Ponderings

I haven't been on this blog in the last millennium, so I thought I'd stop by! Merry Christmas everybody! Okay, so it's not quite Christmas yet, but I thought I'd better say it now, because I probably won't post again until sometime in the middle of February!

Published!

A while ago I wrote an essay on the four marks of the Church for my theology class. I didn't think it was too bad, and a friend of mine had told me of a writing contest that was held one every few months by a Catholic magazine called Voices, published by Woman for Faith and Family, they read. I never imagined I would actually win, or even get second or third place, but nevertheless, I sent my paper in.

To my utter surprise, a few weeks ago a large packet came in the mail, containing TEN copies of the magazine, and a check for $100!!!! I was published! I won the contest! I was totally surprised, but happily so indeed!!! You can read the paper here, if you'd like to! I'd love to hear what you think of it!

Anna

Home

Home
By Anna

The sky above was growing dark
The view around was bleak and stark.
Little Lea could not be found
By her friends who sought her ‘round.

They searched among her normal places,
And fear was clear upon all faces
As the sky grew dimmer still,
And the evening air began to chill.

In the forest, all alone
Upon small Lea the moon shone.
She sat upon a little rock,
Looking round and taking stock.

She shivered as the red sun disappeared.
A great new menace to be feared
Were the sounds of the dark eve,
The hoots of owls; the crunch of leaves.

She shut her eyes and breathed a prayer,
“Oh dearest Lord, you’re always there.
You know my dangers and my fears,
You’ve guarded me for all these years.

“Help me now, these dangers face,
Far from me these terrors chase.
Help me not despair of aid,
You will help all you have made.”

Little Lea with greatest bravery,
Refused to cry, such pluck had she.
She tried to block out of her ears
The sounds that woke her childish fears.

But suddenly a sound reached her ears,
A sound that wakened all her fears.
The crunch of leaves, the ruffle of trees.
She quickly sent up silent pleas.

From the dark, a figure rose,
And stuck a most impressive pose.
“Who is this,” the voice did say,
“Who trespasses in my woods today?”

“Excuse me, sir,” little Lea gasped,
Her cold, small hands before her clasped,
“I wandered in these woods alone,
I’m frightened and want to go home.

“Please, kind sir, won’t you help,
This lonesome, frightened little whelp?”
The figure stepped into the light
Of the moon, and into sight.

It was no man, but a boy,
His dirty face a grin of joy.
He had seemed, when hidden by trees
Taller than the tallest anyone sees.

In truth he was not very tall,
In fact he was really quite small.
His ragged clothes were worn and old.
In the frigid breeze, he shivered with cold.


“Good evening, miss,” with grins he said
Scratching his ruffled, shaggy head.
“I guess these woods are as much yours as mine,
But I’ve lived my whole life among oak and pine.

“I s’pose your lost, and so am I…in a way.
But better two, than one, I say.
Nice to meet you, my name’s Nate,
Seems I was brought here by Mistress Fate.”

The little lass gave a sniffle.
“Will you stop talking piffle?”
She heaved a sigh, shaking her head.
“I want to be home, safe in bed.

“Not lost with a dirty lad,
Who’s probably really awfully bad.
I hoped you were a kindly sir,
Not a smelly, ragged cur.”

“Well now,” the young mister said,
“No reason to be so awful mad.
I can help you find your home,
I all about this forest roam.

“I’m sure I know the quickest way
And I’ll help you there… if I can stay.
Just for this night, I’d better add!
I’m truly not really awfully bad,

“But I’ve got no place to stay,
And if I take you back, you’ve got to pay.
So give me a haystack, give me a bed,
Just somewhere soft to lay my head.”

The little lass heaved a big sigh,
“What other realistic choice have I?
I truly can’t stay here all night,
I fear if I did I’d die of fright.

“So since you give me no other choice,
I suppose you have reason to rejoice…
If you get me home safe and sound,
You shan’t spend tonight on the ground.”

“Thank you Miss, now we’d better start.
From these woods we’ll now depart.
Tell me now, what your home looks like
Before we start our homeward hike.”

