

“I’m Old Man Briggs,” he laughed, shaking my hand
That famous merry twinkle in his eye;
He made the table at the Cracker Barrel
A festival of right good fellowship

But even as the plates were passed around
And with them too the happy banter of men
He sometimes seemed to drift away in thought
Into the past, into the mists, into -

His boyhood bayous, and the fields of youth
The desperation of Depression years
And still a boy, on the shingle at Normandy
Fighting across the smoky fields of France

Then home again to build the peace for us
With muscle and sweat, and with love and thought
Citizen-soldier, happy raconteur -
“I’m Old Man Briggs,” he laughed, shaking our hands

His place is empty now, just a little while
For we will see him again, at Supper

A Busy Beekeeper and His Beautiful Buzzing Bees - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

A Busy Beekeeper and his Beautiful Buzzing Bees

For Terry McFall, a Man of Bees and a Bees-y Man!

A beekeeper knows
That beauty is in the eye
of the bee-holder

As the Sun Rises over Big Linda's Get 'N' Go the Local Wal-Mart Day Shift Plots Revolution - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

As the Sun Rises over Big Linda’s Grab ‘N’ Go

the Local Wal-Mart Day Shift Plots Revolution

Against the patriarchal construct they
Rally in a corner booth at Big Linda’s
MePhones, sody-dranks, a full-up ash tray
Tabled as if these were the agendas

And uniformed in uniforms they sit
In conclave all unanimous to judge
Their boss to be: a sorry piece of (stuff)
A drab, a dork, a doof, a dolt, a drudge

A slime, a slob, a slug, a slag, a schlo -
Oh, wait! We’re late! The time! We’d better go!

Withdrawn by Instructor - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Withdrawn by Instructor

He wore a baseball cap, and tried to hide
Beneath its bill, hide from whatever was
Eating away his thirty-something soul
Adrift among the stagnant slush of life

He never bought the book, he never much
Looked up from the class notes he never took
His ballpoint pen asleep in an idle fist
No drafts, no drawings, no songs, no verse, no worse

Someone lied to him about following his dreams –
His dreams between theses and themes, it seems

Christos Voskrese! - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Christos Voskrese!

For William Tod Mixson

The world is unusually quiet this dawn
With fading stars withdrawing in good grace
And drowsy, dreaming sunflowers, dewy-drooped,
Their golden crowns all motionless and still,
Stand patiently in their ordered garden rows,
Almost as if they wait for lazy bees
To wake and work, and so begin the day.
A solitary swallow sweeps the sky;
An early finch proclaims his leafy seat
While Old Kashtanka limps around the yard
Snuffling the boundaries on her morning patrol.

Then wide-yawning Mikhail, happily barefoot,
A lump of bread for nibbling in one hand,
A birch switch swishing menace in the other
Appears, and whistles up his father’s cows:
“Hey! Alina, and Antonina! Up!
Up, up, Diana and Dominika!
You, too, Varvara and Valentina!
Pashka is here, and dawn, and spring, and life!”
And they are not reluctant then to rise
From sweet and grassy beds, with udders full,
Cow-gossip-lowing to the dairy barn.

Anastasia lights the ikon lamp
And crosses herself as her mother taught.
She’ll brew the tea, the strong black wake-up tea,
And think about that naughty, handsome Yuri
Who winked at her during the Liturgy
On the holiest midnight of the year.
O pray that watchful Father did not see!
Breakfast will be merry, an echo-feast
Of last night’s eggs, pysanky, sausage, kulich.
And Mother will pack Babushka’s basket,
Because only a mother can do that right

When Father Vasily arrived last night
In a limping Lada haloed in smoke,
The men put out their cigarettes and helped
With every precious vestment, cope, and chain,
For old Saint Basil’s has not its own priest,
Not since the Czar, and Seraphim-Diveyevo
From time to time, for weddings, holy days,
Funerals, supplies the needs of the parish,
Often with Father Vasily (whose mother
Begins most conversations with “My son,
The priest.…”, much to the amusement of all).

Voices fell, temperatures fell, darkness fell
And stars hovered low over the silent fields,
Dark larches, parking lots, and tractor sheds.
Inside the lightless church the priest began
The ancient prayers of desolate emptiness
To which the faithful whispered in reply,
Unworthy mourners at the Garden tomb,
Spiraling deeper and deeper in grief
Until that Word, by Saint Mary Magdalene
Revealed, with candles, hymns, and midnight bells
Spoke light and life to poor but hopeful souls.

