Andrew Hudgins

Andrew Hudgins is an American poet from Alabama, who has taught at the University of Cincinnati, and Baylor University, and currently teaches at Ohio State. His first book of poems Saints and Strangers (Houghton Mifflin, 1985) was a finalist for the Pulitzer Prize.

I bought one of his books years ago — The Never-Ending (Houghton Mifflin, 1991) — when it first came out. This book contains several of the poems that associate him with the Christian faith, however whether he believes, or whether it is merely the protagonists of his poems who believe, is unclear. He often plays mischievously on the edge of heresy to unsettle his readers, such as in “Praying Drunk” and “Piss Christ.”

His American Rendering: New and Selected Poems (Ecco) appeared in 2010. The following poem appears in The Never-Ending.

Communion in the Asylum

We kneel. Some of us kneel better than others
and do not have to clutch the rail or sway
against those next to us. We hold up hands
to take the body in, and some of our hands
— a few — are firmer than the others. They
don't tremble, don't have to be held in the priest's
encircling hands and guided to our lips.
And some of us can hold the wafer, all of it,
inside our mouths. And when the careful priest
tips wine across our lips, many of us, for reverence,
don't moan or lurch or sing songs to ourselves.
But we all await the grace that's promised us.

Entry written by D.S. Martin. He is the author of five poetry collections including Angelicus (2021, Poiema/Cascade), and three anthologies — available through Wipf & Stock. His new book The Role of the Moon, inspired by the Metaphysical Poets, is forthcoming from Paraclete Press.

Robert Grant

Robert Grant (1779 — 1838) is a British poet who was born in India, while his father was the chairman of the East India Company. His family returned to England in 1790. He graduated from Cambridge and became a lawyer, and later a Member of Parliament. He actively sought the removal of “disabilities” that had been imposed upon Jews since the Middle Ages — twice successfully having his bills carried through the House of Commons, only to be rejected by the House of Lords. He was knighted in 1834, and was appointed Governor of Bombay, India, that same year.

The collection Sacred Poems, by Sir Robert Graves, was published posthumously by his brother (Lord Glenelg) in 1839, with a new edition appearing in 1868 (Longmans, Green & Co.). Many of his poems are based on psalms — including “O, Worship the King” which is based on Psalm 104 and became a well-known hymn.

The following poem arose from Psalm 73:25, and has also appeared in edited form as a hymn.

Lord of Earth, Thy Forming Hand

Lord of earth! Thy forming hand
Well this beauteous frame hath planned,
Woods that wave, and hills that tower,
Ocean rolling in his power,
All that strikes the gaze unsought,
All that charms the lonely thought,
Friendship — gem transcending price,
Love — a flower from paradise,
Yet, amid this scene so fair,
Should I cease Thy smile to share,
What were all its joys to me?
Whom have I on earth but Thee?

Lord of heaven! beyond our sight
Rolls a world of purer light;
There in love’s unclouded reign,
Parted hands shall clasp again:
O! that world is passing fair;
Yet, if thou wert absent there,
What were all its joys to me?
Whom have I in heaven but Thee?

Lord of earth and heaven! my breast
Seeks in Thee its only rest;
I was lost; Thy accents mild
Homeward lured Thy wandering child.
I was blind! Thy healing ray
Charmed the long eclipse away;
Source of every joy I know,
Solace of my every woe,
O if once Thy smile divine
Cease upon my soul to shine,
What were earth or heaven to me?
Whom have I in each but Thee?

Entry written by D.S. Martin. He is the author of five poetry collections including Angelicus (2021, Poiema/Cascade), and three anthologies — available through Wipf & Stock. His new book The Role of the Moon, inspired by the Metaphysical Poets, is forthcoming from Paraclete Press.

Matthew Pullar

Matthew Pullar is an Australian poet, and the author of the new collection This Teeming Mess of Glory (Wipf & Stock, 2025). His earlier collections include The Swelling Year, Les Feuilles Mortes, and Anno Domini. In 2013 he was awarded the SparkLit Young Australian Writer of the Year Award.

As a teacher, he is a Literature and English Teacher at Heathdale Christian College, and is the Cross Curriculum Co-ordinator (First Nations) there.

Andrew Lansdown has said about Pullar’s new collection:
------“While reading Matthew Pullar’s poetry, one is struck by its
------simplicity and directness, prized qualities in any form of
------communication. His poems are mostly confessional and devotional
------in nature and are without pretension or pride. It is refreshing,
------in an age when the political and the perverse seem to predominate
------in the arts, to read poems exploring the fundamentals of human
------existence — family, faith, failure, and grace.”

The most recent post at Poems For Ephesians is also a poem by Matthew Pullar.

The following poem first appeared in Ekstasis, and is from This Teeming Mess of Glory.

