tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-25827178730700373662024-03-18T09:25:44.067-07:00Kingdom Poets (a blog by D.S. Martin)The Kingdom Poets blog is a resource of poets of the Christian faith, regardless of background; there is no attempt made to assess orthodoxy, but simply to present poets who speak profoundly of faith in God. D.S. Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14495257418306466030noreply@blogger.comBlogger736125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2582717873070037366.post-22712495439010984742024-03-18T00:00:00.000-07:002024-03-18T00:00:00.251-07:00Susan Cowger*<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxeR3A9IOjfsdr4WDQqae_EIUU09DEncCevjBn8nozdZXggJsl77m2klrfuIMyxTNkNBGwtMdXt24myB-2Q3rQ-91gEEZ_N2xlx10LPcE0BawSQPbYHfmGC-OC2RWl4u-fL-rkB8mdA12QaJe8q-AMr5B8-z-O9y-Eagds9YxyIBnFphN73LuMiKCqufue/s1024/Cowger.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="682" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxeR3A9IOjfsdr4WDQqae_EIUU09DEncCevjBn8nozdZXggJsl77m2klrfuIMyxTNkNBGwtMdXt24myB-2Q3rQ-91gEEZ_N2xlx10LPcE0BawSQPbYHfmGC-OC2RWl4u-fL-rkB8mdA12QaJe8q-AMr5B8-z-O9y-Eagds9YxyIBnFphN73LuMiKCqufue/s200/Cowger.jpeg"/></a></div>Susan Cowger is a poet and artist living in Cheney, Washington, and is the author of two poetry collections: <i>Slender Warble</i> (2020, Poiema/Cascade) and her new book <i>Hawk & Songbird</i>. <br />
<br />
What makes this publication particularly sweet, is what the poet has gone through to get here. While the rest of us were anxious about how the pandemic might change our lives, Susan Cowger received her diagnosis — blood cancer: multiple myeloma — an incurable disease. She says, <br />
<span style="color: #336666;">-----</span>“Like a fledgling careening from the nest, my mind shrilled a frenzy<br />
<span style="color: #336666;">-----</span>of questions: whywhywhy? No answer. From vertebral collapse to <br />
<span style="color: #336666;">-----</span>cancer to brain tumor to brain abscess to stem cell transplant, <br />
<span style="color: #336666;">-----</span>one after the other, I did not find the answer to why. I found <br />
<span style="color: #336666;">-----</span>Presence… [an] awareness of God I could almost touch: strength <br />
<span style="color: #336666;">-----</span>embodied standing over me; an ever-watchful eye keeping vigil <br />
<span style="color: #336666;">-----</span>whose single glance could dash away fear; silent invisible <br />
<span style="color: #336666;">-----</span>protection, care, love … certainty. God’s Presence alone makes <br />
<span style="color: #336666;">-----</span>the horrific journey worth every minute.”<br />
<br />
Although twenty-five-hundred miles away, I walked with Susan, as one of her many companions in prayer, and am grateful she now has the reasonable hope “that maintenance medicine might keep [her] well enough to eventually die of something else.” I have also been able to partner with her as the editor for both of her full-length poetry books.<br />
<br />
Susan Cowger will be one of our readers at the Poiema Poetry Series reception at the Festival of Faith & Writing (on Thursday, April 11th at 7:30) in Grand Rapids, Michigan. The following poem is from <i>Hawk & Songbird</i> (2024, Poiema/Cascade).<br />
<br />
<b>She Says You Get What You Get</b><br />
<br />
It’s windy on the porch<br />
She props a gimpy leg on a wooden chair<br />
exposes it to sun<span style="color: #336666;">----</span>She says you get what you get<br />
