A Poem Honouring Matt Talbot

Martin Jim McFadden wrote Matt and I "in honour of Matt Talbot
who was a great inspiration to me in my battle with the bottle."
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DH69eLI8uSY

More about his sobriety journey is available at

http://www.martinjimmcfadden.com

 

The Servant of God: Matt Talbot

Readers are invited to submit their own writing as well as links by others regarding Venerable Matt Talbot.

Attono

January 20, 2015

https://catholictruthblog.com/2015/01/20/should-we-pray-more-to-matt-talbot/

I wrote this poem on the life of Matt a few years ago so I would like to share it with you.

The Servant Of God
(Matt Talbot).

Silhouetted beneath the shimmering January moon,
a lone pilgrim, his bare knees,
kissing the penitential cold of granite stone,
awaits entry to the re-enactment,
of the perpetual drama.

Not so alas in his youthful days,
for those hands now clasped in prayer,
with reckless ease were wrapped around,
the “drink”, and all it’s snares.
From tavern to drunken tavern,
stumble, stagger, fall,
when the demon’s cravings had stripped him bare,’twas the You gave the call.

With hands buried deep in penniless pockets,
on Newcomen bridge he took his stand,
pleading eyes from sunken sockets,
awaited in vain a welcoming glance.
A mother’s prayers had at last been answered,
from the debts of despair a glimmer of light,
a bitter experience of human friendship,
shattered he sighed, and sought comfort in flight.

By the fireside she sat, as she heard him exclaim
“mother, mother I’m home,
startled she cried, “Matt, what is it, what’s wrong?
“I’m taking the pledge”, he intoned.
“Go now in God’s name, but only if you intend to keep it”,
for she well knew his heavy load.
“I’ll go in God’s name, as he took,
his first faltering steps down the straight and narrow road,

“Bless me Father for I have sinned,” a new life of grace lay ahead,
Three months, six, finally for life,
many tears of repentance were shed.
Temptation, isolation, discouragement, pain,
the chains of indulgence proved strong,
but his spiritual food, now his daily diet
proved stronger as the battle raged on.

Instead of drink, now Matt consumed,
the fruits of kindred souls,
Augustine, Wisdom, the book of Psalms,
Our Lady, many secrets to Matt did unfold,
Fasting, solitude, alms giving, prayer,
as he rises from his wooden bed,
four hours sleep, his vigil he’d keep,
eternity, to lay down his head.

To the casual eye in the builder’s yard,
nothing unwonted seemed done,
to the wiry little man who carried and fetched,
in wind, rain, and sun.
Bot deep within the Master’s hand,
to reshape and rebuild had begun,
‘Till out of the debts came the constant refrain,
“Thy will, Thy will be it done.”

Down Granby Lane, on the seventh of June,
this foot soldier stumbled and fell,
of the milling crowd that gathered around,
his identity, no one could tell.
In Jervis street hospital,bound in chains of love,
laid bare, this pilgrim who carried the hod,
Providence’s design would reveal in good time,
he was truly a Servant of God.

A Recovery Poem

One speaker at the 2018 Matt Talbot Novena in The Way of the Cross Church, Togher, Cork was Hanna Costello. “Her talk related to how she came to recovery herself when dealing with alcoholism in her family. The man mentioned in the poem which follows has now gone to his eternal reward.”

RECOVERY

by Hanna Costello

http://truegrit-pioneerchallenge.blogspot.com/2018/04/two-more-wonderful-nights-inspired-by.html

 

I still thank God, that no-one drank at home, when I was small
We always kept some bottles in a press out in the hall
They were for the visitors, who came just once a year
And also for the postman, at Christmas for good cheer.

 

My family never took a drop and so I didn't know
That it wasn't always merry, but a great depressing low
That changed the personality, and radiated fear
And often isolated those addicted to the Beer.

Well, I grew up and fell in love with a man so true and kind
And I thought I'd change his habits. It’s true that "love is blind"
No matter what was going on, the drink was always first
And even after ten of them, it did not quench his thirst.

