Poetry is a gift

I am quite sure that if this world lost its treasure trove of poetry, many would experience deep enduring pangs within their chest. I am one of those people. I love verse. Words that punch the mind into some motion of thoughts.

We write to give voice to the joys of the spirit. We put words to paper to profess the joys of our souls. And then, we speak with the written word to let go of our griefs and sort out our confused minds so tainted by the fall. Then there is truth. Oh the joy of finding the greatness of Truth. Truth and beauty, a double helix unseen by many. Poetry helps us get the words out succinctly so that others might ponder such pearls. And yet the poetry makes us feel vulnerable, whether it is our own or glimpsing into the broken world of another.

In my high school years, although I barely recognized the inter-dependance of truth and beauty, I had a natural revulsion for anything that was not true. In some mysterious way it had to be beautiful and beauty as ordered in nature, was truth. 

I read A Handmaids Tale by Margaret Atwood on the orders of an enamored English teacher, and turned my nose up at the opportunity to watch the movie. I was punished for my act of defiance and seeming insult. Mary, the Mother of God, was far away from my mind at that time, but the Word, Truth, Jesus, was showing me glimpses behind the veil of true feminism and beauty. And A Handmaids Tale fell far from the mark.

Poetry became a boon to the interior life I didn't know existed in me. So for someone like me, flawed, struggling, existing only on God's grace, I discovered the sweet brevity of poetry to articulate and ponder ideas I could not understand until they were out on paper. And then the joys of finding the words of others who like me, taking hold of Grace to overcome self absorption ever present in our minds since the fall. Lifting our minds and hearts as creatures to our Creator, a never ending source of peace.

Broken, frail, but trusting in the mercy of God. Many of these writers seemed to live out faith and hope. Some of them became saints. Some crawled into the specter of death on their hands and knees. Some chose to abandon their Creator and let their minds stumble over the weeds that had grown up around them.

I have the joy of many wonderful collections of poetry. A favorite is The Book of Living Verse compiled by Louis Untermeyer. The following belongs to Gerard Manley Hopkins

The Habit of Perfection

Elected Silence, sing to me

And beat upon my whorled ear,

Pipe me to pastures still, and be

The music that I care to hear.

Shape nothing, lips; be lovely-dumb;

It is the shut, the curfew sent

From there where all surrenders come

Which only makes you eloquent.

Be shelled, eyes, with double dark

And find the uncreated light:

This ruck and reel which you remark

Coils, keeps, and teases simple sight.

Palate, the hatch of tasty lust,

Desire not to be rinsed with wine:

The can must be so sweet, the crust

So fresh that come in fasts divine!

Nostrils, your careless breath that spend

Upon the stir and keep of pride,

What relish shall the censers send

Along the sanctuary side!

O feel-of-primrose hands, O feet

That want the yield of plushy sward,

But you shall walk the golden street

And you unhouse and house the Lord.

And, Poverty, be thou the bride

And now the marriage feast begun,

And lily-colored clothes provide

Your spouse not labored - at nor spun.

And then, too long to repeat here, The Hound of Heaven by Francis Thompson. Words do not exist to describe the story of this man from 19th century England. His poetry leaves me weak and tearful, humbled by my frailty before God. Ever dependent on His mercy and love.