"Love follows knowledge."
"Beauty above all beauty!"
– St. Catherine of Siena

Friday, July 21, 2017

Faith Filled Friday: The Feast of Our Lady of Mount Carmel

This was the second year our parish—St. Rita’s Church in Staten Island, NY—celebrated the Feast of Our Lady of Mount Carmel.  I took pictures last year and thought I posted them on the blog, but apparently not.  I couldn’t find any post.  I took pictures again this year and so I’ll post now.

OurLady of Mount Carmel is the title of our Blessed Mother as patroness of the Carmelite Order.  Mount Carmel is the group of mountains in northern Israel where the Carmelite hermits gathered and founded the order shortly after the Crusades had retaken the Holy Land.  The Carmelite Order has had a long and glorious tradition all the way to today.  July 16th is the feast day, established by the appearance of the Holy Virgin to Carmelite friar, St. Simon Stock on that day in 1251.  And so Carmelites, lay and religious, have been celebrating this feast for centuries.  This year July 16th fell on a Sunday, and so we celebrated right after the 12:30 PM mass.

Now the celebration of OLMC is basically an Italian feast event, and like many summer time Italian feasts, there is a statue of the saint which is carried out of the church, placed on a large rolling cart or dolly, and paraded through the neighborhood with a marching band. 

So here is the statue being carried out of the church.




We had an explosion of confetti once it was out and my camera caught it.




The professionals then placed it on top of the dolly and locked it in.




The statue is beautifully dressed.  Here are some close ups.







There are lots of banners and flags in the procession.




Since this is their feast day, here’s one of the Lay Carmelites.




We actually had two Italian marching bands, one in the front and one in the back.  Here’s the one in the front.




And the procession went through the neighborhood.  Last year we handed out prayer cards and scapulars as we walked.  For some reason we didn’t do it this year.







It was a very hot and humid day.  We only marched a few blocks and around, maybe amounting to a half mile.  Finally we concluded with pizza and cookies and fresh soft drinks at the church auditorium.




The dress’s train are actually ribbons pinned with money that parishioners donated. 


Our Lady of Mount Carmel, pray for us.

Wednesday, July 12, 2017

Notable Quote: Poverty in Youth by Victor Hugo, from Les Misérables

I’ve been picking up where I left off in Victor Hugo’s Les Misérables, and there are so many notable quotes I come across I could post one of these every night.  But I wanted to post at least post one.  I’m in Volume III, titled, Marius, where the author traces the life of Marius from his childhood to where he meets Cosette.  Here, he has been turned out of his house by his grandfather over political disputes, and Marius struggles to live on a small income.  Hugo then rhapsodizes on youth and poverty.

Poverty in youth, when it succeeds, has this magnificent property about it, that it turns the whole will towards effort, and the whole soul towards aspiration. Poverty instantly lays material life bare and renders it hideous; hence inexpressible bounds towards the ideal life. The wealthy young man has a hundred coarse and brilliant distractions, horse races, hunting, dogs, tobacco, gaming, good repasts, and all the rest of it; occupations for the baser side of the soul, at the expense of the loftier and more delicate sides. The poor young man wins his bread with difficulty; he eats; when he has eaten, he has nothing more but meditation. He goes to the spectacles which God furnishes gratis; he gazes at the sky, space, the stars, flowers, children, the humanity among which he is suffering, the creation amid which he beams. He gazes so much on humanity that he perceives its soul, he gazes upon creation to such an extent that he beholds God. He dreams, he feels himself great; he dreams on, and feels himself tender. From the egotism of the man who suffers he passes to the compassion of the man who meditates. An admirable sentiment breaks forth in him, forgetfulness of self and pity for all. As he thinks of the innumerable enjoyments which nature offers, gives, and lavishes to souls which stand open, and refuses to souls that are closed, he comes to pity, he the millionnaire of the mind, the millionnaire of money. All hatred departs from his heart, in proportion as light penetrates his spirit. And is he unhappy? No. The misery of a young man is never miserable. The first young lad who comes to hand, however poor he may be, with his strength, his health, his rapid walk, his brilliant eyes, his warmly circulating blood, his black hair, his red lips, his white teeth, his pure breath, will always arouse the envy of an aged emperor. And then, every morning, he sets himself afresh to the task of earning his bread; and while his hands earn his bread, his dorsal column gains pride, his brain gathers ideas. His task finished, he returns to ineffable ecstasies, to contemplation, to joys; he beholds his feet set in afflictions, in obstacles, on the pavement, in the nettles, sometimes in the mire; his head in the light. He is firm serene, gentle, peaceful, attentive, serious, content with little, kindly; and he thanks God for having bestowed on him those two forms of riches which many a rich man lacks: work, which makes him free; and thought, which makes him dignified.  (Vol III, Book 5, Chapter III)


