Of Dreams

L'Invito

Come to me in dreams, since truth denies me;
In night's darkling womb I may feel your breath
Upon my cheek, and for that moment know
What day's unvarnished light will not allow.
Night is kind to those who may never have;
Its brush is forgiving, its canvas wide;
It paints me lying against your shoulder,
And I remain content while sleep accords.
Stay with me, then, belovèd, just this night,
And give sweet respite to my heart's unrest.


After the Dream

With widening dawn
fragments bloom
like passion flowers:

a smile I recall
but never saw,

a voice from your lips,
yet strange and new,

embraces hidden from history
beneath the heavy cloak of sleep.

Dark disperses, light gathers,
morning quickens, fragments fuse and form,
the vista of day's long hours
brightens

as I remember
the you I knew in the night.


© Leticia Austria 2008, 2012

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 Singer's Farewell

     This is an early poem, written before I ever heard of syllabics. I simply liked the comfortable length of ten-syllable lines, and found that they suited a conversational style. Seven-syllable lines were also very comfortable, but felt more "verse-like" than conversational. Some years later I discovered that this technique of adhering to a certain number of syllables, but without using formal meter, was widely used and had an actual name.

     Saying goodbye to my dream of becoming an opera singer—indeed, to my voice, period—was not nearly as difficult as it would seem. I suppose I was never really very "attached" to singing, though I've sung all my life. Daily vocalizing and keeping my technique at its best are no longer the manic obsessions they once were. Nowadays I use my voice, which is only a modest shadow of what it was, to serve as cantor at Mass.

A Singer's Farewell

Never mind; it doesn't really matter.
Such things as were not meant to set the world
on fire, make scant smoke what at last they die.

No, mine was a small, unassuming flame,
just bright and strong enough to glorify
a modest room filled with second-hand chairs.

But change of room can be a world of change,
one flame unchecked alter the horizon,
and "just enough" may one day be too much.

Then reason asks, what does it amount to,
this cleaving to a thing ephemeral?
Only the scant smoke of futility.

Set free, it has become sweeter incense,
an immolation—yes, a holocaust—
but oh-so-slightly dampened by regret;

for I do miss the smaller warmth of old,
that empathetic flame whose color changed
with each song of my mercurial heart.

© Leticia Austria 2006

Passeggiata (Stroll)

"Lovers in a Woodland Clearing"
John Atkinson Grimshaw



 

I know there are no pine trees in this lovely painting; still, I thought the image well-suited to this poem, one of my earlier efforts, and the first to be published for a wider audience.

 

Passeggiata (I)
[pah-sed-JAH-ta - the "i" is not pronounced]

 

Walk with me.

The path beckons, winking in the dawnlight,

And the pines' drowsy whisperings call us

To quiet joy.  The sun through the branches

Welcomes our like hearts with perceptive arms

Limpid with the memory of darkness.

Now is our moment of peace.  We are led

On this narrow way through familiar lands

Defined in my mind; for I have mapped out

All my memories in these woods and fields;

Each blade and limb and stone has its country,

And all sing to me of God's sure blessing.

Could He begrudge me your dear company,

Poignant and wistful as the rain lily

I pressed among words of silent longing?

You are here, belovèd, bright in my heart,

Mine alone for this all-too-fleeting joy,

This, my moment of highest fulfillment:

My spirit and yours, walking together,

Hand in hand.

Cammina con me.
Il sentiero accenna, ammiccando nella luce dell'alba,
E il sussurrare sonnolento dei pini si chiama
Alla gioia tranquilla.  Il sole fra i rami
Accoglie i nostri cuori con braccia perspicaci
Limpidi con la memoria del buio.
Ora è il nostro momento di pace.  Siamo condotti
Su questa stretta via attraverso terre familiari
Definite nella mia mente; perché ho mappato
Tutti i miei ricordi in questi boschi e campi;
Ogni filo d'erba e ramo e pietra ha la sua patria,
E tutto canta a me della certa benedizione di Dio.

Potrebbe Lui invidiarmi la tua cara compagnia,
Commovente e malinconica come il giglio selvatico
Da me pressato fra le parole di desiderio silente?
Tu sei qui, adorato, radioso nel mio cuore,
Il mio solo per tutta questa troppo fuggevole gioia,
Questo, il mio momento di maggiore appagamento:
Il mio spirito ed il tuo, a camminare insieme
Mano nella mano.
 

© Leticia Austria 2007
First published in English in The San Antonio Express-News

Italian translation by Federica Galetto, published in La Stanza di Nightingale

 

Too Romantic?

