Chaput: America's Faith is Kaput!

Mark passes along a piece he thinks our vast readership will find interesting. Here's a teaser:

Americans now face the same growing spiritual illness that J.R.R. Tolkien, G.K. Chesterton, Christopher Dawson, Romano Guardini, and C.S. Lewis all wrote about in the last century. It’s a loss of hope and purpose that comes from the loss of an interior life and a living faith. It’s a loss that we can only make bearable by creating a culture of material comfort that feeds—and feeds off of—personal selfishness.

As I read the article, I was thinking that I'd mention a Flannery O'Connor line that tied in nicely with the theme, but unfortunately great minds think alike and Archbishop Chaput beat me to it. (It's actually a line she uses in more than one story, uncreative hack that she was.) Is it my imagination, or does the article (along with Bernanos's essays) seem a bit harsh in its criticism of technology? Surely the dangers of the light bulb and the Internet shouldn't be compared to the atomic bomb! Still, I like this from the same section: “Christianity sees the most important moments of the human story to be the past event of the Incarnation and the present moment of my individual opportunity to love.”

The Archbishop also mentions a company that makes mints called “ImpeachMints” and “National EmbarrassMints,” all with pictures of Bush et al. I've seen those all over the place, and am surprised they haven't lampooned Bush's tax policy with “ImpoverishMints.” But what's the company going to sell if a Democrat wins the White House? “Save the EnvironMints”? “Her Husband Was Actually Impeached Mints”?

(By the way, I don't really think Flannery O'Connor was a hack.)

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How to Write with Helen White, part 1

Our friend Hansonius has been generous enough to invite me to post on his blog. Thanks Hansonius, whoever you are! I thought I’d start with a series of posts about an essay written by Helen C. White, about whom you could read more all the way over here. She wrote the introduction to Drink from the Rock (1944), which is a collection of poems from Spirit, a Magazine of Poetry published by the Catholic Poetry Society of America. I confess that I haven’t read much of the poetry from the collection, so I can’t say how accurate her assessment of Spirit is. But her short essay offers some provocative insights into the creation of not only Catholic poetry, but all sorts of Catholic writing, and religious art more generally. Many of her points anticipated issues we discussed last summer in Mahwah: what makes literature Catholic? What should religious poetry do? How do religious artists reconcile their faith with their artistic responsibilities? There are so many interesting bits that rather than offering them all at once, I’m going to milk them for what they’re worth over the next week or so.

First things (no allusion intended) first. She begins her introduction by discussing the tension between the poet’s responsibility to his individual consciousness and the world at-large:

“Spirit in its very basic undertaking of encouraging the writing and reading of poetry grounded in a spiritual approach to the universe, met head-on some of the most important challenges of its day. It challenged, first of all, the unrestricted and uncontested individualism of the romantic movement. [I'll bite my tongut about why I think she's being unfair to the romantics...] It did not deny the preeminence of the individual for the creation of poetry, but it challenged the insulation and the self-sufficiency of romantic individualism. On the other hand, the Editors of Spirit defended the integrity and significance of the individual against that rush to lose the individual consciousness in the imagined consciousness of the mass of humanity in which so many disillusioned individualists of a decade ago sought to recover a sense of moral significance. It tried to do justice to two realities, both indispensable to poetic creation, realities which never should have been set in opposition to each other, the individual consciousness and the relation of that consciousness to the world without.”

But here's the rub:

“In doing so, Spirit faced squarely the burning issue of poetry and propaganda. With the critics of romanticism it agreed that the individual owed an allegiance beyond himself, that the content of a poem could not be a matter of light concern to either the poet or his reader. But it insisted no less firmly that poetry was something more than a medium for expressing ideas. It maintained this basic position against the proletarian school, that advanced the propagandist view of poetry on behalf of a materialist ideology which Spirit could not accept.”

