"He has risen"

And entering the tomb, they saw a young man sitting on the right side, dressed in a white robe; and they were amazed. And he said to them, "Do not be amazed; you seek Jesus of Nazareth, who was crucified. He has risen, he is not here; see the place where they laid him." ~ Mark 16:5-6 (RSVCE)



Bouguereau
"The Holy Women at the Tomb"



Three Poems for Holy Week

Renunciation

They once were mine,
These hands that played
Upon their shrine
Of ebon, tusk;
These hands that sang
Of heroes' wreaths,
The wreaths of maids,
And maidens' plaints.

Now silent, still,
The fingers weave
A chapel roof
Where slow tears drop
And drop and pool
While prayers sigh
And sigh and moan
Into the nave.

They once were mine,
These chastened wings,
As wings once chaste
Now crimsoned, cracked—
Into those hands,
My Lord, my God,
These I commend
That once were mine.


Simon

I once had all the answers
safely nested away.
I once knew who I was
and the path I was to take.
Why, then, did I pause to look?
Why interrupt the evenness
my life had become,
the status quo that beat
so assuredly in the hollow
where my heart was to have been?
But for my curiosity
the answers would still be mine.
One casual glance erased forever
those easy, formulaic solutions
and chanced to rest on the face
that now gives me no rest.
Streaked and stricken, it haunts me still,
gripping my soul with its
unspeakable pain and sorrow
born of a love I did not then
and cannot now fathom.
Yoked with him beneath the wood
I looked into his eyes,
and all my answers were lost,
forever drowned in that cup where
taking dies and
giving is eternally reborn.
No, it was not my choice.
And he was not my Lord.
But I shouldered his yoke
and trod in his steps,
leaving behind
my tidy nest of answers
and the self I knew
to become forever
His.


An Ecstasy

"No greater love than this."

My love, my love,
the unspoken word
Thou givest me who sought Thee,
I shall clasp within
this inner sanctum,
that my soul be branded
with its Cross, girded
with its diadem of grief.
Clear as the light
upon Thy limbs,
vivid as the blood
upon Thy brow—
with this fleeting, searing,
unspoken word
Thou hast answered me.
My love, my love,
Thy face is veiled
with the shadow
of my unworthiness; still,
I know Thy eyes,
laden with blows of ignorance
and arrogance.  Thy thorns
pierceth me through.
I cannot speak nor move,
but only weep; for,
mutely groaning, Thou turnest
Thy face to leave me
once more alone.

My love, my love, I ask you again
yet know too well I cannot bid you back,
nor would I; but live content that you,
o flame of my soul, warm me still.


© Leticia Austria

A Woman or a Two-Toed Sloth, It Matters Not

     About ten years ago, a young female pianist/coach, who was at that time in the Houston Grand Opera Studio, asked me if my being a woman was in any way a hindrance to me in the opera business. I remember being a bit surprised at the question, as it had never been asked me before. However, I didn't have to ponder over my answer: I told her frankly that my being a woman was never an issue, at least, not to my knowledge.

     Several years before this event, an internationally known woman conductor came to Houston to conduct one of our main-stage productions. I was Assistant Chorus Master, and had charge of the chorus for most of the rehearsal period while our Chorus Master was out of town on another job. The working relationship between the conductor (who insisted on being called "Maestro" rather than "Maestra") and me was quite amicable. She respected my abilities, and I respected hers. However, her relationship with the orchestra was not a happy one. I wasn't privy to the details, but apparently her behavior towards them and towards one player in particular prompted a letter of complaint to the HGO administration from the orchestra as a body. They felt she treated them as second-rate (this was the Houston Symphony, mind you, one of the finest orchestras in the country). My respect for her lessened considerably, though she and I continued our outward professional relationship. After the closing performance, I went backstage to say goodbye to her. Her very last words to me (and I paraphrase, due to the intervening years and my fuzzy memory) were, "Power to women!" and she made a fist and raised it in the air. I confess, it left an unpleasant taste in my mouth. The very first thought that came to my mind was, "That's not why I do this."