The love was fading fast but the children-had arrived
My concern for them was such, I feared they'd be deprived
He was a loving Dad in between the bouts
But I couldn't always shield them from the quarrels and the shouts.

"Relationship" I knew not, it was loneliness and fear
Not knowing what was wrong, while obsessed with him and beer
If it weren't for my little six, there’s no way I’d have stayed
There was no one there to help me, not even when I prayed.

Then I reached ‘Rock Bottom’; it was either up or out
When help came to our home, an Angel I've no doubt
"Didn't cause, can't control, Definitely cannot cure"
Lifted such a burden, I listened that's for sure.

 

Now I'm in recovery and there I'll always stay
Getting rid of my obsessions; getting better day by day
Because alcohol addiction had far more power than I
It was only when the Angel came that I ate humble pie.

The man I love is sober' now, one day at a time
And our borne is filled with happiness, Serenity is mine
I consider it a miracle, that I'm back from the brink
Of depression and obsession; of insanity and drink.

"Lines for a Sidewalk Sanctified Where Matt Talbot Died"

One of the San Francisco Bay Area’s most charismatic poets, international speaker, mother of seven children, and a member of the Saint Albert's Chapter of Lay Dominicans, the late Mary Rudge (1928-2014) published multiple books of poetry, including For Ireland (2011). One poem from that volume is presented here:

Lines for a Sidewalk Sanctified Where Matt Talbot Died

On this ordinary place where anyone can walk,

sanctified by pain and faith, in the path of holy,

you, Matt Talbot, of the sidewalk,

can lead us.

The chain scars wrapping your body showed

how you bound it against cravings,

bound it to God,

and the rosary, a link of prayer,

beads on a chain,

these were the strengths you could claim.

You pit your slight self with the power of prayer,

strength of spirit,

against the centuries

of what medicine, science, sociology, psychology,

could claim about addiction—that the

body craves and craves again

against its will.

For the love of God and your own sake,

and the poor mother so hard pressed

to find food out of thin air to feed you,

when all you had belonged to drink,

all you had earned from hard labor was given,

you pawned vest and coat and boots,

pledged-away for next week’s wage

for now a swallow, desperate, captive,

unable to think free, needing to drink.

For your sake and your salvation,

you wrapped yourself in chains,

drug them on your body through life,

vowing to never be any other prisoner

but that of love of God, accept

the body God’s perfect gift to return to God.

Wrapped as a gift, falling in your chains

on the sidewalk,

Were you bead on the Holy Mother’s

Rosary, she who prays sinners be healed?

This is your legacy,

to all us little people who are so human:

lifetime of hard labor,

lifetime of little schooling,

lifetime of innocent wonder

at love’s praises, that

and beyond lifetime, that other

holy mother who clasped you to her

by chain of rosary, pulled you

into heaven and free.


Note:  One source of information about Mary is http://www.zoominfo.com/p/Mary-Rudge/373291096.

Matt Talbot's Life in Verse

[Many years ago, Christy Bracken (of Co. Tipperary, Ireland) read about the life of Matt Talbot and was greatly impressed by its turnaround. He subsequently wrote this condensed account of Matt's life in verse form. 
It is Christy's (and our) hope that this posting might possibly help someone struggling with alcoholism or advance the cause of Matt’s beatification.]

The Servant Of God.

[Matt Talbot]

Silhouetted beneath the shimmering January moon,

a lone pilgrim, his bare knees,

kissing the penitential cold of granite stone,

awaits entry to the re-enactment of the perpetual drama.

 Not so alas in his youthful days,

for those hands now clasped in prayer,

with reckless ease were wrapped around

the “drink”, and all it’s snares,

from tavern to drunken tavern,

stumble, stagger, fall,

when the demons cravings had stripped him bare,

‘twas then You gave the call.

 With hands buried deep in penniless pockets,

on Newcomen bridge he took his stand,

pleading eyes from sunken sockets,

awaited in vain a welcoming glance.

A mother’s prayers had at least been answered,

from the debts of despair a glimmer of light,

a bitter experience of human friendship

shattered, he sighed, and sought comfort in flight.

