Core: noun, the most important part of a thing, the essence; from the Latin cor, meaning heart.

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The Weblog at The View from the Core - Sun. 05/30/04 08:03:23 AM

Three by Kilmer III

Three sonnets by Joyce Kilmer.

Lionel Johnson
(For the Rev. John J. Burke, C.S.P.)

There was a murkier tinge in London's air
   As if the honest fog blushed black for shame.
   Fools sang of sin, for other fools' acclaim,
And Milton's wreath was tossed to Baudelaire.
The flowers of evil blossomed everywhere,
   But in their midst a radiant lily came
   Candescent, pure, a cup of living flame,
Bloomed for a day, and left the earth more fair.

And was it Charles, thy "fair and fatal King,"
   Who bade thee welcome to the lovely land?
Or did Lord David cease to harp and sing
   To take in his thine emulative hand?
Or did Our Lady's smile shine forth, to bring
   Her lyric Knight within her choir to stand?

(from "Poems at Home")

Father Gerard Hopkins, S.J.

Why didst thou carve thy speech laboriously,
   And match and blend thy words with curious art?
   For Song, one saith, is but a human heart
Speaking aloud, undisciplined and free.
Nay, God be praised, Who fixed thy task for thee!
   Austere, ecstatic craftsman, set apart
   From all who traffic in Apollo's mart,
On thy phrased paten shall the Splendour be!

Now, carelessly we throw a rhyme to God,
   Singing His praise when other songs are done.
But thou, who knewest paths Teresa trod,
   Losing thyself, what is it thou hast won?
O bleeding feet, with peace and glory shod!
   O happy moth, that flew into the Sun!

(from "Poems at Home")

In Memory of Rupert Brooke

In alien earth, across a troubled sea,
   His body lies that was so fair and young.
   His mouth is stopped, with half his songs unsung;
His arm is still, that struck to make men free.
But let no cloud of lamentation be
   Where, on a warrior's grave, a lyre is hung.
   We keep the echoes of his golden tongue,
We keep the vision of his chivalry.

So Israel's joy, the loveliest of kings,
   Smote now his harp, and now the hostile horde.
To-day the starry roof of Heaven rings
   With psalms a soldier made to praise his Lord;
And David rests beneath Eternal wings,
   Song on his lips, and in his hand a sword.

(from "Poems at Home")

Joyce Kilmer: Poems, Letters and Essays; Volume One: Memoir and Poems (1918), pp. 137, 138, 159. The book is on line here.

Lane Core Jr. CIW P — Sun. 05/30/04 08:03:23 AM
Categorized as Literary & Sunday Poetry Series.


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Cor ad cor loquitur J. H. Newman — “Heart speaks to heart”