I will say that’s great quote, though overly romanticized.  I’ve seen where poverty makes young men cruel and greedy, so I can’t vouch for the universality of Hugo’s vision.  Still one can see by his vows of poverty the mendicant religious in that quote.  Poverty can bring you closer to God.


Thursday, July 6, 2017

Art: Our Lady of Fatima, the Thomas McGlynn Statue, Part 2

In Part 1 of the posts on the Fr. Thomas McGlynn statue, I gave an overview of how he, a sculptor as well as a Dominican priest, went to Portugal to interview St. Lúcia de Jesus dos Santos, the living child (then grown an adult) from the Fatima apparitions to create a statue of the Blessed Mother as she appeared to the children.  As it turned out, Irmã Dores (Lúcia), as she was known at her convent, completely rejected Fr. McGlynn’s initial prototype, and so he decided to collaborate with Lúcia for a new prototype, what would be the official statue based on one of the eye witnesses.  Fr. McGlynn documented all this in Vision of Fatima, his book on the journey and the making of the statue.

In part 1 I also mentioned how I went up to the Church of St. Vincent Ferrer in Manhattan to photograph an actual marble production of the statue.  In that post I spoke about how the statue may have been the first actual version of the prototype, and now after completing the book I know for sure it is.  In chapter 20, Fr, McGlynn tells us that the first marble version, a five foot copy, was placed and dedicated on May 11, 1947 at the Church of St. Vincent Ferrer in New York City (p. 202).  So the statue I photographed is the first marble production.

In this post want to look at the statue in detail and bring in the words from Fr. McGlynn in how the various elements of the statue came about.  The words come from two chapters in the book, chapter 7, “Irmã Dores and the Apparition,” where Fr. McGlynn discusses with Irmã Dores the details of her vision, and from chapter 11, “Our Statue,” where Fr. McGlynn tells of the collaborative interaction between the two to create the prototype.  What must be kept in mind is that creation was completely based on Irmã Dores’s apperception.  Fr. McGlynn tells us what creation meant to the future saint.

She had always wanted to see a statue of this apparition of the Immaculate Heart.  She had wished many times that she could be a sculptor so as to be able to make it herself, but since she was not, she said, she believed that God had sent me to make this statue.  (p. 98)

In many respects, Lúcia herself was the artist with the vision, Fr. McGynn the medium through which the vision was realized: “There was not a detail of execution that Irmã Dores missed or on which she did not comment with either approval or correction” (p. 100).  So here once more is the statue in total:


Fr. McGlynn Our Lady of Fatima Statue


You can enlarge the photos by clicking on them.  Let’s start with the most controversial part of the statue, the statue’s most defining feature, the Blessed Mother’s hand positions.  It was the first thing Irmã Dores rejected when Fr. McGlynn had presented his vision of the statue.

Não dá posicão,” she said. That was the first sentence of Portuguese I learned and one I shall never forget: “It’s not the right position.”

“The right hand should be raised and the left lower down,” she continued. I knew she was speaking of the June apparition and hastened to explain that in the gesture portrayed I was not intending to be descriptive but symbolic. I was indicating in the position of the hands the devotional message of Fatima, namely, the Immaculate Heart and the Rosary.

She smiled at my apologetic, unable to gather the interest I had in symbolism; nothing could substitute for the reality with her, it was obvious. She simply repeated her first comment, “Não dá posicão.”  (p. 61)

So here is a close up of the hands, the right offering a rosary, the left in an open gesture.