     I thought I could never get this poem published. It's hard to know if a poem is too emotional or sentimental or overly romantic. In a book on poetry by poet Ted Kooser, there is a poem by another contemporary poet which Kooser said was dangerously close to being too romantic. I thought, "Well, then I must be a downright sap, because I actually think it's somewhat restrained." Compared to Barrett Browning, Byron, and Shakespeare, in fact, I thought it was pretty darn tame! This is why I think many of my poems are unpublishable; but I've discussed (whined about) this at length in earlier posts.

     So I'm very grateful indeed to the editor of Decanto not only for accepting this poem, but for accepting it with alacrity. There are still a few editors out there who embrace the romantic.

     The Falling

     There was something in your soul
     that wrapped around my reason—
     lyrical, warm, and lovely.

     My mind stood still, so it might
     fathom the fugitive light
     that spoke to me through your eyes,

     so it might plumb the shadows
     that softened the sharp corners
     of your uncompromising

     yet humble intelligence.
     My restless hands stretched, yearning,
     to learn the complex texture

     of your deep simplicity;
     the once insensate days pulsed
     with the rhythms of your voice.

     I rejoiced in the rapture
     of knowing that on this earth
     burned the splendor of your soul.

© Leticia Austria 2011
First published in Decanto

Two Love Poems

BLESSED

I have been blessed by the stillness of your eyes,
The jagged edges of my heart smoothed,
Calmed, the ancient fray long fought.
No balm so sure, nor touch as sweetly healing
As the unconscious kiss of your eyes,
Their ingenuous power.
Even through the fallow procession of years
Bereft of you in voice and flesh,
Still I am not forsaken;
The remembrance of that exquisite stillness,
Like the strains of a Chopin nocturne,
Whispers through my whirring thoughts.
Once again, you heal me;
Once more, I am blessed.

The following sonnet, about unprofessed love, was inspired by this passage in E. H. Young's novel The Misses Mallet:

'But after all,' Charles said more clearly, 'it doesn't matter about being acclaimed. It's just like making music for deaf people: the music's there; the music's there. And so it doesn't matter very much whether you love me. It's one's weakness that wants that, one's loneliness. I can love you just the same, perhaps better; it's the audience that spoils things. I should think it does!'

 CONSTANCY

Nessun amore più vero di quello che muore non rivelato. - Old Italian proverb *

My music sounds, though there is none to hear.
What does it signify, the empty space
it fills? My sounds make this a sacred place.
There could not be a more attentive ear,
nor one more sympathetic, than the chair
that sits so priest-like there, while down the glass
fall contrite tears of one more autumn passed:
another season, and another year.
My music sounds within these hallowed walls;
it vibrates in the darkened corners, falls
upon the empty shelves and empty tabletops.
Around this lonely space its blessings flow,
absolving all my dead, unrealized hopes
whose ashes I had scattered long ago.

* No truer love than that which dies unrevealed.


Poems © Leticia Austria 2007, 2008
"Blessed" first published in Decanto
"Constancy" first published in Dreamcatcher

Music Monday: Hough Plays Rachmaninov

     For twenty-five years opera dominated my adult life, so much so that I drifted completely out of the solo pianist loop that had dominated my youth. During my operatic career, I hardly ever listened to piano rep, and when I did, I always listened to the artists I loved as a young student -- Rubinstein, Vásáry, Arrau, Kempff, Brendel, de Larrocha. For decades, I knew nothing of contemporary concert pianists; didn't even know any names, other than Murray Perahia, and I only knew him because I chanced to see him once on television.

     Since leaving both opera and monastic life, I have slowly gotten reacquainted with pianists and piano rep. I have permitted myself the joy of listening to others, something I deprived myself of for some years after quitting the keyboard. It was just too painful for me at first; but I've since not only learned to listen without yearning to play again, but to embrace, and indeed to love, listening. It has made my quiet life brighter and more beautiful.
     Stephen Hough (for those who don't already know, it's pronounced "huff") has become not only my favorite living pianist, but also a personal hero, and I owe my discovery of him to another of my personal heroes, David Hyde Pierce. In an interview in some publication or other, can't remember which publication, the interviewer asked David what are the first five things on his iPod. One of them was Hough's album of the complete works of Rachmaninov for piano and orchestra. I decided to trust David's taste (since he himself is an accomplished amateur classical pianist) and ordered the CD. I fell instantly in love with Hough's playing and have since been ordering his CDs right and left, and viewing all the videos I can find of him on YouTube.