Our ears should really perk up with the next paragraph, which reminds us that parroting catechesis does not compensate for a lack of technical and artistic ability:

“But with even more courage and independence Spirit maintained the distinctive character of poetry against the propagandists of its own point of view. As Spirit was quite historically oriented enough to know, this was a much older foe and a much more dangerous one. For the notion that correct theological ideas and praiseworthy sentiments would redeem any rhyme and lay an obligation upon the pious reader has long been the curse of religious poetry. Spirit saw clearly that the pious platitude might be a poetic blasphemy, and from the first it has waged unremitting war against the substitution of piety for poetry.”

“Pious platitude”—good stuff, isn’t it? She later calls the tension she’s describing “a confrontation of unworldly and unpoetic sanctity.” And it’s something that Flannery O’Connor discusses often in her letters and prose.

I wonder if the religious devotion and artistic excellence she’s talking about here go hand-in-hand. If a Catholic writer cannot express Catholic ideas and beliefs originally or creatively, it could very well be because he does not quite understand the ideas and teachings to begin with well enough to make them part of his individual consciousness. It’s the same with any idea: the quality of the writing very often depends on the depth of the knowledge and the strength of the understanding.

That's it for now. Now do me a favor and post a response. And stay tuned next week when Helen C. White tells us how poetry is like prayer.

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Stations of the Cross

Chris sent these in with this to say:

They're a few sonnets from a Catholic poetry journal called "Spirit," published in the 1940s through (I think) the 1960s, and which included contributions from a young Thomas Merton and a woman named Helen C. White, who was the first female English professor here at UW-Madison (in fact, the very ugly building that houses the English department is named after her). The sonnets I'm attaching were written by a Jesuit priest named William Donaghy.

I. He Is Condemned

Pilate must heed the public pulse and poll,
As every politician quickly learns,
The multitude that smiles, as quickly spurns,
And so he shrugs his shoulders and his soul;
His fingers flutter in the brazen bowl;
The guilt is off his hands and head; he turns
To take the spotless towel; in him burns
A doubt; but Caesar's favour is his goal.

"Sub Pontio Pilato"--down the years
Before a man may truly live, reborn
Of water and the Holy Ghost, he hears
Caught in the Creed, those words of pitying scorn
For him whose heart was meagre, not malign,
Who used ironic water for a sign.

II. He Carries His Cross

No parable my heart so cruelly cleaves-
The Prodigal among the snorting hogs,
Nor Lazarus doctored by the kindly dogs,
The stranger beaten, stripped and bruised by thieves,
The thorn-torn Shepherd seeking, as he grieves,
Some lost sheep bleating in the briars and bogs-
Sadder to me than all these analogues,
The fruitless fig-tree stands with leathern leaves.

For this is all the kingly city 'gives,
A cursed fig-tree; and a tree of blood
Denuded, ribald, it no longer lives,
Bereft of branches, shorn of bark and bud;
And yet its roots are slumbering, vital still,
At Nagasaki, Tyburn, Auriesville.


III. He Falls

The crowd is thrilled to see a fighter downed,
Battered and bloody, sprawled upon the floor,
Like multitudinous surfs upon the shore
Its shout arises; so the sickening sound
Of splintering wood upon the flinty ground
Brings from this mob a swelling, bestial roar.
What though the fall renewed the wounds and tore
His flesh, and jarred His head so crudely crowned.

These worthy citizens are men of name,
Respectable, judicious, just, discreet;
I cannot bear to have them know my shame-
My brother dying in a public street-
And though I hear our mother's choking sob,
I turn and shout "My brothers!" to the mob.

IV. He Meets His Mother

This afternoon in loud Jerusalem
They meet and part once more; no touch nor kiss
Can ease their anguish; while the mockers hiss:
"And he's the fool who thought his streaming hem
Could cure the woman. See the two of them,
The son and wife of Joseph come to this."
Two hearts cry out-abyss unto abyss,
And Jesse's flower is cut from Jesse's stem.

Perhaps she thinks of Nain-of all the land
Where wonders blossomed as He walked three years;
Of Jairus, Lazarus, the withered hand,
Of flowing mercies and of drying tears;
And still she knows her bitter place and part,
He will not heal her withered, widowed heart.