Fr. McGlynn Our Lady of Fatima Statue, Close Up, Hands


It is a most curious positioning.  Either of the position of the hands are natural in themselves but I think what makes it unusual is the combination together.  It’s hard to imagine how the two occur at the same time.  But Irmã Dores tells us:

The statue again reminded her of the June apparition. “She appeared as the Immaculate Heart in June only,” she said; then getting her Rosary out of a pocket of her habit, she draped it over the palm of her right hand and joined her hands in the attitude of prayer, continuing, “In June she appeared at first as in the other apparitions, then she opened her hands.” Irmã Dores demonstrated. Her right arm was extended, the forearm forward of the plane of her waist and elevated only slightly above the horizontal, the hand gently arched, palm downward. Her left hand was upturned near the center and close to her body with the fingertips a little below the waist. After carefully establishing this position (I made her hold it for a while so that I might study it), Irmã Dores held her right hand flat about two inches in front of her left breast to indicate the position at which the Immaculate Heart appeared, surrounded by thorns. I expressed surprise that the heart appeared out from the body, but she assured me that it was so. It was not so good for sculpture, I thought, but the consideration did not disturb me very much. I was too much interested in hearing her complete description.  (p. 64)

On reflection, as a work of art I really like the hand positioning.  It is the one part of the statue that elevates it to beyond the mundane. 

Next let’s look at the rosary.  Irmã Dores made the rosary herself for the prototype.  Here’s how it came about.

The rosary that Irmã Dores was working on was intended for the statue, a tiny chaplet of mother-of-pearl beads, which she linked together with great skill and speed.  She had the beads on a coil of fine silver wire that she twisted with pliers into hardly visible links as the rosary grew, bead by bead.  She stopped the work frequently to examine the statue.  The distraction may account for the fact that one of the decades has only nine beads.

I asked Irmã Dores about the size of the beads carried by our Lady.  She took hold of a bead of Mother King’s rosary and said they were about that size.  The little beads of the rosary she was making were therefore in good scale.  Irmã Dores could not say definitely that the rosary carried by our Lady was of five decades, rather than fifteen.  But she did assert that the Rosary extended about to the knees when our Lady’s right hand was in the position of the June apparition.  From this information and Irmã Dores’s identification of the size of the beads, it is a fair deduction that our Lady’s rosary must have been of five decades, for one of fifteen decades with that size bead would have gone far below her feet.

Irmã Dores said that the rosary was all white, the cross included.  She apologized for having to put on the rosary she was making a cross that was aluminum and a bit oversized.  She explained she had no other.  (p. 99)


Fr. McGlynn Our Lady of Fatima Statue, Close up, Mid Body


I can’t tell if the rosary is missing a bead, but I would imagine that would have been corrected for the actual statue.  The crucifix is white and not silver.

The garments in the sculpture presented certain problems.  First the apparition glowed brightly of which the clothes appeared to almost be at the source of the illumination.  Second, they were real and they had folds.  Third there was a mantle that went over the tunic and covered the Blessed Mother’s head. While these are things that might be embraced in a painting, they are more difficult to carry off in a sculpture.  Fr. McGlynn was not met with approval on his first attempts:

“The garments in the statue are too smooth,” she said, after we were all seated again and the statue was resting on the little marble-topped table. The fascination of speaking with someone who had seen and spoken with our Lady contended with the disappointment of her not approving the work sufficiently to keep me interested in further criticism.

Again an apologetic: “I knew from published descriptions that the vision was very brilliant. Now, it is impossible to express light in sculpture otherwise than by reflecting light from simple surfaces. That is why I made the garments so smooth.”

“But the light was in waves and gave the impression of a gar­ment with folds” (literally an undulated garment), she said. “She was surrounded by light and she was in the middle of light,” she went on, confirming the truth of my previous observation about brilliance. (p. 62)

Irmã Dores further elaborated, “The light was in waves and gave the impression of a garment with folds.”  Fr. McGlynn then tried subtle technique to bring out the garment’s folds and approximate an illuminating quality.

Two things seemed to be important in interpreting this description: One was that, although there was a suggestion of folds, the folds could not be realistic; they should not appear to be actual folds of fabric, but rather in some manner to suggest folds.  The second was that the folds should have the vibrant character of the light that she described.  Therefore, in making the lines of the tunic as I drew the tool down for each line, I moved it from side to side rapidly with each downward stroke.  The action resulted in a basically straight line that, however, was broken with slightly scooped and concave forms.  I asked Irmã Dores if this treatment suggested the “waves of light.”  She said, “Yes, it does very well.”

But she had a change to make.  I had made the folds, or these waves, continuous lines, starting from the top of the tunic and ending at the hem.  Irmã Dores insisted that they be broken at the waist, alternating, so that the ridges of the folds falling from the waist corresponded with the hollows of the folds above the waist.  She explained that this resembled the apparition in that, while there was no sash or visible cord drawing the waist in, there definitely was a break of the form at the waist.

