INCARNATION MONASTERY

          BERKELEY, CALIFORNIA
with thanks to Thomas Matus OSB Cam

Incarnation M

There is nothing which exists separate from Me,
 Arjuna. The entire universe is suspended
From Me as my necklace of jewels.
—Krishna to Arjuna “The Bhagavad Gita



THERE IS IN GOD

[First First published on http://pcsj.org/2016CaesuraBronzeEdition,
an online publication of Caesura, Poetry Center San José‘s literary magazine.]

LAKE RONKONKOMA, LONG ISLAND

WP Lake Ronkonkama

Father-sepia

Screen Shot 2017-04-02 at 12.24.13 AM

BRIDGE OF SIGHS, VENICE

bridge-of-sighs

Lifting its heart to the sky, the sea sighs. Light
collides with darkness. Gondoliers are serenading
tourists: O Sole Mio. Through a tiny window of

the covered bridge a last look at freedom. Narrow
corridors and stark cells. Trap doors concealing
the Inquisitional Hall. Who tightened the chains?

Who betrayed whom? Who defended the accused?
Who offered comfort? Who visited the imprisoned?
Thunder cracks lightning’s whip forcing confessions

from the brave and timid alike. Rain is pouring
through gargoyles’ grimaces. Secret trials. Guilt’s
a far-gone conclusion. Texas prisons overflow,

so do jails in progressive California. Consider:
The New Jim Crow (by Michelle Robinson). Forget
about job-training, rehabilitation “You’re on your own!

Alcatraz glows through fog in San Francisco Bay.
Once a prison, now a popular tourist destination
(similarly the Dodge’s Palace). Driving north across

Golden Gate Bridge, exiting freeway 101, you’ll
discover San Quentin’s purgatorial fires turning into hell:
Three strikes and you’re out!” Death-row inmates

enduring a slow-going torture. Who knows how many
lives were destroyed by The Inquisition? What forms
of oppression exist in our country, our communities,

our work-places, our churches? Do insiders in all walks
of life decide the fate of outsiders? Are you, or someone
you know, homeless, sick, unemployed, underserved,

living alone? Beware if you’re a dark skinned male
subject to police searches, or if you are an immigrant,
who looks Hispanic. Deportation without a hearing

is common. And consider Amnesty International,
the Red Cross and Red Crescent denouncing our
Guantanamo prison. Bolts of lightning break through

clouds, shattering preconceived ideas of justice and
compassion. Articles of torture clearly on display–
manacles, the rack, spikes, chains. Frightful feats

happened here. Who believes we Americans are
innocents abroad? We see little, hear little, speak
little of what’s done in our name. Drones, counter-

insurgency attacks, collateral damage. Inmates are
shipped across the U.S. to Texas prisons, rarely close
enough for family visits. Yet the boasting TV blares:

We’re the best country ever on earth! Such a sense of
history! Such hubris! Oy Vey! as we say in Brooklyn.
Why not funnel reparations to the descendants of slaves?

Why keep funding our endless wars abroad and the dreadful
domestic drug war? We’re crossing the Bridge of Sighs,
O Sole Mio echoes in cells, so does San Marco’s Te Deum.

From: “Heart and Soul”—Poems by Carolyn Grassi
Patmos Press SF 2014

wire-fence

OH TIGRIS, OH EUPHRATES…

tigris-poem

map-rivers

CONVENT LESSONS

hudson
image-1
image2
oak-trees

HAPPY THANKSGIVING 2016

A Happy Thanksgiving to my family and friends . . .

cornucopia

“Let me sit down with the ones I love best, Hear the old voices still ringin’ with song,
See the old faces unblemished by wrong, See the old table with all of its chairs
An’ I’ll put soul in my Thanksgivin’ prayers.”   [Edgar Albert Guest]


Here is my poem for this occasion: BENEDICTION.

benediction
CLICK HERE TO READ THE POEM IN LARGER PRINT.
benidiction

CALIFORNIA LIGHTS

City Lights

. . . the wide open California sky fills the car
with light, while my mother sits beside me,
this her first day out West, and in typical