The world is unusually quiet this dawn;
The sun is new-lamb warm upon creation,
For Pascha gently rests upon the earth,
This holy Russia, whose martyrs and saints
Enlighten the nations through their witness of faith,
Mercy, blessings, penance, and prayer eternal
Now rising with a resurrection hymn,
And even needful chores are liturgies:
“Christos Voskrese – Christ is risen indeed!”
And Old Kashtanka limps around the yard
Snuffling the boundaries on her morning patrol

Easter Vigil, Sort Of - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Easter Vigil, Sort Of

A vigil, no, simply quiet reflection
Minutes before midnight, with all asleep
Little Liesl-Dog perhaps dreams of squirrels,
For she has chased and barked them all the day;
The kittens are disposed with their mother
After an hour of kitty-baby-talk,
Adored by all, except by Calvin-Cat,
That venerable, cranky old orange hair-ball,
Who resents youthful intrusion upon
His proper role as object of worship.

The household settles in for the spring night,
Anticipating Easter, early Mass,
And then the appropriately pagan
Merriments of chocolates and colored eggs
And children with baskets squealing for more
As children should, in the springtime of life.

A Night of Fallen Nothingness - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

A Night of Fallen Nothingness

The Altar stripped, the candles dark, the Cross
Concealed behind a purple shroud, the sun
Mere slantings through an afternoon of grief
While all the world is emptied of all hope.
The dead remain, the failing light withdraws
As do the broken faithful, silently,
Into a night of fallen nothingness.

The Life and Times of Pontius Pilate, the Law West of the Jordan - column

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

The Life and Times of Pontius Pilate, the Law West of the Jordan

History, other than those weird little Jack Chick booklets and stuff about The Lizard People on the GossipNet, says little of Pontius Pilate. Apparently his career in the Roman diplomatic was fairly short before he was retired by suicide.

A life of loyal public service under the emperors was often rewarded with death, which was probably better than a farewell kiss from the president.

As a colonial governor Pilate would have been expected to keep the peace among all sorts of peoples, not because of the benevolence of Tiberius but because tax-tax is always better than war-war (as Churchill did not say).

One wonders if in his corner office Pilate displayed pictures of himself shaking hands with famous people, or maybe ordering their executions, and plaques from the Little Gladiator teams he sponsored. Did he give speeches at local business dinners? “I am Praefectvs Pontivs Pilatvs, but you may call me Poncho. I’m from Rome, and I’m here to help you grow your businesses.”

No doubt the after-dinner speech included a few wheezes: “Say, boys, you’ll like this one. A Greek, a Roman, and a Jew walk into a bar owned by an Egyptian…”

Pontius Pilate probably gave motivational speeches (which in itself should be a death penalty offense) and talked about thinking outside the box outside of which he never thought himself, and kept his resume updated in hopes of a better gig in a happier colony, maybe Crete or Cyprus or Hispania.

He would have been subjected to scrutiny by spies and investigations by special prosecutors, and in turn would have sent around the highways and byways of the Empire his own spies and, when he felt he had the power and the connections to get rid of some old pal he didn’t now like, special prosecutors under his authority.

His staff would have kept his files cross-indexed and neat, and at midday he probably joined the boys for a two-falernian lunch, properly submitted under his expense account.

Pilate named roads and bridges and theatres for his Emperor, had the usual suspects executed for the entertainment of The People, bless them, and probably told anti-Semitic jokes. He was so dull, safe, successful, and predictable that he was governor for some ten years before being recalled to Rome.

Nothing reliable is known of his end. Pilate is said to have been required to commit suicide instead of being given a cheap Seiko sun-dial as a memento, but perhaps he did indeed retire to his vineyards in central Italy, and took leisurely afternoons to write his memoirs, in which few were interested and which eventually were used by Germanic invaders to start a fire, and so lost to history.

Whether he remembered one Jesus of Nazareth is unknown.

-30-

Russians Under Our Beds (a Russia Series, 66) - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Russians Under Our Beds

For Our Special Prosecutors,

Who Guard and Guide Us

Oh, borscht! Those pesky Russkies under my bed
Were marching around all night, changing my votes
Beaming mysterious rays through my sleepy head
And snooping through my lesson plans and notes

They programmed my radio with Marx and Lenin
Plastered a poster of Putin to my wall
Sailed Admiral Kuznetzov across my linen
Layered a Petrograd accent over my Texas drawl

The special prosecutor says no further discussions –
Everything’s the fault of those perfidious Russians!

