Languedoc

Gabriel Olearnik

Erat quippe in ipsa civitate Parisius adolescentula quedam nomine Heloysa, neptis canonici cuiusdam qui Fulbertus.

Why do I seek the living among the dead
she is not here
she is

In Paris I was aquiline
my face eagle, noble, trimmed
in that place of rolled scrolls
I left the iron mittens of fine lineage
sold my birthright and bought books. [Read more…]

Prayer

John A. Di Camillo

Peace.
Sacred silence settles on the soul.
The heart’s thin veil is gently lifted.
Her eyes, in looking out, see in.
Distortion, distraction, delusion:
Cut down by serenity’s blade,
Crimson clarity.

Life courses swiftly, silent and steady,
Unseen but softly felt,
Until now, exposed, shines bright and crimson, crimson.

[Read more…]

Seek MySpace

John Murphy

I first heard about Facebook in my university’s computer lab. I was plugging away at a final paper for Nomadic Art of Eurasia when I happened to overhear a conversation between two girls sitting behind me. Actually, there was very little happenstance about it. You see, I’d harbored a mild crush on one of them since freshman year, but in typical wallflower fashion had never done more than cast moon-eyed looks across the classroom. [Read more…]

Dogwood

Sr. Mary Catherine Vukmanic, OSU

Forsythia comes first, then violet.
(Who watch for them through winter months agree)
Forsythia comes first, then violet
But till the dogwood bloom, it is not spring for me. [Read more…]

Hidden in the Open

Paul Stilwell

What endless teeming in creation, hints
the limitlessness in the limits. You watch
one black and green field-bounder, bounder
of the blades and poles of straw, watch, intent, [Read more…]

Pear Trees

Dena Hunt

She had that kind of slightly plump whiteness that needed only bare arms or stockingless legs on a new spring day to look suddenly, even startlingly, naked. Her eyes, round, slightly protruding, a pale blue and rather watery, stared into the shop window at the little black dress, so strangely out of place among the bright pastels. The smooth baby-pink edges of her heels made a little sucking sound against the soles of her backless shoes as she went inside. Why did she want this dress? Why did she want to wear this piece of mourning on this bright spring day? It seemed right. Who–or what–had died? [Read more…]

A Grief Sublime

Leah Acosta

Fecundity of grief
can sow the arsenic seeds of bitterness
or bear the sweeter fruits of peace, relief—
so civilized a crop from wilderness.
A time to plant, a time to reap, a time
to laugh, a time to weep. A grief sublime.

Lealani Mae (Leah) Acosta is a first-year neurology resident at the University of Virginia Health System.

The Letter of Magdalen Montague, Part IV: The Disciple

Eleanor Bourg Donlon

11 July 1914
St. Mary’s College, S–

Dear R.,

I recently encountered a face from our joint past–a young earl and eager profligate, though not so young as formerly and certainly more inclined to high-minded pomposity. He obligingly provided me with your address. Although I remember well your abhorrence of all things resembling sentimentality, I own that I have thought of you often in the passing years. I shall venture into even more objectionable territory when I assert furthermore that I remember you daily in my prayers. I hope you are well and have remained safe in these anxious times. [Read more…]

Lent/Easter 2008

Publisher’s Note

Feature

Matthew J. Milliner,
When the Eagles Don’t Fit in Capistrano

Fiction

Neil Brown,
The Sacred Way

Dena Hunt,
Pear Trees

Eleanor Bourg Donlon,
The Letters of Magdalen Montague, Part IV: The Disciple

Poetry

Joseph O’Brien,
Frascati

Paul Stilwell,

Gabriel Olearnik,

Amanda Glass,
The Crown of Red

Eric Kingsepp,
leaving and livening

Richard Rodriguez,
Enlightenment

John A. Di Camillo,
Prayer

Kate Bluett,
Triptych

Leah Acosta,
A Grief Sublime

Sr. Mary Catherine Vukmanic, OSU,

Essays

John Murphy,
Seek MySpace

John Heard,
The New Jerusalem

Art and Photography

Matthew Alderman,

Jaclyn Elizabeth Mosing,
Thoughts on St. Joan of Arc

John Walford,

Patrick Anderson,

New Love in Spring

Sr. Mary Catherine Vukmanic, OSU

When winter came, I welcomed snow
Nor minded much that summers go,
Too glad that—though their breath is cold—
The years are white when they are old.

But now that spring has come again,
I am in love with April rain
And budding things, and happy, too,
That years are green when they are new.
[Read more…]