Poetry by Catholic writers, or that deals with subjects and themes of interest to Catholics.
Trócaire and Poetry Ireland have announce the winners of the 2020 poetry competition, which this year had the theme 'Standing Her Ground'.
The Trócaire and Poetry Ireland annual poetry competition uses the arts to raise awareness about ...
I must admit, God,
Sometimes it's hard
To follow You.
There are so many people sick,
So many people dying,
So many people struggling
For justice, for peace, for breath,
For life's simple needs.
Yes,
Sometimes it's hard
To seek You,...
Fergal Keane reads from the Benedictus: Book of Blessings by John O'Donohue.
On Radio 4's Today programme, some of BBC News' best-known voices are offering favourite poems of #comfortandhope, and talking about the importance of the words in their lives.
Here, Fergal Keane recites the verse that helped sustain him as he experienced PTSD.
This link will take you thro...
What Do You Want For Christmas?
What do you want for Christmas?
Nothing much - peace on earth and glory in the highest.
The rooting out of all that disturbs, destroys or cankers life
to let the Eternal be seen in all its beauty.
What do you want for Christmas?
The simplest, poorest things:
An Invaded Life is the title of Fr Rob Esdaile's latest book of poems, just published, which gathers reflections on a rather disparate series of themes, as he explains in the introduction:
"I have long had the custom of writing a reflection for our parish 'Advent Carols and Readings by Candlelight' service each year, trying to tease out what the Christma...
Some say the spot is banned; that the pillar Cross-and-Hand
Attests to a deed of hell;
But of else than of bale is the mystic tale
That ancient Vale-folk tell.
Ere Cernel's Abbey ceased hereabout there dwelt a priest,
(In later life sub-prior
Of the brotherhood there, whose bones are now bare
A Clerk of Oxford writes:
Today is Michaelmas, the feast of St Michael and All Angels - a beautiful feast at perhaps the loveliest time of the year. In honour of the day I want to post a medieval English poem which I stumbled across for the first time recently. It's not strictly for Michaelmas (it's set in the spring) but by the time you reach the end of it you'll understand why I'm posti...
Blessed Mother,
You knew Not only how to carry Your own deep sorrows with dignity
But to make room to hold the sorrows of another.
You were not afraid of annihilation
Not alarmed by a fresh dismemberment.
You were the centrifugal force of love
That holds the accelerating universe In a wide offering of ever-expanding joy
A poem to celebrate the Art Exhibition at the Servite Church - Holy Spirit Shaping Presence on 16th September 2019
The Holy Guest
And the Holy Spirit is released from the ark
As from the hand of the Father
Forth she goes
To seek a place of rest
Where the waters of unconsciousness have withdrawn
And the need for healing souls
Nunc Dimittis
I am a ghost man, shelled like a pea pod By the very unkindness of my God, who leading me a merry dance of years- does not alleviate, but accentuates my fears.
I have served in sacred words and rhyme, The praises of this Lord through time. Up and down the minute...
Saint Lucie's Day
Midwinter comes and in the North, the light denigrates into inky royal blues so often tinged with dark grey closing over us in squid-ink darkness.
There are lights there in the pitch-purpleness, Sparkles of light coming and going Some ever so long dead by millions of human year...
Kimmage asylum room my monastic cell And your cell will teach you everything; Say the Desert Fathers - and Mothers too. Becoming attentive to my own Autumn Invitation to hear what my soul is saying. Easing off that narcotic habit of hurrying On to an ever-receding, incomplete future Recov...
Poppies fleck the fields of Flanders mud, their scarlet dashes dotting red the shell-churned brownscape, little moments of vitality amidst morass of death, standing tall in a land where none dare stand at all.
Trees felled, birdsong stilled, bodies threaded on the wire; only the poppies wave now, not in surrender but rec...
Closing St Cuthman's
And in the orchard an apple fell to earth, floored by heaviness, fallen from the tree of life, flawed as we all are by the worm at work, while on the lawn under a canopy polite obsequies were acted out as though there'd been no death.
A strange wake this, with the dearly depart...