She told him of its size and hue,
How it was large and a light blue.
“Why, yes, I’ve seen that house before,
In fact I’ve knocked upon its door!”

So young Nate with joy declared,
“A tasty lunch your brother shared
With me, a poor, young starving lad.
This home is yours? I’m awful glad.

“So now we’d better hurry fast,
And you’ll be safe at home at last.”
So together the two set on their way
Through the woods where the animals play.

It was not long before a house came in view.
It was fine and big and a light blue.
Little Lea cried out with joy,
Rushing from the woods with the boy.

She rushed up the steps and into the hall
Into the warmth of her mother’s shawl.
“Darling,” her mother cried, with tears,
And her little brother gave three cheers.

“Mother, dear,” said little Lea,
“May I tell you my idea?
In the woods I met a boy called Nate.
It seems it was destined by Mistress Fate

“That he and I should meet there.
It was as if he came in answer to my prayer
For he helped me find my way back here,
And he is kind, that’s surely clear.

“I’m afraid that I was rude and mean
Because he was ragged and unclean.
But he hasn’t any home,
All his life he’s roved and roamed.

“He hasn’t any friends or family,
Alone in the world, a boat at sea.
Could he live with us, right here,
And always have a mother near?”

“Oh dearest daughter, where is the lad,
That he may hear and be glad!
He shall have a home to live in,
For the kindness he has given.”

Little Lea stepped outside,
For to young Nate this happiness confide.
Yet when she cried and yelled his name,
No answer to her shrill call came.

“Why, where on earth has he gone,”
She asked the moon as it brilliantly shone.
“Why did he leave, I cannot say,
Why would he want to go away?”

But no answer to her query came,
And when her mother asked the same,
She shook her head unhappily.
Why had Nate left, she could not see.

Later on as she lay in bed,
She thought of Nate, alone, unfed.
Suddenly, on her window,
She heard a knock, a quiet blow.

What in heaven could it be?
She crossed the room, better to see.
On the roof, young Nate sat.
In his thin arms he held a cat!

Quickly Lea opened the window,
And in Nate hurried on silent tiptoe.
“What are you doing on the roof?
You must be crazy…this is proof!”

“Don’t be mad, now,” smiled he,
And Lea really couldn’t be.
“See this fine young tabby cat?
He’s old and not the least bit fat,

“And as I waited outside your house,
I saw him chase a little mouse.
He scrambled after the poor beast,
Bound to have his little feast.

“But the little mouse scurried into a hole,
And old kitty here never had his full.
I felt for him, cause I know what hunger is,
So I hoped my bed for tonight could be his.

“I went to fetch him, but he’s rather shy.
Nonetheless, I coxed him, by and by,
To come with me to your cheerful home,
Where I hoped you’d give him a little bone,

“And maybe a little bed to rest,
‘Til morning comes and this old pest
Goes to scramble about, happily free,
After a helpless mouse or up a lofty tree.

“I hoped you wouldn’t mind,
But if you let him stay, you’ll be awfully kind.
I’ll give him my bed, for the night,
And I’ll find my own place to sleep tight.”

“Don’t be silly!” Lea cried gleefully,
“This cat shall have a bed with me
Every night forever more,
And so shall you, so good and poor.

“You shall live here with my mother,
Share my sister and my brother.
We shall be a family,
You shall live here happily!

“Please do stay here with us
Let my mother cuddle and fuss,
She wants you as a son, to raise and love,
To admire and be proud of.

“So what do you say,
Will you with us stay,
And grow up merrily with us here,
Where you’ll no longer hunger or fear?”

Young Nate with tears and utmost shock,
Could not in his blissful happiness talk.
To be loved, to have a home,
A place to really call his own!

With happiness unheard of, unimagined ever before,
He realized his lonesome boat had finally reached shore.
Here he was, at home at last.
Regardless of his lonesome past,

All his wishes had now come true,
A home his own, a large house – blue!
With a happy sigh of bliss,
He gave his new sister a kiss.

“There’s my answer, sweetest sister,
Another name could not be fitter
For you, so sweet, so kind and fine,
And to imagine…a sister…mine!”

