Contraries are cured by contraries.
Traditional proverbs
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The Marriage of Heaven and Hell
THE ARGUMENT
RINTRAH roars and shakes his
fires in the burdenM air,
Hungry clouds swag on the deep.
Once meek, and in a perilous path
The just man kept his course along
The Vale of Death.
Roses are planted where thorns grow,
And on the barren heath
Sing the honey bees.
Then the perilous path was planted,
And a river and a spring
On every cliff and tomb;
5
THE MARRIAGE OF
And on the bleached bones
Red clay brought forth:
Till the villain left the paths of ease
To walk in perilous paths, and drive
The just man into barren climes.
Now the sneaking serpent walks
In mild humility ;
And the just man rages in the wilds
Where Uons roam.
Rintrah roars and shakes his fires in
the burdened air,
Hungry clouds swag on the deep.
As a new heaven is begun, and it is
now thirty-three years since its advent,
the Eternal Hell revives. And lo!
Swedenborg is the angel sitting at
the tomb: his writings are the Unen
[...] Read more
poem by William Blake
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Bad Habits & Infections
Come to me like Im the doctor
Say you need someone to talk ta
You want advice go ask your mother
One bad turn deserves another
cause Ive been cursed with your infection
Makin my head hurt makin my eyes burn
Youve taken me in the wrong direction
And left me there with no protection
Bad habits can be cured by cutting
Them out
Infections can be cured by cutting
Them out
Maybe youll find a friend up in the
Rainbow room
If you can dodge the drinks that
Theyve been throwing at you
Anyway, your boyfriend should be
Coming home soon
Then you can hide your life away
Bad habits can be cured by cutting
Them out
Infections can be cured by cutting
Them out
Come to me like Im the doctor
Come to me like Im the doctor
Come to me like Im the doctor
I am the doctor
I am the doctor
song performed by Hall & Oates
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Book the Second
Thou hearest the Nightingale begin the Song of Spring.
The Lark sitting upon his earthly bed, just as the morn
Apears, listens silent; then springing from the waving Corn-field loud
He leads the Choir of Day! trill, thrill, thrill, trill,
Mounting upon the wings of light into the great Expanse,
Reechoing against the lovely blue & shining heavenly Shell.
His little throat labours with inspiration; every feather
On throat & breast & wings vibrates with the effluence Divine.
All Nature listens silent to him, & the awful Sun
Stands still upon the Mountain looking on this little Bird
With eyes of soft humility & wonder, love & awe.
Then loud from their green covert all the Birds begin their Song:
The Thrush, the Linnet & the Goldfinch, Robin & the Wren
Awake the Sun from his sweet reverie upon the Mountain;
The Nightingale again assays his song, & thro’ the day
And thro’ the night warbles luxuriant, every Bird of Song
Attending his loud harmony with admiration & love.
This is a Vision of the lamentation of Beulah over Ololon.
Thou perceivest the Flowers put forth their precious Odours,
And none can tell how form so small a center comes such sweets,
Forgetting that within that Center Eternity expends
Its ever during doors that Og & Anak fiercely guard.
First, e’er the morning breaks, joy opens in the flowery bosoms,
Joy even to tears, which the
Sun rising dries; first the Wild Thyme
And Meadow-sweet, downy & soft, waving among the reeds,
Light springing on the air, lead the sweet Dance: they wake
The Honeysuckle sleeping on the Oak; the flaunting beauty
Revels along upon the wind; the White-thorn, lovely May,
Opens her many lovely eyes; listening the Rose still sleeps –
None dare to wake her; soon she bursts her crimson curtain’d bed
And comes forth in the majesty of beauty; every Flower,
The Pink, the Jessamine, the Wall-flower, the Carnation,
The Jonquil, the mild Lilly opes her heavens; every Tree
And Flower & Herb soon fill the air with an innumberable Dance,
Yet all in order sweet & lovely. Men are sick with Love.
Such is a Vision of the Lamentation of Beulah over Ololon.
And Milton oft sat upon the Couch of Death, & oft conversed
In vision & dream beatific with the Seven Angels of the Presence:
‘I have turned my back upon these Heavens builded on cruelty.
