Welcome to Franciscan Spirit. It's great to be
with you. This episode features the great poet
and beloved Franciscan friar, Father Murray Bodo.
Murray Bodo is a Franciscan priest and an award
-winning author of numerous books, including
his best -selling title, Francis, the Journey
and the Dream. He has had poems, stories, and
articles published in magazines and literary
journals in the United States, England, and Ireland,
and he's also a founding staff member of Franciscan
Pilgrimage Programs, where he led yearly pilgrimages
to Assisi, Italy, for over 40 years before retiring
in 2020. Father Murray recently wrote his 12th
book of poetry, Brother Wind and Air, A Lifetime
in Verse, which is the focus of our conversation
this episode. This interview was actually recorded
last April, almost a year ago, when this book
was originally released. But when it was decided
for Franciscan Media's book line to be discontinued,
people were no longer able to find the book and
order it. That is, until now. The book can now
be ordered exclusively through Ascension Press'
website, which I have linked to in the show notes.
If you like poetry, this is a really beautiful
book. It wrestles with aging. And to me, I mean,
it really, I think it really inspires us to look
deeply at the moments in our lives that have
shaped us. I do wish people could have found
the book last year. However, I do find it fitting
that Brother Wind and Air is available during
this Jubilee year. of Saint Francis of Assisi.
Father Murray may be one of the most respected
Franciscan poets around today, and his words
invite us to open our senses to the divine breath
that permeates all things good. beautiful and
true, a divine breath. He has spent his vocation
as a Franciscan writer attempting to name. It's
for this reason I've decided not to include reflection
segments in this episode. Father Murray reads
several poems throughout this interview that
serve as their own invitations to pause and contemplate
what was said. Please, I invite you to give yourself
permission to really sit with these poems. and
perhaps even do a type of Lectio Divina with
Father Murray's words. It's a beautiful book,
and I hope you enjoy this conversation as much
as I did. So without further ado, here is Father
Murray Bodo. Enjoy. Really great to be with you,
Father Murray. So let's begin by talking about
why you wrote your new book of poetry, Brother
Wind and Air, A Lifetime in Verse. What's the
story behind this book, Father Murray? Well,
I guess in one sense I could say it came to me
because I had just retired about two or three
years before from being on the Assisi pilgrimages
for 43 years. I had gone every year to Assisi
for about three months. In the process, I wrote
a book of poetry called Teaching the Soul to
Speak. And that was kind of my farewell to Assisi
and to all the pilgrimages. And so when that
book was published and came out, I kind of had
that feeling, what do I do now? Do I write more
poetry? Am I finished with poetry? And I realized
right away I wasn't finished with poetry because
the word is like life to me. It's like breath,
reading the word, hearing the word, preaching
the word, and working with words as a poet. So
I wasn't quite sure what I should do or should
I wait. So I waited about maybe half a year,
and I said, I think it's time to just see if
I should write or if that feels good, if that's
where I should go. So almost immediately after
that, I had my fountain pen. I'm 19th century.
I write with a fountain pen on yellow pads. And
I had it, and it was sitting at my, this is an
Italian Aurora pen, by the way. Someone gave
me in Italy quite a few years ago, but I loved
the pen. And they've become quite expensive.
And so I feel funny saying that as a Franciscan.
Here's my Aurora pen. I should have my little
big pen here. But anyway, it was sitting there.
For some reason, I realized that the reason I
was feeling distant from God and the reason that
I was kind of drifting was the fact that I hadn't
written anything, that I hadn't picked up that
pen. So a poet tends to... use and work with
concrete things. So the fountain pen became the
symbol of this whole dilemma of what I should
do. And so that became the first poem in the
book here, Fountain Pen. Wonderful. Yeah, I know
in brainstorming for this episode, we discussed
you selecting five to seven poems that you can
read on the podcast today. And yeah, so if you
want to dive right in, I think that would be
great. If you want to start with Fountain Pin,
and then the format of this, we'll just kind
of talk about the poem afterwards, as you say
in the preface of the book. how does one speak
of poems when the poems themselves say everything
the poet has to say so some some poems come like
we we may just move on to the next one and just
let it be what it is and uh invitation for the
listener to reflect upon it but then others there
will probably be a backstory or um something
we can discuss about it so uh but please uh dive
on into fountain pen and we'll go from there
okay So here is what eventually came from this
symbol, this object, the fountain pen. And I
say this is what eventually came because in poetry,
some poems come easily. They just flow out of
you. Others you work and rework. And I don't
think I reworked this one that much. But it became
very pivotal because I was very much aware of
my age. That's three years ago. Four years ago,
I don't know what it was. I was about 83, 84.
