Poetry and Song
Easter Monday is poem about what might have been the thoughts and feelings of Mary Magdalene, the first person recorded to have seen the Risen Savior.
It expresses her attempts to reconcile painful memories of the crucifixion with her experience at the burial site. This is made more difficult because she was not allowed to touch her risen Lord, thus assuring herself that what she was now seeing and hearing was really happening.
This poem is about the growth of testimony, for all of us, as we come to the point where we are able to proclaim, with sure knowledge, I Know that My Redeemer Lives.
The White Butterfly is a genuine, old-fashioned sonnet. It expresses the inborn desire to continue to pursue that which is just beyond us, or what is also called the Law of Eternal Progression.
Woman of Samaria is a dramatic monologue, intended to be read with intense expression, as if on stage. The other "character" in the drama is the woman's "significant other," whom I imagine would be the first person she would go to tell about her amazing experience at the well. Details are historically researched and correct as far as I know. Really, this is another poem about testimony, one of my favorite topics.
Phoenix-Born is a collection of poetry submitted as my senior honors thesis.
The Word of the Lord Is a Precious Seed is a 4-part choral anthem
For Every Blessing is written in hymn style.
Easter Monday
by Ann Cue
Magdalene had a Monday made
for comprehending what she thought
she knew, and might have seen, and would
already comprehend...if only
she had grabbed the Master’s feet
when he was standing near, and not
let him leave her without the sign
of pulsing flesh against her own,
to tell her she had truly seen.
Magdalene had a Monday wild
with Calvary’s phantoms-- crusted blood
where nails had been, the gaping space
beneath his breast, a smell of wood
and sour wine. And then some angel
sitting on the stone, his face
all sun. And in herself, a place
where grief was raw and shining red.
And green-stemmed allelujas growing
weed-like in her garden when
she had not been there for the sowing,
and did not know whether she saw
or only thought she saw. (So how
could she let them grow?)
Now
she had a Monday made for knowing.
The White Butterfly
A sonnet
Child, too young in tears to understand
Yet why you run this twisting, zigzag race
Through clovered lawns and stone-flushed streets to chase
A butterfly; why silk, while wings command
Bare feet to follow; why your tight-cupped hand
A hundred times will clutch some shining place
But never hold, nor graze, the slightest trace
Of splendor: it is heaven you demand.
A hundred flirting butterflies from now
You will have won your stillness, and the right
To smile when children run, to tell them how
You almost caught that beauty. Then, the sight
Of trembling, white, remembered wings will wake
The call of chase, oh, brighter than the ache.
Woman of Samaria
Come quick, my lord. No, there's not time to play-
your singing bird has felt the stir of wings,
and cares no more for love's old cage of things.
I have outworn them. Listen now--l want
to tell you first, that I have met a man
who told me all that I have ever done.
He's waiting for us now, at Jacob's well.
He calls himself Messiah. Dare we think
he is the Promised One? He asked for drink
from me, as you did. Why, I must have left
the pitcher there, while you've been waiting long
for water. But I've heard you say I bring
you all delight, my dear, and here I am.
Perhaps a little kiss can help your thirst?
Come along. We can go together. First
call everyone in Sichar to the well.
You laugh that such a man would speak with me,
mere woman? Laugh with better reason: he
is Jew, but not like those who wouldn't ask
Samaritan help to save themselves from death,
afraid to die unclean, as though the breath
of Jews were perfumed, that of half-Jews, foul.
I knew him by the fringe upon his cloak.
A Jew--he wore the mark--but with a look
of gentleness. And not a trace of hate.
He seemed tender, yet strong and wise, with eyes
that read a soul unwarned, by quick surprise.
Why can't you hurry? No, I didn't say
the village well, where all the women go
to wag their tongues. You think that I don't know
the ways of Sichar's women? We were bred
alike, though they deny it. Let them talk
where stones can listen. I prefer to walk
beneath the sloping fields of Garizim
to Jacob's Well. The distance is not far
for one who pleasures in the mountain air.
I found him sitting there, alone. A Jew
on foot should keep his friends about, prepared
for trouble. When he asked for drink, I shared
the water jar. "How is it you, a Jew,
ask drink of me?" I said. He knew my place.
I thought, before I looked upon that face,
he might be wanting more from me than drink.
Instead, he spoke of living water. "Call
your husband, bring him here." What could I tell
him? "Sir, I have no husband." Thus I tried
to hide the truth, to no avail--for then
he told me all that I have ever done.
He recognized my kind, who love too well,
and yet not well enough--for you are more
to me than lover, yet not husband. Where
would I obtain a husband? He was wise,
a prophet. Looking up to Garizim
I asked him whether in Jerusalem
or here we ought to worship, as we do.
