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Jacob Goodpasture

When Fort Sumter fell and the war came
I cried out in bitterness of soul:
"O glorious republic now no more!"
When they buried my soldier son
To the call of trumpets and the sound of drums
My heart broke beneath the weight
Of eighty years, and I cried:
"Oh, son who died in a cause unjust!
In the strife of Freedom slain!"
And I crept here under the grass.
And now from the battlements of time, behold:
Thrice thirty million souls being bound together
In the love of larger truth,
Rapt in the expectation of the birth
Of a new Beauty,
Sprung from Brotherhood and Wisdom.
I with eyes of spirit see the Transfiguration
Before you see it.
But ye infinite brood of golden eagles nesting ever higher,
Wheeling ever higher, the sun-light wooing

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poem by Edgar Lee Masters
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What for? If only the goat can tell.

O! The silly goat could have been a dove
White and meek
Soundless in the journey to air
Dove to another dove
Satisfied from among its likes
The horns could have been feathers
In a bird’s body

Another completing dove could have waited
Only if the silly goat knew
The transfiguration of its feet to claw
Its whiskers to beak
The goat’s life would have been complete
And fulfilled
But this the silly goat will never know
& learn and untie
& solve the crazy knot
That it has never untangled
Never has he learned from all the ages
Of his grass life

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poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A castle stands ’neath western skies

A castle stands ’neath western skies
Gold shields its roof have studded;
The evening sun behind it dies
Midst cloud banks so newly ruddied.
That castle by no hand is wrought:
Perfectly though it’s gilded;
Its gate soars up to heaven’s court;
Our Lord Himself did once built it.

From thousand turrets sparkles gold,
Amber its gate is gleaming;
The sea reflects its walls of old,
With pillars of sun’s rays teeming.
God’s sun into its castle crowds,
Purple raiment inflaming,
On battlements in rosy clouds
Light’s banner’s glory proclaiming.

Sun’s angel waves the flag of light,
Sets off for distant quarters;

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poem by Bernhard Severin Ingemann
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Poetry Is Not Just Feelings

i have long said
that there is no definition to poetry
it is
sui generis, a class of its own,
a evolution of meanings and a transfiguration of words
into substances beyond
the limitations of our minds,
if you say that poetry is feelings
what is then
those that we have not even felt and yet
strikes us as
poetic?

an enlightenment for instance
a divine revelation handed in a dream
in the form of metaphors

what about those that strike us
like a red wheelbarrow glazed with the rain
beside those white chickens?

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poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Flickering Lights

Never Observed Aurora Borealis.
Though heard witnessed tales. Viewed.
Magical Spectral Ephemeral Wizardry.

On programmed film.
Shall I ever?
Obtain chance privilege
witness wonder personally?

In present flesh. Electrified senses. To behold.
Wonder with mine own mesmerized eyes.
Like witnessing worshipped transfiguration.

Cosmic wonder superstition
time space continuum.
Ignited beheld universe
electrified ionized skies.

Close guarded opinionates

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poem by Terence George Craddock
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Idol Worship Reverence Rejected

dated sacrament

all the twisted
towering displacement
the host adoration

the sun the sac
the shivering
that sacrificed

that candle
that guttered ghost
witnessing revealing truth

Almighty God our creator
Jesus Christ an only begotten son
baptism by Holy Spirit and fire

Counsellor Helper Comforter
Sanctifier of Souls The Giver of Graces

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poem by Terence George Craddock
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A World Of Love

I was so lonely before you my love.
I had forty years of loneliness drowning my soul.
Forty years of loneliness from tears never cried.
Tears collected from forty years of bitter salt life.
Tears uncried formed an ocean of bitter salt tears.
Bitter salt tears can drown or pickle a weaker soul.
I have waited for you for forty years my love.
The first miracle was the miracle of my first meeting you.

When angels stood among us; during the miracle; of dancing with you.
Since then I have beheld; an incredible transformation; miracle my love.
Since then you have turned; tsunami divided an ocean; of bitter salt tears.
Transfiguration brine sea; into the sweetest of chilled; summer red wine.
Through the miracle of love; the world will be drunk; on spiritual love.
Who would have ever thought; that a flood of love; would come to rein.

A second flood that would save; wash clean an entire world.
A flood of love that would wash; clean all sins of earth world.
Washed clean slowly over gospel time; suddenly as waters of life
gather turn barren wastes; parched deserts into fertile lands of love.

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poem by Terence George Craddock
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In Contact With An Angel

Still asleep in beautiful repose
A knock I heard on my door
Guess the intruder was to the door very close
Cos at my inquiry his voice, though pale became as bold as ore

I, opening my door looked at the little God-created creature
As he stood helplessly like a log of wood
Please sire, he asked in a well-mannered nature
Can you, if you don't mind offer me some food?

God! , he was clad in a garment, so poor
And he looked so cold as snow
How could I now deny him of what he asked for?
Though yonder he came from I don't know

Please, the little stranger asked again
I know you know not me
But please help quench this hunger, this pang of pain
And I ever shall be grateful to thee

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poem by Olajide Ajibola
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Aurobindo 147 Savitri Book 10

An appreciation on Savitri-
Book Ten: The Book of the Double Twilight
Canto Three - The Debate of Love and Death
Words within inverted commas are Aurobindo's

'Beyond the earth, but meant for delivered earth,
Wisdom and joy prepare their perfect crown;
Truth superhuman calls to thinking man.
At last the soul turns to eternal things,
In every shrine it cries for the clasp of God.
Then is there played the crowning Mystery,
Then is achieved the longed-for miracle.'
Just only for the thinking man....

'A mystic slow transfiguration works.
All our earth starts from mud and ends in sky,
And Love that was once an animal's desire,
Then a sweet madness in the rapturous heart,
An ardent comradeship in the happy mind,
Becomes a wide spiritual yearning's space.

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poem by Indira Renganathan
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Via Amoris

I.

IT is not Love, this beautiful unrest,
This tremor of longing that invades my breast:
For Love is in his grave this many a year,
He will not rise--I do not wish him here.
It is not memory, for your face and eyes
Are not reflected where that dark pool lies:
It is not hope, for life makes no amends,
And hope and I are long no longer friends:
It is a ghost out of another Spring
It needs but little for its comforting--
That I should hold your hand and see your face
And muse a little in this quiet place,
Where, through the silence, I can hear you sigh
And feel you sadden, O Virgin Mystery,
And know my thought has in your thought begot
Sadness, its child, and that you know it not.

II.

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poem by Edith Nesbit
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