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BY Leonard Feeney, S. J. NEW YORK THE MACMILLAN
COMPANY 1933 To MY FATHER CONTENTS To Our Blessed Lord at the Pillar THE GOLD I HAVE GATHERED
The gold I have gathered I
mined in my mind, The beautiful beauty God
helped me to find. The wonderful wonder I hoard
in my head, I said I will share it with
someone: I said I will put in a poem an
inkling in ink Of the love that I live by,
the truth that I think. And the wealth of my wisdom I
thought I could tell, My hunger for Heaven, my
horror of Hell, With some poor little
scribbles I make with a pen. No fancy THAT, ladies and
gentlemen! THE DOVE
Learn from a little dove, The Holy
Spirit’s symbol, The qualities of love, And what
it must resemble. Notice its note will vary At
different seasons, — A wild bird, and a wary, For
different reasons. When sunlight warms the roof, And
moonlight fills the nest, Innocent, soft, aloof, Unruffled
and at rest. But when the storm is raging: Clawing,
battling, crying; A bird beyond all caging, Furiously
flying. I BURNED MY BRIDGES
I burned my bridges when I
had crossed. I never brooded on what I
lost, Nor ruined with rapine my
holocaust. Youth is a rapture we must
forget; Wither and wrinkle without
regret, Hobble to Heaven and do not
fret. Yet in my soul there is
something still Deeper than memory, mind and
will, Something alive that I cannot
kill. Part of me, put not in my
keeping, Awakes unwakened when I am
sleeping, Under my laughter it goes on
weeping For bye-gone beaches and
limbs of brown, When hoops were rolling
around the town, And London Bridges were
falling down. THE GIFT OF TEARS
Never a rhyme I wrote or read Could ever
make me cry; But a little brown fiddle Sawed in the middle Does, and I
don’t know why. SPRING CAROL
My little joy, my sweet joy, I wish I
could romance it; I wish I had a light foot Deft
enough to dance it, Or
pictures to portray it, Or
syllables to say it, Or wind enough to fill a
flute And play
it. REFLECTION
When we were young and you
were fond Of rolling pebbles in a pond, Remember how we waded out And looked and found without
a doubt Our pictures near a silver
school Of little fishes in a pool? Though round the world the
rivers go And into fussy fountains
flow, Our pictures shall remain When waters rest again. The mirror in the well will
not Forget us when we are forgot. SMALL FRY
I went fishing for a rhyme In the
babble of a brook And a merry little minnow Nibbled at
my hook, And here’s the pretty fellow Bouncing
in a book. MY WINDOW
I lock my window tight, I bolt it with a bar, Ever since the night One memorable star Came shining through, And made unusually bright My parallelogram of light, My acre in the blue. I cover my window too With a dark curtain So to be certain No one else will try To trespass with his eye On my part of the sky. BRIEF LITANY
Softly out of nowhere Blows a
summer breeze, Wrinkling in the sunshine, Trembling
in the trees; Swings a little trinket Hanging in
the air, Keeps a penny pin-wheel Twirling at
a fair; Starts a wee melodeon Pumping in
a flea, Stops and drops a lobster A bubble in
the sea; Turns into a tremolo, Flows
through a fife; Lends a tiny hop-toad A lungful
of life; Falters on the hill-top, Tumbles
down the glen, Buries in a world Without
wind. Amen. SHEEP RITUAL
Oh, you should have seen the
miracle I saw when I was in Wales, Where
myriads of sheep go munching up And lunching down the dales; And they
graze along the meadow march, And nibble around the mill, Cross the
bridges over the brook, Bleat and eat and fill Their
bellies full of blossoms; Then lie awhile and sleep. Then
slowly up the slope again, And slowly down the steep, Their
little mouths meandering on, Bit by bite they pull, Inch by
inch, the sweet grass While all the beautiful Valleys of
Wye from stream to sky Are turning into wool. AT THE FIREPLACE
The mulberry logs are covered
with flame And
lacquered with light they burn. The trick of the blazing