<br />
Ever mumbling to God for attention<span style="color: #336666;">----</span>something like<br />
look at me look at me and oh wow there it is<br />
another bruise blooming just below the knee<br />
<br />
She turns her face to the sky<span style="color: #336666;">----</span>and draws<br />
a patient breath<span style="color: #336666;">----</span>In prayer-like motion<br />
she smears salve over the parch of skin<br />
a pauper’s salvation<br />
<br />
where pity for a sick thing takes on something akin to<br />
gladness for some attention<span style="color: #336666;">----</span>Despite the defect<br />
now it’s hard to hate<br />
what she loves<span style="color: #336666;">----</span>The broken parts<br />
she hands back to God<br />
<br />
Posted with permission of the poet.<br />
<br />
*This is the second <b>Kingdom Poets</b> post about Susan Cowger: <a href="https://kingdompoets.blogspot.com/2020/03/susan-cowger.html"target=__blank>first post</a>.<br />
<br />
Entry written by D.S. Martin. He is the author of five poetry collections including <i>Angelicus</i> (2021, Cascade) ― a book of poems written from the point-of-view of angels. His books are available through <a href="https://wipfandstock.com/search-results/?contributor=d-s-martin"target=__blank>Wipf & Stock</a>.<br />D.S. Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14495257418306466030noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2582717873070037366.post-42721643838878238862024-03-11T00:00:00.000-07:002024-03-11T00:00:00.243-07:00Jesse Keith Butler<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic7ZL-6eQLTUA7cDxOfp3Jt9oUGC_4ZdXYiqPcVwWdJG5kyaralyu89j6fnkW1I6DysLdUhxNlk1raf7iJnYrMSDrIHzAv01N0wABjgu5fKbusA-artbfb7fwXAnuAF7-Mh2A68dm_pD_UDdnqf271uSXaAwhv68vWP_FG5m4OYr5imese8XXyj3eFwQLD/s1086/Jesse%20Keith%20Butler.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" data-original-height="1086" data-original-width="724" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic7ZL-6eQLTUA7cDxOfp3Jt9oUGC_4ZdXYiqPcVwWdJG5kyaralyu89j6fnkW1I6DysLdUhxNlk1raf7iJnYrMSDrIHzAv01N0wABjgu5fKbusA-artbfb7fwXAnuAF7-Mh2A68dm_pD_UDdnqf271uSXaAwhv68vWP_FG5m4OYr5imese8XXyj3eFwQLD/s200/Jesse%20Keith%20Butler.jpg"/></a></div>Jesse Keith Butler is an Orthodox Christian poet who has recently published his first collection, <i>The Living Law</i>, with Darkly Bright Press. He lives in Ottawa with his wife and two children. <br />
<br />
By day, Jesse is a program evaluator for the Government of Canada, assessing the effectiveness of government programs in relation to their objectives. He previously did a PhD in education, during which time he published widely in academic journals on the topics of citizenship education, educational policy, and Indigenous education. Jesse and his wife also have a long history of working with Indigenous communities, including two summers spent working with a Christian organization on a First Nations reserve in northern Ontario.<br />
<br />
A.M. Juster has written, "With this debut collection, Jesse Butler is joining the growing group of Canadian poets who are taking poetry away from the academy and returning it to a broader audience of poetry lovers. Butler's poems are thoughtful, well-crafted, and a pleasure to read."<br />
<br />
The following poem has previously appeared in <i>Solum Journal</i>, and is from <i>The Living Law</i> (2024, Darkly Bright Press). <br />
<br />
<b>Villanelle of the Elect</b><br />
<br />