And so I thought, I can't let that fountain pen
lie there too much longer. So here's what I came
up with finally. Fountain pen. I feel these days
a distance I fear is age intruding. It's voice
needy, insistent. Rest, pull back, let God find
you. And so I do. But you keep receding, a stranger
it seems, to the heart's surrender, until I turn
to the stilled pen. Closed, it lies unmoving,
where I left it in search of you, who will come,
age says. If only I let go, let you surprise
me. Then when I open the pen, you are there,
silent, waiting for me to hold you. Let you,
let your still voice find the waiting words.
So you can see the fountain pen becomes more
than an object. You know, I'm relating to it.
And I move quickly from the first stanza where
people are saying, rest, pull back, let God find
you. And then the next stanza, I'm already addressing
God. And so I do. But you keep receding as if
God's been listening to this first part and saying
whatever, you know, whatever's going on. So God
becomes then, it becomes a dialogue with God,
which ends up being a dialogue with... with the
pen as well. He's a part of our little trinity
of conversation that's going on. So that told
me, the writing of that poem, that if I keep
being visited with poems like this, then I think
I should keep going. And I think I was also motivated
probably more subconsciously by the fact that
if I didn't do this, then the book I just did
is going to be my last book of poetry. And that
sounded pretty much like death warmed over. I
said, I think I have more. More little things
percolating inside that I'm not going to walk
around saying, well, I did my last book. I better
die right now. So it made the last book seem
like a preparation for this next part of the
journey. I'm very much a person whose whole life
has been based on journey. The pilgrimage, you
know, even when I was a little boy, I was five
years old, I'd take my little suitcase and go
out to the highway and hitchhike because I wanted
to go somewhere more than the little town I was
in. Of course, my dad would have to rush down
to pick me up. But all that sense of journey
and being on the journey, and I've traveled extensively
because of that. And it fit in with my Franciscan
vocation, which is to be itinerant. We're not
to be like monks, you know, situated in one place
our whole life. We are like poor preaching brothers
of penance. We're on the road. We're itinerant.
At the beginning of this conversation, you talked
about how... you you know in the back of your
mind you're wondering if your previous book was
going to be your final book of poetry at least
for a while and then you said you felt a little
bit distant from god and then you look down at
your pen this fountain pen and what was that
process like for you for to to pick up the pen
again and to write and for these words to just
flow and for you to kind of step in. You're journeying
creatively deeper into yourself and then deeper
into God, correct? Yes. And I was, you know,
there is something sacred to me about writing
longhand and not typing. There's something in
this synapse from the brain. over down the arm
and in a sense it's like a sculpture as poetry
slows you down so I'm kind of carving the words
I'm kind of making of them a sacred object themselves
on this empty page and so when that is done and
you've got that whole page finished and you're
looking at something that was never there before.
You created something and in this poem in particular,
God is involved explicitly and so is the pen
and of course the paper and all the rest. But
that feeling, I had a feeling of new life. And
I didn't know what the poems were all going to
be about. Or are there going to be three poems?
Or will it keep going? And it kept going depending
on the circumstances I found myself in. And I
think after I wrote that poem, I went with one
of the friars whose family has a cottage about
two or three hours north of Toronto, Canada.
So I was up in the Canadian woods in the Bay
of Bays, and the wind kept blowing. and flowing
it was that kind of uh i thought and i became
so aware of wind and uh and i kept thinking of
that's the way it was in gallup new mexico when
i was a kid wind wind wind always it's the high
desert and it's it's it's a thin wind in some
ways very strong wind but it's the high desert
so about 7 000 feet so i was already elevated
as a kid even though it was a desert and and
i kept thinking about so much of my searching
for god was in thin air i was always going up
mountains i was always wanting loving to climb
mountains i always i know that's my northern
italian and also my parents, who were from Durango,
Colorado, and Leadville, Colorado. The mountains
are right there. My dad worked in Silverton,
Colorado, in the mines. So I was always in the
mountains. And so while I was there... I didn't
plan to read this poem, but it flows right in,
and then I could go back to the... And that was
the next significant thing I wrote was, in fact,
a poem called Thin Air. It's in three parts,
but I'm reading it because even something as...
and ephemeral and seemingly untangible, except
you feel it on you, can become a vehicle for
something much deeper. And so I wanted to work
with that. And this really gets into the depth
of the title of the book, correct? Brother Wind
and Air. And in fact, my first title was Thin
Air. And I worked with that for a long time.
