Eternalism?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It was what it was.

It is what it is.

It shall be what it shall be.

The Fiend Who Ruined Lives

 

Monsignor Gerald Burns, the pedophile who ruined many lives

https://www.courthousenews.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/08/pa-abuse-report.pdf

READ THIS AND WEEP

The Diocese of Scranton report begins on printed page 254.

The list of priests involved is on printed page 256.

Burns' assignments and summary are listed on printed pages 817 and 818. 

He was assigned to my parish (Saint John the Evangelist, Wilkes-Barre, PA) from 1953 to 1962. 

I was at that school from 1956 to 1964. I am appalled and disgusted to think that some of my classmates and/or family members may have been subjected to sexual abuse from Father Burns during that time. 

Then he was "reassigned" to Saint Dominic's from 1962 to 1968, where he continued his horrific crimes, until he was subsequently reassigned to four more parishes before retiring in 1994. 

He never admitted to his crimes, was never arrested, tried or jailed. He died in 1999. But the damage he caused to his victims continues to this day.

The story of how he impacted my own life (through abuse of a friend, not me) will, perhaps one day be the subject of another post.

Sad to say, Rev. Raymond Deviney also was assigned to St. John the Evangelist, Wilkes-Barre parish from 1969 to 1976, while I still lived in Wilkes-Barre. My parents worshiped the ground he walked on. See pages 827 and 828 for his summary.

Where was God?

Changing Course

 

After much thought over a long period of time, I have come to the sad conclusion that, as a poet, I have nothing more to say through my work.

I realize that the majority of people I wished to reach do not care about poetry in general, and certainly mine in particular. 

Except for a very limited group of like-minded poets who truly value the craft, inspiration, and perseverance needed to write, revise, and polish a formal, metrical poem from its initial draft to seeing it published, my books and individual poems seem to be little more than short-lived scraps of joy. A successful hobby at best. A waste of time and energy at worst.

No. One. Cares. And I shouldn't, and from now on will not care that the poetry Powers-That-Be and the general reader don't care. I did  my best. There is no market for Catherine Chandler's poetry. There. I've written it. So be it.

On this blog, which I began before my first full length trade poetry collection was published by Able Muse Press, and when it was shortlisted for the Poets' Prize, I posted poems, reviews of my books, and other content. I was buoyed by the wonderful reviews my work received from eminent poets. I was over the moon when I won the prestigious Richard Wilbur Book Award and the Howard Nemerov Sonnet Award.

I had so much to say through my poems: nature, philosophy, personal defining events in my life, hoping others who have lived through some of these types of events would somehow be able to relate to them, and perhaps find some comfort, or at least nod in understanding.

It was bad enough discovering the popularity of the likes of Rupi Kaur and her ilk, and now AI can be asked to write a Petrarchan, Shakespearean or Spenserian sonnet and, voilà, less than a minute later, one appears on the screen. Horrible, of course, but probably not so bad to some.

I am tired. My heart is broken.

So tired of sailing against the wind. I have just turned seventy-five, and although I have been writing poetry since the age of eleven in the stifling attic of my childhood home, I was only able to give my full energy to it when my children were grown, and then upon my retirement at the age of 60 in 2010, the year I designed this blog.

The Wonderful Boat needs to change her course. She will now sail into the sunset peacefully, with a hold of beautiful poetry, back to home port, where I will either scuttle her, or leave her in dry dock until such time (if ever) as the winds of change alter in favor of classical elegance, eloquence, and craft.

As the poet Delmira Agustini wrote in her poem "La Barca Milagrosa" which inspired the idea for this blog (you can read the English translation on the blog front page), Yo ya muero de vivir y soñar...

 

Catherine Chandler

 

 

66

 

 

           66

Along Route 66, connected by

a stretch of seven miles, two towns align;

one bears his family name, the other mine.

A geographic fluke? Perhaps. But I,

far-flung, uprooted, off the track, embrace

this synchronicity, this table scrap

of happenstance – two dots upon a map

forever linked in existential space.

 

The decommissioned highway’s gone to hell;

and so before it all but disappears,

a faded US atlas, dog-eared to

the State of Oklahoma, guides me through

divergent latitudes and hemispheres

and universes spinning parallel.