          REAWAKENING

          for Stephen Hough

          In this smooth sameness of days, I listen
          to music I have always known and hear
          new song; notes once hidden within, unvoiced
          by pedal's haze, leap out to touch a nerve,
          compelling me to fracture the surface,
          to reconcile clarity and turmoil,
          to acknowledge the unexpected grace
          that glints beneath the ash of sacrifice.
          Something linear calls the artist forth,
          bids him provoke; in the end, sanctify
          the underscoring vigor in these days
          that pass andante, legato, serene.
          Is it sameness, after all, challenging
          the spirit that sleeps even in waking?

          © Leticia Austria 2012

     Unfortunately, as far as I've been able to find them, videos of Hough's Rachmaninov can only be had on YouTube in chopped-up live performances. Here, in three parts, is his performance from the 2001 BBC Proms of the Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini, with the BBC Symphony Orchestra, Leonard Slatkin, conductor.

The Quest

     Ever since I first felt the call to a life of contemplative prayer, which was sometime in 2002 (difficult to pinpoint an exact moment), it has never left me. Each and every day, almost in every hour, it enters my thoughts. This is one reason I know it's authentic -- as my spiritual director in Houston told me (God rest his soul), if a notion keeps nagging at you and won't go away, even if you consciously try to push it away, it's probably God's will.

     I followed that call into the cloister, but after nearly two and a half years there, God called me back into the world to help my mother take care of my father. Now my father has passed, God has asked me to stay with my mother for as long as she needs me. The life I lead now, this relatively quiet, uneventful life, you'd think would easily accomodate the intense prayer I had in the cloister; indeed, I have tried and still try to pattern my day to include time not only for the Divine Office but also for stillness, silence, and meditation. However, I find that "the world" contiually encroaches into that silence and my mind teems with distractions. There are the distractions of the television, the internet, Facebook, Twitter, even this blog. Not five minutes go by during prayer time without some rogue internet- or news-related thought invading my meditation. It's come to the point where I've seriously thought of giving up the computer and using it only for the most necessary things. That would mean, of course, that I would also be giving up the almost daily communication I've enjoyed with dear friends, some of whom I haven't communicated with in literally decades. I was able to give that up once, with relatively little pain. Can I do it again? The television, which was in his last years my father's sole and almost day-long diversion, stands quiet for much of the day now, but even so, it's still an intrusion with its many references to violence, random sex, and materialism. The life of contemplation which I so want, and to which I'm certain God is calling me -- if it isn't to be in the blessed environment of the monastery, then exactly how does he want me to live it, right here and now, in the environment he's given me?

     I know that life itself, no matter what it is or what it entails, can and should become one continual prayer. That's what St Paul urged us to do. All of us, whatever our life's vocation, are called to maintain a state of inner recollection. However, that's ever so much easier said than done. I'll just have to keep asking God how he wants me to do it. That in itself is prayer.

The Quest

I've lived too many lives in this one life
and still I seek to live the one that's true.
Perhaps the way is there, over that slope,
where a corps of rain lilies pristine white
rise serenely after their long, deep sleep.
Could I, too, lie in wait beneath the ground,
till rousing rains at long last break the drought?
Small reward -- such brief freedom in the light!
And yet those maiden blooms seem not to care
that joy is theirs but for a little while.

But, no, perhaps the way lies farther on --
there -- where the church roof peaks like fingertips
together gently pressed and upward straight
in earnest supplication to the sky.
To ask is to receive, or so it's said;
but I have asked, and answer never came.
It could be that I asked mistakenly,
against whatever plan was made for me.
Still, I asked.  Is that not sufficient proof
I know the answer will be mine someday?

I have no guide except the silent sun,
upon whose face I cannot even look;
and looking round, my only company
is my gray shadow, clinging to my heels,
yet stretching still toward dust already trod.
It seems to hide from the sun that made it,
but I, in present state, am poor shelter.
There is nothing, then, but to carry on;
for the sun must surely set down somewhere,
and surely that is where my life awaits.

(08/08, first published in Lonestars Magazine )

Blogging A to Z: "W" is for Waiting

Waiting

What happiness is this that, once passed,
     harrows the heart?
It turns the soil, then leaves the furrows
     empty and dry.

And so you came and prepared this ground:
     for whom? For what?

This plot of earth watches countless moons
     waning, waxing,
While I water it with woman's tears
     until life springs.                                   (August/07)


Another example of a syllabic poem, this piece alternates 9-syllable and 4-syllable lines, creating a subtle rhythm in lieu of actual meter. The alliterative h's in the first two lines, and the w's in the first three lines of the last stanza, convey sighing and weeping; the w's also convey the slow-moving days of waiting. The final spondee, "life springs", and the onomatpoeic nature of the word "springs" with its short vowel, offer a glimmer of hope at the end.