mulberry logs In the
grate, is my great concern: — How all this essence of fiery
juice And fiber
and gnarl and knot Is not transmuted to whistle
and multiple Crackle
and pistol shot. The mulberry logs, so stiff
and tough, Substantial,
and hard and round, Astound me, vanishing — save
for an ounce Of ash —
into so much sound. JOY IN HEAVEN
Jesus clapped His little
hands And Mary
lit a star When I helped an old lady
with bundles Onto a
trolley car. MOUSE TRAP
I never
kill a caught mouse Nor
drown him in a pail. I always
extricate him And lift him by the tail, And
carefully release him Into the hollow wall, Because I
do admire a mouse Who is not sceptical; Who keeps
his faith in odors That terminate in cheese, And will
not rob his little nose Of all its certainties. I loathe
an apprehensive mouse Whose phobia for traps Reduces
life’s philosophy To “maybe” and “perhaps”; Who holds
that truth is relative, Who disbelieves in smell, And
spreads despair in micedom And turns it into Hell. Give me a
trustful little mouse Who chisels in and out, And grinds
his way to surety And chews away a doubt, And turns
my house to splinters To satisfy his soul, And breaks
his gallant little neck Exploring in a hole. MOTH MEMORIES
God’s baby dew-moth dancing
down the dawn, Flitting from leaf to leaf
along the lawn, Squanders its dainty substance
in the air And leaves no sweet
remembrance anywhere, Save in some moody lady’s
elegies Concerning moths, mosquitoes,
flies and fleas, Who pouts in poems, like an
owl or pigeon, Her whit-tu-whu and jug-a-jug
religion. THE FIRST DAY OF
CREATION
When God tried out His
thunderbolts And
lightnings wildly lightened, It frightens me to think
there was Nobody to
be frightened. PROBLEM
The white invisible angels We clothe
in queer disguises, In wings and snowy
night-gowns To suit
our strange surmises. But how do they see in
symbols Of
unethereal air Old Pudgy, our parish fat
man, Puffing
his little prayer? THE STREET
SPRINKLERS
When whistling teamsters down
the hills Their
bubbling barrels drive again, Scattering liquid
whippoorwills And thrushes from a rolling
brush, Our ears
become alive again Listening to
the luscious noises. Hosannas from the hoses rush And all
the air rejoices. POOR TURKEY
The
melancholy turkey cock, Of every
bird the laughing-stock, Stands
bewildered beside the barn Endeavoring
to gobble a yard of yarn, And folds
his foliage like a fan, And pecks
at popcorn in a pan, And
wobbles and winks and wonders why, For all
his feathers, he cannot fly, Hysterically
hiccuping A little
song he cannot sing. PRAY FOR ME
Pray for me when I was small, When I was
two or three, The night when nobody at all Prayed for
me; When nobody knew they left me
out And lost
me in the snow. God help me when I tried to
shout, Long ago. INEVITABLE
RENDEZVOUS
Down at Oyster Graveyard Sitting on
a quay, One afternoon in April From three
till half past three, I felt so much emotion I got the silly notion That God made the ocean From all
eternity Exclusively
for me. And I’d like to know exactly Did He or
didn’t He? SIMPLIFICATION
Lucky for girls nimble with
thimbles Poems and
plays are lies. Love is as simple and sane as
sewing, A problem
of hooks and eyes. He had a hole in his Sunday
stocking, She with
her needle mended it: — That was the wonder of wife
and woman, That was
the trick that ended it. Lucky for dreamy organ
grinders And strolling
umbrella menders; Lucky for lonely deep-sea
divers And
telephone-pole ascenders. THE PIANO TUNER
Do, re, moo! Do, re, meow! Sounds so
far Like a cat
or a cow. Do, re, miff! Do, re, muff! Guess I
haven’t It tight
enough. Do, re, measles! Do, re, mumps! Turn it
too tight And back
it jumps. Do, re, (listen!) Do re, MI! There’s
the little bird I head in
a tree! BLIND MAN’S POEM
I’ve snapped all my fingers And
scratched all my hair. I’m tired of being someplace Sitting in
a chair. I think I shall get up now And go to
anywhere. THE PRISONER
Monday I whistled a little. Tuesday I