 

 

 

 

A wound that never will heal . . .

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay (from her book The Harp-Weaver) stands as a testament to the enduring power of grief and the profound loss that can accompany the end of a love.

 

 

Here Is A Wound That Never Will Heal, I Know

 

Here is a wound that never will heal, I know,
Being wrought not of a dearness and a death,
But of a love turned ashes and the breath
Gone out of beauty; never again will grow
The grass on that scarred acre, though I sow
Young seed there yearly and the sky bequeath
Its friendly weathers down, far underneath
Shall be such bitterness of an old woe.
That April should be shattered by a gust,
That August should be levelled by a rain,
I can endure, and that the lifted dust
Of man should settle to the earth again;
But that a dream can die, will be a thrust
Between my ribs forever of hot pain.

 

Analysis (ai): This poem explores the enduring pain of a lost love. Unlike the healing wounds of physical loss, the emotional scars linger indefinitely. The poet employs the metaphor of a barren acre, where no amount of time or nurturing can heal the devastated landscape.

The poem's imagery is stark and unforgiving. The loss of love is equated to the destruction of nature, as April and August, symbols of life and growth, are shattered and leveled. In contrast to the brevity of physical pain, the pain of a lost dream is an eternal torment, an unbearable thrust between the ribs.

Ovillejo: For My Granddaughter

 

 

 

 

 

For My Granddaughter

 

Moriah holds my hand in early June.

Though soon

the lilies we admire will wither, still,

she will

be happy in our fugitive vignette.

Forget-

me-nots we’ll pick, blue thistle, fern rosette,

hawkweed, trillium, wild columbine:

an afternoon perennially mine,

though soon she will forget.

 

 My first grandchild, my granddaughter Moriah, will turn thirty years old this month. I wrote this ovillejo years ago, and it appears in my first book, Lines of Flight.  

 How true -- time really flies!!!

The ovillejo is a Spanish poetic form consisting of ten lines, traditionally structured as three rhyming couplets followed by a quatrain. 

The first line of each couplet is 8 syllables long and typically asks a question, while the second line responds with 3-4 syllables. The quatrain, or final four lines, often summarizes or amplifies the preceding couplets, and its last line combines the shorter lines from the couplets.

 Here's a breakdown of the ovillejo's structure:

• Stanza 1 (Sestet):

  Three rhyming couplets.

  • Lines 1, 3, and 5: 8 syllables, often posing a question.
  • Lines 2, 4, and 6: 3-4 syllables, providing a response or echo to the preceding line.
• Stanza 2 (Quatrain):

  • Lines 7, 8, and 9: 8 syllables, often reflecting on or expanding the first stanza.
  • Line 10: Combines lines 2, 4, and 6, creating a "redondilla".

The ovillejo was popularized by Miguel de Cervantes in his work, "Don Quixote". The name "ovillejo" is derived from the Spanish word "ovillo," meaning a ball of wool or a spool of thread, which reflects the way the poem knots together its different parts. 

 

I've Been Away . . .

Amalfi, Italy

 

 

 

 

 

 

Torricella Peligna, Italy

 

 

 

 

 

 

Baia delle Zagare, Italy

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Rome, Italy

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

No posts in June or July. I was in Italy (Naples, Pompeii, Amalfi, Sorrento, Capri, Positano, Baia delle Zagare, Torricella Peligna, Rome) for most of June, and was hosting a friend, as well as myself having several medical issues in July.

I hope to post more often in August and beyond.

Mother's Day

Garnet. The January birthstone. (stock online photo)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My sonnet, "Mother's Day" was first published in First Things (Number 167, November 2006), and reprinted in Grace Notes Anthology, 2010; Quill and Parchment, May 2012; Cradle Songs Anthology; and Living Faith, Fargo, North Dakota, May 2021.

 

It was reprinted (with my permission) on a pamphlet distributed  at the March for Life in Washington, D.C. several years ago. 

It also appears in my first book, Lines of Flight.

 

I did not have an abortion, but I know women who have. Everyone has to make their own decisions and choices in life. I wrote this poem from the viewpoint of the baby, who had no say in the matter.