 By the fireside she sat, when she heard him exclaim,

“Mother, Mother, I’m home”

startled, she cried,“Matt, what is it, what’s wrong?”

“I’m taking the pledge”, he intoned.

“Go now in God’s name, but only if you intend to keep it”

for she well knew his heavy load,

“I’ll go in God’s name” as he took

his first faltering steps down the straight and narrow road.

 “Bless me father for I have sinned”, a new life of grace lay ahead,

three months, six, finally for life,

many tears of repentance were shed.

Temptation, isolation, discouragement, pain,

the chains of indulgence proved strong,

but his spiritual food, now his daily diet,

proved strongest as the battle raged on.

 Instead of drink, now Matt consumed,

the fruits of kindred souls,

Augustine, Wisdom, the book of Psalms,

Our Lady, many secrets to Matt did unfold.

Fasting, solitude, almsgiving, prayer,

as he rises from his wooden bed

four hours sleep, his vigil he’d keep,

eternity, to lay down his head.

 To the casual eye in the builder’s yard,

nothing unwonted seemed done,

to the wiry little man who carried and fetched,

in wind, rain, and sun.

But deep within the Master’s hand,

to reshape and rebuild had begun,

‘till out of the debts, came the constant refrain,

“Thy will, Thy will be it done”.

 Down Granby Lane, on the seventh of June,

this foot soldier stumbled and fell,

of the milling crowd that gathered around,

his identity no one could tell.

In Jervis Street Hospital, bound in chains of love,

laid bare, this pilgrim who carried the hod,

Providence’s design would reveal in good time,

he was truly a Servant of God.

                                                      Christy Bracken

 

Matt Talbot: a Slave to the Virgin (poem)

[Irish poet Patrick Cotter has called Tanya Olson’s “Slave to the Virgin” a “poem with overt Irish subject matter--a biographical treatment of Matt Talbot which deftly balances the voice of an omniscient narrator with the fictional personal voice of Talbot speaking himself. http://anti-laureate.blogspot.com/2012/01/httpwww.html]

Slave to the Virgin

Tanya Olson

Matt Talbot walked Dublin
with crushed glass in his socks.
With barbed wire around his chest.
Chains wrapped his right arm
and knee, cords on the other side.
Hid these bindings beneath his clothes.
Crossed the city’s river moving from mass
to mass this way because he found himself
a slave to the Virgin.

Carried bricks for a living. Made alms
of what he earned. Slept only
on a plank bed. Kept but a timber
for his pillow. Never swore. Took
the pledge. No tobacco. Told no one
how he lived for pride in devotion
he thought the most devious sin of them all.

Bound his body to learn his body.
Learned his body to forget
his body. How else to get to empty.
How else to reach freedom but by journey.
Back and forth across the waters
beneath the monkey puzzle trees.
Walked quickly. Head down.
How else to approach her
but with a tested heart made toom.

A slave amn’t I. My body a coffle
chained in one world
driven to the next. There’s mornings
I think of heaving me
over the bridge. Nights, I dream
I cross the river north
to hide myself from myself.
To keep me off my trail.

But there’s no smarts in that.
This river is a knife
through the city’s middle.
These trees are but puzzles
to a monkey.
Amn’t I a slave to the Virgin.
Amn’t I a hod-carrier for the Lord.

 

Source: We appreciate that Tanya has placed this poem online at http://www.munsterlit.ie/Southword/Issues/21A/olson_tanya.html

A Poem

The following poem was recited by James Finley, Ph.D., during his presentation at the 2010 conference, “Following the Mystics through the Narrow Gate.” It appears on page 8 in the March 7, 2010 post by Dr. Bill Kerley titled, “It’s Not Right! It’s Not Fair! It’s the Kingdom of God!” http://www.ordinarylife.org/files/20100307.pdf or View as HTML

Matt Talbot was a drunkard

Dismas was a thief

Magdalene was a playgirl

and Thomas without belief

But there they are in heaven

Looking down upon us now

Each holding a tilted halo

To a badly battered brow

And so the sins of all you sinners

Don’t definitely damn

For your was-ness doesn’t matter

If your is-ness really am.