Breathbodyprayer

…that form of prayer in which the soul makes use of the members
of the body to raise itself more devoutly to God. In this way the
soul, in moving the body, is moved by it.
------— The Nine Ways of Prayer of Saint Dominic

Fooled by the body’s misfirings —
the thought misdirected; the brain
connecting anguish to the neutral moment —
you cannot pray, for every
earnest ascent is duped by the pounding
head that cries out, Terror, terror
on every side. And you,
longing for peace where there
is no peace, cannot spy the waiting,
pumping heart that welcomes,
that is already here, is open.

So prayer, at these times, is as much
a breath as a hand outstretched,
an air-parched mouth gulping as it clutches clouds.
And while the body,
in its movement, stretches
its wild, warring muscles,
it wrestles and settles

encased behind the billowing
ribs of its maker,
who did not despise these scars.

Posted with permission of the poet.

Entry written by D.S. Martin. He is the author of five poetry collections including Angelicus (2021, Poiema/Cascade), and three anthologies — available through Wipf & Stock. His new book The Role of the Moon, inspired by the Metaphysical Poets, is forthcoming from Paraclete Press.

Cynewulf

Cynewulf (pronounced “kin-eh-wolf”) is a 9th century poet of Old English — one of the few who are known by name, and one of only four whose work is known to survive today. There are only two manuscripts of his work which survive from the early medieval period. He is thought to have lived in Northumbria — due to the Anglian dialect of Anglo-Saxon he wrote in — and believed to be a monk or a priest, because of the sophistication of his poetry, and that he was well-educated enough to have knowledge of works written in Latin.

Because he signed each of the four long poems known to be his, with a runic acrostic signature, there is no debate as to their authorship. He has, at times, also been thought to be the author of other poetic works including The Dream of the Rood.

The following is a prose translation of the opening lines of Cynewulf’s extensive three-part poem The Christ as translated by Charles Huntington Whitman and published in 1900 by the Athenæum Press. The three sections are “The Advent,” “The Ascension,” and “The Last Judgment.”

From The Christ

Thou art the corner-stone which the builders once rejected in their work; fitting indeed is it for Thee, O king of glory, to become the head of this noble temple, and to join in bond secure the broad walls of adamantine rock, so that throughout the cities of earth all things endowed with sight may wonder evermore. Reveal then, righteous and triumphant One through Thy wisdom, Thine own handiwork, and leave wall firm against wall. The work hath need that the Master Builder, the King Himself should come forthwith restore the house that beneath its roof hath fallen into ruin. He formed the body, the limbs of clay; and now is it time for Him, the Prince of life, to deliver this miserable host from their enemies, the wretched from their fears as He full oft hath done.

O Ruler and righteous King, Thou who holdest the key and openest life, bless us with victory, with that glorious success denied unto him whose work availeth naught! Verily in our need do we speak these words: We beseech Him who created man that He chose not to pronounce judgment upon us who, sad at heart, sit yearning in prison for the sun’s joyous course until such time as the Prince of life reveal light unto us, become our soul’s defense, and compass the feeble mind with splendor; or all this may He make us worthy, we whom He admitted to glory when, deprived of our heritage, we were doomed to turn in wretchedness unto this narrow land.

Entry written by D.S. Martin. He is the author of five poetry collections including Angelicus (2021, Poiema/Cascade), and three anthologies — available through Wipf & Stock. His new book The Role of the Moon, inspired by the Metaphysical Poets, is forthcoming from Paraclete Press.

Paul the Apostle

Paul the Apostle (c. 5—c. 64/65 AD), as outlined in the Acts of the Apostles, was a persecutor of the early Christian church, until Jesus spoke to him on the road to Damascus. He became the apostle to the Gentiles — journeying throughout the Roman world. He is the author of a large portion of the New Testament — written in the form of letters to individuals and to young churches in such locations as Ephesus, Galatia, Corinth, and Rome.

Perhaps due to the nature of his letters, which focus on teaching, admonishing and encouraging, he is not thought of as a poetic writer. However, Paul often used poetic descriptions to help his readers to better understand. For example, in Ephesians 6 he writes of the armour of God, comparing salvation, righteousness and faith to the armour used by Roman soldiers. Likewise, in 1 Corinthians 12 he compares people in the church to parts of the body — having the foot saying it is not as worthy as the hand to be part of the body.

The following is one of the most celebrated poetic passages in the New Testament. Often called the love chapter, it is often read at weddings, and woven into song lyrics. Joni Mitchell performs her own close paraphrase of the passage, from her 1982 album Wild Things Run Fast.

Here is the passage from the New International Version.

1 Corinthians 13

If I speak in the tongues of men or of angels, but do not have love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal. If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing. If I give all I possess to the poor and give over my body to hardship that I may boast, but do not have love, I gain nothing.

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

Love never fails. But where there are prophecies, they will cease; where there are tongues, they will be stilled; where there is knowledge, it will pass away. For we know in part and we prophesy in part, but when completeness comes, what is in part disappears. When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put the ways of childhood behind me. For now we see only a reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.

