other deepening places
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Originally posted on Malcolm Guite: image courtesy of Lancia Smith We come now, on Palm Sunday, to the beginning of Holy Week: a strange Palm Sunday, a strange Holy Week, in which we cannot make the outward and visible journeys and gestures, exchanges and gatherings that have always bodied forth the inner meaning of this…
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Happy National Poetry Month! As we launch into this month-long celebration of poetry, there’s no better place to start than Billy Collins’s “Introduction to Poetry.” I don’t believe there’s another poet I enjoy listening to as much as I love hearing Billy Collins read his poetry. “Litany” was one of the first times I encountered…
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On this auspicious day, allow me to submit my two favorite love poems. I teach these side-by-side in my British Literature course when we begin discussing the impact of relationships and romance on our lives. Unlike the allusion to Dickens’ classic A Tale of Two Cities, what I present here is NOT the best of…
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Sitting here in my library, I notice a book my wife has set out on one of the mini-easels propped up on the corner bookshelf: The Power of Silence: Against the Dictatorship of Noise by Robert Cardinal Sarah. I have never read the book myself, but its title speaks volumes to me. Silence is a…
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We’re a month away from Valentine’s Day, but it’s never too early to share some of the most beautiful love poetry ever written. Admittedly, the love poem I quote the most is Shakespeare’s “Sonnet 116” followed closely by Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s “Sonnet 43,” and who can speak of love poetry without noting that profound 27th…
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My first encounter with Malcolm Guite came when he visited Grove City College years ago. A poet-priest-musician, my heart echoed with his song. Though I did not get up to the chapel to see him face-to-face, multiple friends of the family brought me excerpts of his work. Years later, we now own multiple collections authored…
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For weeks now, there has been silence – the stationary pen that only marks the page of my journal when I nod off in bed. Some call it writer’s block; I call it “the dehydrated soul groping about in desert landscapes.” I feel like one of T. S. Eliot’s hollow men. I am a dried…