V. Simon Helps Him

Poor Simon's back was aching, and his legs
Were weary from the kicking of the plough;
And he had many worries-for his sow
Was sick; his prize hen was not laying eggs;
His crops were far behind; and floating dregs
Had spoiled the profit on his vines; and now
As he is hurrying home with heavy brow,
The soldiers seize him, though he brawls and begs.

He burns the Romans with a look of hate,
Then lends his grudging rhews to this doomed Man,
He grasps the rough-hewn beam, but feels no weight,
Though he is straining, taking all he can.
And from the Stranger, down the cross's length
There flow to Simon peace and tranquil strength.


VI. Veronica's Veil

Stout Peter struck one blow with blundering aim,
But now his futile sword abandoned lies;
Tumultuous Thomas shakes his head and sighs,
Beset with doubts and fears, and sick with shame;
The whispering Boanerges mock their name;
But in this shrilling street where valor dies,
Veronica cleans His face and wipes His eyes
And shares forever Magdalen's fragrant fame.

That screaming mob is muted; drowned in blood,
The curse has fallen on those unbent heads;
And Peter's sword has melted into mud,
The Temple veil hangs sundered into shreds;
But still her tiny veil survives, unfurled,
A banner and a bandage for the world.

VII. He Falls Again

It is too much! His watery sinews yield,
He sags and slumps; the wavering cross goes down;
Gethsemane, the night, the lash, the crown- Could one poor heart bear these,
though triple-steeled?
The hard-faced Roman legionaries wield
Their whips to drive Him out beyond the town
Where Calvary rises bushless, burned and brown;
While Judas festers in the Potter's Field.

And still no one remembers; Pharisees
And Scribes are smiling as they watch Him squirm,
Befouled and scoffed at, beaten to His knees,
Exhausted, panting, weaker than a worm.
And Jeremiah's keenings fail and fade,
Isaiah is an echo and a shade.


VIII. He Meets the Women

Last Sunday all Jerusalem had cheered,
But now the hushed hosanna's ringing note
Has soured to snarling in each fickle throat,
And all His followers have disappeared
Except these wailing women, jostJed, jeered,
Unwavering still, like her who sought the groat
And loyal yet, while priests and people gloat-
This is a day of shame for brawn and beard.

Jerusalem, O town of stupid men,
These tears will be your testament; the Lamb
You slaughter will not guard your doorposts when
The tearless Titus sets his battering ram;
Because this Victim vainly dies alone
There shall not be a stone upon a stone.


IX. He Falls the Third Time

They leave the city now; the blood and sweat
Are caked upon Him; and the clustering flies
Are crawling on His blackened wounds; His thighs
Are veined with lire; and now His torturers fret
Lest He may die and thwart them even yet;
For while they watch He stumbles, falls and lies,
Then heaves and struggles weakly to arise
And looks toward Calvary's somber silhouette.

Upon this very road will Godfrey spur,
Leading his knights-a charge of flaming swords-
Against the foemen of the carpenter
Who is the King of Kings and Lord of Lords;
His strong voice hurling, like a catapult,
The thunder-breathing war-cry, "Deus vult."


X. He Is Stripped

Through rolling clouds no shaft of sunshine gleams,
A bitter breeze is stirring, sharp and chill,
The crowd sways in, blood-lusty for the kill,
Rough hands rip off the robe which has no seams,
And from reopened wounds the tired blood streams;
He stands among them, without word or will,
A shorn lamb, naked on this stunted hill,
While in the distance Tabor looms and dreams.

There was a man went down to Jericho-
See! parable is prophecy in part-
Here is the victim, scarred from head to toe,
Here are the thieves who have no heed nor heart;
Here are the proud who spurn a broken man,
Levite and priest-but no Samaritan.


XI. He Is Nailed to the Cross

This sound had echoed back in Nazareth,
The thudding hammer on the singing nails,
When Mary hastened off in flying veils,
With eyes like violets, and quickened breath,
Her Babe within her, to Elizabeth.
Now Mary winces, clenches hands, and pales,
Her dauntless spirit cringes, twists and quails,
And at each jolt she dies a double death.