So Jacob was loved, and Esau was hated.<br />
It seems like a bit of an uneven deal.<br />
You won’t stop creating this world you’ve created.<br />
<br />
If Esau had hope it was quickly deflated.<br />
The subtle supplanter had him by the heel.<br />
But Jacob was loved, and Esau was hated.<br />
<br />
Outside of the city, with heaven ungated<br />
and rungs reaching down, Jacob glimpsed what was real—<br />
you still were creating this world you’d created.<br />
<br />
Poor Esau found Jacob’s thin soup overrated<br />
when robbed of his birthright for one meatless meal.<br />
Yet Jacob was loved, and Esau was hated.<br />
<br />
You grappled with Jacob. He grunted and grated<br />
while you danced, delighted to meet with such zeal<br />
as you kept creating this world you’d created.<br />
<br />
There’s purpose in life but the path isn’t fated.<br />
You unspool these urgings we don’t even feel.<br />
And Jacob was loved. And Esau was hated.<br />
You keep on creating this world you’ve created.<br />
<br />
Posted with permission of the poet.<br />
<br />
This post was first suggested by my friend Burl Horniachek.<br />
<br />
Entry written by D.S. Martin. He is the author of five poetry collections including <i>Angelicus</i> (2021, Cascade) ― a book of poems written from the point-of-view of angels. His books are available through <a href="https://wipfandstock.com/search-results/?contributor=d-s-martin"target=__blank>Wipf & Stock</a>.<br />
D.S. Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14495257418306466030noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2582717873070037366.post-11793601250792683862024-03-04T00:00:00.001-08:002024-03-04T00:00:00.134-08:00Laurie Klein*<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUKajdFPWmWK70CwsJf1DXR6pyL9GqyMBBInmxIBYyAvFhqgi7On-ZYWv01owmW7ijvXO7_foh2qL8QGx3rquo5yQets7rcQy9U-tZyXM7lYsMsqxEnfUySqn3nDlzZMzbbyLMKggOMRD3bH-EiWrk0BCnyc3FhYpb5qxBqBwzTRBbrqb_3x_-KRIX28CZ/s150/Laurie-Klein-150x150.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" width="200" data-original-height="150" data-original-width="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUKajdFPWmWK70CwsJf1DXR6pyL9GqyMBBInmxIBYyAvFhqgi7On-ZYWv01owmW7ijvXO7_foh2qL8QGx3rquo5yQets7rcQy9U-tZyXM7lYsMsqxEnfUySqn3nDlzZMzbbyLMKggOMRD3bH-EiWrk0BCnyc3FhYpb5qxBqBwzTRBbrqb_3x_-KRIX28CZ/s200/Laurie-Klein-150x150.png"/></a></div>Laurie Klein is a poet of the Pacific Northwest, the author of <i>Where the Sky Opens</i> (2015) and of the brand new book, <i>House of 49 Doors</i> ― both from The Poiema Poetry Series. <br />
<br />
Her name comes up frequently as the writer of the praise chorus “I Love You, Lord” which has been ubiquitous in church circles for years. Its familiarity led guitarist Phil Keaggy to record it as the only cover-tune on his beautiful instrumental album <i>The Wind and the Wheat</i> (1987, Maranatha Music).<br />
<br />
When she was featured at <i>Abbey of the Arts</i>, Laurie Klein said, “For me, entering the presence of the sacred means embracing mystery. And I adore mystery. Poems I love evoke — and expose — irresistible gaps: within my understanding, between the lines themselves, betwixt soul and Truth’s unerring glance.”<br />
<br />
As Klein’s editor, for both of her full-length collections, I am delighted to see the arrival of this ambitious new book. It is a memoir of the unspeakable, that takes on a family’s disturbing sorrow with remarkable innocence, beauty, and hope.<br />
<br />
