´óÏó´«Ã½

I've been reading Larkin lately and High Windows immediately springs to mind - a wonderful poem whose associations brought to mind another favourite, very different, Herbert's Teach me, my God and King.

The major problem with organised religion is that it provides so much glass.

This comment was removed because the moderators found it broke the house rules. Explain.

Someone ought to have re-penned this for the Garvaghy Road...

Antichrist, Or The Reunion Of Christendom: An Ode
G. K. Chesterton

‘A Bill which has shocked the conscience of every Christian
community in Europe.’ —Mr. F.E. Smith, on the Welsh
Disestablishment Bill.

ARE they clinging to their crosses,
F.E. Smith,
Where the Breton boat-fleet tosses,
Are they, Smith?
Do they, fasting, trembling, bleeding,
Wait the news from this our city?
Groaning ‘That’s the Second Reading!’
Hissing ‘There is still Committee!’
If the voice of Cecil falters,
If McKenna’s point has pith,
Do they tremble for their altars?
Do they, Smith?

Russian peasants round their pope
Huddled, Smith,
Hear about it all, I hope,
Don’t they, Smith?
In the mountain hamlets clothing
Peaks beyond Caucasian pales,
Where Establishment means nothing
And they never heard of Wales,
Do they read it all in Hansard
With a crib to read it with —
‘Welsh Tithes: Dr Clifford Answered.’
Really, Smith?

In the lands where Christians were,
F.E. Smith,
In the little lands laid bare,
Smith, O Smith!
Where the Turkish bands are busy
And the Tory name is blessed
Since they hailed the Cross of Dizzy
On the banners from the West!
Men don’t think it half so hard if
Islam burns their kin and kith,
Since a curate lives in Cardiff
Saved by Smith.

It would greatly, I must own,
Soothe me, Smith!
If you left this theme alone,
Holy Smith!
For your legal cause or civil
You fight well and get your fee;
For your God or dream or devil
You will answer, not to me.
Talk about the pews and steeples
And the Cash that goes therewith!
But the souls of Christian peoples . . .
Chuck it, Smith!

"The Song of the Strange Ascetic" by Chesterton would be fun to hear aloud. "Green Categories" by RS Thomas is deeper, more interesting, but less fun. It isn't available on-line.

If I had been a Heathen,
I'd have crowned Neaera's curls,
And filled my life with love affairs,
My house with dancing girls;
But Higgins is a Heathen,
And to lecture rooms is forced,
Where his aunts, who are not married,
Demand to be divorced.

Now who that runs can read it,
The riddle that I write,
Of why this poor old sinner,
Should sin without delight-
But I, I cannot read it
(Although I run and run),
Of them that do not have the faith,
And will not have the fun.

The Hound of Heaven by Francis Thompson

Michael Symmons Roberts is a poet I've quoted before, I had to force myself to choose just one.


On Dyeing

Once we knew it took a boatful
of crushed shellfish - murex and purpura -
to turn one sleeve imperial purple.
It took millions of beetles to die cochineal,
pulverised madder roots for scarlet,
indigo that went blue when it met the air.
Without mordants to fix them,
all these colours fell to pastel, then to cream.
A dress could drain of lilac in an evening.
No beauty lasted without ox-blood, oil,
oak-galls, urine, alum, salt, sh*t.
Once we knew the cost of dyeing.


I didn't know what to do about the 's' word, I hope it's OK.

And something old too!

How could I leave out William Cowper?


The Contrite Heart.

The Lord will happiness divine
On contrite hearts bestow;
Then tell me, gracious God, is mine
A contrite heart or no?

I hear, but seem to hear in vain,
Insensible as steel;
If aught is felt, 'tis only pain,
To find I cannot feel.

I sometimes think myself inclined
To love Thee if I could;
But often feel another mind,
Averse to all that's good.

My best desires are faint and few,
I fain would strive for more;
But when I cry, "My strength renew!"
Seem weaker than before.

Thy saints are comforted, I know,
And love Thy house of prayer;
I therefore go where others go,
But find no comfort there.