And together, Lea and young Nate,
Thanked kind, sweet Mistress Fate,
For united them as siblings, friends.
They knew they'd live happily, to the end.

Cyrus

For literature I'm supposed to write my own "epic poem." It is supposed to have the 9 elements of an epic... Long, narrative poem, Elevated style, Imposing hero, Vast setting, Full of action and deeds of courage, Supernatural forces, Invocation of the muses, Long catalogue of ships, Begins in the middle of the story. I think is the most fun I've had with any of my assignments this year, but even so, writing this is HARDER than I originally thought it would be! I've started several times and had to restart again and again! Here is one of my tries....I thought it was going along great...until I remembered I was supposed to start in the MIDDLE of the story! Nonetheless, I'm going to finish it, because it is really fun to write!

Just so you know, this is about a "true" story. You can find the full account (though not in poetic form!) in Herodotus' The Histories!

Sing, O goddess, of the power
Of mighty Cyrus, full of valor.

He, who born among the mighty
Was guarded best by Aphrodite.

But a sweet, endearing babe
He was kidnapped by a knave.

Late in the silent, tranquil night
He with the little babe took flight.

He was to kill him out of sight
But in his heart, there was a fight.

Kill the child, so young, so dear?
He could not do it; that was clear.

But, alas, the job must be done
It must be finished now 'twas begun.

To a herdsman he took the child,
"Kill this babe, or I shan't be mild."

The herdsman, he took the little babe
To his cottage in the glade.

“My dear,” he told his loving wife,
“I have been told to take his life.”

The wife, she cried, “Let not it be,”
Let us raise him, you and me.”

"But dearest," so the herdsman said,
"I must give proof that he is dead."

"But you see," with saddest heart,
She told of their own babe's depart.

"He was stillborn," she mourned to say,
"But now we have a trick to play."

They took their own sweet, dearest babe,
And Cyrus' clothes to him gave.

"Now he looks of noble birth,
And they can put him in the earth."

The herdsman took the babe his son
And gave as proof his little one.

And so they raised the child, wee,
In their land so good and free.

And so Cyrus lived happily for many years,
'Til news of his existence reached hostile ears.

To Be Continued.......

Beauty Abounds

Beauty All Around Me
by Anna

The afternoon sun is shining brilliantly,
Fluffy white clouds are passing slowly by…
Goodness reveals itself, as far as the eye can see.

Fragrant breezes waft gently by…
Beauty all around me...I feel I could fly.

The moon beams tenderly down on me tonight,
Darkness shrouds me like a cloak.
Stars sparkling, so lovely, so bright.

Sweetness and splendor are clear to the eye...
Beauty all around me...I feel I could fly.

In the early morning I see dewdrops on the flowers.
Beauty, glory spreads across the morning sky…
Showing God’s almighty powers.

Such loveliness abounds, I feel I could cry…
Beauty all around me...I feel I could fly.

A tiny child gives his mother his first smiles.
A flower spreads its first delicate petals.
A little girl surmounts her first difficult trials.


I don’t want this time to pass me by…
Beauty all around me...I feel I could fly.
________________________________________________________

Alright, so this poem is a mess! I know! hehehe. It
s one of the first poems I've ever tried to write though, so I thought for the sake of that I'd share it with you guys!! It's silly, but I think somewhere deep inside all the "trying-too-hard-to-be-poetic-ness there is a little bit of hope. Tee hee!!!

Love yall! catch you later

Homeric Similes

One of the most distinguishing characteristics of Homer’s writing style is his florid, colorful similes. He is famous for his vivid imagery, which does not take the form of such direct descriptions as “the sounds of the battle were violent and thunderous,” but instead take more eloquent and expressive pictures, such as this striking description:

“As when rivers in winter spate running down from the mountains
Throw together at the meeting of streams the weight of their water
Out of the great springs behind in the hollow stream-bed,
And far away in the mountains the shepherd hears their thunder,
Such, from the coming together of men, was the shock and the shouting.”
(4. 452 – 456)

This example shows perfectly how Homer can weave words together to make something powerful and poignant, how by likening a thing to something different, he helps us to envision that thing completely. What a potent picture that simile invokes, how clearly you can hear the thunder and roar, the deadly sound of fiercest battle.

