Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking, a Symphonic Poem

This is a Symphonic Poem, based on the poetic elegy by Walt Whitman, this is the first movement of a projected work based on several key periods in the poet’s life: this first being his account of the origin of his poetic spirit, awakened in childhood to the reality of love and loss. I began this work in the late 70s, only bringing it to completion this year of 2020... so I may never complete the project! But here is what I have to offer; the video provides a sing-along to the poem in a vocal part suitable to a lyric baritone or dramatic tenor.

The music reflects my influences, from John Cage (in some of the aleatory involved in creating the thematic and harmonic material) to Gustav Mahler and Richard Strauss (in shaping the harmomics along chromatic lines), with a nod to Richard Wagner — both in terms of how the leitmotifs were evolved (in this case from a pair of 12=tone rows) and applied, and with a specific brief quotation of a phrase from Tristan and Isolde: this Whitman poem being the American poet’s Love-Death meditation.

Lost Liberty

We never learned what woke her from her slumber,

what caused her to awake and look around

confused, demented, lost, not knowing where

she was. Wide-eyed, she climbed down gingerly

from the perch she'd held these many years,

to creep down off the base, then  step into 

the blue-black water, shoulders shrugged against

the cold, a little gasp, a wrinkled brow.

She waded to the so-familiar shore,

unplaceable and strangely foreign now,

and clambered up the bank, her spikey crown

atilt, its sharp points catching in the branches.

She hasn't got a clue now, where she is.

She wanders on these lonely streets, eyes wide

but vacant, recognizing nothing, feeling

that she ought to know this place. Her copper

gown is stained and ragged. She had dropped

the torch and book in getting off her perch;

they rolled into the water, sank, and dis-

appeared. The passersby avoid her, feel 

ashamed, as in, “How shameful that a poor

demented woman should be on the streets 

like this. Someone should do something.”

None does. They cut the budget. It's too late.

She shuffles on, head down, eyes up, as if

by looking hard she might still find her way. 

—Tobias Stanislas Haller BSG

Intimation of Mortality: Conversation with a Tumor

I asked my Cancer, “Why,” and like
a mountaineer it answered me, “Because.”
“But don’t you know,” said I,
“that when you kill me, you will die?”
The Tumor paused, then shrugged, and said,
“That’s life... I mean, we all have purposes,
reasons to exist, a will to live, and, sure,
a sell-by date. My goals are simple,
largely to enlarge, to spread, to colonize.
I realize you are the limits of my world,
and when I’ve built my empire, it will end.
That is my purpose, that’s my goal in life.
But while I am about it, let me ask,
Are you as eager to engage your task?
What is it, anyway? If just to ‘be’
what makes you any different from me?”
I thanked my Cancer for his wise advice,
but still allowed the surgeon to excise
my Tumor... conscious now to spend
a life in purpose lived, before it end.

Tobias Stanislas Haller BSG
October, 2015

Update and disclaimer: This poem represents an imagined conversation from ten years ago. It came to me in a flash as a poem this past week, but the context is that I have been cancer-free for a decade now, and hope to so continue for at least one, or maybe two, more, other health and vitality permitting, and always under God's care and to God's glory!
TSH

Duty and Death...

for KMY

Somewhere a child is crying.
Lord, help me find him
that I may do my duty to my King.
Led by what dark star
to the outskirts of the capital,
as a man under orders,
commanded, I go.

All of them, he said,
up to the age of two.
I passed one by a while back,
perhaps small for his age;
the soldier behind me thought otherwise.

Soldier. Is this soldiers’ work?
Up to the age of two, he said.
The King is a hard man.
It’s no disloyalty to acknowledge it.
You don’t build a kingdom being soft.
He cuts a broad swath, our King.
All of them, he said,
up to the age of two.

It’s quieter now the screaming’s over.
The cobblestones are slippery
and it’s too dark now
to see with what.
But somewhere up ahead
a child is crying.
Lord, help me find him
that I may do my duty to my King.