Oh make this heart rejoice or ache;
Decide this doubt for me;
And if it be not broken, break --
And heal it, if it be.

The world is charged with the grandeur of God.
It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;
It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
And wears man's smudge and shares man's smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.

And for all this, nature is never spent;
There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
And though the last lights off the black West went
Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs -
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.

Gerard Manley Hopkins

Following my last suggestion, here's another one by Gerard Manley Hopkins, which is a sublime description of depression and grief:


No worst, there is none. Pitched past pitch of grief,
More pangs will, schooled at forepangs, wilder wring.
Comforter, where, where is your comforting?
Mary, mother of us, where is your relief?
My cries heave, herds-long; huddle in a main, a chief
Woe, world-sorrow; on an age-old anvil wince and sing -
Then lull, then leave off. Fury had shrieked 'No ling-
ering! Let me be fell: force I must be brief'.

O the mind, mind has mountains; cliffs of fall
Frightful, sheer, no-man-fathomed. Hold them cheap
May who ne'er hung there. Nor does long our small
Durance deal with that steep or deep. Here! creep,
Wretch, under a comfort serves in a whirlwind: all
Life death does end and each day dies with sleep.


Comment: this is one of a series of Hopkins' "Sonnets of Desolation" written during his time in Dublin, which, for various reasons, was especially lonely and difficult. It could be called his "dark night of the soul". These are not sonnets of doubt in God, but, as I see it, fellowship with God in suffering.

An open question relating to the moderating policy of the ´óÏó´«Ã½.

The poem I posted was by Michael Symmons Roberts, entitled 'On Dyeing'.

I was uncertain about posting it as it contained a 4 letter word, one beginning with the letter 's'.

In posting it I used a '*' instead of one of the letters and then added at the end of my post that I hoped it would be OK as I didn't know what to do.

I was quoting a poem. William asked us to post poems exploring religion. It was a religious type of poem, or at least could have been understood that way. I thought carefully about posting it.

Now here's the thing, John Wright posted the same word, on the God Question thread, with the word bull in front of it and the letters 'ter' at the end of it. John even used this word in reference to a person. That word was allowed. Later Graham Veale referred to John's use of the word using the numbers 88 in the middle instead of all the letters.

Question: What exactly is the policy in relation to questionable words?

My use of it had context and was not directed at any individual. What's going on guys?

On second thoughts... let's not get side tracked... let's just move on.

This has the potential to be a very readable thread, deleted post or not.

There once was a pixie called God
Who cared about Fenian and Prod,
Or so people claimed,
So they killed and they maimed
In the name of this terrible fraud.

Everyday is the same
No fun, friend or games
Walking across the playground
People laughing with their friends.

Someone is waving!
At me?
No the girl behind
I should know better.

Everyday is the same
No one to sit beside me at lunch
No one to hang out with at break
No one’s shoulder to cry on.

Teachers pick on me
Because I am the odd one out
No one sitting beside me
Though even if there was
They wouldn’t talk to me.

This day isn’t the same
There is a girl. A refugee
Come from Africa
She is talking to me!

Me and her
She and I
Us
We are friends.

My fun is over
It’s not fair
She got sent back
I am alone
AGAIN!

C.L.Corr

Twinkle twinkle little god
Are you a Fenian or a Prod
Neither, said the God on high,
And promptly fell to earth to die.

Peter

Maybe the post was referred as ther was an issue re. copyrighting?
I was unaware that the 'Song of the Strange Ascetic' can't be copied - most of Chesterton's poems and books can.

Can Will or anyone help re. copyrights and poems? Legally, how much of a copyrighted poem can we quote? Is there any way of discovering if a poem is under a copy right.

I was going to suggest WH Auden's 'Song of the Devil '

But his preferred version has a four letter word that takes us well beyond 88s.

GV

A badger, a frog and a pigeon
Fell out on a point of religion -
The source of the bitchin':
Which part of the kitchen
Is where the Lord might put his fridge in?