And then I realized that I was working a lot
with wind and air and the four elements of the
canticle of the creatures of St. Francis are
earth, water, air, and fire. And I had written
a lot about the other elements, but never about
wind. And so then it also became... a personal
furthering of my entering into and living the
canticle of the creatures. So I won't read all
three parts of this, but I just want to show
how even dealing with something that ephemeral,
something will surprise you on the page. And
you say, oh my goodness, am I glad I started
this one. And this is, and I'll point that out
to you. From the time I was a boy, I have reached
out into thin air, and you are there. You, the
breathed word I believe I came from. I. this
embodied soul you breathe. When the air grows
dense with silence I cannot see, you are there,
air whisperer, mostly in thin air. But how can
you fit into thin air? like the small rush of
air when a rock has rolled back. That was the
surprise. Also, God becomes the air whisperer,
and God is breathing me. I'm not breathing God.
God is breathing me. These are surprises. But
the big surprise, I said, now I'm going to look
for a metaphor. No, I didn't. I just said, but
how can you fit into thin air like the small
Russia bear? And all of a sudden it just fell
on the page when a rock has been rolled back.
So it's a very Easter symbol, the rock being
rolled back from the tomb. And that Russia bear
that would come out is also the risen Jesus,
his spirit breathing. He is in there breathing.
And that's the surprise. And you don't say, oh,
my goodness, I wonder what that means. I better
explain that. And then you ruin it because you
let it be this very rich symbol. Somebody else
is going to say, oh, my gosh, yes. And they've
had an experience. And then they bring that experience.
to God being this small Russia bear when a rock
has been rolled back. That's beautiful. I love
that so much. And I won't ask you to explain
it, because like you said, the surprise can just
be what it is. It was a surprise that came to
you, and it comes to each of us throughout our
lives. That kept happening in this poem. And
as I said, and maybe I ought to move to Canada,
I don't know, but this inspiration kept coming,
you know, and I thought, well, and then I'll
show you. And in the third, or is this the fourth?
Yeah, the fourth section of the poem. Again,
there was a surprise I would never have anticipated.
Maybe I have to read the third part to go in
there. In old age, I am beginning to see poems
are my way into thin air. Now, that was very
interesting. They're a portal somehow. They are
thin air where I find you, weighted words that
are mostly still silent, weightless, heavy in
thin air. And then the fourth one begins. Poems
begin soundless, not heard, till the child in
me Sounds words walking safe with father. No
care that he'll be sick in thin air. But asking
as we climb higher, where is the lamb, father?
Now that surprised me and blew me right out of
Canada. I had to hold on to a tree. I said, now,
where is that coming? All of a sudden, it's Abraham
and his son and the sacrifice on the mountain.
And the reason I'm doing this is if you have
the courage, and the great poets are the ones
that have the courage to go where all of us stop
and say, I don't think I want to go any deeper
here. But this one, it just kept leading me,
leading me in. And the reason I'm sharing it
with those of you who are participating with
this podcast is that it was a surprise to me.
So if you're surprised when you see this. I was
just as surprised. It's not something I thought
out because I have a very great mind. Poetry
doesn't have much to do with the mind anyway.
It's more with the heart and with symbols and
this sort of thing. But it also shows that even
thin air... if you begin to examine it by feeling
it, tasting it, hearing it, whatever you're doing
with it, it will yield, yield treasures of memory,
of scripture, of the story of salvation, of your
inner life, of your unconscious. Things you didn't
know that all of a sudden you remember, oh my
goodness, that's why I had trouble with this.
Was I three or four when that happened? You know,
that kind of thing. So this is kind of an introduction
then too to those surprises that I want to talk
more about as we look at a few more poems here.
Please, yeah. You have another one for us? I
do. And it's another one that fits in with the
poem, the fountain pen, and why I wrote this
book, but more importantly, why I write, period.
And that's the title of the poem, Why I Write?