— Tobias Stanislas Haller BSG

A mirrorwise reflection between Matthew 2.16 and John 16.2

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This poem was first published in The Witness online, December 2003; the image is from my series of Aaronic Blessings.

Bernard's Song per Dante

In celebration of the feast of Bernard of Clairvaux, here is a rehearsal tape of the Hymn to the Virgin from the Celestial Rose, from Dante's Paradiso, Canto XXXIII. I composed this for St Luke in the Fields back in the 80s, for performance in Advent. I made a tape of the rehearsal, but the recorder died during the actual liturgy. Still, it gives an idea of what I was after. Bill Entriken is the organist, and the cellist is from the St Luke's Chamber Orchestra.

Bernard sings:

«Vergine Madre, figlia del tuo figlio,
umile e alta più che creatura,
termine fisso d’etterno consiglio,

tu se’ colei che l’umana natura
nobilitasti sì, che ’l suo fattore
non disdegnò di farsi sua fattura.

Nel ventre tuo si raccese l’amore,
per lo cui caldo ne l’etterna pace
così è germinato questo fiore.


Translation
Virgin Mother, daughter of you Son,
Humble and high beyond creature,
Fixed limit of the eternal counsel,

You are she who so ennobled human nature
that the Creator did not disdain
to make of it his maker.

Within your womb was rekindled
the love by whose heat, in eternal peace,
thus was germinated this flower.

(The Flower is the celestial rose which is constituted from the company of saints themselves...)

Pardon the poor quality of the tape.

Tobias Stanislas Haller BSG


MP3 File

The Butterfly

Taking a sabbatical on the bridge’s bannister
— a momentary flex or two of wings a major
interruption in your short life-span —
I notice that your dappled right-hand wing
has lost a section of the dexter chief
of your escutcheon, your family crest thus dis-
emblazoned by a proper relic of
some former battle with a spiderweb.

You rest — and when I move you flutter off,
but then return, to bask another moment,
to lengthen our unspoken consultation;
finally to flutter off and by — a Viceroy
or a Monarch (I too ignorant of
the heraldry of Lepidoptera to know) 
but rested, ready to reclaim the air
with wounded wing.

Envoi
You know my wounds, Lord; some of them you gave me,
some I gave myself. I still will fly —
but with your help, for you alone can save me.

Tobias Stanislas Haller BSG, 2006

Adam Found the Tree of Life

For many years I searched to find this place. The way
was watched by angels armed with swords;
and yet in seeking it I felt the Lord’s
love guiding me. With hope and fear, by grace
I made my way — I’m sure it was God’s will.
It was the Tree of Knowledge God forbade.
Its bitter fruit our innocence unmade;
had we kept faith we’d be in Eden still.
But this, the Tree of Life, was only lost
because we fell. In Paradise once more,
I looked upon the Tree, and what it bore.
The Tree had brought forth fruit, but at what cost!
I saw a wonder hanging from that Tree;
a man was nailed to it; he looked like me.

Tobias Stanislas Haller BSG
1988

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Bethsaida

I’d lain there many years beside the pool
but never made it; others got there first,
and I was left behind; felt like a fool
who swims a river while he dies of thirst.
“So close and yet so far,” the saying goes.
The churning waters mocking, tantalize,
but I can’t move; the nature of my woes
is just what stops me getting to the prize.

He asked me if I wanted to be cured,
surprised no doubt at how long I’d endured
this state of things; but he — as quick as that —
he told me, “Rise, and carry off your mat.”
An angel stirred the waters of my soul,
and Jesus was the one who made me whole.

Tobias Stanislas Haller BSG
A sonnet after John 5:1-9
February 11, 2013

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The King's Apology

King Herod was a man who weighed things in
the scale of his own judgment, in
his selfish-ordered world,
in which his life out-weighed all other lives.

So in his eyes expediency demanded that
this infant rival king be dealt with ere
he came of age to threaten Herod’s throne.
The other children were collateral loss,
indeed somewhat to be regretted
(as the later letter put it) due
to over-zealous overkill
by members of the royal forces.
(Politicians wipe away their crimes
as handily as crimes wipe out their foes.)