Another example is this portrait, describing the Greeks’ as they advance to furious combat with the Trojans:

“As on the peaks of a mountain the south wind scatters the thick mist,
No friend to the shepherd, but better than night for the robber,
And a man can see before him only so far as a stone cast,
So beneath their feet the dust drove up in a stormcloud
Of men marching, who made their way through the plain in great speed.”
(3. 10-14)

What a vision this conjures up before your eyes; can you not see the whirling dust, enveloping the “storm cloud of men marching,” a they proceed toward battle, the ground thundering and rumbling beneath their marching, pounding footsteps? And here we see Homer’s vivid and highly developed simile. Like all of his similes, to describe something, here the cloud of dust raised by the feet of the marching soldiers, he describes instead what he is comparing it with, such as the thick mist on the peaks of a mountain. Homer, we see, when describing a thing, develops the thing to which it is likened, rather than the thing itself.

Homer not only likens the cloud of dust raised by the marching men to the thick mist on mountain peaks, but he describes that mist as “no friend of the shepherd, but better than night for the robber,” giving a visual of dimness and shadows. He adds that “a man can see before him only so far as a stone is cast,” illustrating how thick this mist truly is.

“As when along the thundering beach the surf of the sea strikes
Beat upon beat as the west wind drives it onward; far out
Cresting first on the open water, it drives thereafter
To smash roaring along the dry land, and against the rock jut
Bending breaks itself into crests spewing back the salt wash;
So thronged beat upon beat the Danaans’ close battalions.”
(4. 422-432)

We can easily see the construction of Homer’s similes here: “A is like B; B has such and such a history, progresses in such and such a manner; and (we repeat) it is like A” (Richard Lattimore). This description of the sound of the Danaans’ “close battalions,” is yet another perfect example of Homer’s powerfully characteristic simile. He likens the beat of the Danaan’s battalions to the “surf of the sea,” as it strikes “beat upon beat as the west wind drives it onward,” depicting for us the thundering sound the Danaans’ close battalions make, how explosive and deafening it would ring in our ears were we but there to hear it.

“Now when the men of both sides were set in order by their leaders,
The Trojans came on with clamour and shouting, like wildfowl,
As when the clamour of cranes goes high to the heavens,
When cranes escape the winter time and rains unceasing
And clamourously wing their way to the streaming Ocean,
Bringing to the Pygmaian men bloodshed and destruction;
At daybreak they bring on the baleful battle against them.”
(Book 3, lines 1-7)

This simile describes the clamour and shouting of the Trojans as they thunder towards the Achaians to do battle. Homer likens their din to that of wildfowl, “as when the clamour of cranes goes high to the heavens, describing the cranes as they “escape the winter time and rains unceasing and clamourously wing their way to the streaming Ocean.” Here Homer beautifully portrays the pandemonium of battle to the racket of flying birds winging their way from winter and rain, adding for flavor that the cranes are “bringing to the Pygmaian men bloodshed and destruction,” just as the Trojans are bringing the Greeks.

Homer’s similes are perhaps one of the most effective writing techniques in the history of literature. The sense of description he lays before us with this real and striking imagery brings the Iliad alive before our eyes, powerful and piquant as ever, able to move though time and space and still remain vivid and electric. Never has anyone been able to master with the same eloquence and imagination the art of vibrant similes as Homer did.

The Iliad and other Homeric Poems

For school I've been reading the Iliad this quarter. What a magnificent epic tale! Never did I imagine it to be so vivid and alive. I'd always heard how hard it was to get through, but never once have I wished to put it down myself.

Unluckily for me (and for you, as well!), I was asked to write a "10-15 line poem using at least two Homeric-type similes." Oh dear. I can tell you now, I've tried my hand at poetry before and never has it turned out well.

