holy stained glass

My mother showed me Pre-Raphaelite paintings
when I was about 15. 
She was trying to persuade me to modernize
my aesthetic, to get a little more in step
with the times I was born to–
to cut my hair, which looked like theirs.
I did not cut my hair. 
I wanted to be art.
My hair, I thought, was the sign  
of a mortal muse. 
The muse of the Pre-Raphaelites
was painted
as Ophelia, dying, and 
as Beatrice, dying, with pale
poppies in her hands. 
Elizabeth Siddal
was married and buried, 
pillowed on a bed of poetry and regret sworn
to last forever,
exhumed. 
Rossetti’s sorrow lasted seven years
before her bones lost their power.
He stole back the gift of his atonement, willing
to live with her loss, but not without
his lines.
Muses die, tears dry,
art lasts forever.
A muse’s wounds run only so deep, 
her wounds do not kill.
The blood she leaves,
mingled with her own, runs pomegranate red,
stained glass holy,
bright as sin, but her wounds
do not kill. Her wounds lose their sting over time,
her wounds are transfigured into
brushstrokes and poetic lines
to be gazed upon and analyzed.
I am no muse. 
I am a poet. 
I will not marry my death.
I will take the wounds I am given,
dress them up in words to glow
and fade, 
dig up nothing I choose to bury.
I might change my hair.
— 

Muse

 Grace Babcock © 2017

Novena to the Holy Spirit
Day 1

✞  In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.  Amen. ✞

Almighty and eternal God

Send forth your Spirit
Who brought order from chaos
At the beginning of the universe
And peace to the Lord’s disciples

Grant that we, as your creation
Baptized in your spirit
May be filled with the seven gifts
So that we may forever do your will
And renew the face of the Earth

Amen

Pray the Our Father, Hail Mary and Glory Be

If I was your God (Spoken word by Dave McAlinden)

This poem is dedicated to the Holy Roman Catholic Church,

politicians everywhere,

the New York Yankees,

and anyone else that keeps fucking up my shit.

If I was a bible writer,

I would do a lot of editing.

I would decree religion a hell worthy trespass.

Turn dogma to paradox,

A burning bush into a magnavox,

Lighting would be enlightening,

And every baseball team would be the Red Sox.

That’s right baseball would be in the bible

Because the bible without baseball is flat out un-American.

And if I was the Pope, 

Vatican City would be as beautiful and as antiquarian as it ever was,

But prayers for absolution listing from the lips of priests would be

Sweet whispers to the husbands or wives

And the pale holy light through the stain glass.

Thats right, priests could get down.

Because if I was a holy man I’d still wanna get down

And I think it would cut down on child molestation in the church.

I’m just saying. Yes, the holy bone could be the stone that kills those two birds

And sense I’m probably going to hell for this poem anyway: 

If I was your God, 

I would sprinkle wine out into the night so that when you looked

Up to it to whither time away with questions

You’d be so drunk with the moment you’d forget

All about being saved and start seeing that the only way to be saved

Is to save yourself by just being and holding.

 See if I was therapist you probably wouldn’t wanna go to me

But I would listen like a best friend on Adderall.

And I would answer all your questions in plain language and 

Possibly offer the exact advise you were looking for

Though I know you’d never take it.

And if I was a politician

If I was a dick 

I would fuck you.

No need to thank me. 

Just doing my job. 

Because a dick and a politician, they

Both are designed to…

They are really…

If I was omnipotent and I could change things

I would probably start out by doing a bunch of weird shit

That always seems to pop up in my dreams.

Like turn telephone booths into teleportation pads.

That would be wicked fucking awesome.

I would fuck a cloud into a monsoon. 

Make all your favorite moments possible to clone.

I would light bottle rockets to bloom in to tulips.

And when they floated down I would bend a pitchfork

Into a saxophone. And play the sky 

Into the ground so we could have a soundtrack 

With the playback of our fantasies.

I would turn Qurans into Bibles;

Bibles into Qurans

Show that words of love in another language can be read as a battle plan

So I turn wars into carnivals and 

Fists into hands to make 

Musical instruments out of killing zones.