"In spirit and in truth." And then he named
himself Messiah. "I am he." He claimed
it; I believe. How else could he have known
the deeds my heart is hiding from my mind?
Come with me, run into the village, find
the people. Tell them I have seen a man
at Jacob's Well, and what he said to me.
You are not quick enough. Oh you must see
for yourself, to know, as I do, who he is.
Go then. And I will meet you there when all
the town has heard the news. Samaria shall
not let this moment pass in sleeping! We
will find his living water, for he said
that he has water such as never flowed
in Jacob's Well, which gives us back dead rain.
Quickly, come and see this holy man
who told me...we will never thirst again.
Phoenix-Bornby
Ann Margaret Harycki
(Ann Cue)
A thesis submitted to the faculty
of Mount Mary College in partial
fulfillment of the require-
ments for the degree of
Bachelor of Arts
Milwaukee, Wisconsin
1964
Introduction
Words are born like the phoenix, out of fire into new life. The truth that flashes for a moment is as old as man, but caught somehow in a way that has not been seen before. It is this mystery of creating a reality out of realities, of holding a light upon a piece of God's world and crying, “Look,” of delighting a friend or a stranger with something intensely personal to each, that compels the artist to fight for expression, in any medium.
Christianity has accepted the phoenix as a symbol of man's birth to happiness through suffering. The story is simple: the phoenix flies West every thousand years, burns itself in a fragrant nest, and emerges from the ashes to return East and worship at the altar of the Sun. These poems are all concerned with this paradox.
These are twelve insights of a college senior. Though the vision is not world-shaking, the art not immortal, they communicate something of the world's beauty and something of my involvement in it that I find joy in sharing.
Contents
I. Flight
II. Flames
III. Flight
I. Flight
Preface To a PoemWrap golden rings around these words
And write them phoenix-flamed;
Write them bled of myrrh and spikenard,
Out of blackness bonfired,
Caged, and tamed.
Know them flown from sightless days
Where Orpheus walks in deep
Cold hollows, holding her he knows
With trembling touch, soon his
Alone, to keep.
Hear them Orpheus-fled upon
The dawn of seeing, –torn
Out of my hand, singing, gone
To eastern skies again,
Phoenix-born.
The White ButterflyChild, too young in tears to understand
Now why you run this twisting, zigzag race
Through clovered lawns and stone-flushed streets to chase
A butterfly; why silk, white wings command
Bare feet to follow; why your tight-cupped hand
A hundred times will clutch some shining place
But never hold, nor graze, the slightest trace
Of splendor; it is heaven you demand.
A hundred flirting butterflies from now
You will have won your sadness, and the right
To smile when children run, to tell them how
You almost caught that beauty. Then, the sight
Of trembling, white, remembered wings will wake
The call of chase, oh, brighter than the ache.
To a Young Girl Watching the Stars at NightThere must be better ways to take your flight
From silences that make a sleep too full
For ordinary dreams. Any fool
Would tell you stars are penny cheap at night,
No more phenomenal than dust. What right
Have you to conjure magic here, to call
One lonely light your own and chart its trail
With solemn vigil? Dear, the world is bright
With buried stars.
l’m not the fool to tell
You that, nor will I say a penny dream
Can build a fortune. But ths day will seem
To sparkle long past dawn, and when the spell
Has lost its fire, the darkness will be far
More tender for the presence of a star.
Chantey for the Bride’s MarchLofted pipes roll out a tidal chord
Upon this morning’s beach, a bleached- aisle church
Now spread with sun-wake. All of whiteness poured
Upon me, I will walk my maiden march,
Glide satin-slippered over sand to meet
The shore. I come to you as oceans come,
White-crested, throbbing to a tidal beat
That swathes me, swirls me, crushes bones to foam—
Though I am frozen in a bridal-blanched
Serenity that turns the sea to mist,
Or ice. If organ swells have only wrenched
The real, then when the march ends, I am lost.
But I have seen where wave wraps wave they mesh
And fathom depths. I come with singing flesh.
II. Flames
For a ClownPlease don’t dry my tears away
I know you're smiling upside down,
Patching on that comic frown
As though this were a game to play.
Fool, you’ve made my heart turn gay
With crying in a circus town.
Please don’t dry my tears away,
I know you’re smiling upside down.
Lock the tent and let as stay
And weep and weep until we drown.
Oh painted, pouting, happy clown,
I can laugh my tears today:
Please don’t dry my tears away.
Funeral MarchNovember 25, 1963
March, America, walk your dead
To a sleeping hill where the earth is spread
Brown with grass, and old leaves drop down
In the windless chill of November noon.
Beat the drums, and ring out this:
That now the trumpet summons us
With a golden scream, to a field of graves
And the silent-falling, ragged leaves.