Here is what I have so far. I'm afraid I'm probably going to have to scrap this though, because it would definitely end up becoming at the very least a 30-50 line poem if I pursue it. Which may seem strange to you, as I just said I've never been good at writing poetry, but you see, the tale of Cyrus is long and filled with interesting details, and I'd want to fit it all in.

Sing, goddess, the valor of Cyrus the Greater,

Who in times long passed ruled magnificent among the Persians.

Even before his birth magnificent Cyrus’ doom was imminent,

As Asyages the lance-hurler, his grandfather

And last of the rulers of the mighty Median Empire,

Who by a dream learned of his own downfall,

Was plotting his pending doom.

For in the darkness of the night, as a thief

Steals into a chamber with evil in his mind,

A dream of prophecy slipped into the bedchamber of Asyages,

To stand by his bedside and whisper of his end.

As you can see, I have not mastered the dactylic hexameter yet. All those "feet" "ancepts" "spondees" and "- U | - U | - U | - U | - u u | - -" things make my head spin!

LATER

The finished project:

Stars sparkle up above, shimmering like diamonds

In the glistering pond down below.

The flowers gently close their petals. Wet with dew,

They glitter in the dusk like jewels.

Like the gentle murmur of a sleeping child

As he rests serene against his mother's bosom,

The warm wind whispers softly by,

Sways the branches of the ancient trees above.

Fluttering by on the wings of darkness,

She murmurs her secrets to the bending grasses.

High above, the moon, mild and wise as the magi,

Looks tenderly down on his children below,

Shining his lantern upon their lonesome paths.

Silence profound swathes the night in its myriad folds,

Like a cloak shrouds the lone figure of a sleepy traveler,

As he makes his way wearily home.

Definitely not very well written, neither is it written in dactylic hexameter. But I found out this afternoon that I did not, in fact, need to write in dactylic hexameter (apparently, this comes later! =/), but instead must simply use Homeric-type similes. I'm afraid my wimpy similes ("Silence profound swathes the night in its myriad folds, as a cloak shrouds the lone figure of a sleepy traveler, as he makes his way wearily home.") fall far short of Homer's magnificent, vivid descriptions (" ...the Trojans came with cries and the din of war like wildfowl when the long hoarse cries of cranes sweep on against the sky and the great formations flee from the winters grim ungodly storm...").

I thought perhaps of writing of a mighty storm:

The wind beats heavily against the mighty mountain,
As the thunderous beat of the booming drums of war.
And the mighty roar of the sea sounds as the lion’s angry yell
He the king of the lush green forests of Africa,
As it crashes upon the shore in almighty waves.
Up above, the clouds heavy with rain
Cast their shadow upon the dew glistened grasses
And the sand covered coast.

But in the end a more peaceful scene won over. What do you think? I believe it would have been less difficult to think of vivid similes if I were to write of a storm, but somehow "shimmering dewdrops" and "shrouds of silence" better suited my feelings.

.

Inspiration of Sacred Scripture

..

Know this first of all, that there is no prophecy of scripture that is a matter of personal interpretation, for no prophecy ever came through human will; but rather human beings moved by the holy Spirit spoke under the influence of God.

~2 Peter 1:20-21

There are two different sources from which the Church draws the truths revealed by God. “This supernatural revelation, according to the belief of the Church, is contained both in unwritten tradition, and in written books, which are therefore called sacred and canonical because, ‘being written under the inspiration of the Holy Ghost, they have God for their author and as such have been delivered to the Church.’”* The first, then, is Sacred Tradition: “Therefore, brothers, stand firm and hold fast to the traditions that you were taught, either by an oral statement or by a letter of ours (2 Thess 2:15).” The second is Holy Scripture.

Holy Scripture, it is said, was written under the Inspiration of the Holy Spirit. How can this be? Does “inspiration” mean that God simply dictated, stating word for word what He intended to gradually communicate to man, while a scribe diligently scribbled down all that He uttered? The idea, while intriguing, is preposterous. What do we mean, then, when we say that Sacred Scripture is an inspired book?

