Sadly, my month of working with Christina Rossetti’s poetry must come to an end. To finish up the month, here is an essay I have written on her poetry. It is an early draft of a chapter towards a larger book I am writing about the power of writing in the Christian life; this means that it is long, but also means it is not yet drafted. I hope some of you can still find it an interesting and helpful read.
Joy in the Planting
“What profit,” I asked, “does there lie in this soil?
My labour will bear its fruit on a day
Far off in the future, when I’m gone away
And a stranger will reap from my toil.”
“What gain,” I then asked, “in this mortal coil,
This limitless cycle of birth and decay,
This nothing-new-under-the-sun, and the way
That the wise man must die like fool?”
“Much profit,” the voice from the water’s edge said,
Where the bread of our labours lay waiting,
And Adam, the gardener, speaking though dead,
Looking on as we strove, our strength fainting,
Pointed to where the earth bore daily bread,
And we looked, and saw joy in the planting.
Lunar
The moon today was wrapped in gauze
this morning and tonight,
a bulb of bright within a screen
of hazy, muted light;
and as I set out in the dark
and came back as I came,
the clouds and moon had changed their sides
yet whispered just the same:
reflection of the sun’s warm light
behind a clouded veil
and day turned always into night,
the moon diluted, pale;
yet shining still where none could see
the sun’s life-giving ball,
and king as much in day or night,
the God who made it all.
Alive (After Christina Rossetti’s “Sleeping At Last”)
One of the last poems that Christina Rossetti wrote (possibly her last; her brother, William Michael, is unclear about this) was the touchingly simple “Sleeping At Last”. Taking the subject of death, which has fascinated many poets from Donne to Dickinson, Rossetti presents death as sleep, a peaceful rest ending pain and beyond which lies great hope. That Rossetti would finish her career with such a poem is particularly poignant. It also happens to be one of my favourite poems of hers (and the inspiration for the name of one of my favourite musical artists) and so I am finishing my month of looking at her poetry with a response to a truly beautiful poem. Here it is, with Rossetti’s original poem included beneath.
Alive (After “Sleeping At Last”) Alive: true life bursting from the tomb, forever Alive, the faithful, purified by faith, revived; Green as day, fire as bright as life; come whatever: Finally alive. Old garments now new-woven with the thread of life, A thread that death’s worst boasting cannot sever; Alive: bound fast, engrafted branches now will thrive. Awake, alive: death’s sting a long-ago feather, Fading into soft memory as the dawn arrives. Death’s rags gone, into the day they step, forever, Finally, alive. Sleeping At Last – Christina Rossetti Sleeping at last, the trouble and tumult over, Sleeping at last, the struggle and horror past, Cold and white, out of sight of friend and of lover, Sleeping at last. No more a tired heart downcast or overcast, No more pangs that wring or shifting fears that hover, Sleeping at last in a dreamless sleep locked fast. Fast asleep. Singing birds in their leafy cover Cannot wake her, nor shake her the gusty blast. Under the purple thyme and the purple clover, Sleeping at last.“For mercies countless as the sands…”
John Newton, the famous hymn writer and pastor, certainly knew how to reflect on his life. Never forgetting his former life as a slave trader, womaniser and general no-good, he always approached life with a grateful heart, forever marvelling at the “amazing grace” he had known in his later life.
One birthday, towards the end of his life, he wrote the following in his diary:
My birthday…What a striking proof is my history of the deceitfulness and desperate wickedness of the heart, and of thy [God’s] wonderful, long-suffering patience and mercy…
The gratitude with which he considered each year of God’s grace in his life is reflected in a hymn he wrote based on the second half of the beautiful Psalm 116. In celebration of my recent birthday, I have recorded my own musical version of the hymn, and am sharing it here in the hope that some of you might appreciate the chance to reflect on God’s grace in your own lives. You can read Newton’s words, along with my chords, here.
Thanksgiving
Today is my birthday, and as I have approached this day I have thought about Psalm 116:12, which asks, “How can I repay the Lord for his goodness to me?” I have written a poem to reflect on this thought – inspired by Christina Rossetti’s lovely poem, “A Birthday“. I hope you enjoy reading it.
Thanksgiving
My heart set me off on this life
But grace’s pulse is all I know;
My feet soon learned to rise and walk
But grace is the path, wherever I go.
And as my mind has grown to think,
My tongue has learned to teach and wound.