If I was an artist then I would give you my hands

But I am sorry to sayI just play the age old role of the fool

Because maybe I still believe in god, just in case.

And no, I’ve never read the bible and

I don’t know the first thing about baseball. 

I just said that to get you to like me.

And I can’t name the Pope;

I don’t even vote and

Ive never been to a therapist before. 

I’m too shit scared that I might actually have to deal with a problem.

And nobody, nobody, nobody, has limitless power.

That’s why they all want it so bad. 

Yet here we are. Still just talking about all the things we’d do if we had.

part of my headcanon for Lewis is that his roots are in Mexico and that his family members are Roman Catholic. (he ends up being the furthest thing from religious, however.) being confirmed in the church was something his family forced him to do. I don’t know why but I got this idea of doing a drawing of his confirmation, but instead of the flames of the Holy Spirit in the stained glass, it’s purple flame to sort of foreshadow his future. 

while on the subject of Lewis headcanons, I gave him the full name Luís Fernando Ángel Martínez de Flores. He prefers the spelling “Lewis” as it is less-common in his culture than the traditional spelling.

Queen Margaret of Scotland (c. 1045 – 16 November 1093) also known as Margaret of Wessex and Saint Margaret of Scotland.

Granddaughter of King Edmund Ironside and grandniece of King Edward the Confessor, Margaret was well educated, mostly in Hungary, where her family was raised in exile during the rule of the Danish kings in England. As one of the last members of the Anglo-Saxon royal family, she was in danger after the Norman Conquest and took refuge at the court of Malcolm the Third, king of Scotland, made famous by Shakespeare in his play Macbeth. Intelligent, beautiful, and devout, Margaret married Malcolm in 1069 or 1070. Their union was exceptionally happy and fruitful for the Scottish nation, producing eight children. Two of her children, Alexander and David, became kings of Scotland. Through Margaret and her daughter Matilda English monarchs from the reign of Henry the Second to the present day can trace their ancestry to the pre-Conquest Anglo-Saxon kings of England.

According to her biographer Turgot, prior of Durham and bishop of Saint Andrews, Margaret sought with considerable zeal to reform what she considered to be careless practices in the Church in Scotland, then at a low ebb in its ecclesial life. She insisted that the observance of Lent was to begin on Ash Wednesday, rather than on the following Monday. She further insisted that the Mass be celebrated according to the accepted Roman rite of the Church, and not in barbarous form and language. The Lord’s Day was to be a day when, she said, “we apply ourselves only to prayers”. She played a prominent role in the foundation of monasteries, churches, orphanages, and hostels for pilgrims. She and Malcolm together worked to rebuild the abbey of Iona, made famous centuries before by Columba and Aidan, and they had Dumfermline built to be a burial place for the Scottish royal family, like a Scottish Westminster Abbey.

Margaret’s private life was devoted to prayer and reading, lavish almsgiving (including the ransoming of Anglo-Saxon captives), and ecclesiastical needlework. She saw to the spiritual welfare of her large household, providing servants with opportunity for regular worship and prayer. Her influence over the king was considerable as he, strong-willed and initially rough in character, came through love for her to value what she valued. Turgot wrote that Malcolm saw “that Christ truly dwelt in her heart…what she rejected, he rejected…what she loved, he for love of her loved too.” Although he could not read, he liked to see the books she used at prayer and would have them embellished with gold and silver bindings. One such book thought to be hers, a pocket Gospel with fine portraits of the Evangelists, survives in the Bodleian Library at Oxford. A psalter at Edinburgh University Library may well have been hers, too.

Margaret lived just long enough to learn of the tragic deaths of her husband and one of their sons on a military expedition against the English king William Rufus, who had confiscated her father’s estates in England. Worn by her austerities and the rigors of childbearing, Margaret died on the sixteenth of November, 1093, at the age of forty-seven. She was buried beside Malcolm at Dunfermline, and her body was translated in 1250. At the Reformation, her body and Malcolm’s were translated to the Escorial in Madrid. Her work among the people and her reforms of the Church made her Scotland’s most beloved saint, and the Roman Catholic Church named her a patron of Scotland in 1673.

Pictured: St.Margaret of Scotland, stained glass, Holy Cross, Swainby, North Yorkshire