Poetry, Presence and Prayer - Remembering R.S. Thomas

Emerging by R. S. Thomas from Frequencies (Macmillan)
Not as in the old days I pray,
God. My life is not what it was...
Once I would have asked healing.
 I go now to be doctored...
to lend my flesh as manuscript of the great poem
Of the scalpel. I would have knelt
long, wrestling with you, wearing
you down. Hear my prayer Lord, hear my prayer. 
As though you were deaf, myriads of morta
lshave kept up their shrill
cry, explaining your silence by their unfitness.

It begins to appear
this is not what prayer is about.
It is the annihilation of difference,
the consciousness of myself in you,
of you in me...I begin to recognize
you anew, God of form and number.
There are questions we are the solution 
to, others whose echoes we must expand
to contain. Circular as our way
is, it leads not back to the snake-haunted
garden, but onward to the tall city
of glass that is the laboratory of the spirit.


Today is the feast of R. S. Thomas.  Well, not officially, although I have no doubt one day it will be, at least on the calendar of the Church in Wales.  But today does mark the thirteenth anniversary of the passing of this great Welsh poet/priest so I thought it fitting to give a nod to R.S. this morning.

I'll admit it took me a while to warm up to him. Thomas isn't exactly a warm and fuzzy kind of poet . . . nor a warm and fuzzy priest from what I've heard from those who knew him.  When I was in Wales a few years ago I attended a lecture about his life in which the presenter (an acquaintance of the poet) had photographs to accompany his talk. A few days later when I had the opportunity to speak to a colleague and close friend of Thomas's, I asked if he ever smiled.  At first his friend was a bit taken aback at the question but as he thought about it he realized he couldn't remember a single instance of him smiling.  He finally said that Thomas's second wife gave him moments of "great delight" and he's sure he must have smiled when with her. I certainly hope so, for both their sake's.  

A photo of Thomas and his wife, obviously the first one.

Despite the gruff demeanor that often came through in his work, the more I read of his poetry, the more I started to warm up to it and to him.  His understanding of the complex political, social and religious climate of Wales and its history struck a deep chord in me.  When it came to his religious verse, though, I found his experience alien and uncomfortable while at the same time beautiful.  In two of his most famous poems, "Via Negativa" and "Absence" he writes about how he experiences the Holy as absence or rather just-missed-presence like when you enter a room that someone has just left.  And while I've definitely had those moments in my spiritual journey, they are fortunately few and far between.  It literally pained me to think of this insightful, talented poet, who's primary vocation was to the priesthood, as never experiencing even a glimpse of the divine presence. 

One morning this past June during the early morning Eucharist at Gladstone's Library, Peter Francis, the warden of Gladstone's,  included several of Thomas's poems in the service. Many of the pieces he read that morning were old favorites of mine and I bobbed along gently on the waves of their words until he got to the above poem.  As he read "Emerging," I was overwhelmed with a tidal wave of emotion and tears. I can't say exactly what brought it on.  Maybe  it was a sense of relief that this poet I so admire had finally had an experience Presence.  Maybe it was guilt for taking for granted my own experience of the same.  Or maybe it was just that I was getting about four hours of sleep a night at that point and was exhausted.  

Whatever it was about this particular poem that touched me so deeply that morning, it continues to do so.
And in addition to (or maybe despite) whatever it was, I have come to realize that in this poem, I think Thomas gives the best definition of prayer, as I understand it, that I've ever come across:

It is the annihilation of difference,
the consciousness of myself in you,of you in me...
Maybe he finally figured out that instead of chasing the just missed presence, the way to experience God is simply to stand still . . . .

A Poem for the First Full Day of Autumn

The Harvest Moon by Ted Hughes from Season Songs (Faber & Faber)
Rolls along the hills, gently bouncing, 
A vast balloon, 
Till it takes off, and sinks upward 
To lie on the bottom of the sky, like a gold doubloon. 
The harvest moon has come, 
Booming softly through heaven, like a bassoon. 
And the earth replies all night, like a deep drum. 

So people can't sleep,
So they go out where elms and oak trees keep
A kneeling vigil, in a religious hush.
The harvest moon has come!

And all the moonlit cows and all the sheep
Stare up at her petrified, while she swells
Filling heaven, as if red hot, and sailing
Closer and closer like the end of the world.

Till the gold fields of stiff wheat
Cry `We are ripe, reap us!' and the rivers
Sweat from the melting hills.

Harvest Moon by George Heming Mason

It's the first full day of autumn here in the northern hemisphere and from the activity in my backyard early this morning, I suspect the birds must sense the seasons have changed.  The robins and wrens have been feeding with a frenzy since dawn, plucking red berries from amidst the dappled leaves of the dogwood trees and poking around the fading wildflower garden for any lingering insects.  