She made me add clay at the right side of the tunic, eliminating the curve that I thought balanced well with the movement of the left leg.  She insisted that the drapery should fall down straight and that the underlying shape of the body should not be at all obvious.  Nor could the folds reveal the form of the breasts more than by a slight curving of the bosom.  (p. 101)

And if the folds weren’t difficult enough, the mantle presented a still more difficult problem.

Returning to the more important elements, I asked if there was any difference between the mantle and the tunic. “The mantle was a wave of light.”

“Wasn’t the tunic?”

“Yes.”

“What then was the difference?”

“There were two waves of light, one on top of the other.” Puz­zling about the possibility of suggesting the lucidity of the appari­tion while making folds in the drapery, I became rather insistent on the necessity of keeping the drapery simple. I explained that each fold would create a shadow and that the cumulative effect of many shadows would be to darken the figure generally. Her reply was, “No matter what you do, you won’t give the impres­sion of the reality.” (p. 64-65)

This was true.  I don’t believe Fr. McGlynn solved the problem of two distinctly different illuminations between the tunic and the mantle, if that is even possible on a sculpture.  Still I think it he did a magnificent job with the garments.  Here are a couple of close ups.


Fr. McGlynn Our Lady of Fatima Statue, Upper Half



Fr. McGlynn Our Lady of Fatima Statue, Lower Half

There is a glimmering shininess to the surface.  I don’t know if the folds are gilded with a golden material, but there is something that highlights each fold and matches in color with the star, pendent, and the thorny stem of the immaculate heart.  I like the way the folds wrap at the bottom of the statue’s right side.

On top of the garments there is a star and a hanging pendant as accessories.  The star was apparently always known but the pendant turned out to be a new piece of information concerning the apparitions.

Next, an omission was observed: “She always had a star on her tunic.” I had thought that was one of the mistakes in the conventional image. Well, that would easily be remedied. But then she added another detail, one I had not heard of:

“She always had a cord with a little ball of light,” she said, indicating an imaginary pendant around the neck falling to about the waistline. It was this detail that was mistaken for a cord and tassel after the first investigations in 1917. (p. 62-3)

The pendant too was altered from Fr. McGlynn’s original conception: “I had placed the “little ball of light” directly at the waist.  Irmã Dores noticed this and made me raise it about a quarter of an inch to its present position” (p. 101). 

Now the shape of the star was one detail that Irmã Dores lacked vision.  She had not noticed how it was shaped in the apparition. 

I had asked Irmã Dores how many points there were in the star.  He answer was, “I don’t know.  Does it make a difference?”  Then she inquired about the meaning of the different numbers of points on stars.  Not an authority on this subject, I merely joked about it.  I said, “Well, the Star of Bethlehem has five points; the Star of David, crossed triangles, has six; and if you want to bring in Saint Dominic, he has a star with eight points.”  She left the decision entirely up to me by saying, “I don’t know.”

Without consciously making a decision, I made a five-pointed star.  It later occurred to me that this is the number of points in the Soviet star.  A fitting symbol, I thought, of the conversion of Russia that the Blessed Virgin had prophesied… (p. 103)

Yes, how perfect that the star is shaped exactly as in a soviet flag.  Compare the star on the tunic with a soviet star.







When it came to the formation of the Immaculate Heart, Irmã Dores had a direct hand in the handiwork.

In order to clarify the appearance of the heart and thorns Irmã Dores went out into the garden and came back soon with branches of thorns.  She joined the ends of one them together to show how the thorns encircled the heart vertically and the approximate number that fastened into the heart.  Incidentally, she said that of the entire apparition only the thorns were not made of light; they were simply burnt-out, brown, and natural in quality.  She herself placed the heart surrounded by thorns in its right position after I had put it a little more than she wished toward the center.  (p. 102)

Concerning another element of foliage, it came as a shock to Fr. McGlynn that our Lady’s feet rested on the branches of the azinheira tree and not on some vaporous puff.  “Her feet rested on the azinheira,” she said.

This was a shock. Was there no cloud? Every account and ev­ery image had indicated that there was. The problem of designing the cloud had been especially vexing during the modeling of this statue — how to make something that would suggest vapor and still be integrated in a solid composition. I had thought, finally, that I had solved the problem quite well in the little carpet-like cloud that had emerged beneath the feet of the figure. Did Irmã Dores now mean that there was no cloud? I asked her.