Hail the Chief, throw dirt on shame;
Out of tears he born a brighter name
For freedom (twenty-one guns to blot
The echoed cry of a double shot).
Join all hands in the bitter task
Of harvesting, and do not ask
How the leaves can fall, for the air is free--
There is no need to shake the tree.
Prayer for SurvivalPrick the bloated, golden moon,
Drop down the storm-hung sky,
Heave the leaning mountains over,
Drain the ocean dry.
Because we, fear-worn, cannot kill
The dragon in the cave,
Until we buy, in blood and bones,
A planet for his grave.
To Christ the ArcherBend the stiff bow, this bone-
locked body bruised only
in blundering flesh, its core unscarred.
Stretch this straight, unbreaking wood
to a skin-tight arc that strains toward
the target, waiting, pulsating with promise.
Bend my strong body till a touch
can dart the arrow beyond reach,
cutting the unseen windsong.
III. Flight
Good-bye After DepartureWe climbed the last hill
To tell a rainbow lie
Of remembrance until
We’d outwitted good-bye.
We thought cherry trees
Would obligingly freeze
Into pale pink tones,
And never grow stones.
Foolish we loved
At the gold of the year,
When the daffodil's death
Was our only fear.
But the rainbow fell
When the daffodil died
And the cherry blooms dropped.
And nobody cried.
Let us build a good-bye
Like a pyramid, high
As our love would have grown,
And call it our own.
For Oedipus DyingOld man, the restless thunder-voice out-cries
Your coming, cannot wait while you reclaim
The dead necessity of sight to name
What bright-born god explodes in hollow skies;
For now the long unseeing years arise
To walk a worn-out, lulling dirge, and tame
This violent rehearsal of a game
You play too well to fear the last reprise.
Words will be lost to tumblewinds; the case
For blindness builds upon this final space
Of light. We will remember you when earth
Is naked and ashamed in lightning birth
Of vision, when a beeping satellite
Reports Olympus found, some black-draped night.
For a desert daughter on coming into the ArkI greet you, daughter of the screaming sand
whose wind-blown kisses have scraped your face with the brand
of exile; daughter of the thirsting land
where sidewalks curled under your feet,
and you tried sugar to make the coffee sweet,--
where your hand stuck to someone’s in the heat
of search, kindling a red flame;--
Where faith was a puddle burnt to dust in the same
electric sun, and no rains came
on Friday afternoon when the office door
was locked; where hope was a wooden bucket to pour
old water in, and love not more
than a black river tunneling underground
and a ticket to a painted boat that bounced around
the hollow dampness with a splashing sound.
I greet you, my sister, in the forty days
of flood that fall upon you now, in the ways
you touch the water, in the blaze
you wear that turns a cocky sun
to candlelight,-- in this birth that fire and water have won
with a burning tear, making us one.
AnnunciationBlessed, are you, Woman,
who have believed
who have walked upon the waters, fully dressed,
stepped into shivering wetness
like a rock, unshaken.
Blessed are you who walked like a moon
on the waters.
Blessed, you who opened
to the speaking of the Word
within your body,
whose virgin womb wrapped the Eternal
with light for bodies to see by.
Blessed, when the Light went into you darkly.
Blessed when the Silent went into you whispering.
Blessed be your waiting upon the waters,
oh ark,
until the day of your unflooding.
Here are the words to some of the songs I have composed to express my feelings about my favorite scripture passages and Gospel themes. Please honor copyright protection, and do not copy without permission.
The Word of the Lord is a Precious Seed
Alma 32: 28-43
1
The word of the Lord is a precious seed
Plant it with faith; find out if the seed is good.
For if it is given the smallest of space,
It will swell and sprout up and grow strong in its place.
Chorus
First plant the seed;
Water it well;
And as it grows,
your heart will swell.
Care for that seedling
And let it grow tall.
Till from its great branches
The sweet fruit will fall
2.
The word of the Lord is a precious tree;
Rooted in faith, bearing food for eternity.
And if it is nourished with patient belief,
You will pluck the pure fruit of the great Tree of Life.
Chorus
3
The word of the Lord is a precious food,
Sweet to the taste; good above all that is good.
For if you are faithful and patient, behold!
You will feast on its sweetness until you are filled.
Chorus
For Every Blessing
D&C 132: 5-6
(The New and Everlasting Covenant)
For every blessing, there is a law ordained;
And every blessing can only be obtained
By sweet obedience to the laws our God eternally designed
For all who ask a blessing at His hand.
Dear Father, help me to walk the narrow way,
And show me all things that I must do and say
To come into thy holy presence on that great and glorious day;
Father, bless me with thy law: I shall obey.
Dear Father, send me thy fullness I implore;
Reach out and teach me to open heaven's store.
I have been faithful to the laws I know and now I ask for more;
To abide thy law forever, is my prayer.