Poetry, Cloister, United God, Singing God, Flautist, Creator voice

Lebanon Art, virtual art gallery.

The Cloister

Seven or eight in this convent cloister they live,
What I’ve seen there is something hard to believe,
Rarely so touched have I been, so profoundly perturbed,
With tears in my eyes, so deeply disturbed,
On seeing these sisters of Carmel who pray
With smiles on their faces the psalms of the day,
Showing goodness and love and mysterious tryst
Of a life austere they have chosen for Christ.
What seems to us a prison, confinement,
Is a Way of the Cross and holy refinement,
A choice freely made for a habit that’s lowly,
A garment of light that is pure and is holy.
Burning with love, losing self in their fervor,
Thus they take part in the work of their Savior,
Forgetting themselves for the Christ they have wed,
Present forever in mystical bread.
By what voice are they called, by what music inspired?
By what silence embraced, by what calling refined?
United to God in all work that they do,
Away from the world, a sisterhood few.
The vision of God enriches their seeking
Avila, Lisieux and now Lebanon reaching.
God and our land are always made one
With saints bound for heaven from Lebanon come.
Christ son of Mary in their prayers adored,
From this land of the Mountain in holy accord.
Dear children of Mary filled with love for their land,
Forming with centuries an uncountable band,
These Carmelites virgins and angels earth-born,
They come to my mind when I rise in the morn.
Remember my prayers when your Lord you will meet,
Joining the saints with the stars at your feet.
Your vows and the Church in harmony meet
Like God who with Abraham in cov’nant agreed.
Christ is here in the chalice and Host
In our hearts he is too where we treasure him most.
This Sunday of autumn, Theresa’s great day,
I came to your chapel so fine there to pray;
You were there but hidden and screened from our gaze
Singing to God in your ancient ways.
Outside came the rain, I wiped tears from my face,
Moved by the charm of your silence and grace.

The Flautist

Serene he listens,
And calm.
His hair is a tussled shock,
But his face is fair.
His neck is firm and graceful,
That of Apollo or Adonis,
Of some god enthroned on Olympus.
No instruments held in his hand,
He harks to the silence,
Voices of light,
Hymns of the air vibrations of time...
A moment that lasts in allegro.
His symphonies those of life,
His scales of being itself.
“My instrument is the flute!”
Has he avowed it?
Mozart made one that was magic,
In ecstasy to be heard.
Is the musician forever attentive
To his Creator’s voice?
Such is the silent music
That comes from the voices of quiet.

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