Discalced Carmelite Friars

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

Seven Conversation Poems - Part 2

     II.From Youth to AgeI wrote poem after poem.  Amazing the energy I had then,Where today there remains only the balmy stirringsOf music floating like low clouds over lush grass.    *Is it true that anger now moves me as love once did?Is it true that I have grown that old?  I speakOf righteous anger, of course.  For me there’s no other kind.It’s
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Reflections on Holy Week – Part 2 of 4

Image by StockSnap from Pixabay    What happened to Jesus’ body after his crucifixion?  The gospel speaks of resurrection, of his being raised from the dead.  That’s the word we Christians use, referring to a transcendent, divine victory over death.    Jesus is here with us.  He is here in his body, his humanity, his historical self.  He
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Easter Sunday

The two departed for Emmaus late morning;The heat of the day flopping itself downIn front of them like a hound dog.  Soon the crowdsWould swell and clog the road.                    The dayWas overcast, our two pilgrims downcast—He whom they called Master having become outcast.It almost works with “grown”
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Holy Saturday

Swaddled in white air, the great ash tree sleeps fitfully.Shadowless at noon I walk out among the roses and coriander,A patch of geraniums nearby, all smiles.  Here one talksAbout love poems, without the will to write one.“Oh, I wish I could play the piano like a pro.  Clear and crispMy interpretation of Prokofiev’s Toccata would be…”So a voice in my head distractedly
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Conjuring Up the Eternal – Part 4 of 7

IV.OtherworldlinessFor long years, or so the Anchoress confessed,The sooty black bricks of night encased her onEvery side.  And yellow smoke rose like incenseEach morning.  "One would think I livedIn a chimney," she sighed.  Yet the smell of peasAnd carrots, of beans simmering in a pot,Spiraled slowly upward on invisible wings,While the pulp she squeezed from meaty applesMerited the
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Conjuring Up the Eternal – Part 3 of 7

III.Speaking of DeathInto the box of the black-eyed menace I go,Its coffin lid, like heaven itself, slammed shut.Steep cliffs loom large at each of its four wallsWhere vultures wait their turn in silence.I nod off.  Who knows whether, if I sayI've come here seeking life and wisdom,With these gifts, or with neither, or with someKind of hellish madness, I will return?  NoMatter.  I follow
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Three Poems for the Coming of Spring – Part 3

III.A Boy's Song of SpringI want to laugh and sing, to tell riddles or share with youThe dream that woke me this morning, feeding sunlight to my eyes.I want to mix my words with the clatter of a bluejay's boxcar as it passes,Throwing long, like a train whistle, the football of my thoughts.I want to ride Spring's purity of power, its unbridled freedom.  In a nutshell,To take up the joy of a lifetime
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The City and Beyond ~ Four Poems – Part 3

Passing Through~Beale Street, Memphis, USAOh, what madness there is in the steely voiceOf an upright piano pounding levies like a swollen river.What pings of glee spring from the sleek body ofAn electric guitar and bounce off walls like popcorn.The dirge-like wailing of a tenor sax becomes a butterflyAnd flits away, sipping flowers up and down the whole lengthOf the street.  Yes, Beale Street,
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Poems for the New Year – Part 5

V.Intimations of SpringIt took a thousand years, but at last a new warmthWorked itself free.  Slicing through alleyways no biggerThan a man's fist, this first hint of spring soon picked up speed,Veering left and right like stampeding cattle,Bumping against doors and shutters and jostling wind chimes.The clatter sent pigeons soaring skyward like fireworks,The day's cloud cover parting before them. 
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Five Advent Poems – Part 5

V.Christmas ShoppingLate fog crowds the streets.  A starlit journey lies before me,Trudging through that part of my life where words like YuletideStill apply, where treasure chests openGlimmering in the faces of shoppers as they elbow past.Soon lights, too, will flicker, to chase away every shadow of self-pity.Life is truly beautiful.  I've said that before, once againIt's crossed my lips. 
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Poetry - 3rd in a Series

Nightfall    1.The moon is full, wedged in at the top of the hill.Its floodgates open, and the goldenLandscape of day recedesReceiving a river of innocence and awe.A silver age follows, An age of journeys into the night.Tall trees sway and wave us on, stirred by the wakeful dead.There is something miraculousIn the way we do not doubtThese moments are truthful and good.   
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