whistled a lot. Wednesday I whistled a little. Thursday I
have forgot. Friday I whistled a little. But not on
Saturday. Sunday I whistled a little; The jailer
came in to say: “Hello,” and I whistled a
little After he
went away. BUZZ, A BOOK REVIEW
“Therefore the transition from
a coloured shape to the notion of an object which can be used for all sorts
of purposes which have nothing to do with colour, seems a very natural one
and we . . . require careful training if we are to refrain from
acting upon it.” Professor Puffles. Giddily in
the garden The little bee blows, With wax on
his waistcoat And treacle on his toes, And a noise in his nose; Pausing at
a pansy And reposing on a rose. Gee! But it
must be jolly For a bee to be a bee, And to jab
a juicy javelin In a nice anemone That has objectivity, As arranged
by Aristotle In his strange philosophy. Merrily in
the meadow This fuzzy fellow fills His engine
full of honey On the sunny petal-sills Of delicious daffodils, With an
illative indifference To his inferential ills. Really it
must be rapture To buss about the brink Of a violet
that is valid Or an a priori pink, Even though one’s color kink Is the
fruit of careless training In thinking how to think. FERVERINO IN A FRUIT STORE
Out of nothing God made each, Made a poet, and made a peach. God His nothings could
confound, Out of nothings switched
around, Make a bard Green and hard; Make a mellow Fruit a fellow. Neither would have known. One would bother With a rhyme, And eat the other Every time. Skin and bone, Or skin and stone: — Praised be God, and God alone. THE ORGAN BLOWER
That Mary, the Mother Of Jesus
may Have a lovely hymn On her
festive day, — That God Almighty May be
adored With tuneful treble And bass
and chord, — That music may mingle With light
and flower On the hot June nights At the
Holy Hour, — Humphry, the loon, By the
dusty rafter, Sweats like an ox, And he
says, “I haf ter Buy new galluses The
mornin’ after!” ASPIRATION
Perched upon the gable Above his lonely stable (And this is not a fable), A donkey saw a dove, With whom he fell in love. Oh what was he thinking of! And its soft tickitacooing Almost to his undoing His wild heart went pursuing. But a stout rope forefended What nature never intended And his white dream-flight
ended. This poem — breathe no word
of it, Nor bard, nor beast, nor bird
of it: — As though you never heard of
it. THE MILKMAN
When the one o’clock cock
begins to crow They drag
him out of a dream, And he stares at the stars in
the Milky Way And the
meteors made of cream. When the sky is a meadow of
molten oats Sickled
with flaming steel, He hitches his horse to a
cart of cans With a
squeak in its wheezy wheel, And under the twinkle of
sundry suns And
miscellaneous moons, His rattling bottles in
sleepy lanes Tinkle
their lonely tunes. A MUNSTER MEMORY
All I recall (God help us all!) Is a witless old woman With shoes and a shawl Who didn’t know when She had counted to ten In counting her nine Baby chicks and a hen And went crawling behind In the bushes to find The little one lost In a hole in her mind. NIGHTLY OUTRAGE
They draw the curtains, And lock
the door; They keep it dark From ten
till four At Small and Small’s Department
Store, While lackadaisical Elsie Scrubs the
floor. Her dress is dirty, Her knees
are sore, Pushing her pail From ten
till four. I think it’s small Of Small
and Small, Even though Elsie Is
lackadaisical, To pay a woman To crawl
and crawl From post to pillar, From wall
to wall, And clean their floor Like an
animal. I’d rather have No floor
at all. NOT EVERY LITTLE MARY
Not ever little Mary Would come
and talk with me, And whisper me a secret, And climb
upon my knee; And ask me, please, to show
her My silver
crucifix, And say her Pater Noster Like good
Catholics; And let me eat a sweet cake, And bounce
her rubber ball, And hide me and go-seek me Behind the
garden wall; And read me Cinderella And the
slipper and the fairy. Some little Marys would, — But not