That is the title of the poem, Why I Write. So
again, it will talk in more concrete terms. I
closed the old man and the sea, strode to the
ball field unafraid, and played baseball confidently,
scoring a few worthy runs. It was something inside
the old fisherman, something inside his words
that moved like music and stirred something inside
me. It became my spirit alive. I was the words
I had read. I was a poem singing. I was the dance
of music. I was grace and poise and longed to
find words like Hemingway's to keep me from falling
down. I began to write my own. They give me what
I don't know is there to know in me and everywhere.
So. I've always been attracted to Hemingway's
writing. He's the closest prose writer for me
to poetry. And because of his reverence for every
word, and he does make it as short as possible.
But there is a music behind the words, a sound.
There is a feel that sets my spirit to dancing,
to singing, and it is in the sound. that I began
to feel the truth inside the words and behind
the words. I can paraphrase Hemingway and, you
know, you'll just fall down totally bored. But
if you get his exact words and you read them,
there is a music to them that all of a sudden
you're inside. I know that sounds mystical, and
in a sense it is, because mystical comes from
the word mystery. And so what is the mystery?
Why does that happen? Well, I love, I mean, that
stanza is one of my, probably my favorite in
the book, that I became my spirit alive. I was
the words I had read. I was a poem singing. I
was the dance of music. You can feel the movement
of these words, just like you said, God breathing
in you and through you, through language, through
art, through words, and it's as if you're, you
can just feel this aliveness in that poem and
the words taking you there, Hemingway taking
you there. And in the book, in their poem and
the experience was from a memory from college.
Because those of you who know me know I'm not
the greatest athlete who ever lived. In fact,
I was the kid that was afraid he was going to
be chosen. But they always put me in right field.
Because I was going to miss the ball, et cetera,
et cetera. And this is based on a very real experience.
I spent the afternoon reading The Old Man and
the Sea, maybe a whole day. And I came out of
that. I was more than myself. I was myself enhanced.
I was myself freed. And I went. Most of the other
friars who were playing with me, they fainted.
They couldn't believe I hit the ball for one
thing. But I was really playing. And so I think
that art, poetry, dance, sculpture, whatever
it is, if you can find a way into it, it will...
Do something to your own spirit that is atypical
of you. Give you gifts that you're very grateful
for. Well, I mean, that's the first two lines
of the poem, right? I mean, I closed the old
man in the sea, and then I love this line, strode
to the ball field unafraid. Unafraid. So, I mean,
it's just such this... To me, I receive it as
an invitation to, hey, let what you find beautiful
to take you in. I'm an artist too, so I love
words, language, but let it take you in, and
in that presence. And in that, just completely
being absorbed in this thing, captivated by this
thing that you find beautiful, maybe some of
those insecurities, maybe some of those fears,
maybe they drift away a little bit. Maybe you
feel more free. Maybe you score a couple runs.
Exactly. Yeah. Robert Frost, he defined a poem
once as a momentary stay against confusion. That's
very mind -oriented. And it will do that too.
It can sometimes straighten your... brain out.
You know, it's brain, you're all confused and
the poem will do that for you. But this one was
much more emotional, much more holistic, this
experience. It's why people read some books over
and over again. Every year they'll read certain
books because it's like it was written for me.
Or was written for you. Yeah, I love it. Got
another one for us? I'm going to make you read
the whole book. Let's start at the beginning
and do the whole book. As you can see, so far,
I'm sure, words are really important to me. I
love to play with words. I've always been intrigued
by words. And so naturally, if I'm exploring
why I write, and this book is a lot about writing
and the writing of poems and why, that I am going
to have to eventually talk about words themselves.
And this poem that I'm going to read now is called
Thunder and Rain. And it's a memory also. I was
somewhere and it was a terrible thunder and lightning
and I remembered it brought back the memory.
how fearful I was of thunder when I was a little
kid because my mother had to work and my dad
had to work and and one of my aunts took care
of me when I was a baby and so she was deathly
afraid of thunder and every time thunder happened
she would grab me and run around the house screaming
about thunder and so i i then picked up that
fear and i was i would when when i was there
with my mom and dad i would say oh my my my asunda
sunda you know that in my baby talk sundays come
in they're looking at me what what's this you
know then the thunder would start i was like
a dog that can sense thunder coming i had to
hide so anyway so but but the poem opened up
a a lot more than that memory and it's called
thunder and rain The first word I spoke that
I remember is thunder. Sunda, Mommy, Sunda. And
she'd scoop me up, and it would start to rain.