     When HGO asked me to conduct a mainstage production, I knew it was because they felt I was able to do so. I accepted because I knew they had faith in me, and because I felt I should meet the challenge. I also knew that they would have asked me if I had been a man, if I were from Zimbabwe, if I had seaweed instead of hair, or if I were a two-toed sloth. All they cared about was whether or not I could wield a decent baton and do a good job. (Well, actually, I would have my doubts about the two-toed sloth.)

     My being a woman was never an issue. The issue was my ability. Also my professionalism and my respectful treatment of others. My gender was never used by anyone as an excuse or a platform, nor did I myself use it as such. And I did what I did because I loved it and knew, with hard work and perseverance, I could do it and do it well.

     And I should say that, had that woman conductor I spoke of earlier been a man, I still would have respected him less for his treatment of the orchestra.

The Right

This sonnet is yet another about unprofessed love. I wrote it rather hurriedly a few years ago while waiting for my father at his doctor's appointment, and while I don't consider it to be one of my better sonnets, it's straightforward and pretty well crafted. Very "by the book." It's one of those poems I've never sent out to editors and never will. The reason I'm posting it today, despite my lukewarm feelings for it, is that I'm running out of poems to post, believe it or not! I'm not what you'd call prolific, and am known to go through long periods without writing a word of verse. Plus which, my life has been so blessedly even and uneventful lately, I even find it hard to write a journal post. I am definitely not a disciplined, work-a-day kind of writer! Would that I were.

 

 

The Right

 

I could not love you more if you were mine,

Or were I to proclaim it by a vow,

To promise till the end of earthly time

What I had promised once and promise now.

 

I would not love you less were I to live

The whole of life deprived of your consent,

That sacred confidence you cannot give,

Without which I would still remain content.

 

If love is judged by time and trial withstood,

And vows are made to God and not to flesh,

Then you are mine by right of faithfulness,

And mine by right of willing you His good.

 

Though it may slumber silent in my breast,

My right to love you will not die unblessed.

 

© Leticia Austria 2010

The Painting I'd Like to Step into Today

View of the Amalfi Coast
by
Carl Frederic Aagaard



The Ideal

Poems are often products of a low patch, a. k. a. depression. Sometimes writing, especially poetry, helps me to be more objective about whatever it is I'm struggling through, because of the objectivity that necessarily goes into the crafting of a poem. And the more I write, the more I distance myself, not from the problem itself, but the negativity it generates. So I don't think of such poems as depressing in themselves, but as a purgation.

The Ideal

I've heard it said that only the ideal
Carved out of want or spun from fractured dreams
Can lift the soul, and render what is real
Exalted, loftier than what it seems.
This may be so; but then, what of the pain
Which never having touched the height has wrought?
What of the reaching time and time again,
To end in losing sight of what was sought?
I had imagined once, in simpler days,
That loving in itself was absolute;
I could not see, so upward was my gaze,
The price exacted by this high pursuit:
Exalting what is obdurately real
While sinking with the weight of an ideal.

© Leticia Austria 2008

Niles Crane's Greatest Lines: Season Eleven

All quotes have been lifted directly from the DVDs and checked thoroughly for accuracy.

"No Sex, Please, We're Skittish"

FRASIER:  Are you pregnant?
DAPHNE:  Not yet, but we're trying.
FRASIER:  Oh! Well, congratulations! You've got all the fertility software, and so forth?
NILES:  Of course; we're not animals.

"A Man, a Plan, and a Gal: Julia"

NILES: Frasier! What are you doing in the kitchen?
FRASIER:  You just asked to see me.
NILES:  Ah! So you haven't gone deaf.
FRASIER:  Why would I have gone deaf?
NILES:  Because that's the only good reason you sat there silently while our profession was assaulted like a drag queen at a tractor pull!

"The Doctor Is Out"

MARTIN:  That guy's not gay. You know how you can tell? The muscles.
NILES:  Good point, Dad. Second tip-off: no poodle.

"The Babysitter"

NILES:  If you tortured that metaphor any more, you'd be before a tribunal in the Hague.

++++++++

MARTIN:  Oh, yeah, I remember Ronee. Pretty little thing, yeah. How's she looking these days?
NILES:  Had her eyes pulled so tight, she could land a role in Flower Drum Song.