I tried to write a reply
But I really can't figure out why
Cos your rhymin' was great,
It's clear that I'm beat (bate)
And yive give me a poke in the eye.

Here are two from a poet called Gerard Kelly:

The Games People Pray

Some pray like a BMW:
Seven coats
Of shine and shimmer
Masking the hardness of steel,
With an Anti-Emotion Warranty
To guard against
The least sign of trust.

Some pray like a Porsche:
Nought to victory
In 6.7 seconds,
Banking on the promises
Of Pray-As-You-Earn prosperity.

Jesus recommended
Praying in the garage
With the door shut,
Engine and radio off,
Praying when no one is looking,
Forgetting
The traffic of the day.
Meeting God
In the quiet lay-by,
Far from
The Pray and Display.



Island Life

Sentenced,
In a crowded room,
To solitary confinement
We cling to our smiles
Like lifebelts
And pray
They will keep us afloat.
Like the child who drowned
In a busy swimming pool,
It isn't that no one cares
Just that no one sees
We're there.

No man is an island,
But when it comes
To making causeways
Most of us
Are all at sea.

Have to say LSV, I like those!

NI.

There are tears, Lord.
Some people say that we shouldnt shed them.

Tears, they say,
Are only embarrassing, and upsetting for other people.

But you have given us tears, Lord,
A Sacrament of our bodies.

An outward expression of an inner reality.

A visible, tangible sign
That our grief is to do with

What our eyes have seen,
Our ears have heard
And our hands have touched.

This comment was removed because the moderators found it broke the house rules. Explain.

(I assume this poem was blocked because I put an offending legal term underneath it. I'll try again having omitted it...)


A meditation at sunset

Its guttering-glimmering embers entranced me,
Seduced me, beckoned me -
A tangled tapestry of golden joy dancing;
A slow and gracious choreography
Wooing and stirring, teasing this lone onlooker
With whispers of promise.
This serendipity of serendipities
This fitting finale, a quiet hurrah
Nature's glowing approval, a job well done;
This mellowing light an interval, drawing breath -
The artist standing back from his masterpiece
Crossing his arms, a smile of pleasure,
Nodding his head, dabbing his brow,
Readying himself for his next composition:
The shining hope of morning.

Some see a majestic dance, others only rotating spheres
Some see brushstrokes of beauty, others only refracted luminosity
Some see hope and promise, others unshakeable despair
Some see the life behind the canvas; others only a void and endless oblivion

They say "seeing is believing".

What do you see?



LSV

And RJB, I liked your choice to. Who wrote it?

Another thought, given that we have be thinking on another thread of the paradoxes in faith.

by James Montgomery 1771 - 1854 (probably better known for "Forever with the Lord")


Go to dark Gethsemane,

Go to dark Gethsemane,
ye that feel the tempter's power;
your Redeemer's conflict see,
watch with him one bitter hour.
Turn not from his griefs away;
learn of Jesus Christ to pray.

See him at the judgment hall,
beaten, bound, reviled, arraigned;
O the wormwood and the gall!
O the pangs his soul sustained!
Shun not suffering, shame, or loss;
learn of Christ to bear the cross.

Calvary's mournful mountain climb;
there, adoring at his feet,
mark that miracle of time,
God's own sacrifice complete.
"It is finished!" hear him cry;
learn of Jesus Christ to die.

Early hasten to the tomb
where they laid his breathless clay;
all is solitude and gloom.
Who has taken him away?
Christ is risen! He meets our eyes;
Savior, teach us so to rise.

Peter - # 24. I wouldn't be surprised if RJB penned # 21 himself. Certainly it speaks authentically of him.Ìý

I tend to like devotional poetry which takes some common idea and overturns it in the process radically changing, inverting or expanding some limiting preconception.ÌýÌýVaughan's The Night is a superb example. I will quote only the last verse:

ÌýÌýÌýÌý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý ÌýÌý Ìý Ìý There is in God—some say—
A deep, but dazzling darkness ; as men here
Say it is late and dusky, because they
ÌýÌý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý ÌýSee not all clear.
ÌýÌý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý O for that Night ! Ìýwhere I in Him
ÌýÌý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Might live invisible and dim!