Brooklyn Flatbush fashion, enthusiastically exclaims:
“It’s so bright!” Sure enough, unfiltered by humidity,
unlike back East; such a stark contrast to Aberdeen,

her mother’s home city on the constantly cool, often
cloudy North Sea coast, while further north, the wild
windy Orkney Islands, origin for our Scottish Skea

ancestors, who set large stones in circles, dug deep
burrows to lure the sun at solstice into earthen caverns,
so celebrate, as a community, the arrow light

shooting through the dark, liquid-like gold pouring
into a primitive chalice, positioned at an angle,
welcoming that warm beam of shimmering hope

during dark chilly days; and now calling me to
wonder whether our subconscious is saturated
with ancestral memories, instinctive links, codes

embedded in DNA, elemental ancient worship,
akin to the Magi following a star along the Silk Road
to Palestine, arriving at an unlikely place, a manger

with a newborn asleep on straw, symbolizing salvation’s
unconditional love, rippling outwards in bands, such
sacred rituals, scriptural stories passed down over

centuries, lingering in voices of a grandmother telling
a childhood tale of her father, a sea-captain for
Cunard Lines, providing passage from Scotland

to New York harbor, Lady of Liberty lighting the way,
. . . remnants scattered, trace memory, my mother
drawn to the Atlantic, swimming with Dad, basking

in the summer sun, my brothers and I diving into sparkling
surf, tip-toeing on hot beach to the boardwalk for cokes
and hot-dogs . . . as with everyone’s childhood,

temporarily lost . . . I entered a convent far from
the sea, though splendid sights from Westchester’s
highest hill overlooking the Hudson; the back east

winter darkness providing hibernation, a slowing down
as our feline pets sleeping silently in shadows till sun-
beams touch their fur, waking to groom for essential

vitamin D; while our family further revitalized by
immigrating to sunny California, fiery gingko trees,
plum blossom orchards, grape vineyards, almond groves,

pines, redwoods, cypresses; glorious unexpected graces,
as my mother telling of her daily practice at day’s end:
walking to the window in Santa Clara’s Valley Village

retirement community, companioning the sun’s golden
crest over the darkening Santa Cruz mountains before
dipping into the Pacific, recalling her mother’s love of

sunsets from her Prospect Park apartment towards
the Brooklyn Bridge and family drives to Fort Greene’s
69th Street pier, facing city skyscrapers shimmering

in Hudson harbor, New Jersey aglow, lighthouse of memory
turning towards times Mom welcomed the eastern sun
over Silicon Valley, offering her warm afternoon walks

to Walgreens or Safeway, till twilight called her home,
as prayer does at dark, casting beams of hope into our hearts,
blessed rays she believed brought her beloved close . . .

Gingko leaves

HOMAGE TO GEORGE HERBERT

Throughout his life, George Herbert wrote religious poems characterized by a precision of language, a metrical versatility, and an ingenious use of imagery or conceits that was favoured by the metaphysical school of poets. Charles Cotton described him as a “soul composed of harmonies.”(Michael Schmidt, Poets on Poets essay on George Herbert)

HOMAGE TO GEORGE HERBERT (1593-1633)

“Listen sweet Dove to my song,
And spread your golden wings in me;
Hatching my tender heart so long,
Till it get wing and fly away with thee.”
— George Herbert