“The people spoke of a cloud, but I saw none. Our Lady’s feet rested lightly on the tops of the leaves.” I told her I was disappointed because I thought the cloud a very pretty form.  (p. 62)

This made the billow on which the Blessed Lady’s feet rest more distinct, the azinheira leaves also gilded. 


Fr. McGlynn Our Lady of Fatima Statue, Close Up, Azinheira


And it appears that Fr. McGlynn also gilded her toenails.  They must have pedicures up in heaven!  Seriously, I can’t imagine how a simple cloud would have turned out better than that.

Perhaps the most difficult part of artistic creation was the formation of the face and hair, or, in this case, the lack of hair.  Irmã Dores was adamant about how the face and the covering of the hair were embodied. 

I came back then to the problem of showing or concealing the hair. Irmã Dores again declared that the hair was not visible.

“But,” I argued, “if the mantle falls from the hairline, it will conceal not only the hair but the profile as well.”

“Whatever the difficulties may be in representing our Lady,” Irmã Dores replied, “I never saw the hair.”

So Fr. McGlynn capitulated, and he asked, “What was our Lady’s expression?”  And Irmã Dores  responded with, “Pleasing but sad; sweet but sad.” (Agradável mas triste; doce mas triste.)  But it was clear that sculptor and visionary had very different ideas about the aesthetics of a face, and it was of critical importance to Irmã Dores.

The face and hands of the figure were her chief concern and mine also.  It was not too long before she became satisfied with the position of the hands and of the figure generally, but for a time I feared that the face would never satisfy her.  Her criticisms were endless; she kept making me change the forehead, now the cheeks, now the mouth, chin, and eyes.  Mother Cunha-Mattos scolded her for being too particular.  She warned that I would never finish the statue if she did not finish her criticisms.  Irmã Dores’s answer was, “I can’t tell him I like it if I don’t.”

After a day that I devoted almost entirely to the modeling of the face, Mother King wondered if I would be hurt by her telling me what Irmã Dores had said.  I assured her I wanted to know.  Then she quoted Irmã Dores as saying, “He has the position of the hands right but the face is not yet beautiful enough.”  This made me concentrate with almost furious activity on the alteration of the features for a possible improvement before Irmã Dores arrived.  When she came, she expressed her feeling that the face was better.  But this implied that it was not quite good enough.  “Mais pequena, mais pequenai” (smaller, smaller), she kept saying of the mouth.  I kept obeying against my will until I thought the mouth too small.  Then she studied it carefully, and I was afraid she was about to say smaller again when instead, and much worse, she said, “Mais alta” (higher).  Well, one does not just raise up a mouth.  That meant I had to make a new one.  There were times like this when annoyance nearly took the place of reverence in my feelings, when I could forget that Irmã Dores was Lucy dos Santos of Fatima.

Mother Cunha-Mattos sympathized with my near desperation and told me not to worry too much about the criticisms that Irmã Dores made.  She startled me by adding, “Your ideas of beauty may just be as good as hers.”  I hastened, with tones of ultimatum, to have Mother King convey to Irmã Dores the following question:

Are you basing your criticisms of the face upon your conception of what is beautiful or upon the apparition?”

Irmã Dores replied, As far as I am able, I am trying to show you what I saw.”

This gave me patience to carry on until at last Irmã Dores expressed her satisfaction and ceased firing corrections.  I must admit that, although it is a face that I would never have made without her direction, I much prefer the face of this statue to that of the one I had first made.  (p. 104-105)

And so, here is the face, first in the context of her upper body and then up close.


Fr. McGlynn Our Lady of Fatima Statue, Upper Half


Fr. McGlynn Statue, Close Up, Face


Personally I adore this face.  It looks so real to me and not some artificially constructed template of a face, as in the one on the more common statue of Our Lady of Fatima.  And so this comes back to how I started this post.  The statue is the vision that a little girl named Lúcia dos Santos had from witnessing the apparition of our Blessed Mother at Fatima some thirty years prior and which she kept in her heart all those years until God could bring about a sculptor that could make manifest that vision into a physical entity.  When the work had been completed, Fr. McGlynn wanted and sought some acknowledgement from Irmã Dores.

