A Young Seminarian ~

Poems about these boys.

Undying Love ~ After 50 Years

He a young Soviet Officer, she a teenager in Leipzig. 1946. They fell in love. For disobeying orders concerning fraternization with the enemy he was sent back to Moscow. She wrote letters. He did too, but his were censored and withheld telling that he was married and had children.

After the opening of the Iron Curtain in 1989, some fifty years later, she traveled to Moscow to look for him—and found him. He had never forgotten her, never married.

The undaunted couple celebrated their wedding in 2001.

Mother Theresa ~ Love Affair

She carried on a love affair with Christ. Later she complained that He had forgotten her completely. But she went on loving . . .

St. Francis of Assisi ~

Francis, the man who wanted to possess nothing . . . so that he could better love.

Feast of St. Augustine ~

"Too late have I come to love You, O beauty so ancient and so fresh; too late have I come to You", you said. 

And centuries later I learned to love Him early, Augustine, sitting there as a teenager, reading your words, in the seminary chapel.

Frankfurt, Germany ~

I stepped onto the train in Frankfurt and it sped off to the south. The people seemed different, I heard the first sounds of German again. They were not Americans, they were going other ways, thinking other thoughts. Nevertheless, somehow I knew that I belonged here with them. It has become my home. . . Those whom I love are here. That, I know, is everything. What more could I want?

Lancaster, Pennsylvania ~

I walked out before breakfast into a bursting rising sun. Walked along the edge of a cornfield and thought the whole time about the young 24-25 year olds, young lovers, who went into battle here in the Civil War, and had to die in these fields. I thought that after having had to experience the horrible spiritual death of being wrenched apart from the girl they loved, they must have faced their bodily death in the enemy's fire, willingly.

Being Poor ~ Having Everything ~

Once you have found your true love nothing else matters. You want to shed everything else to concentrate on the beloved.

Is There Any Consolation? ~

In the vinyards along the Rhein near here a 13 year old girl was abducted on her way home from school and murdered. No clues. And yesterday in Heilbronn, a city known for its ties with the Romantic literary tradition, a 22 year old policewoman was shot in the head and died. No clues. She had just finished her training for the profession she had always dreamed of, had just found boyfriend with whom she had fallen in love.

Being in Love ~

I said to myself that the girl I saw yesterday in church just had to be in love. Her whole being had a kind of radiance about it. She was completely concentrated and occupied in thought. After church she mingled in the crowd outside and everyone seemed attracted to her and would light up when she looked at them and spoke. Oh how love energizes!

Lost Gems ~

All the beautiful, beautiful things that go unseen and unheard! Like the poem I happened to hear this morning, Annabel Lee by Edgar Allen Poe -- read so feelingly by Garrick Hagon. Has that gem been lost, and only able to be found by chance, as if it were a random grain of sand along the Atlantic coast?

Where is God? ~

I can still hear the old monk saying: if you love God you will see him everywhere -- in the people around you and in all of nature.

The Soul's Desire ~

The advice of the wise old monks stands: Avoid the things of the world, do not let them divert you from the one important thing, Him, for whom your soul longs.

January 27, 1945 ~ Liberation of Auschwitz

To an Unknown Girl in Auschwitz

by Charles L. Cingolani

I

Who are you who make your way
in the endless lines?
You, Two-Six-Nine-Five-Three,
You, the Flower of Jewry
proud, erect, your denuded skull
that once flowed rich black
with hair that tumbled fountain-like
around a slender neck of ivory
cascading onto shoulders
to fall divided gliding down
over breasts and back.

What noble forehead I see
above dark pools
wherein burn radiant eyes,
your soft sunken temples,
the slope of your regal nose.
Those lips, lightly pursed
above a chin held aloft,
borne with that silent certainty
of being loved already
by one yet unknown to you,
but whose presence now felt
propels your dauntless search.

Your every movement graced,
your feathered step,
your groping hands gliding
those fingers loosely stretched
that have yet to caress
a newborn babe
or cushion a lover's head
from loving spent.

II

On what hidden tether are you
being drawn to him
who has come here
searching for you among the fair,
for you, his longed-for love.

You are his Winter Rose,
You are his Rising Sun
You are his Evening Star,
You are his House of Gold.

He has looked for you in every bower
sought out the lions' lairs,
no latch undone, no hinge unswung
until he ventured through these gates,
searching for you
in one last despairing quest.

Was it not his nearness
that awakened you before dawn
set you on this path in darkness
seeking out his lodging place?

Done with watching, longing,
done with endless dialogue alone
done with patience, pining, waiting.
You move, irresistibly drawn
to juncture, fullness, oneness,
where waiting ceases
where union quenches thirst.

All your visions clung to nights through,
all anticipation that has long beaten
at your love-sick heart
crave for fulfillment, a bringing out
that you know now
will soon come about.

Is that his voice you hear,
your head lowered now
your eyes straining
as you rush in his direction?
Are you about to enter
upon a banquet prepared?
Do you see yourself reclining
in fruits from his trees,
cushioned in down, gazing at
swirling columns of incense rising
as you await his first light touch?

He must see you coming now,
you, so intent, in his direction.
Stands he there behind some board,
some cleft in a wall?
Hear you his words already?
Is he proffering a time, a tryst, a place?
Or is it a room, a loft, a nest—
like orioles make, a flaxen purse
hanging deep in foliage hidden
where union takes place?

Are you asking
if he knows of your longing,
if his will meld with yours
in folds of awareness so hermetic
as to envelop you in one endless ritual
of giving and yielding?
All this questioning but distracts
from your final rush to him
into whose presence you are entering.

III

Go, lift your beauty to him.
All convention, all words, all thought
recede now. There is no fetter.
You are beyond license, sanction, law.
All is assent, oneness, accord.

You are running now,
taking to the wing, gently, lightly.

But he, too, is in motion
nearing, so near
about to catch you up, sidelong, longing,
to envelop you
in the heat of his embrace.


Copyright © 2005

Pleasing to God

Reading a book about Francis of Assisi by Nikos Kazantzakis. He is portrayed as a merciless ascetic. Hammering down the body until it was ruined, rejecting every human pleasure. Is that the way for us to become saints? Francis knew a loving God. He must certainly have known he would be saved by that love, not by all such efforts of his own.