[Click to read in larger print]
Doves-1

Doves 2

HOMELESS IN SAN FRANCISCO

Homeless in San Franciso

1

.. . . this young man has the darkest circles under his eyes
of anyone I’ve ever seen . . . he appears to be in
his 20’s or 30’s,
apparently bewildered
as he stands at the intersection of Bush and Van Ness in
San Francisco on this mild Sunday morning;
his pants frayed at the cuffs,
his shirt worn-down,
his backpack dirty . . . I’m watching him while I sit by
the large window of Peet’s, enjoying jasmine tea,
a slice of BBQ chicken pizza
from nearby Whole Foods,
where my car is parked at California and Franklin; suddenly,
he has disappeared, likely having crossed Van Ness,
heading west
towards the plush
public park, around Bush, Gough and Larkin, where the paths
lead to a summit featuring million dollar views
surrounded by multi-million
dollar Pacific Heights homes.
And along eastern side of the park, on Gough is the Jung Institute,
where I used to attend lectures, but can no longer afford the fee.
Do they offer counseling
for the homeless?
Angel Island and Alcatraz visible in the Bay, further north of
the Golden Gate: Mount Tamalpais gleaming above the fog.
If I were homeless,
several secluded places
in the park for a nap . . . where would I go afterwards for a meal
on a Sunday? The Episcopal church on Gough may offer
hot meals during
weekdays, not weekends.
Who knows if this young man’s familiar with the city’s resources?
Should I have stopped sipping tea, put away Donne’s poems,
rushed outside to offer
cash to the young man, or
suggest he check out the Christian Science church on Van Ness,
though unlikely they run a soup kitchen on Sunday, but
I didn’t do anything,
didn’t come to him before
he vanished; though earlier, I gave a dollar to a guy at the 101 exit
to 9th Street and Larkin;
and yesterday a dollar
to a man at the Saratoga-Sunnyvale 280 exit in Cupertino, walking
distance to Apple headquarters near Stevens Creek Boulevard,
where, before groceries at
nearbyWhole Foods, I enjoy
reading poetry in a café, where IT guys gather to discuss projects.
Isn’t a dollar for a homeless person, similar to a drop of water
during a terrible drought
as now in California . . .
Is writing about this homeless young man a balm to assuage
my guilt for doing nothing, while several friends work tirelessly
for social-justice causes . . .
Can poetry raise
consciousness of homeless men, women and children . . .
2.
. . . once or twice a year, when I was a child, Dad drove
from the Bronx Zoo through NYC’s Bowery back to Brooklyn,
inevitably a homeless man
would knock on our car window,
and I’d wonder if he was my great-grandfather, John Ball,
who, having lost his wealth in the stock market crash,
disappeared in despair . . .
though years later,
another legend surfaced in our family: that after his financial
loss, great-grandfather ran off with his wife’s best friend.
Was my mother the one
who told this version?
Whichever story is true, as a child I thought any homeless man
might be my great-grandpa. His sons, grandpa Reginald
and grand-uncle Howard
inherited some of their
father’s “baggage,” both held steady jobs at New York’s Home
Insurance company, yet grandpa liked gambling at cards,
maybe wanting to win back
money his father lost
in the stock market; while Howard, devoted to his mother,
converted to Catholicism, perhaps an attempt at atoning
for his father’s
abandoning the family.
Howard purchased a home in Brooklyn, offering it to his brother
Reginald and family,
on condition the children,
(my mother and her brother) attend Catholic schools, since
Howard’s hope: their conversion, a possible penance
“for the sins of the father,”
thus Howard’s will providing
$100,000 for the church’s missionary wing, the Propagation
of the Faith; unfortunately not donated to the Catholic Worker,
providing meals and shelter,
for the homeless in the Bowery.
3.
. . . my brothers and I grew up in a poor section of Flatbush,
a mixed neighborhood of recently arrived southern Blacks
and immigrant Irish,
Lott Street by Tilden Avenue,
three blocks from Sears and Macy’s; we all shopped at the local
Woolworth’s, A&P, Merkel’s meat market, Hunt’s Fish Store,
Tom McAnn’s, Fanny Farmers,
movies at Lowe’s King’s theater,
RKO Kenmore, Chinese take-out on Church Avenue, Brooklyn
buses, the IRT, BMT subways, public high school pools,
Easter outfits at Gimbel’s
bargain basement,
4th of July fireworks at Coney Island, summer camps sponsored by
the Herald Tribune Fresh Air Fund for disadvantaged city kids;
I loved Camp Oh-Neh-Tah,
mostly African-American
and Puerto Rican girls, everyone, everything equal, integrated
in cabins, games, hiking, swimming, camping; yet the counselors
predominantly white Protestants,
only two Black Baptists:
Miss Shirley, Miss Gwen, one Jewish counselor: Miss Colette,
and a single Catholic: a Miss Mary from NYC’s Hell’s Kitchen.
4.
. . . . at age eighteen, I entered the Maryknoll community,