I wonder,too, what people might make of Herbert's Hope. It appears superficially almost nonsensical but is, I think, one of the most profound expressions of the disconnection of much of human religious expectation and that which contact with the Divine actually offers.

IÌýgave to Hope a watch of mine: but he
ÌýÌý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý ÌýAn anchor gave to me.
Then an old prayer-book I did present: Ìý
ÌýÌý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý ÌýAnd he an optic sent.
With that I gave a vial full of tears: Ìý
ÌýÌý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý ÌýBut he a few green ears:
Ah Loiterer! I’ll no more, no more I’ll bring: Ìý
ÌýÌý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý Ìý ÌýI did expect a ring.

Death on a Crossing.
By Evangeline Patterson.

What he never thought to consider was whether
the thing was true. What bewildered him, mostly,
was the way that the rumours had of reaching him
from such improbable sources - illiterate pamphelts pressed in his hand, the brash or the floundering stranger
who came to his door, the proclamations, among
so many others, on hoardings

though sometimes waking
a brief dismay, that never quite prodded him
to the analysts couch.

But annunciations, he thought, should come to a rational man in a rational way.
He walked between a skyful of midnight angels
and a patch on somebody's jeans, both saying
the same thing to his stopped ears.

till the day
when he stepped on a crossing with not enough conviction
to get him safe to the other side, and he lay
among strangers feet, and the angels lowered their trumpets
and no sweet chariot swung, to carry him home.

Parrhasios

I've been thinking quite a bit about Hope and I'm thinking something like, and these were still living by faith when they died.

And I'm also thinking that 'streets of gold' aren't really the reason to want to be there

The Respectable Burgher on "The Higher Criticism"
by Thomas Hardy

Since Reverend Doctors now declare
That clerks and people must prepare
To doubt if Adam ever were;
To hold the flood a local scare;
To argue, though the stolid stare,
That everything had happened ere
The prophets to its happening sware;
That David was no giant-slayer,
Nor one to call a God-obeyer
In certain details we could spare,
But rather was a debonair
Shrewd bandit, skilled as banjo-player:
That Solomon sang the fleshly Fair,
And gave the Church no thought whate'er;
That Esther with her royal wear,
And Mordecai, the son of Jair,
And Joshua's triumphs, Job's despair,
And Balaam's ass's bitter blare;
Nebuchadnezzar's furnace-flare,
And Daniel and the den affair,
And other stories rich and rare,
Were writ to make old doctrine wear
Something of a romantic air:
That the Nain widow's only heir,
And Lazarus with cadaverous glare
(As done in oils by Piombo's care)
Did not return from Sheol's lair:
That Jael set a fiendish snare,
That Pontius Pilate acted square,
That never a sword cut Malchus' ear
And (but for shame I must forbear)
That -- -- did not reappear! . . .
- Since thus they hint, nor turn a hair,
All churchgoing will I forswear,
And sit on Sundays in my chair,
And read that moderate man Voltaire.

Peter - # 27.Ìý

It is certainly worth thinking about. I think it is an extraordinary poem - I get the reference you make to Hebrews and to those whose faith was in a promise. I think the poem speaks just as well though to us today.Ìý

When we approach God we all too often come not just with our need (the vial full of tears) but with an agenda (the prayer-book) and often indeed a time-table (the watch). We present things in the wrong order, we are impatient, we want a visible sign of a practically contractual commitment, and we ignore or fail to grasp what contact with God actually offers.

Herbert says we find in God something that grounds us and centres us, something that holds us fast in the storms of life (the anchor); something that allows us to change our perspective, to embark on a wholly different way of seeing (the telescope); something that is not an end but a beginning, not a prefabricated solution but the germ of life and growth (the green seeds).

It's a pretty perfect summation of my Christianity.