I had formally accepted as quite sufficient the expression of satisfaction evident in [Irmã Dores’s]attitude toward the work and also in her statements made to others concerning the statue.  But now I wanted some word of final approval from Irmã Dores directly.  An important word I had learned was the verb gostar, which means “to like” or “to be pleased with.”  Gosta? suffices for asking, “Do you like it?” and Gosto means “I like it.”  Now, with unprecedented daring, I enquired of Irmã Dores: “Gosta?”  She replied with a smile and the greatest compliment ever given to the statue: “Gosto.

Yes, me too, GostoEu gosto muito dissoNossa Senhora deve estar muito satisfeita.  This statue is how I will forever envision the apparition of Fatima.  This is the defining statue for me. 


So if you have the opportunity to be in New York City, I highly recommend you take a little pilgrimage to the Church of St. Vincent Ferrer in Manhattan at 869 Lexington Avenue (between 65th and 66th streets) and view this most beautiful statue of Our Lady of Fatima in person.  Read Fr. McGlynn’s book on the making of the statue.  I could not cover everything here, and his journey is also fascinating.  Both the book and being in the statue’s presence will give you as many graces as it has given me.

Monday, July 3, 2017

Matthew Monday: Putting Up Old Glory

Tomorrow is the Fourth of July and, since we haven’t had a flag up in front of the house for a couple of years now, we decided to put one up.  The flag we had up was faded and shredded from wear.  Of course this is a Father/Son thing.  We had a bright new flag which I put on the flag pole and Matthew kept cautioning me that under no circumstances is a flag allowed to touch the ground. 

Here are some pictures.



















Now if this looks familiar to you, it might be.  Back in July of 2013 I published a similar post with Matthew holding up a flag.  So if he is two months shy of eight today, he was two months shy of four in that post.  He’s definitely grown even though out of pure chance he has the same color scheme for his clothing.  But I do notice he didn’t have glasses back then.  

Monday, June 26, 2017

List: 20 Classic Poems All Men Should Read

The website The Art of Manliness truly is one of the great website on the internet and one of my favorites.  Its mission statement claims it is “a blog dedicated to uncovering the lost art of being a man.”  It’s not about indulging in a hyper masculinity such as those ridiculous “professional” wrestlers or some other cartoon characterization of masculinity.  It’s about understanding and excelling at the various elements of a man’s life, such as clothing, shaving, family and fatherhood, sports, and manly skills.  If you’ve never surfed it, you should, and that goes for women too. 

The other week they had a post titled “20 Classic Poems Every Man Should Read” and it wanted to promote reading poetry as a manly pursuit.  From their post:

John Adams, one of the founding fathers of the United States, commended poetry to his son John Quincy. Both Abraham Lincoln and Theodore Roosevelt committed their favorite poems to memory. Ancient kings were expected to produce poetry while also being versed in warfare and statecraft. That poetry has fallen out of favor among men in the 21st century is a recent trend rather than the norm.

To help remedy this, we have compiled a list of 20 classic poems that every man should read. Spanning the past two thousand years, the poems on this list represent some of the best works of poetry ever composed. But don’t worry—they were selected for both their brevity and ease of application. Some are about striving to overcome, others about romantic love, and still others about patriotism. Whether you’ve been reading poetry for years or haven’t read a single line since high school, these poems are sure to inspire and delight you.

The list is somewhat questionable if you ask me.  Look it over.  Read them all.  I’m familiar with most of them.  I agree some are poems perfect for men.  A couple I don’t understand why they would be oriented toward manliness, and then some are rather testosterone filled that I think it does manliness a disservice.  Let me identify the ones I absolutely agree men should be familiar with:

1. "Ulysses" by Alfred, Lord Tennyson
2. "If-" by Rudyard Kipling
4. Sonnet 29 by William Shakespeare
6. "Mending Wall" by Robert Frost
15. "A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning" by John Donne
20. Ode 1.11 by Horace

So given I have read a fair amount of poetry in my life and given I consider myself a man—yes, in today’s world the biological fact of manhood doesn’t necessarily mean you consider yourself a man—I decided to create my own list of twenty classic poems for men.  These are poems I’ve been familiar with for most of my life, and somehow are endearing to me, and I think speak to the fullness of masculinity, true masculinity, not cartoonish masculinity.  Some you may be familiar with, some you may not.

Here is the list with links to the full poems.