What? Never saw that letter?
Search the archives and I’m sure you’ll find
it, signed with Herod’s hand and seal.
“Condolences to all bereaved in Bethlehem
of Judah. Please accept my sorrow for
your loss, occasioned by excesses on
the army’s part. Those found responsible
will face review and discipline. Sincerely,
Herod, King.”

Tobias Stanislas Haller BSG
the image is “Aaronic Blessing #3 — The Holy Innocents” 12/26/13

In Paradisium

“Father, forgive them...”

There is a place that’s not a place
Where every memory wears a face,
Where nothing moves but all things race
Towards the throne of grace.

The Lamb of God is seated there,
A Monarch willing yet to share
In every joy, in every care,
With those who see his face.

Before his face are gathered in,
With every joy and every sin
Some who were lost — but all there win
Who run and end this race.

There peace with conflict’s end is found,
With righteousness and mercy bound,
And sinners’ songs with saints’ resound
Around the throne of grace.

Tobias Stanislas Haller BSG
November  2013 — for the feast of Christ the King

Epitome 23

The Lord my Shepherd will provide
In every taunt and test;
God will be with me at my side
In rising or at rest.

Tobias Stanislas Haller BSG
a thought that arose this morning... short epitomes of the Psalms in verse.

Today -11

September Midday Mass

The tall old priest entered the half-lit sacristy,
fresh from his usual Tuesday morning studies.
The fair-haired acolyte with the bad complexion
was ready, vested, standing in the dimness
quietly. The old priest noticed he was sniffing
and his eyes were red. A failed romance,
he thought; but keeping his own rule on chit-chat
in the sacristy, vested silently.
The old familiar motions and the prayers
displaced whatever thoughts he might have had;
the only dialogue to break the stillness was
the rote exchange of formal preparation.
Then, in one motion as he slipped his hand
beneath the pale green veil, the other hand
upon the burse, he lifted vested vessels,
turned and followed in the sniffing server’s
wake. Eyes lowered to the holy burden
in his hand, he failed to notice that
the chapel for this midday feria —
on other days like this with one or two
at most — was full of worshippers; until
he raised his eyes, and saw the pews were filled —
but undeterred began the liturgy:
the lessons and the gospel from last Sunday,
his sermon brief, but pointed, on the texts.
It wasn’t till the acolyte began
the people’s prayers, and choked out words of planes
that brought a city’s towers down, and crashed
into the Pentagon, and plowed a field
in Pennsylvania, that the old priest knew
this was no ordinary Tuesday in
September —
not ordinary time at all,
that day he missed the towers’ fall.
Tobias Haller BSG
March 8, 2008

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Facing the Corporal

A priest’s prayer...

If I set the table

will you here abide?

Is this small space able,

just four hand-breadths wide,

by your Word,

blessed Lord,

for you at my side?

Heaven cannot hold you,

Solomon once said.

Can this plate and can this cup,

can this wine, this bread?

By your Word,

blessed Lord,

here I lift you up.

Tobias Stanislas Haller BSG
Pentecost 2012 — my 1,000th post at this blog

A Poem for the Extraordinary Day

From 2008, but especially on this anniversary.

Two Children, Both Boys

(in keeping with the Visitation)

Saint John was a precocious child; a womb-
borne prophet, quickening as his Lord came by
—Mary bearing Jesus standing nigh—
Leaping up with hardly any room.

Two very different boys: the first was born
just after summer’s sun stopped in the north;
the other, as the sun stood south, borne forth
into a winter world cold and forlorn.

The barn is cold; the animals stand round,
and shepherds kneel, adoring what they’ve found.
There; listen! You can hear it if you try—
the newborn John, his first breath in a cry
—a prophet's cry of joy, and not of fear—
salutes his Lord from half-way round the year.

Tobias Stanislas Haller BSG

Post 800: From yesterday's sermon

What are the grapes or grain
that you could leave untouched
for others to be nourished by?
Perhaps it is the wheat and grapes you leave behind
that go to make
the bread and wine that will become
the Body and the Blood of God.

