For those interested in reading a bit more of what I’ve written, you can now find a page entitled “Anthologies” on this site. Go there to find links to two eBooks available on Kindle and a handful of other free downloads that I’ve put together. Happy reading!
Fulfilment
He remembered us in our low estate
His love endures forever.
(Psalm 136:23)
The esteem of love which esteems greatly,
sacrifices all for the receipt of nothing,
and gives self when Self is not
found within oneself;
the worth of love which bestows worth,
values highly what is lowly valued,
remembers what is passing, faint
and lost in low estate:
sing, celebrate, imitate this love,
which loves where love is not,
which lifts what sinks in swamp and mire;
and loves what it transforms.
Yet love which loves with double-tongue
and loves that it may be esteemed,
esteeming only when it’s loved
and gives to be returned,
which values what gives value back
remembers only what clings to the mind,
which sinks unless by others raised,
and affirms the fishing soul:
love is not love which alters when
it alteration finds, nor is
it love when with a hidden hand
it clutches and gives up.
Indebted to eternity, already aeons lost in space,
beholden to a love too vast
for any mind or hand to grasp,
love as you have been loved.
The law fulfilled, the highest good
held out to you upon a tree,
seek first the kingdom and receive
a love which gives as love.
12 Poets #7: W.H. Auden
As September draws to a close, it’s time to prepare for another poet, and I’m fairly excited about this one. When I first began writing poetry, I must admit that most of what I wrote was quite shamelessly ripping off 20th-century English poet W.H. Auden. While I’ve moved on to other poets, my years of reading and teaching Auden have stayed with me and it’s exciting to be revisiting his work. The challenge, of course, will be confining myself to only four of his poems. I look forward to sharing them with you over the month to come!
The Fig-Tree and the Worm
When complaint has its basis in the nature of the divine, appealing to justice and mercy and truth, waiting for signs which tarry now yet will come without delay, when complaining stands at the ramparts and waits, and wears as its armour thick faith, then the fig-tree will bud and the olive crop soon will blossom where now it yet fails. But you, indomitable Jonah, beneath your angry shade, are more my mirror. Grace frustrates you and you fly against its Ninevah-bound commands, to Tarshish, pride wounded, rebellion grounded in the soil of shame, and wearing the armour of Self. Then the palm-tree withers and the worm consumes the shelter of deflected guilt. Better be Habakkuk, waiting with truth, waiting expectant; better hope, trust and complain in the same breath: for hope grows where doubt cannot fester and worms eat at the dawn. Better confess first then obey in truth, than obey with scaly skin and forked tongue (turning fists inwardly to the sky); better to trust with the rigour of grace.
Disembarking: A Terminal Sonnet
Bad coffee drunk at airport terminal's Faint consolation for delays in flight, When failing air-con gives pilots a fright, And back we go to slow departure halls, Disembarking and delayed. It's small - A First World problem, as they say; tonight I should still be in Queensland: when all's right With aircraft safety, we'll still soar, our tall Tales told of men with wings made strangely true. Yet now it seems the worst fate for today For all things should always go our own way; What apps can't fix, the human mind must rue. (I'll take for granted when the plane takes off And rail inside at my companion's cough.)
Empirical
Doubt erodes, and reason feeds on the brain that needs it, but eyes can trust what they see and lives the truth they know and hearts can feel the hope stretched out on the living tree and breath gives life to lungs that will open and receive it.
Dusk Flower
Head dense with things beyond knowing I turn and see a fiery flower dragon-fruit-like atop green leaves swaying in the dusk and walking by I turn out of myself to praise
Immanence
What churches, prisons, feudal pyramids Possess in common is Authority. Only the state's power, not the State, exists, And power is exchanged through you and me. Our eyes, transfixed by prison walls, confuse The institution with the power it holds Mixing correct use up with the abuse And sovereign love with the despot who scolds. The immanent passes always before Unseeing eyes; it moves within our spheres Yet renders false our thoughts of love and law. For complexity is not as it appears; We see only power and lines of flight, But curving through it all, the living Light.
Marianne Moore: The Poet Who Disliked Poetry
Coming unbelievably to the end of another month, it is time for me to draw to a close my study of Marianne Moore’s work. To finish it off, here is an essay I have written on her poetry – a rich and fascinating body of work which I often do not understand but am always rewarded by. I hope that you have also enjoyed our month of looking at her poetry.
Creator’s Sabbath
Today’s poem comes with acknowledgement to Professor John Walton, whose teaching on Genesis 1 and the meaning of God resting on the seventh day completely turned my thinking on its head – in a wonderful way.
Creator’s Sabbath Do you suppose He rested because the six days’ labour had worn Him out, as though the arms that flung the stars into deep space had need of sleep, as though the hands that tuned the spheres were weary and were weak? No, When He rested He put up His feet upon His footstool, or to use another image, came into His house, turned on the lights and made Himself at home. You see, a house becomes Home when we’re at rest, and so He took the seventh day off to open up His bags and let the world begin, invited some guests, went walking in the garden and saw space there for a world of friends and set the home in motion. And sleepy hares underneath the tree worshipped Him with rest that day, neither tired from their exertion nor reigning like He reigned, but still at rest because they knew the king was home to stay and home to rule.
The Consolations of Writing 