Did scary Sunda bring the rain that tapped its
song on the tin roof of the small house? where
we lived in Durango, Colorado. I like to think
the little boy stopped being afraid of thunder
when he understood that sanda could mean bad
noise and singing rain. One word could mean something
bad, but also fill pools where he splashed and
played fishing with his dad. Words became fun
to play with. So all that ambiguity and then
that you had the text in front of you, I said,
and played fishing. which is another word, so
I put quotes around the word to emphasize that
that was another rich word. And because my dad
was a fly fisherman, lived for, died for, and
everything was fly fishing. And when I look back
on my collected poems, there are so many fishing
images. and fish images that came from what my
dad loved and that I played with him. I would
play in the pool that I'm fishing and he would,
you know, tell me what kind of fish I'm catching
and all of that, usually trout. So anyway, what...
What I remembered was my first word. I think
that was my first word. Sunda for thunder. I'm
sure there were words before that, but that's
the one I remember, which is interesting that
I would remember something scary. And I don't
remember when that fear left. But then I hypothesize
in the poem that it must have been. when my little
mind figured out, well, thunder's also good because
it brings the rain. And I've always loved rain.
I've loved the sound of rain, the smell of rain.
I was just shocked back into that reality three
weeks ago. Well, yeah, three weeks ago is when
I was shocked back into the reality. But I just
got through a period of COVID, the longer COVID,
where every organ in your body is attacked. It
was horrible. I've had COVID before, but nothing
like this. It was actually very terrifying. So
when I got well enough, I was in my hermitage,
which is in Florida. And so I have my car there
and everything because I'm a rich Franciscan.
I needed transportation. So anyway, but I was
quite unsure. I did stay an extra week after.
the COVID experience, but I needed somebody to
help me drive. And one of my former students
came down and helped me drive back. And we were
driving up towards Columbus, Georgia, which is
near Plains, Georgia. You know, so it's where
Jimmy Carter lived, where he died. And there
was a rain and the rain had just finished. And
I remember saying, Michael and Michael, put the
windows down. I smell the rain. And when I had
COVID. I couldn't smell or taste. So it was like
I was a child. I couldn't get enough rain. I
thought he was going to have to rein me in. I
was like a dog with my head out the window trying
to smell the rain, taste the rain, feel the rain,
you know, grass and all of that. So that's a
similar experience. That deprivation and that
fear that that was not going to go away, that
I couldn't taste or smell or whatever. It was
like this gift out of heaven. I haven't written
anything yet. I'm too close to the experience.
And that's the other thing you have to be careful
of. If you're too close to the experience, then
it becomes a mind thing. You start explaining.
You start doing what I just did. And that's out
of form. Yeah. Yeah. Mary Carr says that about
memoir, too, is that from the period of time
you're writing about, you should really be, I
think she says, seven years removed from that
experience so that you have more perspective.
Sure. But then also it's what you said, like
you can get back into the heart in a level way
rather than just staying up here and trying to
make sense of the experience cerebrally. You
know, you have the luxury of time and space to
really see the experience as it is. And then
you can, weirdly enough, then you can go back
into it. Yes, yeah. That's very true. And it
probably would be when you're not thinking of
it at all. Well, I love Thunder and Rain so much.
I mean, yeah, it's very... having a three -year
-old and a nine -month -old I mean it's probably
so true that for each of us like some of our
first memories are probably associated with fear
in some way because it really sticks out. But
then I love the movement of this poem that the
Sunda leads to this opening of, Oh, the rain
sings to me as well when Sunda comes and I get
to, I get to play with dad when Sunda comes.
So it's such a human poem to me where this thing
that begins with fear, it's taking you into,
play in song as well. Yeah, it's beautiful. Ready
for another one? So again, in this memory thing,
I want to look at another playing poem called
Playing at Solar Eclipse. We just had a solar
eclipse. eclipse the last few years, right? It
was two or three years ago. And that became,
you know, you know how you hear on the news or
you see there's going to be a solar eclipse and
you better not look into the sun and everything.
And I was thinking of all of that. And I said,
well, at my age, I better listen to that. And
so I was I came into my room, or I am now into
my friary room, and something happened that made
that particular solar eclipse an experience that
I had forgotten about and an experience totally
other than I thought I was going to have with
the solar eclipse. Some poems start in drama,
Shakespeare drama sort of thing, where something
starts in the middle of everything. Something's
been happening, and then you start the narrative.
as they say in Latin, in medias res, in the middle
of things. So this has a medias res in the starting.