for work among the poor in developing countries,
Latin America, Africa,
Asia, the Pacific Islands . . .
a focus fostering activism, “the corporal works of mercy,” relegating
“the arts” to the periphery, linked only to the liturgy, otherwise
an incidental pursuit
unlike the renaissance’s
intimacy of art and religion; modern times divorcing artistic
pursuit from political activism. How do poets flourish in
the midst of social-justice
activism. Why not rap?
Is it an age-old cliché: the writer as “outsider” no longer relevant?
Consider Facebook spreading the word about your work.
What every writer wishes,
even the famed Shelley
nearly lost hope, since his publisher put off publishing him, yet,
born to write, he rallied into the Light at the end . . .
5.
. . . my father longed to pursue art; yet left school to support
Nana and the family; afterall, she cared for him and his siblings
after their mother died,
. . . fortunately he found
clerical work at Equitable Life Insurance, where he met his future
wife, my mother, who had to leave high school, so help support
her family during
the Depression;
I never heard either Mom or Dad complain about their sacrifices;
never preaching to my brothers or me about what we “should do”
to help those in need;
uncomplaining, they
pursued simple things, like public beaches and parks, family
gatherings, visiting Nana, Aunt Muriel, grandma and grandpa,
faithful without fanfare,
their heroic unsung deeds . . .
6.
. . . when the current pope Francis reaches out in a crowd to
touch a needy person, I remember my father and mother’s
challenges, limitations,
devotions, legends
of our family history; who knows if the man knocking
on the window of our car in the Bowery was
great-grandfather?
. . . what we did,
or did not know, or do, is unknown. Francis calls Catholics to
practice the spiritual and corporal works of mercy; meanwhile
I stayed seated in
a Peet’s Café, watching
an apparently homeless young man walk away . . . who can say
what good or bad deeds we’ve done in our lifetime;
I don’t believe in a ledger
kept in heaven, though
I am moved by Dante’s view of an after-life, based on Thomas
Aquinas’s Summa Theologica, whom Uncle Howard credited
for his conversion,
since his best friend Al
courted Howard as a convert, via a shared reading of The Summa,
thus a cascade of our family’s conversions . .
7.
Does the vocation of writing have an impact on changing
anything socially? Certainly activists do more to make
a difference in the life
of the poor, the homeless,
than most poets do, speaking for myself that is . . . Was
my father’s life less significant than famed folks, for being
hidden, unknown
by the world outside
our family? Francis’s commentary how “Life is messy.
The church should be a field hospital for healing.”
What of our lives
at home, sites
for sheltering those in need, relatives or not, men, women and
children needing shelter, lacking a refuge, unseen in suburbs,
where strangers are banished
to cities, no panhandling allowed
in Palo Alto, though obvious homeless people linger near
the glitzy Apple Store on University Avenue within walking
distance of Stanford.
Is sacramental confession
obsolete? Do we long for absolution, a penance for failing
to reach out to those in need; should we shake up
complacency, stand in
the shoes of the homeless,
feel the pain of having your home taken by a bank due to
fraudulent mortgages, experience eviction as a possibility,
imagine being
a veteran mother or
father traumatized by war, unable to find a job, how it is living
in a poor neighborhood overtaken by drugs, attend
schools denied sufficient funds,
while rich folks raise
money for their kids’ education in music, art, sports, science;
what if a widow unable to survive on social security, or being
a boy, a girl running away,
seeking safety,
roaming our city streets, sleeping wherever, eating whenever . . .
barely surviving on handouts; shadowed by tragedy
early on, my Dad’s
mother dying when
he was five years old, saved by Margarent Drury, named “Nana,”
his mother’s best friend, who devoted her life to raising him,
his brother and sister,
an unsung hidden heroine . . .

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QUOTING RON HANSEN

"Carolyn Grassi's 'Heart and Soul' is fascinating in its fluent and affecting blend of memoir and poetry, reminiscence and sheer invention, loss, grief and homage. Adopting a persona at times, or imitating a seminal influence on her writing at other junctures, [Carolyn Grassi] has created a quilt of memories and reflections on a life's education—the journey we all hope to make from becoming to being, or from acting as disciples to representing ourselves and our art as apostles..."
Read the complete foreword by Ron Hansen in 'Heart and Soul' published by Patmos Press, San Francisco, CA.

Ron Hansen, author

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