The soldiers need not force Him for He lies
Patient beneath them; as the nails tear through,
His shining prayer is piercing inky skies,
"Forgive them; for they know not what they do."
And even now the arms which they transfix
Would guard them as a mother bird her chicks.


XlI. He Dies

The bleeding hours drag on; His drooping head
Sinks lower; and His parched and swollen lips
Can speak no longer; now a black eclipse
Extinguishes His eyes; the buzzards tread
The air above Him, waiting to be fed.
Once more He shifts on dislocated hips,
And cries aloud; His last vein bursts and drips-
He hangs upon His wooden monstrance, dead.
This is the triumph of the Sanhedrin,
To snare Him with its little traps and tricks,
To make Him scapegoat for all human sin
And build the first immortal crucifix.
Adoring ages, while the Scribes sneer,
Reply, "O Salutaris Ifostia."

XIII. He Is Taken From the Cross

Now you may have Him, Mary, they are done,
The shepherd stricken lies; His little flock
Had fled before the crowing of the cock;
Now Caiphas is happy; he has won;
He does not heed the frightened crowds that run,
Jerusalem is shaken; shock on shock
Llpheave the temple sanctum, rive the rock;
Now you may have the Thing that was your Son.

He cannot hear you, darling, He is dead-
Come, now, and we will hide Him from their sight;
He cannot feel your kisses on His head-
See-Nicodemus waits no more for night.
Look-he and John and Joseph stand in grief
And look to you for refuge and relief.

XIV. He Is Buried

The mourners slowly bring Him through the gloom,
The valiant women, and three faithful men;
Her shoulders shaking, stormy Magdalen
Is weeping as in Simon's dining room;
But she who felt Him moving in her womb,
Who wrapped and laid Him in a manger then
Is still His handmaid, ready once again
To wrap Him up and lay Him in His tomb.

Once Delphi was the navel of the earth,
But now this sepulchre, which blackly yawns,
Becomes the point and center of all worth,
The focus of all sunsets and all dawns;
Within this cavern, could the world but see,
Mythology yields place to mystery.


WILLIAM A. DONAGHY.

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Stephanie's Peregrinations

Stephanie has sent in this photograph of Beatrice's tomb in Florence.Joe Hemmerling has subjected it to a severe linguistic analysis. He claims that it contains a secret code, a code that makes reference to "gli mahwahviani" and a "bear attack" that will end "il modernismo." Oh that Joe and his Dan Brown books!

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Chris's Poem about Pumpkins and Poetry

Here's a timely poem for the advent of Halloween. (Dr. Russell would kill me if he saw those quasi-Christian terms tossed together so carelessly.)

Smashing Poetry

The pumpkin’s collision with the sidewalk shocks me
into silence—I stand mute and inglorious,
although I’d watched the stranger climb the balcony

and grab the décor. Hollering, he shook his fist
in conquest, as if to declare, “Man over gourd!”
I’m a coward before this minor injustice,

and act as though his hatred for a carved fruit bores
me. Truth is, I despise his malice and want to
tackle him, rub his grinning face in the orange gore

he battered from the well wrought squash. (His girlfriend, too,
who watches from below and giggles her support
for his success at turning artifice to goo.)

I nearly tell him, “you’re an asshole,” try to thwart
the thug with the obvious. But there’s a paper
due tomorrow; I should start it. Time’s always short

On Halloween. Turning my cheek, loving my neighbor
In deference to this sacred Christian holiday,
I head for home to write (and pray I get an A for

a change). As assignments go, this one is okay.
It has me digging through defunct British journals,
unearthing obscure poets, like this “E.S.J.,

Author of William and Ellen”—no eternal
bards here, just sickly scribblers confined to brown sheets
that crumble at your touch. In these, my nocturnal

musings, I trickily treat Henry Pye’s complete
works, or enough of them to conclude that the long-dead
laureate’s a hack. Critical hindsight is sweet

And I’m passing it out in handfuls to well-read
visitors. I condemn the style of Pye’s instant,
what Wordsworth so wisely rejected. Why—instead

of panegyric dreck to a royal infant,
odes to Albion’s peace—didn’t Pye ignore trends,
Write something timeless, like me and Billy Collins?