I've been feeling that burst of fall energy as well-- making to do lists (actually a to do notebook as my Facebook friends know), reorganizing my home office, cleaning and clearing out clutter.  I think part of this energy, both mine and that of the birds, is an innate urge to prepare for winter.  Even though we haven't had our first frost yet, the robins are plumping up their rusty breasts and beginning to form flocks, while I'm replenishing my tea stocks and bringing up sweaters from the basement wardrobe.  

At the same time, though, I don't want to rush or work my way through autumn, missing out on its delights.  I want to be aware of the snap of yet another new-to-me tart apple from the farmer's market, pause as I notice the slightly deeper blue of the September sky, breathe in the old book scent of falling leaves.  One reason I chose today's poem by Ted Hughes is that it's one of the few autumn poems I have read that is truly focused on the present moment-- no lamenting the fruitfulness of summer or the songs of spring, no fretting about the cold winter days to come-- simply a celebration of a single autumn evening. 

(If you missed this year's harvest moon last week, you can take a quick break from being in the present to check out some great images on the EarthSky website here.)

Autumn Virtual Art Gallery

going home by Aonghas MacNeacail from The Faber Book of Twentieth Century Scottish Poetry 

see the geese

journeying and

the swallows

long since the cuckoo went

see the red leaves

rising on

the wing of a gust

rising and travelling

the salmon is a great way out

on his journey

the sun reclining

moon rising

            in their familiar changing parabolas

summer journeying

autumn on his back

            a great spreading behind

back and forward on the wharf

            an exile back and forward

back and forward

            back and forward

I woke up this morning a bit chilly from sleeping with my window open last night.  The clamorous thunder storms that rolled through yesterday afternoon and evening have brought a foretaste of autumn. And as it's been a while since I posted a virtual art gallery, I decided a few autumn images by famous artists would be just the thing to accompany this poem by Aonghas MacNeacail and his invitation to see the signs that tell of the changing of the seasons.  For me the first signs were the early apples at my favorite farm market (Zestars are a new favorite) and the already-reddening-leaves on the dogwood trees in the yard.  What signs are you noticing of summer journeying with autumn on his back?  

An Autumn Stroll - Renoir

By the Stream, Autumn - Gaugin

The Church of Old Lyme, Connecticut - Hassam

Autumn Asters 

Birkenwald - Klimt

Wherever

It Was Early by Mary Oliver from Evidence (Beacon Press)
It was early,
  which has always been my hour
    to begin looking
      at the world

and of course,
  even in the darkness,
    to begin
      listening into it,

especially
  under the pines
    where the owl lives
      and sometimes calls out

as I walk by,
  as he did
    on this morning.
      So many gifts!

What do they mean?
  In the marshes
    where the pink light
      was just arriving

the mink
  with his bristle tail
    was stalking
      the soft-eared mice,

and in the pines
  the cones were heavy,
    each one
      ordained to open.

Sometimes I need
  only to stand
    wherever I am
      to be blessed.

Little mink, let me watch you.
  Little mice, run and run.
    Dear pine cone, let me hold you
      as you open.

Edward Hopper - Cape Cod Morning

For some reason, I've been awake early these past few mornings.  It's still dark outside when I open my eyes so I lie in bed and listen to the world waking up outside my window.  At first I wonder how I've managed to sleep through the insect noises during the night.  The crickets and cicadas drown out the sounds of the pre-dawn commuters on Connecticut Avenue.  As the traffic picks up, so do the birds arriving in the backyard looking for breakfast.  Before too long I'll start hearing the early morning honks of geese flying overhead but for now it's mainly the tweets and whistles of robins, wrens, and the occasional caws of a murder of crows.

With the birds, comes a tinge of light.  I've been pulling back my curtains, trying to see the sunrise but the horizon is obscured by trees and houses.  Rather than a dramatic, colorful unfolding, day light arrives like a faulty halogen light, taking its time getting brighter.    By the time the bus pauses at the stop nearby and announces in its automated female voice, "L8, Friendship Heights," morning has arrived.

Sometimes I read Mary Oliver and wonder if I'd be more of a morning person if I could step out of my house and walk a few yards into the woods, to the beach, or to a nearby pond.  And sometimes I need only to stand (or lie) wherever I am to be blessed.

Once Upon a Time . . . A Damascene Moon

A Damascene Moon by Nizar Qabbani
Green Tunisia, I have come to you as a lover
On my brow, a rose and a book
For I am the Damascene whose profession is passion
Whose singing turns the herbs green
A Damascene moon travels through my blood
Nightingales . . . and grain . . . and domes
From Damascus, jasmine begins its whiteness
And fragrances perfume themselves with her scent
From Damascus, water begins . . . for wherever
You lean your head, a stream flows
And poetry is a sparrow spreading its wings
Over Sham . . . and a poet is a voyager
From Damascus, love begins . . . for our ancestors
Worshiped beauty, they dissolved it, and they melted away
From Damascus, horses begin their journey
And the stirrups are tightened for the great conquest
From Damascus, eternity begins . . . and with her
Languages remain and genealogies are preserved
And Damascus gives Arabism its form
And on its land, epochs materialize 

I woke up wanting to post something about Syria today but have spent the better part of today's writing time struggling to find the right words, both my own and those of another to anchor this post.  When I finally decided upon a poem by Qabbani I had a few from which to choose.  I kept going back and forth between the poem above and A Lesson In Drawing, the latter a heartbreaking commentary on living with oppression and the reality of political violence.  