First, it is important to note that the books of Holy Scripture are, indeed, not the products of human intelligence, nor were they composed by mere human industry, for “God is the author of Sacred Scripture (CCC 105).” Nonetheless, it was “as true authors that they consigned to writing whatever God wanted written, and no more (CCC 106)”. The books of Holy Scripture were “transmitted by the sacred writers to the human race” from God, and “are His own oracles and words.” The Holy Spirit worked through the sacred writers; he “so influenced their minds” that they did both understand what God wanted written, and only what God wanted written, and then faithfully determined to write down these things. It was only through the Holy Spirit that the sacred writers were able to aptly and inerrantly express them.

Thus, through “this mysterious working of God and man together”, God reveals himself to mankind through the sacred writers. He “spoke first by the Prophets, then by His own mouth, and lastly by the apostles.” Thus, the books of Holy Scripture are truly the Word of God, and are therefore perfect: “Every word of God is flawless; He is a shield to those who take refuge in Him (Proverbs 30:5).”

What Effect Does Pain Have on People?

“If you suffer, thank God! -- it is a sure sign that you are alive.”

~Elbert Hubbard.

If you are alive, you will suffer; it is one of the sad facts of life. Pain, physical or mental, can have many effects on a person’s life; it can limit your daily activities, it can confine you to your home or even your bed, it can cause you to be irritable or impatient with those around you.

Mental suffering is perhaps the worse of the two; while physical pain can be debilitating, mental turmoil is perhaps even more so. Mental pain, caused by continual snubs, loneliness, abuse, or mental illness, can make people seclude themselves from other people, even purposeful harm themselves. The vast majority of suicides are caused not by physical pain, but by mental. And just as physical pain can necessitate a person to remain in their bed, mental suffering can seclude a person who is not unable to leave their house just as entirely.

Physical pain is, usually, only temporary. While you suffer it, it seems unbearable; and yet somehow you always manage to bear it. And perhaps the bearing is easier than the expectation. When you go to the doctor’s to get a shot, you spend the entire time of sitting in the waiting room dreading the inevitable moment when the needle pierces your skin. But when it does, the pain lasts perhaps a few seconds. The puncture wound may be sore for a while afterwards, yet in eventuality, you are the better for the shot. It’s like that with all pain, is it not?

All pain is, in eventuality, good for us. It tests our character; teaches us patience, humility, fortitude. Just as metal must be tested in a fire, so we must be tested by pain to see how strong we truly are.

“Suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope.” (Romans 5:3-4).

We are told “He who suffers much will know much”. Can suffering and pain help form us into wise and knowledgeable people? Says William Somerset Maugham, a novelist and playwright from the early 1900's,“It is not true that suffering ennobles the character; happiness does that sometimes, but suffering, for the most part, makes men petty and vindictive”. Certainly, pain can have such an effect on you. But only in so much as you allow it to. In Romans 8:16-17 we are also told that “The Spirit Himself bears witness with our spirit that we are children of God, and if children, then heirs; heirs of God and joint heirs with Christ, if indeed we suffer with Him, that we may also be glorified together.” So if we wish to be glorified with Christ, must also we suffer?

How can the gold be found if we do not first rub away the grime that hides it, disguising it as any other encrusted stone or pebble? Through pain the filth that conceals our true strengths and holiness is rubbed away, revealing our true worth as the heirs of God.

“We are afflicted in every way, but not crushed; perplexed, but not driven to despair; persecuted, but not forsaken; struck down, but not destroyed; always carrying in the body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be manifested in our bodies. For we who live are always being given over to death for Jesus' sake, so that the life of Jesus also may be manifested in our mortal flesh.

—2 Corinthians 4:8-11”

“For the sake of Christ, then, I am content with weaknesses, insults, hardships, persecutions, and calamities. For when I am weak, then I am strong.

—2 Corinthians 12:10”

Introduction

I know I needn't introduce myself, and so I shan't, but I think I will explain why I am stealing yet another corner of cyberspace.

I like writing. I'm not especially good at it, but I think that "practice makes perfect." Which explains why I'm starting this blog! I shall try my hardest to keep it up, and perhaps post more than once a month or so . . . . . ;)


Enjoy! Any constructive criticism is warmly appreciated. :)

Yours,
Anna