My Spectre still wandering thro’ them follows my Emanation;
He hunts her footsteps thro’ the snow & the wintry hail & rain.
The idiot Reasoner laughs at the Man of Imagination,
And from laughter proceeds o murder by undervaluing calumny.’
Then Hillel, who is Lucifer, replied over the Couch of Death,
And thus the Seven angels instructed him, & thus they converse:
‘We are not Individuals but States, Combinations of Individuals.
We were Angels of the Divine Presence, & were Druids in Annandale,
Compell’d to combine into Form by Satan, the Spectre of Albion,
[...] Read more
poem by William Blake from Milton (1810)
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This Town
I'm cured
When you say there's something left
It's pure
Just to know we will always be friends
I hope you find your mind and let them go
Theres nothing left to do in this town
Theres no where left to fly but on the ground
I'll reach you
It's over me
That I cannot describe it
My friends
You know that I can't hide it
Like planets
Contemplate my worlds
Painting all the colours
Running dry like me
There's nothing left to say in this town
There's nowhere left to hide but inside pride
I'll reach you
I'll reach you
Theres nothing left to do in this town
Theres no where left to fly but on the ground
I'll reach you
Tonight (I'll reach you)
Tonight (I'll reach you)
Tonight (I'll reach you)
Tonight
I'm cured
When you say there's something left
When you say there's something left
I'm cured
There's nothing left to do in this town
There's no where left to fly but on the ground
I'll reach you
Tonight (I'll reach you)
Tonight (I'll reach you)
Tonight (I'll reach you)
Tonight (no matter were u are)
Tonight
Tonight
I'll reach you
I'll reach you
Tonight
song performed by Inme
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VII. Pompilia
I am just seventeen years and five months old,
And, if I lived one day more, three full weeks;
'T is writ so in the church's register,
Lorenzo in Lucina, all my names
At length, so many names for one poor child,
—Francesca Camilla Vittoria Angela
Pompilia Comparini,—laughable!
Also 't is writ that I was married there
Four years ago: and they will add, I hope,
When they insert my death, a word or two,—
Omitting all about the mode of death,—
This, in its place, this which one cares to know,
That I had been a mother of a son
Exactly two weeks. It will be through grace
O' the Curate, not through any claim I have;
Because the boy was born at, so baptized
Close to, the Villa, in the proper church:
A pretty church, I say no word against,
Yet stranger-like,—while this Lorenzo seems
My own particular place, I always say.
I used to wonder, when I stood scarce high
As the bed here, what the marble lion meant,
With half his body rushing from the wall,
Eating the figure of a prostrate man—
(To the right, it is, of entry by the door)
An ominous sign to one baptized like me,
Married, and to be buried there, I hope.
And they should add, to have my life complete,
He is a boy and Gaetan by name—
Gaetano, for a reason,—if the friar
Don Celestine will ask this grace for me
Of Curate Ottoboni: he it was
Baptized me: he remembers my whole life
As I do his grey hair.
All these few things
I know are true,—will you remember them?
Because time flies. The surgeon cared for me,
To count my wounds,—twenty-two dagger-wounds,
Five deadly, but I do not suffer much—
Or too much pain,—and am to die to-night.
Oh how good God is that my babe was born,
—Better than born, baptized and hid away
Before this happened, safe from being hurt!
That had been sin God could not well forgive:
He was too young to smile and save himself.
When they took two days after he was born,
My babe away from me to be baptized
And hidden awhile, for fear his foe should find,—
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
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Released From Their Craze
Those suffering from their evil addictions,
Will be cured.
In fact,
A massive healing has begun.
And those holding on to their stubbornness...
Will overnight awaken,
With their eyes opened wide...
To become the witnesses of it.
Something out of their control,
Comes to stun and fix.
The spirits of the Universe have already won.
They are showing those who are affixed to conflict...
Their wickedness,
Will soon not exist.
This planet called Earth...
Has grown tired of rifts!
Those suffering from their evil addictions,
Will be cured.
This is beyond diets to keep.
And New Year resolutions made,
To begin exercising or a smoking that is hard to beat...
For those wishing to be brave.