++++++++

NILES:  What are you doing with Dad's Velveeta?
FRASIER:  What do think I'm doing with it? I'm gonna eat it.
NILES:  Okay, Frasier, this isn't funny anymore.
FRASIER:  Oh, my God. (taking something out of the Velveeta box)
NILES:  What is it?
FRASIER:  It's Viagra!
NILES:  They give that away with Velveeta?

"I'm Listening"

NILES: What are we looking for?
FRASIER:  My money clip. Have you seen it?
NILES:  Rarely.

++++++++

FRASIER:  I'm, uh, reciting "Annabel Lee" for the Poe Society this evening. I-I don't mind telling you, I'm just a bit nervous.
NILES:  Don't worry. Poe folk don't 'spect much.

"Murder Most Maris"

NILES:  I can't believe she could have planned this. You do learn something about a woman when you've slept in the room next to hers for fifteen years.

++++++++

MARTIN:  (looking at a newspaper photo) Is that you and Maris on your honeymoon?
NILES:  Uh, that is the experimental liposuction center in Gestaad. So, yes.

++++++++

NILES:  (turning off his cell phone) Oh, that was Maris. Poor thing lost her shoes. She put them outside her cell to be polished ... and someone named Big Judy is holding them for ransom.

++++++++

FRASIER:  That's the stuff, Niles! Doesn't it feel good to get it off your chest?
NILES:  Oh, stuff it, Mr. Malaprop! "Family spokesman." The Manson family should have a spokesman like you!

"Guns and Neuroses"

LILITH:  Daphne, Niles—congratulations on the successful commingling of your genetic material.
DAPHNE:  Thank you.
LILITH:  Do you know the sex?
NILES:  Do we! That's how we got pregnant!

"High Holidays"

NILES: I've decided to rebel tonight. Right under Dad's nose.
FRASIER:  How?
NILES:  You ready?
FRASIER:  Yes.
NILES:  You sure?
FRASIER:  Positive.
NILES:  Move your coffee; it might—
FRASIER:  Niles!
NILES:  I'm getting high on reefer.
FRASIER:  What?!
NILES:  I've waited for this all my life, Frasier—one act of utter, devil-may-care, crotch-grabbing brazenness! And, of course, I'll have a nurse on speed dial in case things get too hairy.

+++++++++

FRASIER:  I judge from all this rich terminology that you've done some research.
NILES:  Yes, I know all the symptoms I can expect to experience. I'm especially looking forward to something called the "munchies" stage. It's where one enjoys bizarre food combinations. I'm thinking of pairing this Chilean sea bass with an aggressive zinfandel.

"Freudian Sleep"

NILES:  Well, I can see how that might disturb you,—
FRASIER:  Indeed.
NILES:  —a man of your intellect having such an obvious dream.
FRASIER:  I beg your pardon?
NILES:  Oh, come on. You're lonely, and you envy what I have. I was just hoping for something more complex; you know, a staircase leading nowhere, or ... Mom giving you a physical.

"Caught in the Act"

FRASIER:  The Gap, Niles? I didn't know you shopped there.
NILES:  I just discovered it. Apparently, there are a number of them.

++++++++

FRASIER:  Niles, if you had any idea how much pain she's in! The woman is reaching out to me to rescue her from a loveless marriage, from—from a career she feels trapped in. If I could help her make a new beginning, wouldn't it be heartless of me to deny myself to her?
NILES:  Did you say something? Your penis was talking so loud, I couldn't hear.

"Boo!"

MARTIN:  Frasier, I wish you would stop coddling me. I know you're sorry and you didn't mean to give me a heart attack.
FRASIER:  Not a heart attack, Dad. A cardiac event. You know, maybe we can look on this as a sign that you should begin a healthier lifestyle. Perhaps one day we'll look back on this and you'll thank me for it.
NILES:  Oh, yes. Maybe then you can find a nice card for Frasier, like, "Now that I'm old and looking back, I thank you for my heart attack."

++++++++

FRASIER:  You know, I'm not ready to lose him, Niles.
NILES:  Me neither. And I don't want my child to miss knowing him. Who else is going to teach him to catch a football ball?

"Coots and Ladders"

RONEE:  You must be drunk in this picture, Niles. You've got your arm around a floor lamp.
NILES:  Oh, no, that's Maris in her Easter hat.