It’s late by now. Somewhere outside, my vandal friends
are looking for targets, eager to strike again.

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The Kindlings

I would like to bring another blog to your attention at this link. It belongs to a group called The Kindlings. I, though now a member, am not responsible for the name. It's a play on the Inklings, of course.

We're meeting every other Monday in my "library" (i.e. converted car port) to critique one another's work. The Spirit of Mahwah is stirring in Phoenix.

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A Poem by Mark Signorelli

One Night in Copenhagen, or Kierkegaard and Regina Meet a Final Time

“God keep you,” she said, and nervously paused before him –
She had been his betrothed and beloved, let her heart adore him
Once without restraint, but that was before the day
He abandoned her to pursue in his singular way
The truth of things, and bring profit to all mankind
By the sum of his writings – at least, so it seemed to his mind.
Now she stood before this man for a final time
On the eve of her parting into the foreign clime
Of the Caribbean, and he, he eyed her with wonder
As the glow from the gas-lamp fell on her cheek and under
The raven curls that unfolded along her shoulder –
No less fair was that face, though some twenty winters older
Than when it had leaned against his own young cheek –
He fumbled his hat, and vainly struggled to speak;
He desired to say how sorry he was for the act
That hurt her, how sure he was at the time of the fact
That he acted with virtue, that sometimes he seemed to hear
A strange voice out of heaven – not often heard in this sphere –
That told him he must forget and forfeit all
Of his joy in this world if he would be true to the call
Of his Master, and serve his duty adequately;
But also he wanted to say that he loved her greatly,
That since that time not a day – not an hour – went by
But some vision of her and her grace would occupy
His memory, that often he paused and wondered how life
Would have past, with what peace, had he taken her then for his wife,
And as often he wondered whether indeed he had made
The nobler decision, but Time went by, and had laid
Her petrifying hand on that distant choice.
Regina looked up at him, and attempted to voice
The unclear emotions that troubled the well of her soul –
She wanted to say she forgave him the deed and the dole
It had caused her in youth – though she never could comprehend
The hard pilgrimage he made of his life, in the end
She knew he did all to serve God in the best of his light,
And that she, a young girl, and naïve – however she might
Rebel at the truth – she could never expect that her beauty
Could impose on his heart an equally binding duty
As the heavens oblige, but that still remembrance had kept
A place of affection for him, and sometimes she wept
When she thought of his gentle ways, as she wept when young.
So she wanted to speak, but the words would not form on her tongue,
And she only stood uneasy before him, shy, and repeating
The very words she had barely whispered in greeting:
“God keep you,” she said, “and may all go well with you.”
Soren was paralyzed with sorrow all through,
And could only manage to make an awkward bow
And walk on, though with heavy and hesitant shuffle, and now
The ambient light of the gas-lamp glows thin on a street
That is empty, as round the corner the sound of her feet
Fades away, and he, he climbs the ill-lit stairs
That lead to his studious chambers, and all that he hears
Is the harsh, distinct noise of his steps as they fall
On the wood, and reverberate through the silent hall.

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The Minotaur - Jamie Hanson

My seniors and I read the Aeneid at the beginning of this year. We Jorge Luis Borges's short story called The House of Asterion. Both of those inspired this.

The Minotaur

For just a moment Theseus stood and paused
a little hesitant to strike again.
The thing lay still and quiet. There was no noise
except expectant breathing from his men.
They watched the thing, motionless in torch light,
its eyes still shut, to see what it would do.
Nothing. The thing just lay there - breathing - still.
The men relaxed; the prince breathed easier, too.
And then the eyes were open. They saw
the hero's knuckles suddenly go white,
the figure silhouetted in the flames
receding, something sharp catch light.
It bellowed, Theseus always said, and shook
in rage. He made no mention of its look.