Although they increase the eating of sweets.
Believing that shifting from one thing to another thing saves.
The spirits of the Universe have already won.
They are showing those who are affixed to conflict...
Their wickedness,
Will soon not exist.
This planet called Earth...
Has grown tired of it.
No one with thoughts they are better than others,
Will continue to deceive with the purposes to defeat.
No one with thoughts they will achieve success,
With a manipulation done...
To diminish with restrictions to everyone,
NOT anymore.
And NOT encouraged under over or besides 'this' Sun.
A massive healing has begun.
And those holding on to their stubbornness...
Will overnight awaken,
With their eyes opened wide...
To become the witnesses of it.
The spirits of the Universe have already won.
[...] Read more
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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VI. Giuseppe Caponsacchi
Answer you, Sirs? Do I understand aright?
Have patience! In this sudden smoke from hell,—
So things disguise themselves,—I cannot see
My own hand held thus broad before my face
And know it again. Answer you? Then that means
Tell over twice what I, the first time, told
Six months ago: 't was here, I do believe,
Fronting you same three in this very room,
I stood and told you: yet now no one laughs,
Who then … nay, dear my lords, but laugh you did,
As good as laugh, what in a judge we style
Laughter—no levity, nothing indecorous, lords!
Only,—I think I apprehend the mood:
There was the blameless shrug, permissible smirk,
The pen's pretence at play with the pursed mouth,
The titter stifled in the hollow palm
Which rubbed the eyebrow and caressed the nose,
When I first told my tale: they meant, you know,
"The sly one, all this we are bound believe!
"Well, he can say no other than what he says.
"We have been young, too,—come, there's greater guilt!
"Let him but decently disembroil himself,
"Scramble from out the scrape nor move the mud,—
"We solid ones may risk a finger-stretch!
And now you sit as grave, stare as aghast
As if I were a phantom: now 't is—"Friend,
"Collect yourself!"—no laughing matter more—
"Counsel the Court in this extremity,
"Tell us again!"—tell that, for telling which,
I got the jocular piece of punishment,
Was sent to lounge a little in the place
Whence now of a sudden here you summon me
To take the intelligence from just—your lips!
You, Judge Tommati, who then tittered most,—
That she I helped eight months since to escape
Her husband, was retaken by the same,
Three days ago, if I have seized your sense,—
(I being disallowed to interfere,
Meddle or make in a matter none of mine,
For you and law were guardians quite enough
O' the innocent, without a pert priest's help)—
And that he has butchered her accordingly,
As she foretold and as myself believed,—
And, so foretelling and believing so,
We were punished, both of us, the merry way:
Therefore, tell once again the tale! For what?
Pompilia is only dying while I speak!
Why does the mirth hang fire and miss the smile?
My masters, there's an old book, you should con
For strange adventures, applicable yet,
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
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Of Pacchiarotto, and How He Worked in Distemper
I
Query: was ever a quainter
Crotchet than this of the painter
Giacomo Pacchiarotto
Who took "Reform" for his motto?
II
He, pupil of old Fungaio,
Is always confounded (heigho!)
With Pacchia, contemporaneous
No question, but how extraneous
In the grace of soul, the power
Of hand,—undoubted dower
Of Pacchia who decked (as we know,
My Kirkup!) San Bernardino,
Turning the small dark Oratory
To Siena's Art-laboratory,
As he made its straitness roomy
And glorified its gloomy,
With Bazzi and Beccafumi.
(Another heigho for Bazzi:
How people miscall him Razzi!)
III
This Painter was of opinion
Our earth should be his dominion
Whose Art could correct to pattern
What Nature had slurred—the slattern!
And since, beneath the heavens,
Things lay now at sixes and sevens,
Or, as he said, sopra-sotto—
Thought the painter Pacchiarotto
Things wanted reforming, therefore.
"Wanted it"—ay, but wherefore?
When earth held one so ready
As he to step forth, stand steady
In the middle of God's creation
And prove to demonstration
What the dark is, what the light is,
What the wrong is, what the right is,
What the ugly, what the beautiful,
What the restive, what the dutiful,
In Mankind profuse around him?
