Poem: Maker of Makers
This isn't all that great a poem, but seeing as I skipped out of the weekend with the Precious Blood sisters before I could share it with everybody else (*Maureen has a skin-crawling flashback to group reports and reading stuff out in class! Yarrgh!*), I guess humility demands I share it somewhere. We were assigned to write down "our greatest treasure" during Holy Hour, which was an interesting experience when you're busy having an overwhelming experience of actually feeling the presence of the Real Presence. But if I could write when I was in Scadian court, and if I could write normally (when of course God is always there, whether we're being overwhelmingly reminded of that or not, I supposed I could write something then. And I did; and interestingly enough, it didn't distract me much out of the state I was in. Like I said below, it was all fairly unprecedented for me and fairly obviously nothing of my doing.
(You know, I'm not sure why I'm dancing around this so much, admitting something happened but not actually going into detail. I guess there are two reasons. One, because being open and going against my instincts not to talk at all about my experiences led to a fairly large break between me and some Catholic friends back in my freshman year of college. Two, because I'm not sure how to convey what happened with the proper weightings. The parts that would sound the most remarkable really weren't all that important, and the things that would sound like nothing were what really meant everything. To be honest, pretty much every mystical dealie is bound to boil down to "I felt the presence of God". That's all there is to it, and that's more than enough.)
Anyway, on with the poem, which has very little to do with all that and very little to do with the assigned theme. In the face of the King, I went with my Scadian roots and produced something like a courtly Irish poem.
Maker of makers and molecules -- Man
More than all mortals, like us but in sin --
God for whom gold and the sun are both molding clay --
I feel your gaze as I gaze on You here.
If Your appearance were not masked and monstranced,
How could I bear it? But yet, Lord, I long
To see Your forever, to be with You always,
To sing with the angels, to praise You, mo stor,
Maker of makers.