Showing posts from October, 2011


by Robert Frost for my Dad In October of 1962 at Dartmouth College , I heard Frost read this poem from his first book, published in 1916. It was his last public appearance. O hushed October morning mild, Thy leaves have ripened to the fall; Tomorrow's wind, if it be wild, Should waste them all. The crows above the forest call; Tomorrow they may form and go. O hushed October morning mild, Begin the hours of this day slow. Make the day seem to us less brief. Hearts not averse to being beguiled, Beguile us in the way you know. Release one leaf at break of day. At noon release another leaf; One from our trees, one far away. Retard the sun with gentle mist; Enchant the land with amethyst. Slow, slow! For the grapes' sake, if they were all, Whose leaves already are burnt with frost, Whose clustered fruit must else be lost - For the grape' sake along the wall. from "Complete Poems of Robert Frost," 1916 Please cli


by Dan Berrigan For those who protest--you carry our hearts Dorothy Day, Servant of God Some stood up once and sat down. Some walked a mile and walked away. Some stood up twice and sat down. I’ve had it! they said. Some walked 2 miles and walked away. It’s too much! they cried. Some stood and stood and stood. They were taken for fools they were taken for being taken in. Some walked and walked and walked. They were asked, and why do you stand? Because of the heart, they said, and because of the children, and because of the bread. Because the cause is the heart’s beat and the children born, and the risen bread. On May 9 th of this year, Dan celebrated his 90th birthday. Please join us in sending Dan our best wishes and prayers; and for “all who brought faith, hope…to all from the inner and outer edges of our lives together." The picture is of his friend, Dorothy Day, Servant of God.

Who We Are

for the men and women who "occupy" Wall Street in protest By Don Foran If I could play that Dvorák, YoYo Ma, Excruciating sadness yoked to joy, I’d play it for all children of this raw And dangerous world, the ones who most annoy The very rich. I’d hold each note an hour And place my quaking finger on the fret Until my sweat ran free and sour; Till tears flowed too, both mine and ours. I’d let The world know that music with its charm Redeems, somehow, much pain and many long Long hidden wrongs, assuages grief and harm, And sounds, at last, a plaintive, hopeful song. Thus are we saved. You stir new mindfulness Of who we really are and whom we bless.