Man, devil as now he found him,
Would presently soar up angel
At the summons of such evangel,
And owe—what would Man not owe
To the painter Pacchiarotto?
Ay, look to thy laurels, Giotto!
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning from Pacchiarotto (1876)
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Canto the Second
I
Oh ye! who teach the ingenuous youth of nations,
Holland, France, England, Germany, or Spain,
I pray ye flog them upon all occasions,
It mends their morals, never mind the pain:
The best of mothers and of educations
In Juan's case were but employ'd in vain,
Since, in a way that's rather of the oddest, he
Became divested of his native modesty.
II
Had he but been placed at a public school,
In the third form, or even in the fourth,
His daily task had kept his fancy cool,
At least, had he been nurtured in the north;
Spain may prove an exception to the rule,
But then exceptions always prove its worth -—
A lad of sixteen causing a divorce
Puzzled his tutors very much, of course.
III
I can't say that it puzzles me at all,
If all things be consider'd: first, there was
His lady-mother, mathematical,
A—never mind; his tutor, an old ass;
A pretty woman (that's quite natural,
Or else the thing had hardly come to pass);
A husband rather old, not much in unity
With his young wife—a time, and opportunity.
IV
Well—well, the world must turn upon its axis,
And all mankind turn with it, heads or tails,
And live and die, make love and pay our taxes,
And as the veering wind shifts, shift our sails;
The king commands us, and the doctor quacks us,
The priest instructs, and so our life exhales,
A little breath, love, wine, ambition, fame,
Fighting, devotion, dust,—perhaps a name.
V
I said that Juan had been sent to Cadiz -—
A pretty town, I recollect it well -—
'T is there the mart of the colonial trade is
(Or was, before Peru learn'd to rebel),
And such sweet girls—I mean, such graceful ladies,
Their very walk would make your bosom swell;
I can't describe it, though so much it strike,
Nor liken it—I never saw the like:
[...] Read more
poem by Byron from Don Juan (1824)
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Tale V
THE PATRON.
A Borough-Bailiff, who to law was train'd,
A wife and sons in decent state maintain'd,
He had his way in life's rough ocean steer'd
And many a rock and coast of danger clear'd;
He saw where others fail'd, and care had he,
Others in him should not such feelings see:
His sons in various busy states were placed,
And all began the sweets of gain to taste,
Save John, the younger, who, of sprightly parts,
Felt not a love for money-making arts:
In childhood feeble, he, for country air,
Had long resided with a rustic pair;
All round whose room were doleful ballads, songs,
Of lovers' sufferings and of ladies' wrongs;
Of peevish ghosts who came at dark midnight,
For breach of promise, guilty men to fright;
Love, marriage, murder, were the themes, with
these,
All that on idle, ardent spirits seize;
Robbers at land and pirates on the main,
Enchanters foil'd, spells broken, giants slain;
Legends of love, with tales of halls and bowers,
Choice of rare songs, and garlands of choice
flowers,
And all the hungry mind without a choice devours.
From village-children kept apart by pride,
With such enjoyments, and without a guide,
Inspired by feelings all such works infused,
John snatch'd a pen, and wrote as he perused:
With the like fancy he could make his knight
Slay half a host, and put the rest to flight;
With the like knowledge he could make him ride
From isle to isle at Parthenissa's side;
And with a heart yet free, no busy brain
Form'd wilder notions of delight and pain,
The raptures smiles create, the anguish of disdain.
Such were the fruits of John's poetic toil -
Weeds, but still proofs of vigour in the soil:
He nothing purposed but with vast delight,
Let Fancy loose, and wonder'd at her flight:
His notions of poetic worth were high,
And of his own still-hoarded poetry; -
These to his father's house he bore with pride,
A miser's treasure, in his room to hide;
Till spurr'd by glory, to a reading friend,
He kindly show'd the sonnets he had penn'd:
[...] Read more
poem by George Crabbe
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I Saw It Myself (Short Verse Drama)
Dramatis Personae: Adrian, his wife Ester, his sisters Rebecca and Johanna, his mother Elizabeth, the high priest Chiapas, the disciple Simon Peter, the disciple John, Mary Magdalene, worshipers, priests, two angels and Jesus Christ.