Jill Peláez Baumgaertner, of <i>The Christian Century</i>, says of <i>House of 49 Doors</i>, “The voice in these remarkable poems belongs to a girl, a spy, a recorder of daydreams and memories of a home and a war-torn, beloved uncle, whose grisly suicide was a family secret. These poems are handprints left in cement. Once you pick up this book, you will be unable to put it down.” <br />
<br />
The following poem is from <i>House of 49 Doors</i>.<br />
<br />
<b>Words which are not</b><br />
<br />
enough — despite our regrets <br />
and longings — mound, <br />
musty and swept together<br />
like fallen leaves, crackling<br />
with sorrow nearly <br />
<br />
unspeakable. Where is solace <br />
meant to settle cleanly as dew? <br />
A life shatters, its hunger <br />
for wholeness hopefully<br />
drifting toward Mystery, <br />
<br />
luring us all nearer <br />
the pure, original spark —<br />
a vitality deeper than <br /><br />
we dare believe. Prayers may<br />
falter, but know this:<br />
<br />
though language flails<br />
and has too often failed us,<br />
our questions spiral, <br />
eventually intersect <br />
the beguiling Love <br />
<br />
that summoned this universe,<br />
which, from our first <br />
shuddering breath,<br />
clear through forever, rekindles<br />
the sacred flint, blazons our way.<br />
<br />
Posted with permission of the poet.<br />
<br />
*This is the second <b>Kingdom Poets</b> post about Laurie Klein: <a href="https://kingdompoets.blogspot.com/2016/01/laurie-klein.html"target=__blank>first post</a>.<br />
<br />
Entry written by D.S. Martin. He is the author of five poetry collections including <i>Angelicus</i> (2021, Cascade) ― a book of poems written from the point-of-view of angels. His books are available through <a href="https://wipfandstock.com/search-results/?contributor=d-s-martin"target=__blank>Wipf & Stock</a>.<br />D.S. Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14495257418306466030noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2582717873070037366.post-50191396056946868572024-02-26T00:00:00.000-08:002024-02-26T00:00:00.152-08:00Tadhg Gaelach Ó Súilleabháin<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSbg4PWxuHGP3VPAxsd3g4bnOtwcnZb-QGL_-HY92THyCPcJUdMh15YDiV8DLeINwIjgPHEf0JeI7gFdP7dSwP_9CmcRMHhUBLYAiABrkB51s4qbyivTXN8A5F2x091_vvrQ1sel3xsPFc1u50ZWW-CppTGJd2-_jWth71FL9rAu5smGBodud_osD9mUyK/s388/O%27Sullivan.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" width="200" data-original-height="385" data-original-width="388" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSbg4PWxuHGP3VPAxsd3g4bnOtwcnZb-QGL_-HY92THyCPcJUdMh15YDiV8DLeINwIjgPHEf0JeI7gFdP7dSwP_9CmcRMHhUBLYAiABrkB51s4qbyivTXN8A5F2x091_vvrQ1sel3xsPFc1u50ZWW-CppTGJd2-_jWth71FL9rAu5smGBodud_osD9mUyK/s200/O%27Sullivan.jpg"/></a></div>Tadhg Gaelach Ó Súilleabháin (1715―1795), known in English as Timothy O'Sullivan, is an Irish poet probably born in County Limerick. There are few records concerning his early life, although it is thought that he was a teacher. <br />
<br />
His early verse is typical of Munster poetry of the time, including romantic verse, laments, drinking songs, and eulogies for members of the Catholic gentry. He was publicly a Jacobite supporter, and was once imprisoned in Cork for drinking the health of Bonnie Prince Charlie. <br />
<br />
In the 1760s he moved to County Waterford and underwent a spiritual conversion, forsaking the writing of secular verse. In the nineteenth century Ó Súilleabháin’s poems were often sung as hymns in Munster churches.