every little Mary. DANNY’S FIRST COMMUNION
(To L. R. S.) Impotent now the wisdom And sword
of Solomon If mothers come to quarrel About this
little son. For truly this is Danny, And really
this is Jesus. The whole of him is Mary’s, And all of
him Louise’s. SIMPLE SIMONY
When I was short and stumpy And rather
golden curls For letting a large
Archbishop Know Who
made the world, I got a silver dollar So big I
couldn’t hold it, So I sat down on a carpet, And rolled
it, and rolled it. GRANDMOTHER LOU
Grandmother Lou was a
milliner, Almost a
generation Ago, but bonnets were still
in her Imagination. When, wheeling her out and
warming her Bones on
the sun veranda, And knowing the trick of
charming her, Often I’d
hand her A flower or a feather or a
twig Or a
button, or something like that, Saying, “Wouldn’t this
ringumadig Look nice
on a hat?” And invariably I would wangle Into her
smile a twinkle, While along her cheek would
dangle A ribbony
winkle; And a memory gay and bright In a faded
brain would try To turn on a delicate light In the
filmy eye Of Grandmother Lou, the
milliner, Who now
with the lissome lasses Of old, lies quiet and still
in her Grave in
the grasses. And the wind blows over her
bonnetless Head, and
may peace abide her, Till I shall go rhymeless and
sonnetless To sleep
beside her. MAGNIFICENCE
Our gentle sister within her
mother’s heart Our tall archangel playing a
woman’s part, Still hides a host of
childlike fancies whence Her eyes acquire their
stately innocence; And made two gorgeous wishes
and did prevail At owning a white police-dog
and a nightingale. THE CHILDREN
When I go out walking On
Bloomsbury Street, Children say “Here he
comes!”, Children I
meet; The Margarets and Marys And
Michaels and Matts, Dropping me curtseys And
lifting their hats. The children! The children! They load
me with love, In Bloomsbury Gardens And
Bloomsbury Grove. By Bloomsbury Chapel And
Bloomsbury Mart, I often go walking To kindle
my heart. But, when I go out walking On
Buckingham Lane, Children say “Here he comes Walking
again.” The Gladyses, Gwendolyns, Grovers
and Guys, Lifting their noses And
arching their eyes. The children! The children! They hurt
me with hate, In Buckingham Terrace And
Buckingham Gate. By Buckingham Mansions And
Buckingham Inns, I often go walking To pay for
my sins. SARA FINN
Poor old body, Worn and thin; Poor old Sara Finn! Bent like a snow-bush, Trudging her own Way to Eternity Alone. No husband, No family, — Just Sara, Just she, Mumbling “If I’d find Someone to bury me, There wouldn’t be nothin’ Else to worry me.” Poor Sara, died, And was buried too. Peacefully she went, Spinsters always do; Like spent candles When you snuff Them singly, softly, Puff! Puff! Cherubim and Seraphim, Praise ye the Lord! Cherubim and Sara Finn, With one accord! BETTY’S BIRTHDAY
Angular Annie and buxom Bella And
tittering Tim were there. Dick and Dora sat next to
Nora, And Chubby
in Charlie’s chair. Rita and Zita and Paul and
Peter, Kiddies
from A to Zed; Hiccoughy Humphry and snoozy
Susie And
finnicky Winifred. The grace was ended, the soup
was splendid, The
chicken was nice and brown. Papa was present to make it
pleasant, And Mama
made us sit down. She lit three lights on a
candle cake With nuts
and a chocolate border, And later she cut us a piece
apiece In all-for-Betty-cal
order. A MATTER FOR CALCULUS
If Millicent Marvel, The belle
of the town, Should step from her haughty And high
estate down And kiss Rosie Rogers, That tired
old hag, Who shines the linoleum Wringing a
rag: The tall hats would tumble, The
lorgnettes would glare; Some prominent people Would
swoon on the stair. If Mortimer Muffins, The Mayor
of the city, Should ever, through some Preternatural
pity, Embrace Dinny Dooley, That
battered old man, Who sweeps in the street With a
brush and a can: — The horns would start
tooting, The
traffic would pause And the length of the block Would go
wild with guffaws. Once the astronomers Took me
