This is the new poetry referred to in First
Thursday October and it would have fit nicely in the chapter Fragments of a
Natural Narrative. I rather thought with
the publication of On Giving My Word I would be cured to writing poetry. Alas it keeps coming. The first is out of my childhood memories and
the latter is from my interest in English Romanticism which I think is undervalued
as a source for understanding Christianity.
Fireflies and Skippers
As
children, my brother and I
were
given rock collections and chemistry sets
before
we were given Bibles.
With
them we quietly competed with each other,
and
together we marveled at summer’s fireflies in the empty lot,
at
skippers who walked on the pellucid water of a Vermont brook,
and
pondered if one might turn milkweed sap into rubber
and
spin cottonwood down into silk.
When
we did receive our Bibles, we read them
as
part of the same continuing story that we had begun,
with
little sense of discontinuity between the sources
and
have kept them in our own way well into our old age
continuing
to serve that little church that gave them.
When Poets
When
the poet Wordsworth
declared that nature was the
anchor of his soul,
he was quickly charged
with blasphemy,
not
so much against an Almighty God,
but,
as against the purity of the idea.
That
charge overlooked the fact that nature has an unseen door,
which
opens on a landscape that is not open to eyesight,
but
which imagination can explore with insight.
Through
that door, threads of story out pour,
giving
rise to the realm of ideas,
as
though it, Almighty God entered in
and
became man.
When
the poet Coleridge
saw
sea snakes in the moonlight,
he
saw what he could not see in the sunlight,
and
frost that came at midnight wrote him a poem,
on
the window of his Devon country home.
His
sins appear to having been a denier,
of
the greatest good for the greatest number
and
of eating opium off in the land of Kublai Khan.
which
overlooks that good is not a number,
and
that nature is not simply a calculation,
but
a continuing story.
When
the poet Seamus Haeney
saw
light in a raindrop
on
a December day in county Wicklow,
despite
the mutters in his head
of
let down and erosion,
he
said, “each drop recalls the diamond absolute.”
His
sins appear to have been politic,
as
in the time of Troubles, he was neither
an
informer nor an internee, merely a writer.
which
overlooks no one walks out of troubles
which
does not have a story that
gives
others room to walk as well.