The plaque pictured above, was erected in 2001 in the grounds of the Cathedral in Waterford. Ó Súilleabháin died, in 1795, while at prayer in their recently-built Cathedral.<br />
<br />
I am indebted to the poet Pádraig J. Daly for sending me a copy of <i>Furnace of Love</i> (Dedalus, 2002) the book of his translations of Tadhg Gaelach Ó Súilleabháin’s religious poetry. The following is from that collection.<br />
<br />
<b><i>from</i> Poem of Jesus</b><br />
<br />
I<br />
<br />
Great Son of the resplendent city of enchanting light,<br />
Mercy of Paradise, Person of the Holy Three,<br />
Heart’s Love, pardon my twisted thinking<br />
And steer my soul without turbulence into your kingdom, Jesus.<br />
Amen, O Jesus,<br />
Who bought me dearly<br />
On the cross on Friday,<br />
Your enemies harassing You,<br />
Far from your people,<br />
Your mother beside You,<br />
Pitifully keening;<br />
And I, maliciously,<br />
Since life began in me,<br />
Flaying You fiercely.<br />
Five hundred thousand times<br />
One hundred regrets are mine<br />
That that is how I repaid You.<br />
<br />
Entry written by D.S. Martin. He is the author of five poetry collections including <i>Angelicus</i> (2021, Cascade) ― a book of poems written from the point-of-view of angels. His books are available through <a href="https://wipfandstock.com/search-results/?contributor=d-s-martin"target=__blank>Wipf & Stock</a>.<br />D.S. Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14495257418306466030noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2582717873070037366.post-76257131550612344382024-02-19T00:00:00.000-08:002024-02-19T00:00:00.138-08:00Geoffrey Chaucer<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3KoplsBALPlxNA1UQooANUTHXM3CCKI_1A1V4jYXCLoI97lqKR0iHCpYXA7gS8EMX3a7umvZXYC4fVnrG80mvS8njokLDvqdmmxYLkaBTiS59p3f3jiysDVrS227iStVk-Zysw6w2LsvWXRatU8GrlnKc5bVBDJNkHMKa7xbgWhgN-EFddH_4D-jDwZkA/s275/Chaucer.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" width="200" data-original-height="183" data-original-width="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3KoplsBALPlxNA1UQooANUTHXM3CCKI_1A1V4jYXCLoI97lqKR0iHCpYXA7gS8EMX3a7umvZXYC4fVnrG80mvS8njokLDvqdmmxYLkaBTiS59p3f3jiysDVrS227iStVk-Zysw6w2LsvWXRatU8GrlnKc5bVBDJNkHMKa7xbgWhgN-EFddH_4D-jDwZkA/s200/Chaucer.jpg"/></a></div>Geoffrey Chaucer is a 14th century poet best known as the author of <i>Canterbury Tales</i> ― a collection of twenty-four stories, voiced by characters on pilgrimage from London to visit the shrine of Thomas Becket at Canterbury Cathedral. They were written mostly in verse, in a London dialect of late Middle English.<br />
<br />
Some of Chaucer’s pilgrims (such as the Second Nun) are devout, some (the Pardoner) use religion for personal gain, and some (the Prioress) simply lack spiritual depth. He uses humour and irony, as his characters quote scripture in ways that often demonstrate their own failings. The author sometimes lets his readers decide, through subtle details like showy jewellery, about each pilgrim’s sincerity. The intent, I believe, is to encourage people to be authentic in their faith, and to caution them against the flaws in religious practice in Chaucer’s England.<br />
<br />
Chaucer’s Retraction, here in translation, shows how he would like <i>Canterbury Tales</i> to be seen: <br />
<span style="color: #336666;">--------</span>Now I pray to all who hear or read this little treatise,<br />
<span style="color: #336666;">--------</span>that if there is anything in it that they like, they thank <br />
<span style="color: #336666;">--------</span>our Lord Jesus Christ for it, from whom proceeds all wisdom<br />
<span style="color: #336666;">--------</span>and goodness. And if there is anything that displeases them,<br />
<span style="color: #336666;">--------</span>I pray also that they ascribe it to the fault of my ignorance <br />
<span style="color: #336666;">--------</span>and not to my will, which would readily have spoken better <br />
<span style="color: #336666;">--------</span>if I had the knowledge. For our book says, "All that is <br />
