Stabat Mater Or Life Blockt Polyglot Tommyrot Lost The Plot Run-On Days Poem by Warren Falcon

for Henry's heart, and Jacques Smart

'I cannot understand why my arm is not a lilac tree.'
― Leonard Cohen

'In fact, being quite unwell I was quite downcast: nature in all her parcels and faculties gaped and fell apart, fatiscēbat1, like a clod cleaving and holding only by strings of root. But this must often be.' ― Gerard Manley Hopkins in a letter writ 1873


in deep doldrums no poems
arrive not even the daily suicide
note, helpful ritual for years
to get all that 'outta the way'

one may then rebirth into
'rest of day' but should there
be morning with no such note
it may construe that ARRÈT,
the course has been run
the deed has been done -

requiescet2

but suffice to say it is life blockt
polyglot tommyrot lost the plot

blurred


run-on days keep sloppy accounts

viz breaths heaved

even worse

eye-blink rumor sums even head hairs
(ignoring the body which is a certain
unmentioned religion does) are numb-
ered but

all in all all

things

stacked

I will be
convicted
of much
wasted
breath
when
lungs
are

(an
irony
that
there're)

two

(that sigh)

die

as one


done


if sighs count for something
remotely positive as honest
prayers, nay, beseechings,
far-reaches, toward Mercy
Gates then perhaps there's
slim chance that I shall pass
divine muster with promises
to tap dance to whistle these

Dixie Dirges on knees which
is more than purgatory but
that's the point as there is a
purge obligatory if Catholics
(now mentioned) have it true

I soak, marinade, upon final
departure with blacker strap
stronger joe in grip lest I trip,
spill, having no will or not much
until the fiend in caffeine froths,
forths, forces bleat and greet
intrusions beyond bed feet
on the floor the dread but I step

am steeped in Stabat Mater3
(Standing Mother) am so wooed
swooned into intimations tuned
enough of available-enough
and palpable

Grace

though morning palpitations are
attributed to not eating enough
or too much thus

java sway brain synapse
more than m'nerve a'twitch
itch titter


Mourning doves are grace
dulcet clear to hear before
city hammers into my cacair4
betimes monk cave or cell
'to feel the fell of day, not dark'5

Paced it is (has it) all passes
I am betimes (again) soothed
by the thought that even beard
hairs, now ear and nose, other
strange follicle fields, are numb-
ered viz some divine calculus,
tips or may some saintly scale
toward forward a hoped agida
surcease,

stillness increase,

so

becalmed,

I shall (or

should)

be calm

**

1 fatiscēbat - Latin word meaning
'I gape (crack open) '
'I droop (grow weak) '

2 requiescet - Latin for 'He will rest'

3 Stabat Mater - a medieval Latin hymn on the suffering of the Virgin Mary at the Crucifixion. Stabat Mater literally means 'Standing Mother' which in the context of suffering Mary is she who stands at the foot of the Cross upon which Her Son dies.

The reader may listen to many compositions of Stabat Mater by various composers, here are 5 of them:

Pergolesi, Palestrina, Vivaldi, Boccherini, Bononcini, Pärt (this by Pärt, this exquisite Mater was composed in 1985)

English translation from the Latin - Stabat Mater:

At the Cross her station keeping,
stood the mournful Mother weeping,
close to her Son to the last.

Through her heart, His sorrow sharing,
all His bitter anguish bearing,
now at length the sword has passed.

O how sad and sore distressed
was that Mother, highly blest,
of the sole-begotten One.

Christ above in torment hangs,
she beneath beholds the pangs
of her dying glorious Son.

Is there one who would not weep,
whelmed in miseries so deep,
Christ's dear Mother to behold?

Can the human heart refrain
from partaking in her pain,
in that Mother's pain untold?

For the sins of His own nation,
She saw Jesus wracked with torment,
All with scourges rent:

She beheld her tender Child,
Saw Him hang in desolation,
Till His spirit forth He sent.

O thou Mother! fount of love!
Touch my spirit from above,
make my heart with thine accord:

Make me feel as thou hast felt;
make my soul to glow and melt
with the love of Christ my Lord.

Holy Mother! pierce me through,
in my heart each wound renew
of my Savior crucified:

Let me share with thee His pain,
who for all my sins was slain,
who for me in torments died.

Let me mingle tears with thee,
mourning Him who mourned for me,
all the days that I may live:

By the Cross with thee to stay,
there with thee to weep and pray,
is all I ask of thee to give.

Virgin of all virgins blest! ,
Listen to my fond request:
let me share thy grief divine;

Let me, to my latest breath,
in my body bear the death
of that dying Son of thine.

Wounded with His every wound,
steep my soul till it hath swooned,
in His very Blood away;

Be to me, O Virgin, nigh,
lest in flames I burn and die,
in His awful Judgment Day.

Christ, when Thou shalt call me hence,
be Thy Mother my defense,
be Thy Cross my victory;

While my body here decays,
may my soul Thy goodness praise,
Safe in Paradise with Thee.

Amen.

4 carcair is a prison cell or monk's or student's small room

5 a purposeful misquote of Gerard Manley Hopkin's line (which is the title of this sonnet) 'I wake and feel the fell of dark, not day' - I reverse the last 4 words 'to day, not dark' from Hopkin's Terrible Sonnet titled