My God, Your grace is everything:
How merciful the sound.
My steps have learned soon to be false
But righteousness has followed me;
My heart has blocked up my own breath
But love has flowed, a cleansing sea.
A covenant from birth to death
Has held me in its open palm.
My God, my life flows out in praise;
You hold me in Your arm.
Expectancy (After Christina Rossetti’s “The Thread of Life”)
Another one of my favourite Christina Rossetti poems is one of her least known – a cycle of three sonnets entitled, “The Thread of Life”. You can read the original here. In response to her poem, I have attempted my own set of three sonnets, working with some of Rossetti’s original theme. You might also notice evidence that I have been reading Ezekiel lately! I hope you like it.
Expectancy (After “The Thread of Life”) I. The dryness of these bones in heat of day, The fraying ends of hope, the valley wide Where questions echo, empty, un-replied, All speak futility in every way. Before so many bones, what can I say? What, shall these bones live? I’m not qualified To say or know such things: would God confide In sons of men, composed of bone and clay? For I myself am out of breath and parched, Sometimes a king, sometimes a vale of bones; And I have watched the armies as they’ve marched Up from their graves and into fields and homes, Yet here we wait, as exiles, though we’ve searched The sky for signs of breath; we wait, with groans. II. And so all hope fades into self-defeat; The rise of bones is fine for fairy-tales, We mutter in our teeth, but now the scales Have fallen from our eyes (so we repeat). We keep our gaze fixed firmly on our feet, Afraid to look too high, to pierce through veils, For everything we trust in always fails And every future tide will soon recede. Still in my ear this question: Son of man… Still: Shall these bones live? Yet no rustling breeze; No breath yet in these bones, though now I scan The valley floor, expectant. Static trees Stand still, skeletal, waiting for the plan, The signs of wind in faintly blowing leaves… III. Death now pervades the air, but soon the day – Now small, a kernel falling to the earth – Will lift the valley’s bones up with new birth, New life, thrusting old death out of its way. Now hope is faint, and dry bones seem to say That graves will win each battle, but the mirth Of life still in the soil will soon unearth A truth that our worst fears could not decay. And then our bones too will, with joyful shout, Connect, each bone to bone, and rushing breath Will come from every wind, without a doubt, And breathe into the slain; from underneath, The soil will burst forth with spring and shout Its victory chant – gone, gone, the reign of death.Joy in Each Season (After Christina Rossetti’s “The One Certainty”)
Christina Rossetti wrote many sonnets, most of them very compelling. This poem is based on one of her more shocking sonnets, one inspired by the book of Ecclesiastes. You can read the original poem here. I have used Rossetti’s poem as my basis, but have tried to inject a bit more hope into its resolution.
Joy in Each Season (After “The One Certainty”)
One thing is sure: that underneath this sun
There is no new thing; age and age pass by;
The eye and ear are never satisfied
And every day ends like it has begun.
Tossed back and forth by blowing wind, we run
And gambol in the passing joy, yet sigh,
Caught in between the question and reply,
Tomorrow nothing new, today near done.
All this the Preacher saw and tells us now;
His findings – unresolved, vague – churn within.
Yet there is nothing better, he declares,
Than finding grateful joy in each affair,
Each orbit of this earth, each time therein,
And stand before our God, words few, and bow.
My Ebenezer
Then Samuel took a stone and set it up between Mizpah and Shen. He named it Ebenezer, saying, “Thus far the Lord has helped us.”
(1 Kings 7:12)
Though weary and brow-beaten from within
And lost in endless self-analysis,
Dissecting all the faintest hints of sin
And searching out death’s sure catalysis:
Though trapped in corridors of guilt and fear
And scarcely able to see out the end,
Fleeing ghosts which, at my footsteps, disappear
But dreading still the ghosts around the bend,
Though trapped so often in the anxious Now,
Afraid of its potentiality,
The past and all its battles tell me how
My God has sought me, lifted, rescued me.
Thus far the Lord has helped me, I can say
And wait in faith on His mysterious way.
On reading a biography of John Newton
I’d have lived on Clapham Green
And played upon its soil;
I’d have joined their century
And burnt up slavery’s spoils.
I’d have lived in Olney too
And written hymns with men
Whose poor hearts burnt with Gospel flame
And kindled it with pen.
But God has made me live today:
The world of Now is mine;
And so I’ll share that freeing flame
Which must redeem this time.
The Consolations of Writing 