And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.

Entry written by D.S. Martin. He is the author of five poetry collections including Angelicus (2021, Poiema/Cascade), and three anthologies — available through Wipf & Stock. His new book The Role of the Moon, inspired by the Metaphysical Poets, is forthcoming from Paraclete Press.

Edith Sitwell*

Edith Sitwell (1887–1964) is a modernist poet and critic. She received the Benson Medal in 1934 from the Royal Society of Literature, and in 1953 was made a Dame Commander of the Order of the British Empire (DBE).

She and her two younger brothers — Osbert and Sacheverell who both also experienced literary success — experienced a childhood of mistreatment and neglect by their parents. In 1918 she met and became friends with the poet and war hero Siegfried Sassoon. According to her biographer Richard Greene she fell in love with Sassoon, even though she knew that he was a homosexual. Similarly, she later fell in love with the gay Russian painter Pavel Tchelitchew, whom she helped both financially and through her influence . Edith Sitwell never did marry, but lived for many years in the company of her former governess Helen Rootham. Her flat became a meeting place for writers, several of whom she helped to become established.

In the 21st century Dame Edith Sitwell is best known for her poem “Still Falls the Rain” — a poem about the Blitz of London during WWII.

Dirge for the New Sunrise

Fifteen minutes past eight o’clock, on the
morning of Monday the 6th of August, 1945

Bound to my heart as Ixion to the wheel,
Nailed to my heart as the Thief upon the Cross
I hang between our Christ and the gap where the world was lost

And watch the phantom Sun in Famine Street
— The ghost of the heart of Man…red Cain,
And the more murderous brain
Of Man, still redder Nero that conceived the death
Of his mother Earth, and tore
Her womb, to know the place where he was conceived.

But no eyes grieved —
For none were left for tears:
They were blinded as the years

Since Christ was born. Mother or Murderer, you have given
or taken life —
Now all is one!

There was a morning when the holy Light
Was young…The beautiful First Creature came

To our water-springs, and thought us without blame.

Our hearts seemed safe in our breasts and sang to the light —
The marrow in the bone
We dreamed was safe…the blood in the veins, the sap in the tree
Were springs of the Deity.

But I saw the little Ant-men as they ran
Carrying the world’s weight of the world’s filth
And the filth in the heart of Man —
Compressed till those lusts and greeds had a greater heat than
that of the Sun.

And the ray from that heat came soundless, shook the sky
As if in search for food, and squeezed the stems
Of all that grows on the earth till they were dry.
The eyes that saw, the lips that kissed, are gone
— Or black as thunder lie and grin at the murdered Sun.

The living blind and seeing dead together lie
As if in love…There was no more hating then —
And no more love: Gone is the heart of Man.

*This is the second Kingdom Poets post about Edith Sitwell: first post.

Entry written by D.S. Martin. He is the author of five poetry collections including Angelicus (2021, Poiema/Cascade), and three anthologies — available through Wipf & Stock. His new book The Role of the Moon, inspired by the Metaphysical Poets, is forthcoming from Paraclete Press.

Jonathan Chan

Jonathan Chan is a Singapore poet and translator whose second book bright sorrow has just appeared from Landmark Books. Born in Manhattan to a Malaysian father and a South Korean mother, educated at Cambridge and Yale, he was raised in Singapore and has returned there after his years at university. His first collection going home (Landmark Books, 2022). was a finalist for the Singapore Literature Prize in 2024. Part of what he explores in that book is the sense of what home is when a single locale may or may not be the home one is going to.

He is Managing Editor for the poetry archive Poetry.sg. His poetry is widely published; I personally have selected his poems for Ekstasis, and for Poems For Ephesians, as well as for a forthcoming anthology of Christmas poems in the Poiema Poetry Series.

Jonathan Chan has said, “matters of faith are integral and inherent to my writing” — while Christian Wiman has said, “Jonathan Chan’s poems are distinctively musical, acutely observed, and existentially engaged at the deepest level. They are bracing to discover.”

The following poem is from bright sorrow.

eternity

after Marilynne Robinson

and so the old man said
eternity is a thing we have

no hope of understanding.
things happen the way

that they do. a note follows another
in a song. a song is itself and

not another. a song is a song
itself. eternity holds space for

all these songs. for a song is
like a life, resounding in a kind

of tune. lives are what they were
and have been. lives are not merely

every worst thing. a mother prays
for her scoundrel son to be taken

up into heaven. Lila thinks this
an injustice to the scoundrels

with no mothers. people try
to get by. people are good

by their own lights. people take
all the courage that they have

to be good. for in eternity,
to eternity, eternity is just

a thing.

Posted with permission of the poet.

Entry written by D.S. Martin. He is the author of five poetry collections including Angelicus (2021, Poiema/Cascade), and three anthologies — available through Wipf & Stock. His new book The Role of the Moon, inspired by the Metaphysical Poets, is forthcoming from Paraclete Press.