Act I
Scene I.- Adrian’s house in Jerusalem. Adrian has just returned home after a business journey in Galilee, in time to attend the Passover feast. He sits at the table with his wife Ester and his sisters, Rebecca and Johanna. It’s just before sunset on the Friday afternoon.
Adrian. (Somewhat puzzled) Strange things are happening,
some say demons dwell upon the earth,
others angelic beings, miracles take place
and all of this when they had put a man to death,
had crucified a criminal. Everybody knows
the cross is used for degenerates only!
Rebecca. (With a pleasant voice) Such harsh words used,
for a good, a great man brother?
They say that without charge
he healed the sick, brought back sight,
cured leprosy, even made some more food,
from a few fishes and loafs of bread…
Adrian. (Somewhat harsh) They say many things!
That he rode into Jerusalem
to be crowned as the new king,
was a rebel against the state,
even claimed to be
the very Son of God,
now that is blasphemy
if there is no truth to it!
Johanna. I met him once.
He’s not the man
that you make him, brother.
There was a strange tranquilly to Him.
Some would say a divine presence,
while He spoke of love that is selfless,
visited the sick, the poor
and even the destitute, even harlots.
Adrian. (Looks up) There you have it!
Harlots! Tax collecting thieves!
A man is know by his friends,
or so they say and probably
there is some truth to it.
Ester. Husband, do not be so quick to judge.
I have seen Him myself, have seen
Roman soldiers marching Him to the hill
to take His life, with a angry crowd
following and mocking Him.
[...] Read more
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Golden Legend: Prologue & 1.
THE SPIRE OF STRASBURG CATHEDRAL.
Night and storm. LUCIFER, with the Powers of the
Air, trying to tear down the Cross.
_Lucifer._ HASTEN! hasten!
O ye spirits!
From its station drag the ponderous
Cross of iron, that to mock us
Is uplifted high in air!
_Voices._ O, we cannot!
For around it
All the Saints and Guardian Angels
Throng in legions to protect it;
They defeat us everywhere!
_The Bells._ Laudo Deum verum
Plebem voco!
Congrego clerum!
_Lucifer._ Lower! lower!
Hover downward!
Seize the loud, vociferous bells, and
Clashing, clanging, to the pavement
Hurl them from their windy tower!
_Voices._ All thy thunders
Here are harmless!
For these bells have been anointed,
And baptized with holy water!
They defy our utmost power.
_The Bells. Defunctos ploro!
Pestem fugo!
Festa decoro!
_Lucifer._ Shake the casements!
Break the painted
Panes that flame with gold and crimson!
Scatter them like leaves of Autumn,
Swept away before the blast!
_Voices._ O, we cannot!
The Archangel
Michael flames from every window,
With the sword of fire that drove us
Headlong, out of heaven, aghast!
_The Bells._ Funera plango!
[...] Read more
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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R.i.p
I know a reformed paedophile
and he is where he ought to be.
Buried deep beneath a pile
of monumental masonry
An enraged father killed the beast
and pleaded provocation.
Nobody cavilled in the least
when he received probation.
He had saved children from abuse
and cured a problem at its source.
For paedophiles are of no use,
Though some will disagree of course.
He slumbers deep and peacefully
his disease cured permanently.
22-Aug-08
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers.
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Scared and Couragous
I am scared and couragous
I wonder when my mom's going to die of cancer
I hear gossip everyday
I see them staring as I pass through the glum halls
I want my moms cancer cured
I am scared and couragous
I pretend I'm a bird so I could fly away
I feel happy yet sad
I touch my face to wipe my tears away
I worry about my mom all the time
I cry myself to sleep every night
I am scared and couragous
I understand my mom can't be cured
I say I'm happy when I'm not
I dream of a world without cancer
I try to make the best of everything
I hope my mom doesn't die too soon
I am scared and couragous
poem by Desiree Brown
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I Can
(m - deris, weikath l - weikath)
May I take you higher
Feed well your desire
We wont be forgotten
Foes left slain and rotten
I will have my way
As once before
Others stand in awe
Cant scorn at all
I can, I can, I can
Make it all again
I dont wanna lose
I dont wanna get drowned
I can, I can I can
Heed the call again
Fulfill my dreams until Im cured
Some will leave here shattred
Wish us tarred and feathered
Show me anyone who doubts our ways
I will laught out loud and I will say
I can, I can, I can
Make it all again
I dont wanna lose
I dont wanna get drowned
I can, I can I can
Make the call again
Can attain evrything to leave you sure
I can
I can, I can, I can
Make it all again
I dont wanna lose
I dont wanna get drowned
I can, I can I can
Heed the call again
Fulfill my dreams until Im cured
Solo: michael
song performed by Helloween
Added by Lucian Velea
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Christmas
Father:
Father:
Did you ever see the faces of children
Did you ever see the faces of children
They get so excited.
