The Catholic Laureate - by Fr. Pier Giorgio Di Cicco
 Fr. Pier Giorgio DiCicco, a priest of the Archdiocese of Toronto, has
authored 17 books of poetry. He was born in Italy, raised in Montreal,
Boston and Toronto and has taught at the University of Toronto. He is
currently Poet Laureate of the City of Toronto. His poetry is published
by The Mansfield Press
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Trumpet |
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Written by Fr. Pier Giorio di Cicco
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Thursday, 24 April 2008 |
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There is no news forthcoming
on the edge of my wilderness. I learn new
new things as a final resort so He can see
me flitting on the planet, requisitioning home.
I want to play flowers and griefs and blue bells
and a handshake, I want to pour my breath
into the world like blessing.
I want the medium of song to be your eyes
as I look at them, your gentleness to be
arpeggio, the sky to be written in His quick hand,
before the night shuts us. I want
the angel of the new moon to
become any sparrow, and his music to be
light for the moths we are.
I want to shut my voice and become song,
transfigured, like grace coming to roost
on my ignorant head, for there is a heart in me
called love of man, and everyone hears it,
this music, deafening; this mouth called need of
humankind for God. |
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Every Day Demons |
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Written by Fr. Pier Giorio di Cicco
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Friday, 11 April 2008 |
they’re comin for me.
they’re not gonna come and get me.
they’re not getting me again, these little demons.
they come and gnaw at the furniture of my legs,
they come and gnaw at the empty rooms of
my heart. they gnaw and want what?
what do they want?
my head my skull my arms,
my teeth.
what is it they hanker for, what is they don’t have in
whatever part of the world they lumber in,
what is it they don’t have, what is
it they don’t have that I must toss to them
a scrap of meat to make them worthwhile in
God’s insistence.
banish them.
banish them with a word, banish them with a little
finger poised over a bluebell, over a flower,
banish them with my hand over a child’s head.
banish them; look, they are gone from the garden,
where I have planted an ideal that will grow to hope,
to sun-hood,
in grace,
a little laurel of seasons.
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Orpheus Returns |
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Written by Fr. Pier Giorio di Cicco
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Friday, 28 March 2008 |
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Firstly, I don’t believe in the world.
It looks like paradise
but I know heaven is in the dark, like
a lost key.
Only my words can bring it back,
like prayers,
like blind men tapping.
Finally there is the only song I had not
prepared for.
I know this, that the world is
invisible, as I look to
to the centre of the earth for the grace that lines
my bones, as I wait for
something like mercy.
Love is what I would have uttered
like a song to sing without a mouth,
Love is what I wanted to hear —
Like the sound of creation praising itself. |
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Good Friday |
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Written by Fr. Pier Giorio di Cicco
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Thursday, 20 March 2008 |
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 The blood of Christ.
The canyon that was heart —
water flowing through it.
I am Christ as you are.
The nails. The thorns.
Betrayal.
All of it.
His mother looking up.
As I look up to mine.
You strip the altar.
Birds sing, hollowly.
Nothing will raise my bones to heaven.
The Father has taken no cup
but has filled this poem
with you,
the living.
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Last Updated ( Thursday, 20 March 2008 )
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