 

 

Mother’s Day

 

 

On Sunday evening after the party ends

and family have gone, you ache to say

how you can’t bear this gathering each May.

Your thoughtful husband usually sends

a rose bouquet, but changed his mind this year:

a special gift, it makes your finger shine

with emerald and ruby. Too much wine,

he banters as he wipes away your tear.

 

But you and I know, Mother, what he can’t –

your April foolishness; how bit by bit

they sucked me out of you, “took care of it”;

how through the years I’ve been your confidante,

the reason for this night’s unraveling –

the garnet missing from the mother’s ring.

 

"The world goes on despite us and our poems."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Notwithstanding

 by Catherine Chandler

“The world goes on despite us and our poems.”

                ― David Mason (from his poem “Winter 1963”)

 

 

Keyboard strokes replace the fountain pen

and voices yield to verses on the page―

so have the poets sung from age to age

devoted to their vital art. 

                                                         But when

the audience for truth and beauty fades,

replaced by fandom of a looser form

whose stale epiphanies become the norm;

and AI scatters reams of ready-mades;

when deconstruction proves it vain to find

meaning; when an old philosophy

conjectures on the use of poetry

as pure abstraction of an idle mind,

I offer up a faithful antiphon

although the world goes on. And on. And on.

 

 

 

 [First published in Pulsebeat Poetry Journal, September 2024]

An April Poem: Setback

 

 

 

 

Setback

by Catherine Chandler

I’d seen a robin, days were getting mild,
the crocuses were up, and I could hear
the wild geese honking on the pond. Beguiled,
I’d set the garden chairs in place, in sheer
delight. The northern winter-spring transition
is never easy, but I’d hoped this year —
with father’s cancer gone into remission —
that April would be kind. Then we had snow
this afternoon, a boreal admonition:
Not so fast. Not so
fast.
                    Oh, to be the quiet sort
who bow their heads, accept the status quo,
conceding there’s a God, and we’re his sport,
that winter is so long, and life so short. 

 

 

 

[First published in 14 by 14, Issue 4, June 2008]

Modern Haiku Publication - "Spring"

 

A snowmelt river in Japan

 

 

 

"haru" is one part (Spring) of my poem Haiku originally published in Modern Haiku, Volume 37.1, Winter-Spring 2006, and subsequently in my second full-length poetry collection, Glad and Sorry Seasons (Biblioasis 2014).

The other three seasons haiku are available in both of the above mentioned publications.

HERE is an article (from 2015) about El Niño's effect on winters in Japan.

 

haru

 

a bush warbler sings                                       

beside the snowmelt river                                          

through mist-muffled air                                            

 

 

[Translated by Google below] I wish I could speak/write/understand Japanese . . .

春

雪解けの川のほとりで

ウグイスが鳴く

霧に覆われた空気の中

[Yukidoke no kawanohotoride uguisu ga naku kiri ni ōwa reta kūki no naka]

 

What To Enter and When To Exit

"Close enough."

Just saying.

If you would like an explanation for why I posted the above cartoon, please feel free to contact me by email at the following address:

 catherine.chandler.poetry@gmail.com

Wikipedia

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

HERE is the Wikipedia page for Catherine Chandler.

Please note: the photo they used is quite out of date!

Ending

 

 

Guettarda uruguensis/jazmín del Uruguay

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In this sonnet, each line ends in "ve" which in Spanish means "go."

"Ending" was first published in 2017 in Alabama Literary Review (volume 26, number 1) and appears in my collection Pointing Home (Kelsay Books, 2019).

 

 

Ending

                                               

 

Nothing to reproach or to forgive.

Nothing to unwind or to unweave.

No arguments to prove or to disprove.

No wrongs to right. No rights to claim or waive.

In retrospect, it’s all so relative—

seasons, space-time, truth and make-believe.

I’ve left the northern hemisphere, but you’ve

a motto: Plus ça change . . . I hear you; save

that here the jasmine is in bloom. Above,

Crux reappears to complement a mauve

and apricot tableau. The men arrive,

back from the long November cattle drive,

while in a nearby eucalyptus grove

a golden-eared paloma coos his love.