apart, Fixed me a telescope Rules me a
chart, And roundly impressed me Revealing
how far, The unthinkable journey From star
unto star. But I’m searching for
instruments Hunting a
plan, That will measure the
distance From man
unto man. JEREMY
Lucy said to Jeremy,
“Jeremy!” Jeremy
said to Lucy, “What?” “Don’t you remember what day
today is? Surely
you’ve not forgot? Didn’t you notice the special
pudding, And the
little blue vase of flowers? Whose anniversary is it,
Jeremy?” Jeremy
said to Lucy, “Ours.” Lucy said to Jeremy,
“Jeremy!” Jeremy
said to Lucy, “What?” “I’ve been waiting till I’ve
been weary Keeping
your supper hot. All day long I’ve been so
excited! Didn’t you
like your tea? How many years are we
married, Jeremy?” Jeremy
said to Lucy, “Three.” Lucy said to Jeremy,
“Jeremy!” Jeremy
said to Lucy, “What?” “You seem dreadfully unromantic; Maybe we
fuss a lot, But aren’t we still the same
old lovers, Summer and
winter through? Tell me who was your
sweetheart, Jeremy?” Jeremy
said to Lucy, “You.” Lucy said to Jeremy,
“Jeremy!” Jeremy
said to Lucy, “What?” “Remember the first year we were
married, Out in the
garden plot? The moon was lovely, and you
said I had Something
as blue as skies. What did I have so pretty,
Jeremy?” Jeremy
said to Lucy, “Eyes.” Lucy said to Jeremy,
“Jeremy!” Jeremy
said to Lucy, “What?” “Remember the winter we went
to dances? Remember
the gown I bought? We danced one night at the
Grand Pavilion, And you
wore an evening suit; And how did you say your wife
looked, Jeremy?” Jeremy
said to Lucy, “Cute.” Lucy said to Jeremy,
“Jeremy!” Jeremy
said to Lucy, “What?” “Remember the time when we
had birthdays, And wasn’t
it nice you thought To buy me bows for my satin
slippers, Because I
had tiny feet! And what did you have to call
them, Jeremy?” Jeremy
said to Lucy, “Sweet.” Lucy said to Jeremy,
“Jeremy!” Jeremy said
to Lucy, “What?” “Remember the poems we read
together, The Maiden
of Camelot And the Knight who lived in a
wondrous castle, Holding
her hand in his? Didn’t they used to thrill
us, Jeremy?” Jeremy
said to Lucy, “Zzzzzz!” THE LITTLE RED
ROSARY
Old Annie’s little red rosary Old Annie
loved the best, Her little red chain of cherry
stones The priest
had blessed. “Hail Mary . . .
full of grace . . . ” Over and
over again. Even after she fell asleep And the
clock struck ten, Old Annie’s thumb and finger Would
fumble along alone And hunt for the next Hail
Mary On the next
cherry stone With no Old Annie to guide
them. And after
her prayer had stopped, It would be nearly a minute Till the
little red rosary dropped. THE MARRIAGE MAKERS
Today I married Martha, I married
her to Jim. He was huge and handsome She was
sweet and slim. We went to make a wedding, Boy, girl,
and priest, Before Our Lady’s altar, Upon Our
Lady’s feast. She in her dove-white slippers Stood on
the marble stair; He was a faultless bridegroom, Beaming
from heels to hair. And linking their lives
together, Getting
their story told, I too was rather splendid, Vested in
gown of gold. Lifting her lily finger, Looped in a
yellow band, I helped him to tell the
message Her heart
would understand. We managed it all in whispers, And mine
were the phrases lent To Love in its perfect moment, Love in its
Sacrament. But now when the Mass is over And off
they ride to town, Alone by Our Lady’s altar I wait in
my golden gown, Robed in my shining armor, Girded for
God to guess How in my white betrothal, All in my
loneliness Merry I make espousals, Hiding no
secret sorrow: — And I shall marry Rosemary And
Christopher tomorrow. NICE SURPRISE
Eileen has got a new baby
boy, We call
him our “nice surprise,” With genuine fingers,
authentic toes, And actual
ears and eyes; Able to gurgle and breathe
and smile, Able to
coo and sing, Roly and poly and sweet and
small And pretty
as anything. He knows we can hardly
believe he’s real, He knows
he’s nice and new; But minute by minute and hour
by hour He keeps
on being true. MRS. WHITTLE |