a poem by Stella Nesanovich, enjoy the video exploring the life and thoughts of the poet.

Hildegard of Bingen at 80 before the prelates of Mainz, 1178

Like a quill impelled to write
I saw myself in that same vision
God imprinted on my soul at birth,
Do not presume I come to confess
sins I have not committed.
The corpse was brought by priests
and all Bingen in procession.
A black cloud hovers to hurl a storm
of cries were the man exhumed.

Bittersweet hunger for sacred bread
gnaws at those who rightly buried
the man that you call rebel.
At Rupertsburg all ritual and song
have ceased, yet your proviso stings
most vilely. Hope of holy burial is balm
while we are living, incentive
for penance and right action. Loss
of final anointing chafes me sorely.

Too, the body cloaks a soul which speaks
its life through voice. What river of night
shuts the mouths of God’s created?
Curve of shell and leaf resonate
as music and God’s Word. His Son
takes flesh again each time we sing,
chanting melodies nine choirs
of angels hum and restoring symphonia
destroyed by Adam. Fingerlike
notes reflect celestial harmony
while such divine sounds of psaltery
and voice echo in our souls
to teach us love and thus rejoicing.

Proceed with care, most holy prelates.
This interplay of cymbals God intends.
Would you give Satan a trumpet,
play the discord he adores, and halt
the leaps of souls to heaven?
Right you are to shuffle
and flip parchment. Remain
unmoved at your own peril.
Those who hold the keys of heaven
must be extremely careful lest
they close what should be open

Simple heart,
Wounded, exasperated, and tired,
On through the night waiting,
The sharp pain of Siddharth the intern’s needle stitching,
Mending the laceration coalescing,
The body a burden of pain,
Breathing through my eyes,
Breathing out the past,
Accepting, contritely and acquiescing,
The tugging rawness absent extreme pain,
Falling asleep lacking reminiscence,

a poem by Richard Crashaw

LORD, when the sense of thy sweet grace
Sends up my soul to seek thy face.
Thy blessed eyes breed such desire,
I die in love’s delicious fire.
O love, I am thy Sacrifice.
Be still triumphant, blessed eyes.
Still shine on me, fair suns! that I
Still may behold, though still I die.

Though still I die, I live again;
Still longing so to be still slain,
So gainful is such loss of breath.
I die even in desire of death.
Still live in me this loving strife
Of living Death and dying Life.
For while thou sweetly slayest me
Dead to my self, I live in Thee.

Awake sleeper for the dullness of your pain inflicts severe,
Falling into a catapult, the whiplash isolates your demeanor,
Sent flying into the air, this is not levitation, that is for the pure,
Angry, cold, and wet, something inside demands venting,
You have many things to say, then keep quiet, let it rest,
A time removed from grace, allowing transference, segregation,
To be alone amidst the inner flurry, the detachment denounced by others,
Eyes focused upon the ceiling, cloudy thoughts remain unclear, immobility,
Mystery refrains within a sacrifice to rewards, this is not a time of good feelings,
Broken, sore, and beaten, the lower back announces retribution, violent lashings,
Mortification brutally imposes self-awareness, humility begets honesty, remorse,
God chisels away sin by allowing sin immersion, knowing who you are, over saturation,
Dissatisfaction produces proper discernment when satisfaction reveals sickness,
The calling of the nightingale, a pelican piercing herself, songs outside ourselves,
Like a funnel cloud, hysterical backwards advancing, altering everything upon the path,
This is the moment built upon by previous moments inexplicably leading to further…

a poem by Gerard Hopkins, S.J.

“The rose is a mystery”–where is it found?
Is it anything true? Does it grow upon the ground?
It was made of earth’s mould, but it went from men’s eyes,
And its place is a secret and shut in the skies.

In the gardens of God, in the daylight divine,
Find me a place by thee, mother of mine.

But where was it formerly? Which is the spot
That was blest in it once, though now it is not?
It is Galilee’s growth: it grew at God’s will
And broke into bloom upon Nazareth hill.

In the gardens of God, in the daylight divine,
I shall look on thy loveliness, mother of mine.

What was its season then? How long ago?
When was the summer that saw the bud blow?
Two thousands of years are near upon past
Since its birth and its bloom and its breathing its last.

In the gardens of God, in the daylight divine,
I shall keep time with thee, mother of mine.

Tell me the name now, tell me its name.
The heart guesses easily: is it the same?
Mary the Virgin, well the heart knows,
She is the mystery, she is that rose.

In the gardens of God, in the daylight divine,
I shall come home to thee, mother of mine.

Is Mary the rose then? Mary, the tree?
But the blossom, the blossom there–who can it be?
Who can her rose be? It could but be One
Christ Jesus our Lord, her God and her son.

In the gardens of God, in the daylight divine,
Show me thy son, mother, mother of mine.

What was the colour of that blossom bright?–
White to begin with, immaculate white.
But what a wild flush on the flakes of it stood
When the rose ran in crimsonings down the cross-wood!

In the gardens of God, in the daylight divine
I shall worship His wounds with thee, mother of mine.

How many leaves had it?–Five they were then,
Five, like the senses and members of men;
Five is their number by nature, but now
They multiply, multiply–who can tell how?

In the gardens of God, in the daylight divine
Make me a leaf in thee, mother of mine.

Does it smell sweet, too, in that holy place?
Sweet unto God and the sweetness is grace:
The breath of it bathes great heaven above
In grace that is charity, grace that is love.

To thy breast, to thy rest, to thy glory divine
Draw me by charity, mother of mine.

A poem written by Archpriest Grigori Petrov shortly before his death in a Siberian prison camp in 1942.

What is my praise before Thee?

I have not heard the cherubim singing,
that is the lot of souls sublime,
but I know how nature praises thee.

In winter I have thought about the whole earth praying quietly to Thee in the
silence of the moon,
wrapped around in a mantle of white,
sparkling with diamonds of snow.

I have seen how the rising sun rejoiced in Thee,
and choirs of birds sang forth glory.

I have heard how secretly the forest noises Thee abroad,
how the winds sing,
the waters gurgle,
how the choirs of stars preach of Thee
in serried motion through unending space.