++++++++

FRASIER:  Admit it, Niles. It's intoxicating, isn't it? Can't you feel a tingle running down your spine?
NILES:  In a minute it's going to be running down my inseam. Hurry up.

"Miss Right Now"

 

FRASIER:  I can't stop thinking about this woman I've met. It's my matchmaker, of all people.
NILES:  Well, now, do you get a discount if the matchmaker sets you up with herself? Sort of a ... floor model sort of thing?

"And Frasier Makes Three"

NILES:  I thought you said she has a boyfriend. This environmentalist fellow.
FRASIER:  Yes. Frank.
NILES:  Well, so— (to the waiter) Thank you. (to FRASIER) What's your plan to get around him?
FRASIER:  I'm merely going to present myself as the anti-Frank.
NILES:  Ah. So you're going to be not rugged and not handsome.

"Goodnight, Seattle"

NILES:  The idea that our son might take after them is making me crazy.
FRASIER:  Now, Niles, just remember those hardy Crane genes are in there, too.
NILES:  Oh, please. Those Moon genes have probably beaten our genes up and stolen their lunch money.

++++++++

MARTIN:  Ronee, the boys think they can throw a fancy wedding together by May 15th.
RONEE:  But that's in eight days.
NILES:  Well, it only took us four days to throw together our seafood-themed "Friends of the Marina Bouilla-bash."

++++++++

NILES:  That is so funny—I've been worried he's going to turn out like one of your brothers. I was sure when he kicked that speaker off your belly that you had a little Simon in there.
DAPHNE:  They are a handful, my brothers. I can just imagine the hell they're raising back there.
NILES:  With an open bar?
DAPHNE:  (gasping)  Oh, my God. My water just broke. The baby's coming!
NILES:  Because I said "open bar" ?!

In My Own Little Corner

     My apologies to Oscar Hammerstein for stealing one of his song titles from Cinderella.

     In monastic life, one can not only pray and meditate in the chapel or the oratory, but in one's cell. In fact, one is strongly encouraged to pray in one's cell, to shut the door and be silent and alone with God whenever possible. This is one of the many aspects of monastic life that I miss greatly.

     It isn't so easy out here "in the world." A house is not a cloister, after all. Since I don't live alone, there are almost always people turning on the television or the radio, family and friends dropping by to visit. There are errands to run, chores to do, appointments to keep; not just my own, but my mother's as well. I simply cannot keep a monastic horarium, nor should I expect to. The best I can do is rise early enough in the morning to ensure I have ample time to pray Lauds and the Office of Readings, perhaps get in some lectio divina; and pray Vespers/Rosary/Stations rather late, around seven or eight, and Compline just before bedtime. If I can manage to wedge in another office in the middle of the day, I'm doing really well. But most days, I just can't. Aside from everything else, the house is so small, it's impossible to shut out daytime noise and the living room television, which is almost always on until the early evening.

     Silent, solitary prayer time is so very important and precious, and for this, it's good to have a special prayer corner. Mine is in my bedroom, right next to my bed, very convenient. Several years ago, as a Christmas present, my brother built for me a beautiful prie-dieu (literally "pray-God"), complete with a fold-up kneeler and a shelf in which I store my breviaries and Bible. Behind the prie-dieu are all my theology and inspirational books, saints' biographies, and miscellaneous prayer books. My crucifix hangs just above eye level when I kneel. There is a beautiful image of the Sacred Heart on one wall of the corner, and an equally beautiful image of Our Blessed Mother on the other wall. And since I can no longer kneel more than a half hour at a time, I keep a folding chair right next to the prie-dieu.

     Beginning and ending each day in silence before God, in addition to keeping him as foremost in my thoughts as I can during the day, has become so crucial, I just don't feel right if for any reason that routine is broken. My little prayer corner is my favorite part of our house; it is the place where I can throw myself into the Father's loving arms, bringing with me not only my cares, but those of my family, my friends, and the whole world. It is where I feel closest to my fellow human beings, no matter what their beliefs, or lack thereof. It is where I can meditate on God's infinite mercy, lose myself in the wonder of his love, and thank him for everything he's given me.