I finally decided on A Damascene Moon because I wanted to offer images of Syria in contrast to those recently seen on the news. Qabbani writes about an idealized Damascus of the past, an epicenter of life and culture, which seem far removed from the stories of death and conflict coming out of Syria's capital in recent weeks.   

In 2009 I was fortunate to visit Syria.  From the minute I stepped off the plane onto the runway and could smell the Bedouin fires I'd seen dotting the desert on our nighttime descent, I felt like I was in a fairy tale.  And as the struggle with evil in human form is so much a part of any fairy tale, I can only hope that when this chapter of Syrian history has been completed, Damascus will once again be a city where life and culture is preserved rather than destroyed.

RIP Seamus Heaney

Digging by Seamus Heaney from Death of a Naturalist (Farrar, Straus & Giroux)
Between my finger and my thumb   The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.

Under my window, a clean rasping sound   
When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:   
My father, digging. I look down

Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds   
Bends low, comes up twenty years away   
Stooping in rhythm through potato drills   
Where he was digging.

The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft   
Against the inside knee was levered firmly.
He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
To scatter new potatoes that we picked,
Loving their cool hardness in our hands.

By God, the old man could handle a spade.   
Just like his old man.

My grandfather cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner’s bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, going down and down
For the good turf. Digging.

The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I’ve no spade to follow men like them.
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I’ll dig with it.
Seamus Heaney taught me to write poetry. Well, actually George O'Brien taught me to write poetry, with the help of the above poem by Heaney.  It was during an Irish literature class Professor O'Brien taught at Georgetown University as part of the Liberal Studies graduate program.  We read Yeats and Joyce, of course, then Kavanagh and Kinsella, and finally Seamus Heaney.  As Professor O'Brien unpacked this poem that, on one level, is about the very act of writing poetry, he showed us how the images, rhyme structure, diction, and form all work together to create a perfect poem.  I can honestly say it was a miracle worker moment for me.  Like Helen Keller at the pump associating the letters being spelled out on her palm with the word water, I realized that it was more than just a loose association of words on a page that equaled poetry.

The sad thing was, I had spent many years writing poetry.  Just the year before, I'd taken a poetry writing class at that same university, albeit with a different instructor.  In that class, we started out with free writing using Peter Elbow's book, Writing with Power, and then jumped straight into the deep end of the poetry pool, bringing in our poems for group critique, which was the bulk of the class.  No lessons in between to teach us the rhythm or breath or stroke-- it was sink or swim and naturally we all sank.

Likewise, I'm sure I studied poetry in high school, but I don't really recall learning what makes a poem a poem.  In one assignment we had to choose a poem, memorize it, and write a paper about it.  The paper wasn't as much about the poem itself, rather about the literary criticism associated with the poem.  I think the only reason I remember that assignment is because we were supposed to go to the Library of Congress to do the research.  My father dropped me off at the Library and I spent my allotted hour lost in the back stairwells, never actually making it to any books.  In the end, I went to my local library and picked Carl Sandburg's "Chicago," not because I particularly liked the poem but because there were two books of poetry criticism that referenced the poem and I figured that was good enough to simulate the resources available at the Library of Congress.  Oh-- and then there was the time we had to pick a poem and do an interpretive reading as a group.  I convinced our group that The Cremation of Sam McGee would likely earn us, if not an A, at least a few laughs from our classmates.  It did both.  

Yet during all those years of oblivion as to what poetry actually entailed, I continued to write poems, often inspired by the worksI devoured in elementary school-- namely various books of limericks and the collected canon of Shel Silverstein.  My poems probably weren't too bad for a 5 year old but for a 25 year old, they sucked.  And I finally knew why.  

So it was during that Irish literature class at Georgetown that I decided to stop writing poetry and started reading poetry instead. If one Seamus Heaney poem provided such insight, no doubt there was a lot more I could learn from reading other great poems.  To the mix of the Irish poets I read in class I added others from the British Isles:  the old guard of Shelley, Keats, Blake, Byron and the Brownings along with Dylan Thomas, T.S. Eliot, and the dreamy Rupert Brooke.  I discovered an anthology of contemporary poets by Blood Axe Books and started reading poets who were actually alive and some of whom were around my age.  And when I did start writing poetry again, I found it was much better.  Not great, often not even good, but definitely better.  

So thank you Seamus Heaney, for teaching me to write poetry.  You illumined so many lives.  May light perpetual shine upon you.

Heaney reading "Digging" at Villanove courtesy of the WSJ online