Maundy Thursday - Mass of the Last Supper (poem)

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Maundy Thursday – Mass of the Last Supper

“Bare ruin’d choirs, where late the sweet birds sang”

-Shakespeare

The air is thurified – the incense given
Our Lord upon His birth is fumed at last;
The censer’s chains, clanking like manacles
Offend against the silence at the end of Mass

Supper is concluded; the servants strip
The Table bare of all the Seder service:
Cups, linens, and dishes, leaving in the dark
An Altar bare, prepared for sacrifice

In Gethsemane the flowered air is sweet
But iron-heeled caligae offend the night

Prince Myshkin's Vigil (a Russia series, 65) - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Prince Myshkin’s Vigil

Pale Prince Myshkin keeps vigil in a room
In which two aspects of civilization repose:
That which is dying, and that which is dead
That which is cold, and that which is very cold

The wounded healer waits, because he was asked
And harrows there the darkness with his light
He waits with the dead in a rented room
And on a hill, beside a waterfall

A keeper of souls for an appointed time
And his own is kept by Somebody Else



cf, Dostoyevsky's The Idiot

The First Hummingbird of Spring - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

The First Hummingbird of Spring

O wing’ed messenger of happiness,
Aloft among the pollinating flowers,
At last you have returned from Mexico
And warm months there among soft latitudes
Where little birds can make a holiday
Far, far away from withering Arctic winds.

O tiny traveler, what souvenirs
Did you declare to customs at the Rio Grande?
South winds to tell the flowers to wake up
And Rosaries of morning fogs to bless
The yawning grasses with a morning drink,
And fresh new sunlight for the industrious bees.

O buzzing and impatient little friend!
Just wait a minute, your breakfast is coming -
The old glass feeder washed and packed away
In harvest-rich October’s golden light
Must be recovered and refreshed for you,

And

How good it is to have you home again.

The Staretz (a Russia series, 64) - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

The Staretz

For Fr. Raphael

In middle life the sunflower bends its head,
No longer to the sun as in its youth,
But to the earth in all humility,
Ripening for us all its dreams and works,
And aging happily to eternal dawn.

Where are the Squirrels of Spring? - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Where are the Squirrels of Spring?

(John Keats wrote much of the first line; I took care of the rest)

Where are the squirrels of spring? Ay, where are they?
Flattened by a log truck, just yesterday
When old enough to leave the family nest
They ran into the road, there flattened, pressed

Though cautioned by their wise sciuridaean sire
They panicked before an approaching tire
They had little time for a valedictory squeal
Before they died, so young, beneath the wheel –

So even if the old folks seem such a bother
You really ought to listen to your father

A Russian Sunflower (a Russia series, 63) - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

A Russian Sunflower

Deep-rooted in the earth, old Zossima
Turns daily to the sun, our star in the east,
And of his kindness blesses all of us
Who pilgrimage to holy Russia where
He tells us, sure, what we already know:
Fall to the earth; from there look up and see
That like a sunflower, one can turn to Heaven

Pontius Pilate's Plea - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

Pontius Pilate’s Plea

My Caesar and my Empire have I served,
A diplomatic functionary, true
To distant duties, and never unnerved
By greedy Greek or perfidious Jew

Outside the arca archa have I thought,
Festooned my desk and office with awards;
My Caesar’s honour only have I sought
While sparing for myself but few rewards

I built with focused care my resume’
And filed each memorandum, note, and scrip;
I justly ruled (no matter what they say),
And seldom sent men to the cross or whip

But, oh! That thing about an open vault –
I never got it. And why was that my fault?

The Russian Soldier, 1918 (a Russia series, 62)

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

The Russian Soldier, 1918

The Russian soldier, Moskina1 in hand,
Though filthy, tired, unknown, unpaid, unfed,
Fights for his God, his Czar, and his Fatherland:
No medals, no vodka, no sleep, no bread

His clumsy lowest-bidder boots,2 they rot
Into the foulness where the world’s sins pitch
Into the slime of old Iscariot3
Good men to die in some Gehenna-ditch

Saint George, Saint Michael, and Saint
Seraphim
Preserve him in the end from Judas’ crime4
Life’s-end tears, life’s-end prayers, a blood-
choked scream
And so he climbs the trench wall one last time,

Three cartridges5 clenched in his frozen fist,
He disappears at last into the mist6

1. Mosin-Nagant rifle
2. Betrayal by contractors
3. Betrayal by politicians and Bolsheviks
4. The Russian soldier does not fail in his his duty
5. Ammunition shortage / God, Czar, and Fatherland
6. The Russian soldier is known to God

The Adventure Begins Over There by Mr. Gomez' Pickup Truck - poem

Lawrence Hall
mhall46184@aol.com

The Adventure Begins Over There by Mr. Gomez’ Pickup Truck

“And palmeres for to seken straunge strondes”

-Chaucer

Everyone is a palmer this holy day
Seeking the strange, elusive shores of truth
Each pilgrim bearing in his eager hands
A palm frond and a photocopied hymn

The pilgrimage begins in the parking lot
And marshaled by the blue HANDICAPPED signs
Ascends to the doors, the narthex, and in,
Up to the Altar, there where all worlds meet

Come to Jerusalem; you’re on the way -
Everyone is a palmer this holy day