1. “Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night” by Dylan Thomas

2. “The Wild Swans at Coole” by William Butler Yeats

3. “The Emperor of Ice Cream” by Wallace Stevens

4. “They Flee from Me” by Sir Thomas Wyatt

5. “At Melville's Tomb” by Hart Crane

6. “The Windhover” by Gerard Manley Hopkins

7. Henry Woos Katherine, Henry V, Act V, Scene II by William Shakespeare

8. “Upon Julia's Clothes” by Robert Herrick

9. “Gloire de Dijon” by D. H. Lawrence

10. “[Buffalo Bill 's]” by e. e. cummings

11. “The World Is Too Much With Us” by William Wordsworth

12. “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening” by Robert Frost

13. “Water” by Robert Lowell

14. “La Belle Dame Sans Merci” by John Keats

15. “My Papa's Waltz” by Theodore Roethke

16. “The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner” by Randall Jarrell

17. “Canto I” by Ezra Pound

18. “The Collar” by George Herbert

19. “The Hunters in the Snow” by William Carlos Williams

20. “Mortal Limit” by Robert Penn Warren

So what makes these poems manly?  First they are all written from a man’s perspective, and all the authors are men. 

Second, they take on various aspects of a man’s life: fatherhood (“My Papa’s Waltz”) or hunting (“The Hunters in the Snow”) or a sailing voyage (Pound’s “Canto I”) or just a sort of mundane busyness (“Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening”).  They look at maturity from a male’s perspective, such as curbing one’s desire (“The Collar”) or the realization of time’s passage (“The Wild Swans at Coole”), and they look at a man’s relationship with God (“The World is too Much with Us” and “The Windhover”).  They look at various aspects of love, such as wooing of a young lady in Henry V or of a more Platonic friendship with a woman friend (“Water”), or of being captivated by a mysterious woman (“La Belle Dame Sans Merci”), or seduced (“Upon Julia’s Clothes) or aroused (“Gloire de Dijon”) or being used by women (“They Flee from Me”).  Finally there are a fair number of them that deal with death: a tragic death as a soldier (“The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner”) or the death of a gallant man (“Buffalo Bill’s” and “At Melville’s Tomb) or resisting death (“Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night”) or death represented as a brawny brute (“The Emperor of Ice Cream”).

Third, the language of the poems have a masculine tone, a masculine diction, or a masculine voice.  I don’t have the space to post every poem in entirety, but I want to give you a sampling from each, a sample I hope that captures that masculine diction or voice or just perspective.

From Dylan’s “Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night”:

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night. (l. 1-6)

From Yeats’ “The Wild Swans at Coole”:

But now they drift on the still water,
Mysterious, beautiful;
Among what rushes will they build,
By what lake's edge or pool
Delight men's eyes when I awake some day
To find they have flown away?  (l. 25-30)

From Stevens’ “The Emperor of Ice Cream”:

Call the roller of big cigars,
The muscular one, and bid him whip
In kitchen cups concupiscent curds.
Let the wenches dawdle in such dress
As they are used to wear, and let the boys
Bring flowers in last month’s newspapers.
Let be be finale of seem.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream. (l. 1-8)

From Wyatt’s “They Flee from Me”:

They flee from me that sometime did me seek
With naked foot, stalking in my chamber.
I have seen them gentle, tame, and meek,
That now are wild and do not remember
That sometime they put themself in danger
To take bread at my hand; and now they range,
Busily seeking with a continual change. (l. 1-7)

From Crane’s “At Melville's Tomb”:

Compass, quadrant and sextant contrive
No farther tides ... High in the azure steeps
Monody shall not wake the mariner.
This fabulous shadow only the sea keeps. (l. 13-16)

From Hopkins’ “The Windhover”:

I caught this morning morning's minion, king-
   dom of daylight's dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding
   Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding
High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing
In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing,
   As a skate's heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding
   Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding
Stirred for a bird, – the achieve of, the mastery of the thing. (l. 1-8)

From Shakepeare’s Henry Woos Katherine, Henry V, Act V, Scene II

[Henry] The princess is the better Englishwoman. I' faith,
Kate, my wooing is fit for thy understanding: I am
glad thou canst speak no better English; for, if
thou couldst, thou wouldst find me such a plain king
that thou wouldst think I had sold my farm to buy my        
crown. I know no ways to mince it in love, but
directly to say 'I love you:' then if you urge me
farther than to say 'do you in faith?' I wear out
my suit. Give me your answer; i' faith, do: and so
clap hands and a bargain: how say you, lady? (l. 121-130)

Herrick’s “Upon Julia's Clothes” (entire poem):

Whenas in silks my Julia goes,
Then, then (methinks) how sweetly flows
That liquefaction of her clothes.