Playing at solar eclipse. As exciting as it was,
it was even more so because I used what I used
as a boy. A cardboard pinhole white paper toy.
Afterwards, I turned on TV. It'll be 20 years.
This is a quote. You'll see it on the page because
it's got somebody speaking on the TV. It'll be
20 years before you see the next eclipse. I'll
be 106. Grrr. Why does TV have to fix and twist
what is fun so we'll have something bad to feel
from their future projections? Let's just play
and make connections. Like how I, wanting to
be a boy, remembered how to make a toy and how
it still works. and why it made me a grateful
old guy, smiling that a boy who was ornery still
knows his astronomy. So, of course, it's using
the pinhole, and it was an interesting thing
because my Venetian blind had a hole in it, in
one of the blades of the thing. That sun was
coming in and it was on the floor. And so I didn't
have to do anything. I didn't have to go get
a piece of cardboard, make a hole in it, and
then hold it so on the floor you can see the
eclipse. I saw the whole eclipse all the way
until it was nothing and then coming back again
through my own clinician blinds. I wanted this
poem to be... because I was having fun doing
this. And one of the ways you can be playful
is using rhyme and using words that sound the
same. So this poem is filled with end rhyme.
Like, as exciting as it was, It was even more
so because, so was because. I used what I used
as a boy, a cardboard pinhole white paper toy,
boy toy. So I'm playing with words here. Consciously,
you know, I'm consciously doing this. Afterwards,
I turned on TV. It'll be 20 years before you
see the next eclipse. So now I had to have even
an inside, an inner rhyme, because it gets serious.
Before you see the next eclipse, I'll be 106.
So those two half rhymes, it's a broken rhyme,
eclipse and 106. Why does TV have to fix and
twist? I'm using six, eclipse, fix, twist, because
everything got twisted in my mind. I can't even
play now without thinking that I'll be dead and
I better get this right now. I play really well
now. So the words themselves should twist and
be twisted somehow. And so at the end, of course,
there's a half rhyme when you're smiling that
a boy who was ornery still knows his astronomy.
Yeah. Well, I love that line. Let's just play
and make connections. Yeah. Can we just do that?
Can we just do that? And it's, of course, tongue
in cheek. the whole poem. That's a very light
poem. I appreciated you walking us through the
rhyme, though, because when I first read it,
I could feel it in the sound, but I did not realize
that when the TV comes on and you're forced to
confront this pretty, you know, dark reality,
um, like now, now the rhyming becomes kind of
fractured, you know, like it, it loses its beat
a little bit. Um, and then you get back to play,
you get back to making connections in it. It
gets back to, um, how it began, uh, with this
childlike play enjoyment. Uh, so I appreciate
you walking us through that. You, you are a master
of sound. Now, that's something that because
I've written so much poetry and that I know poetry,
the mechanics and that sort of thing, that I
did rather consciously. But I didn't pick the
words. The words were surprises to me. Fixed,
twist. 106. 106, you know. And that was a surprise
because, yes. It would be 106. I thought, oh
my gosh, that made it even worse. So I had to
get back to playing, you know, towards the end
of the poem. Those are kind of the finer things,
finer points of poetry, the mechanics and that
sort of thing. But when they work, they contribute
just beautifully to the whole experience. Now,
that's a real play -play thing. I'm going to
juxtapose that to a poem which I didn't intend
to do, but when I was looking at things this
morning, I said, I better include this poem on
page 75. again, a memory and an illuminated miniature.
When I was a boy living in New Mexico, in Gallup,
New Mexico, my dad was away at the war in Saipan
in Japan. And I'm an only child, so my mother
and I were living in Gallup, which is maybe a
couple hundred miles away from where they tested
the first atomic bomb at White Sands, New Mexico.
And we could feel that in the house. And so could
people around their windows rattled. And so,
of course, the papers are... And the news was
all about the government's investigating, can't
figure out what's going on, but not to worry.
Some of the cattle, they can't milk them. They
seem to not be able to give milk and all that
kind of stuff. But it was one of those memories
that looked, I didn't know how to open it up.