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Tim's Poems

Tim has sent me two poems. One (Echo Lake) is posted here. The other (which is somewhat longer) is accessible by this link. Enjoy!

“Echo Lake”

By rope swings, cliffs, and lofty trees
Where we swam and played in spring’s obliging breeze
Residing ‘tween two mountains of hollow height
Is the water called Echo Lake,
And once I went there alone
To bathe away the day’s toilsome stains
And feel ‘freshened by lapping lulls
And a deep vibrating secret sway
That Echo Lake always makes,
The lake was deeply pressed with green that day
And swirling with blue songs like the sky
And because of the hollow heights about
Words echoed throughout
Though only one Word each time,
And once I went there alone
And swam to the middle
And with chilly waves splashing my face
My body numb in the water’s embrace,
The sun bleating upon my face
And that infinite flow without origin or termination
Piercing me like blood,
I wanted to drown in His pleasure,
Like a little flower plucked to death.

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Speaking of Stephanie

One role that the MLR has taken upon itself is to publicize (consider yourself the public) the successes of fellow Mahwahvians.

In that vein, please direct your attention to this story by Stephanie in the most recent edition of "Dappled Things."

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The Basement - Stephanie Manuzak

Stephanie has posted a story called "The Basement." Stephanie says her minimalist notions of character-driven storycraft have been turned on their heads. As a result she says she is really interested in getting suggestions for this: what works, and what doesn't.

Mahwahvians: Let us not leave her disappointed.

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Joe Hemmerling, Primus Inter Pares

Joe is officially the first among equals since he was the first to send in something to post. You may access his short story Helpless Cases as a .pdf file, read it, and then comment on it. You may do that publicly at this blog by clicking on "comments;" or you may e-mail Joe privately with scathing criticism and laudatory encouragement. You decide.

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The Mahwhah Diaspora

I hope that everyone's journeys were completed in safety. Now that we are scattered to the four corners of this round world we'll have to make an effort to remain in touch. Whether that effort is worth your while only you can decide.

To encourage Mahwahvians to post their works for critique I will designate the first person to e-mail me something the Primus Inter Pares (Prima for the females, of course). An august title, to be sure.

You may send your work to jnhanson2003@yahoo.com.

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A Mass of Mahwahvians

Here, for your viewing pleasure, are the major players in the Mahwah resurgency:This is the future of American letters.

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Writers of Prose May Rejoice

The poets have it easy. Most of what we write is short enough to be posted in blog format. What about the short stories, though, the critical articles, or exposés of deep-seated allegories? They're too long to be read conveniently in blog form.

Have no fear. The Hansonian Institute has broken new ground. They have taken advantage of some personal webspace offered by a Phoenix internet provider that would otherwise lie fallow.

This means that stories can be sent to the MLR moderator in either Word format or as PDFs and made easily accessible from the MLR blog site. With that kind of convenience what's keeping you from winning the Pulitzer? Answer: only you.

Viva la revolución!

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The Mahwah Literary Review

Welcome to the inaugural post of the Mahwah Literary Review. If you have found your way here you may congratulate yourself for having spelled Mahwah correctly. And, in case you hadn't noticed, history has been made.

What is the purpose of the MLR? It has two goals. One, to maintain connections between participants in the St. Robert Southwell Literary Workshop. Second, to encourage those participants to continue to write by providing an easy to use, electronic forum for pre-publication critique.

How does it all work? Well, I've made myself moderator by self-proclaimed fiat. As moderator (perhaps "Lord of the Blog" would be an apter term) I would receive works-in-progress via e-mail. I would then post the author's work on the blog and other Mahwahvians could comment. That work, benefitting from the helpful insights of others, is then published by a real journal and brings home a large cash payment to the author and fame to the Mahwah School of Literature. Plus, civil society is sustained by wholesome, Catholic literature. The rewards are virtually endless.

At the very least, this is a makeshift until some other Mahwahvian creates a better means of satisfying the two aforementioned goals. Are you that Mahwahvian?

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