Archives For Poetry

The Allure of the Unseen

January 6, 2018 — 2 Comments

The Allure of the Unseen



“Show me your glory,”

Moses said to God,

and God showed Moses

a slender shoulder.


Having slipped a strap

down to the elbow,

God walked away with

Aphrodite’s charm.


Isaiah saw God

seated on a throne

in a bedchamber

behind a curtain.


God wore a bathrobe

of silk and velvet,

but soon the boudoir

filled with flames and smoke.


Peter, James, and John

climbed up a mountain

hidden far away

in nature’s silence.


There they shook in fear,

beholding the face

of the one, true God,

who shone like the sun.


It was ecstasy,

that of a virgin

in silv’ry moonlight

on her wedding night.


A voice from on high

ripping through the clouds

broke the blinding bliss:

Consummatum est.”


“Never speak of it,”

said the Son of God,

“until I wake up

yours forever more.”


“…it exercised upon us the allure of what has never been seen…”

–André Breton, L’amour fou


Best wishes,
David J.W. Inczauskis, S.J.



Christmas is blood flowing in the streets,

The blood of the Lord valiant at war.

It is the wrath of God made flesh,

Pulsing through tiny, scarlet veins.


Christmas is the division of sheep and goats,

Separated at once by whips of divine ire.

It is the splitting of time by a two-edged sword,

Shining red as it falls on the necks of the just.


Christmas is a book of history torn to pieces

And thrown into a furnace hotter than hell.

It is a whisper in the night that stills souls:

Haunting them, chilling them, spooking them. 


Christmas is the force of the right arm of God,

Which casts enslaved bodies into slavery.

It an axe that divides the hearts of women

And men who choose to die or die to choose. 

Best wishes,
David J.W. Inczauskis, S.J.

P.S. This poem is nothing other than an interpretation of “Chapter One” of Pope Benedict XVI’s Introduction to Christianity. 






December 21, 2017 — Leave a comment

I just returned from a three day silent retreat at Bellarmine Jesuit Retreat House in Barrington.


I wrote a little poem that summarizes my experience of prayer during the retreat:

The maker is made manifest
In myst’ries shared by no request,
In moments passing endlessly.

Desire comes in light blue and red,
Not leading rather being led
Through time that marches ceaselessly.

To worry is to sin against
The beauty of God’s providence,
Which has a final claim on all.

Surrender now or live in chains.
To wait is what God most disdains.
Arise and waken to the call.

Best wishes,
David J.W. Inczauskis, S.J.

There Are Secrets

December 8, 2017 — Leave a comment

An Original Poem

Sea Image

There are secrets buried deeper than

The deepest abyss

At the bottom of the sea.


There are mysteries reaching farther than

The furtherest stars

The human eye has seen.


They shake the core of the earth

And rattle the corners of the sky.

They make themselves known

At the blast of a trumpet.


Woe the one who claims

To know them.

Woe to the one who will

Not know them.


They are

The intentions of the hearts

Of everyone,

And they run deeper

Than the deepest abyss

At the bottom of the sea.


Best wishes,
David J.W. Inczauskis, S.J.

The Mystic

November 14, 2017 — Leave a comment

Guate 221

Sinking into the softness of the soil,

The mystic meditates on the movement,

Timid and terrible, of trunks and roots,

Shooting up slowly, grasping the ground like

Fingers gripping flesh in the throws of love.


Communing with the muses of water,

He hears the current cleansing the sickness

Of his soul, beat down by intense passion,

Stricken with the sorrow of abandon,

Seared by cauterizing torrents of flame.


There is a wind that chills the sinews of

Broken bones and rattles cold to the core:

The mystic revels in this solemn breeze,

A callous crack like a swift slap across

A face of existential expressions.


Always alone, never alone, never…

Music, epic music, a serenade

Plays from the harp strings of the pastor king,

Resounds from the crystal halls of heaven,

Matches the rhythm of the mystic’s heart.


Best wishes,
David J.W. Inczauskis, SJ

Leaves David pic

(My photo, 2015 at Starved Rock)



It is not death but truth

The chilly breeze reveals,

Lavishly clothing the oak

Before stripping her bare



Beg to be an evergreen,

Striving for the golden mean,

Never shaken but serene,

Bowing not to fate’s routine.



Tell not the young!

Spare them the pain

Of bitter hearts.


Rinse them. Dry them.

Wrap them in white,

And set them free.

Best wishes,

David J.W. Inczauskis, S.J.





“To Drown in Jacob’s Well”


My death came seven years ago, I tell.

He pushed me down the hollow of a well

To drop down depths of darkness straight to hell,

To splash against the waters where I fell.


To drown, to breathe in liquid far from air,

A fate no normal man should ever bare,

Became my fate and shook me with despair:

A place where souls can’t even shout in prayer.


Cold eyes had shut in never ending gloom.

Well’s bottom would become my somber tomb

Had there not been a man there to exhume

My corpse from sure and everlasting doom.


From where he had appeared I could not say,

But time would tell me there he did oft stay

To rescue victims who had gone astray,

To show them once again the light of day.


The well I do regard a holy place

Where sinners find a pouring forth of grace,

Where lovers gaze upon a gentle face,

And outstretched arms await a warm embrace.


It’s my pleasure to share this poetry with you. It comes from my heart.

Best wishes,
David J.W. Inczauskis, S.J.

*My first shot at iambic pentameter

Artwork Above: Sieger Köder’s “Die Frau am Jakobsbrunnen”