So I've done so much medieval work with manuscripts
and that sort of stuff. A miniature is a little
painting, you know, becomes part of a letter
on a page, a miniature painting. So I called
this, and this was a surprise too, an illuminated
miniature. I'm using that illuminated. It's double
meaning because the atomic bomb illumines, but
it also darkens things. So that's where I got
the title. And it's, oh, it's Illuminated Miniature,
July 16, 1945, Gallup, New Mexico. And I try
to keep the image of a page of a manuscript that
has become little for me in memory. The illuminated
air grows beyond the yellow page of memory. Its
mushroom cloud clogs his shallow breathing. It
is morning and still dark. The windows rattle
him awake. Mother is in the kitchen. Dad fights
in far -off Saipan. Three hundred miles away,
light darkens his room. His waking. He holds
his breath. Will the earth swallow them? He's
eight years old. The evening news says, ranchers
say cows won't milk in white sands. Sometimes
when you, as a poet or as a writer or whatever,
you realize that you wrote something rather dark.
that mirrors something else that was rather dark.
And all of a sudden, we have Sunda coming back.
But I'm older, and I'm frightened by... I didn't
know anything about atomic bombs or anything
else. But this unknown thing was there that everybody
seems upset about. I don't think I was. At eight,
I wouldn't have been. unless I knew what it was.
Yeah, and in your young mind, you're connecting
it to your dad being away in Japan. Yeah, I mean,
there's so much there. Yeah, and that was a huge
experience for me that my dad was gone. And so
I will read another poem that illuminates this
one. And this is Snow Christmas Morning. It's
on page 77. If you have a book and you're looking
at it, it's page 77. Here is the book, by the
way. Isn't that a beautiful book? It really is.
I just love the cover. I was so blessed. Sometimes,
you know, you dread the book coming out because
you don't know what it's going to look like.
But this is really a beautiful cover and a tribute
to the artist, the designer. So this one now
is Snow Christmas Morning. It's Christmas dawn
in Gallup, 1945. big flakes, and I'm in wonder
as snow covers the war and dad in Japan. I walk
out into the snow unprepared as I am, light fishing
clothes and a flimsy jacket with only wonder
to clothe me In grace enough for walking above
the earth, wings lifting me toward Japan. So,
of course, that's a very emotional poem, very
loaded, loaded poem. You'll notice it's fishing
clothes. Yes. I'm wearing fishing clothes in
winter at Christmas. It's like you're just trying
to feel close to your dad. Yeah. Wearing something
that you would wear when you did one of your
favorite things together. That's right, yeah.
And there's a lot about clothing me, like clothing
me in grace enough for walking above the earth.
You need... a lot of grace to make this happen.
And not just grace as a supernatural virtue and
reality, but grace in a Hemingway sense almost.
He said, courage is grace under pressure. Courage
is grace under pressure. And so here, the little
kid's trying to be very brave, but he does want
to go. And his wings lifting me toward Japan.
So again, there's darkness there, but this one,
there's something touching about this poem. You
feel... Just reading it, I felt I was the little
boy. Of course, I was the little boy, but I was
the little boy in the experience, but not in
the poem. It's recreated, and I really felt with
and for this little boy. And there's a lot of
side memories and other memories that came together
in the writing of this book. because my dad was
a miner in his younger life. And then towards
the end, when he returned from over there, one
of his mining friends got into uranium mining.
And so my dad would help him fly over parts of
New Mexico with a Geiger powder. They had a little
plane. Sunda, mining, caves, darkness. There
are poems like that that come through here in
different modes and different sounds. And so
I have one more that will have one more sound
that's associated with wind and air. And that
is the poem, Fast Moving Desert Clouds. That's
a hundred and seventeen if you have a book. Fast
Moving Desert Clouds All the empty clouds loud
still with their empty yin. Fast moving. over
the desert floor till there was the empty road
where we'd crossed the continental divide between
Gallup Air and the Grant's uranium mine, air
full of my childish fear of the imagined high
hum of the word radioactive. Dad's word for what
made his Geiger counter active and a mushroom
cloud thunder. Loud clouds threaten. Make me
wonder. Now, it's so interesting. I mean, I wrote
this book, and it's the first time I realized
that almost at the end of the book, I'm back
to thunder and noise and threat and fear. I didn't
realize that at all. This is, you know, one of
the very last poems in the book. And that's what
happens, too, when you let yourself be creative
and let yourself let whatever... you're doing.