They get so excited.
Waking up on christmas morning
Waking up on christmas morning
Hours before the winter suns ignited.
Hours before the winter 1s ignited.
They believe in dreams and all they mean
They believe in dreams and all they mean
Including heavens generosity.
Including heavens generosity.
Peeping round the door
Peeping round the door
To see what parcels are for free
To see what parcels are for free
In curiosity.
In curiosity.
And tommy doesnt know what day it is.
And tommy doesnt know what day it is.
Doesnt know who jesus was or what praying is.
Doesnt know who jesus was or what praying is.
How can he be saved?
How can he be saved?
From the eternal grave.
>from the eternal grave.
Surrounded by his friends he sits so silently,
Surrounded by his friends he sits so silently,
And unaware of everything.
And unaware of everything.
Playing poxy pin ball
Playing poxy pin ball
Picks his nose and smiles and
Picks his nose and smiles and
Pokes his tongue at everything.
Pokes his tongue at everything.
I believe in love
I believe in love
But how can men whove never seen
But how can men whove never seen
Light be enlightened.
Light be enlightened.
Only if hes cured
Only if hes cured
Will his spirits future level ever heighten.
Will his spirits future level ever heighten.
And tommy doesnt know what day it is.
And tommy doesnt know what day it is.
[...] Read more
song performed by Who
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Doctor's Story
Good folks ever will have their way
Good folks ever for it must pay.
But we, who are here and everywhere,
The burden of their faults must bear.
We must shoulder others' shame,
Fight their follies, and take their blame:
Purge the body, and humor the mind;
Doctor the eyes when the soul is blind;
Build the column of health erect
On the quicksands of neglect:
Always shouldering others' shame-
Bearing their faults and taking the blame!
Deacon Rogers, he came to me;
"Wife is a-goin' to die," said he.
'Doctors great, an' doctors small,
Haven't improved her any at all.
'Physic and blister, powders and pills,
And nothing sure but the doctors' bills!
"Twenty women, with remedies new,
Bother my wife the whole day through.
'Sweet as honey, or bitter as gall
Poor old woman, she takes 'em all.
'Sour or sweet, whatever they choose;
Poor old woman, she daren't refuse.
'So she pleases whoe'er may call,
An' Death is suited the best of all.
'Physic and blister, powder an' pill
Bound to conquer, and sure to kill!"
Mrs. Rogers lay in her bed,
Bandaged and blistered from foot to head.
Blistered and bandaged from head to toe,
Mrs. Rogers was very low.
Bottle and saucer, spoon and cup,
On the table stood bravely up;
[...] Read more
poem by Will Carleton
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Bible in Poetry: Gospel of St. Matthew (Chapter 12)
It was the Sabbath day, when Jesus walked,
Through a field of grain with His disciples,
Who being hungry, picked some heads of grain,
And ate them while the Pharisees had watched.
They then remarked to Jesus about them.
On Sabbath day, his disciples had done
An act, unlawful, according to them.
Then Jesus asked them, ‘Haven’t you read
How David and his friends had fed,
When hungry they became one day,
And ate the offered bread that lay,
Inside the House of God which he
Ought not to eat but ones priestly! ’
‘Have you not read the Sabbath Law?
That priests that serve in temples are
Violating, though innocent? ’
‘There’s something more than temple here.
If you had known what was meant by
‘Not sacrifice, I desire mercy,
You would not condemn such things done.