What extra miles have you trod down,
or coats or cloaks provided —
and has your cheek once felt
the sting of an unearned slap,
and yet you’ve not returned it
with a blow or protest?

Tobias Stanislas Haller BSG

Uriah Welcomes His Step-Son Into Sheol

2 Samuel 11:2-12:18

Your father stole your mother from my breast —
he spied her while out strolling on his roof
and saw her in her nakedness, undressed
while bathing, reckless of his lust.

My loyalty was soon put to the proof,
a soldier under orders, as I must
obey my Lord. Abandoned in my trust,
an arrow pierced my breast, a lance my side,
and so it was I came to rest in dust.
In fighting for your father — so I died.

A prophet gave your father a reproof,
a promise you too soon would find your rest;
you died a few days after your first breath.

Come, greet your foster father here in death.

Tobias Stanislas Haller BSG
January 22, 2011

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September Midday Mass

The tall old priest entered the half-lit sacristy,
fresh from his usual Tuesday morning studies.
The fair-haired acolyte with the bad complexion
was ready, vested, standing in the dimness
quietly. The old priest noticed he was sniffing
and his eyes were red. A failed romance,
he thought; but keeping his own rule on chit-chat
in the sacristy, vested silently.
The old familiar motions and the prayers
displaced whatever thoughts he might have had;
the only dialogue to break the stillness was
the rote exchange of formal preparation.

Then, in one motion as he slipped his hand
beneath the pale green veil, the other hand
upon the burse, he lifted vested vessels,
turned and followed in the sniffing server’s
wake. Eyes lowered to the holy burden
in his hand, he failed to notice that
the chapel for this midday feria —
on other days like this with one or two
at most — was full of worshippers; until
he raised his eyes, and saw the pews were filled —
but undeterred began the liturgy:
the lessons and the gospel from last Sunday,
his sermon brief, but pointed, on the texts.

It wasn’t till the acolyte began
the people’s prayers, and choked out words of planes
that brought a city’s towers down, and crashed
into the Pentagon, and plowed a field
in Pennsylvania, that the old priest knew
this was no ordinary Tuesday in
September —
not ordinary time at all,
that day he missed the towers’ fall.

Tobias Haller BSG
March 8, 2008

Reposted now annually as a traditional observance

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In anticipation of 9.11

I am the mash'd fireman with breast-bone broken,
Tumbling walls buried me in their debris,
Heat and smoke I inspired,
I heard the yelling shouts of my comrades,
I heard the distant click of their picks and shovels,
They have clear'd the beams away,
they tenderly lift me forth.

I lie in the night air in my red shirt,
the pervading hush is for my sake,
Painless after all I lie exhausted but not so unhappy,
White and beautiful are the faces around me,
the heads are bared of their fire-caps,
The kneeling crowd fades with the light of the torches.

— Walt Whitman, Song of Myself

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The Elder Son and the Father’s Repentance

My brother’s gone inside. Hot tears well up.
“O Father, don’t you love me? Have you
one such blessing? For this son of yours
you kill the calf, and open wide the doors
of welcome. But for me, it seems, you choose
no festival, no ring, no robe, no shoes...”
My voice cracks with a sob; the tears run down.
“When my friends last came by, you seemed to frown;
I didn’t dare to ask you for the goat —
you know, the little one — so we could feast.
Oh, had you offered that, at least
I’d feel you took some notice, made some note
of how I’ve worked and not complained... but now...”
My voice gives out.
                    But then I see his eyes
are also filled with tears; he on my shoulders
lays his hands, then draws me to his breast,
“My Son, my Son,” he says, “My firstborn son,
my heir, my joy, my pride — when I to rest
am gone, all that I have is yours, and none
but you shall hold it. Did I, Son, neglect
to tell you that? That you were the elect,
to hold by right inheritance all this?
Then I confess that I have done amiss.
Forgive me for assuming that you knew,
for never saying how much I love you...
but come inside; to celebrate with joy;
I love you, Son, more than the younger boy.

Tobias Stanislas Haller BSG
Lent 3 2010

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