Next, when I cast mine eyes, and see
That brave vibration each way free,
O how that glittering taketh me!

From Lawrence’s “Gloire de Dijon”:

When she rises in the morning
I linger to watch her;
She spreads the bath-cloth underneath the window
And the sunbeams catch her
Glistening white on the shoulders,
While down her sides the mellow
Golden shadow glows as
She stoops to the sponge, and her swung breasts
Sway like full-blown yellow
Gloire de Dijon roses. (l. 1-10)

From cummings’ “[Buffalo Bill 's]”:

Buffalo Bill ’s
defunct
               who used to
               ride a watersmooth-silver
                                                                  stallion  (l. 1-5)

From Wordsworth’s “The World Is Too Much With Us”:

….Great God! I’d rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn. (l. 9-14)

From Frost’s “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening”:

My little horse must think it queer  
To stop without a farmhouse near  
Between the woods and frozen lake  
The darkest evening of the year.   (l. 5-8)

From Lowell’s “Water”:

Remember? We sat on a slab of rock.
From this distance in time
it seems the color
of iris, rotting and turning purpler,

but it was only
the usual gray rock
turning the usual green
when drenched by the sea. (l. 13-20)

From Keats’ “La Belle Dame Sans Merci”:

I met a lady in the meads
  Full beautiful, a faery’s child;
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
  And her eyes were wild.

I set her on my pacing steed,
  And nothing else saw all day long;
For sideways would she lean, and sing
  A faery’s song.  (l. 13-20)

From Roethke’s “My Papa's Waltz”:

The whiskey on your breath  
Could make a small boy dizzy;  
But I hung on like death:  
Such waltzing was not easy.

We romped until the pans  
Slid from the kitchen shelf;  
My mother’s countenance  
Could not unfrown itself.  (l. 1-8)

Jarrell’s “The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner” (entire poem):

From my mother’s sleep I fell into the State,
And I hunched in its belly till my wet fur froze.
Six miles from earth, loosed from its dream of life,
I woke to black flak and the nightmare fighters.
When I died they washed me out of the turret with a hose.

From Pound’s “Canto I”:

And then went down to the ship,
Set keel to breakers, forth on the godly seas, and
We set up mast and sail on that swart ship,
Bore sheep aboard her, and our bodies also
Heavy with weeping, and winds from sternward
Bore us out onward with bellying canvas,
Circe’s this craft, the trim-coifed goddess.
Then sat we amidships, wind jamming the tiller,
Thus with stretched sail, we went over sea till day’s end. (l. 1- 9)

From Herbert’s “The Collar”:

Away! take heed;
I will abroad.
Call in thy death's-head there; tie up thy fears;
He that forbears
To suit and serve his need
Deserves his load."
But as I rav'd, and grew more fierce and wild
At every word,
Me thoughts I heard one calling, "Child";
And I replied, "My Lord."  (l. 27-36)

From Williams’ “The Hunters in the Snow”:

The over-all picture is winter
icy mountains
in the background the return

from the hunt it is toward evening
from the left
sturdy hunters lead in

their pack the inn-sign
hanging from
a broken hinge is a stag a crucifix  (l. 1-9)

From Penn Warren’s “Mortal Limit”:

I saw the hawk ride updraft in the sunset over Wyoming.
It rose from coniferous darkness, past gray jags
Of mercilessness, past whiteness, into the gloaming
Of dream-spectral light above the lazy purity of snow-snags.

There—west—were the Tetons.  Snow-peaks would soon be
In dark profile to break constellations.  Beyond what height
Hangs now the black speck?  Beyond what range will gold eyes see
New ranges rise to mark a last scrawl of light?  (l. 1-8)


I hope the quotes from the poems were enticing enough to make you go read them all.  None of them are exceedingly long, except perhaps the Henry V scene.  Do you agree these all reflect masculinity in some way?  I know there are other aspects of masculinity, such as being a husband, which I did not cover.  Which poem would you exclude?  What other poems would you add?