The Son of Man’s, Lord of Sabbath! ’
Then, Jesus went into the synagogue.
There was a man with withered hand;
Is it right curing on Sabbath?
They asked to accuse Him therefore.
Then Jesus asked, ‘If your sheep fell
On Sabbath day, into a pit,
Would you not lift it out at once? ’
‘Is not man’s life more valuable?
’Tis lawful doing good on Sabbath day.’
He told the man, ‘Stretch out your hand.’
The man did so and was restored.
The Pharisees then decided
To wait and then, put Him to death.
As Jesus knew their evil plan,
He left that place to another.
And many followed Him with faith
And Jesus cured their illnesses.
He warned them not to publicize.
This was to fulfill what was said
By prophet Isaiah before:
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poem by John Celes
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Bible in Poetry: Gospel of St. Matthew (Chapter 9)
By boat, He crossed and came to His own town;
They brought a paralytic on a bed;
When Jesus saw their faith, He said to him,
‘Courage, your sins have been forgiven you.’
At this some scribes began to tell themselves,
‘This man blasphemes for He forgives man’s sins! ’
As Jesus knew what they were thinking then,
He asked, ‘Why do you harbor evil thoughts? ’
Say which is easier saying, ‘Your sins are
Forgiven or rise and walk, ’ Thus Jesus asked.
‘To prove the Son of Man has power on earth
To forgive sins, He told the sick person,
‘Arise, pick up your stretcher, and go home.’
The man rose immediately and went home.
Awe-struck, the crowd then glorified the Lord,
For giving such authority to man.
As Jesus passed, he saw a man Matthew,
Sitting at the customs’ post. He told him,
‘Follow me.’ He got up and followed Him.’
And at the table, in His house, there sat
Tax-collectors and sinners with Jesus.
The Pharisees then asked his disciples,
‘Why does your teacher eat with such people? ’
As Jesus heard, he said, ‘Those that are well
Don’t need a physician but sick ones do.’
‘Go learn the meaning of the words, ’ He said:
‘I desire mercy, not sacrifice;
I came to call sinners, and not righteous.’
Then the disciples of John asked Jesus,
‘Why do the Pharisees and we, fast much?
Why don’t your disciples fast anytime? ’
Then Jesus asked, ‘Can wedding guests mourn when
Their bridegroom stays along with them as long?
Those days will come when bridegroom has to leave,
And then the wedding guests will fast like you.’
‘No one will patch an old cloak with new cloth;
For, when the new cloth shrinks, the tear gets worse.
Neither they put new wine in old wine-skins;
For, both the skins burst and the wine spills out.
They fill new wine in only new wine-skins;
Both are preserved and destroyed is not one.’
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poem by John Celes
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Sister Alphonsa (Aug 1910 – July 1946) From Blessed One to Saint
The cradle of Christianity
In India is Kerala-
Where Saint Thomas, the Apostle
Set foot, two thousand years ago.
The fourth child of father, Ouseph,
She lost her mother, Mariam,
When she was just three years of age,
Remaining sick, all through her life.
‘Be a nun, my child’- were the words,
A Carmelite nun said to her:
These were engraved within her heart
Of love for Jesus Christ, till death.
She did not want to get married;
She chose to be a nun in life;
So, burnt her leg in live ash-pit,
To prove her wish to follow Christ.
She joined the Franciscan Convent
Of Clarist nuns and took her vows;
She suffered pain all life in bed,
But offered it to Jesus Christ.
With pain and agony, she lived,
Self-mortified a life for Christ;
Her suffering had turned all joy,
When love of Savior, filled her heart.
She suffered from malaria,
And Tuberculosis and ulcer;
Some doubted her piety too;
But in the end, just truth triumphed.
A robber attacked her by night,
And left her bleeding and upset;
She died when just thirty-seven;
Of double pneumonia illness.
A one-year boy of Kottayam
Was cured of his deformity,
When parents prayed over her tomb,
Starting a string of miracles!
Beatified by John Paul II,
In 1986 itself,
She wrought miracles numerous,
For devotees who prayed to her.
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poem by John Celes
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