Let it happen. I see so much, especially when
I taught writing and that one of the greatest
enemies to creativity is self -censure. Oh, I
can't say that. I better. So you change it. You
don't let, you should let everything come out
because you can always edit it. You can always
rewrite it. But you need the whole experience
of what it was really like. And sometimes it
feels like vomit on the page. But somewhere in
there is the clay that will make the statue or
the paint that will paint the picture or the
words that will make the poems. And there is
a lot of stuff that when we write and let ourselves
write, that's unconscious. It was simply unconscious
for me. What I just told you about that book,
that echoes the very first part of the book.
And of course, what you want is then a reviewer,
a critic, a great one, especially. I've never
had one. Same. See how smart he was. He integrated
that whole book and he made this back thing.
And I never did it at all. It was writing. It
was the letting myself write what was coming
in that particular experience. I've told you
this before, but they strike this universal chord
of, yeah, like I'm, yeah, I didn't have the exact.
same experience as you, you know, with my, with
a loved one being away in Japan and fighting
a war, but gosh, dang, like I do stuff all the
time, just trying to feel closer to those I've
lost. Yes. I'm a child again, you know, wanting
that nurturing so desperately. Um, and then in
working through it, I'm, you do touch, you do
touch the memory. of something that may comfort
you a little bit, even if it comes with a sting.
I don't know. Poetry can do that. As you said,
the last three poems especially do that. At the
time I was finishing this book, I was also nearing
Christmas. It may have been about a... month
away or I can't quite remember when when I actually
did the last poem or whatever but I also every
year I have a Christmas poem that I sent out
to all my friends you know and as a part of my
Christmas letter And usually it's about St. Francis
and Christmas. I've done so many Christmas poems.
And this year, everything was so heavy that I
said, it almost was a... harbinger of getting
COVID. Everything just seemed very heavy. I couldn't
lift myself out of this. And I certainly couldn't
write a pious poem or a holy poem. The whole
world seemed to be going, you know, south. And
it just was awful. When I came to write my Christmas
poem, I had written about maybe a month before
I had written a poem that I said, I'm going to
use that for my Christmas poem because it has
nothing to do with what's happening and it has
everything to do with what is happening. The
first successful... piece of writing i did was
in my sophomore year in college and it was like
it was about me as a boy going out and looking
at the stars at night i did that every night
where our little house in on the north side of
gallup there was a a little sand hill up there
with a stone i just stared at the stars every
night And I said, I want something that lifts
us above this. And so that's the poem that I
then made the final poem of the book. This is
one of my favorite poems, too, Father Murray.
Yeah, so how about you send us off by concluding
with the final poem in the book, like you said,
When We Were Meteors. When We Were Meteors. And
this is a poem that is rhymed for a different
reason than playing with the eclipse. This is
a poem that rhymes to make it sing, to make it
be like a Christmas song, a Christmas, you know,
like Edgar Allan Poe, which were all dark. Not
all. But he had some very tearful ones as well.
But the rhyme here is trying to make a joyful
sound because it was Christmas. But here it's
the end of the book and the beginning of the
book in one way. When we were meteors. Let us
be young and alive, we find how to fly and thrive.
Let us lie down in the sand, our entwined fingers
one hand. Let us look up at the stars, their
cars of fire as they fall, and call to us where
we crawl over the high desert's wall. Let us
fall fast as meteors veer, burn out in our atmosphere.
Let us, like them, become a rock that once spiraled
through the dark. Let us watch the night sky's
sparks that flickered like dying star parts.
Let us be the dreams we dreamed. Hands joined
fast as we careened heavenward through dark night.
Our brave hearts, our hearts delight. Once again,
that was Father Murray Bodo. You can order his
new book, Brother Wind and Air, A Lifetime in
Verse, in Ascension Press' online store, which
I've linked to in the show notes of this episode.
Simply visit the description of the episode on
whichever platform you're listening to this podcast,
or you can visit franciscanmedia .org for more
detailed show notes of my interview with Father
Murray Bodo. You can also visit ascensionpress
.com slash products. There's a little search
tool. on the right -hand side of the browser.
Just type in Murray Bodo or Brother Wind and
Air, and his book will pop right up. Again, that's
ascensionpress .com slash products, and then
type in Brother Wind and Air or Murray Bodo in
the search tool in the right -hand corner. I
have linked to more of Father Murray's work in
the show notes of this episode, as well as other
celebratory resources for this jubilee year of
St. Francis of Assisi. Thanks for tuning in,
and thanks as always for your support. This is
Stephen Copeland signing off. Peace and all good.