<span style="color: #336666;">--------</span>written is written for our doctrine," and that is my intention.<br />
<span style="color: #336666;">--------</span>Therefore I beseech you, for the mercy of God, that you pray <br />
<span style="color: #336666;">--------</span>for me that Christ have mercy on me and forgive my sins, <br />
<span style="color: #336666;">--------</span>especially my translations and compositions of worldly <br />
<span style="color: #336666;">--------</span>vanities, which I revoke in my retractions…<br />
<br />
The following translation by A.S. Kline is from The Knight’s Tale (Section 2/Lines 807-816) ― the first of the stories told ― and though the story itself comes from a pre-Christian world view, it is written so that it speaks of the sovereignty of God.<br />
<br />
<b><i>from</i> The Knight’s Tale</b><br />
<br />
Destiny, that Minister-General,<br />
Who executes on earth, over all,<br />
The Providence that God saw long before,<br />
Has such power that though all men swore<br />
The contrary of a thing by yea or nay,<br />
Yet there will come to pass upon a day<br />
What will not happen in a thousand years.<br />
For certainly our appetites down here,<br />
Be they for war, or peace, hate or love,<br />
All are ruled by the vision that’s above.<br />
<br />
Here is another section, from The Second Nun's Tale, (scroll down to the open tab) that I posted at <a href="https://mcmasterdivinity.ca/poems-for-ephesians/#the-second-nun-s-tale-by-geoffrey-chaucer"target=__blank><i>Poems For Ephesians</i></a>.<br />
<br />
Entry written by D.S. Martin. He is the author of five poetry collections including <i>Angelicus</i> (2021, Cascade) ― a book of poems written from the point-of-view of angels. His books are available through <a href="https://wipfandstock.com/search-results/?contributor=d-s-martin"target=__blank>Wipf & Stock</a>.<br />D.S. Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14495257418306466030noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2582717873070037366.post-13156965838905320272024-02-12T00:00:00.000-08:002024-02-12T00:00:00.135-08:00Kristina Erny<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW5nAgrKKWI7vmDHMh8qkBSPBrASD4h7ZoGV7DC13Ck-RhmJkwmfTkv_ocgT2KoWKhUMi5Kin_8UrCXYDHrRYy1lwdtlptHrj8lCivKBgM6qsmnIOrvEXEv72wWtsDNFyguhapwbOR8AYqDA8FJHo_Qsb-lscyM7zXPqFbuDcGzFx5vTWO5mhp3EFS3OD4/s1377/Erny.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" data-original-height="1377" data-original-width="1343" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiW5nAgrKKWI7vmDHMh8qkBSPBrASD4h7ZoGV7DC13Ck-RhmJkwmfTkv_ocgT2KoWKhUMi5Kin_8UrCXYDHrRYy1lwdtlptHrj8lCivKBgM6qsmnIOrvEXEv72wWtsDNFyguhapwbOR8AYqDA8FJHo_Qsb-lscyM7zXPqFbuDcGzFx5vTWO5mhp3EFS3OD4/s200/Erny.jpeg"/></a></div>Kristina Erny is an American poet and visual artist who was raised as a third-culture teacher’s kid in Seoul, South Korea. She has lived in various parts of the United States ― including in Arizona, where she earned her MFA in Creative Writing, and in Kentucky, where she was the Director of the Creative Writing Program at Asbury University ― but has spent much of her teaching career abroad. She and her husband are raising their three children in Shanghai, where she is currently teaching literature and creative writing to international secondary students.<br />
<br />
Among the honours her poems have received are the Ruskin Art Club Poetry Award, and the <i>Tupelo Quarterly</i> Inaugural Poetry Award, as chosen by Ilya Kaminsky. Her debut poetry collection, <i>Elijah Fed by Ravens</i>, was published this past December by Solum Literary Press.
The following poem first appeared in <i>Blackbird</i> and is from her new book.<br />
<br />
<b>Elijah and the Widow</b><br />
<br />
Even ravens need crust,<span style="color: #336666;">------</span>something.<br />
Left behind, everyone left.<br />
It begs the question:<br />
jar bottom,<br />
a flag of surrender?<br />
Hostile, hand-held, the haze.<br />
<br />
Always the tone;<br />
never the ringing.<br />
Driven you<br />
<br />
to the pot where the flour is<br />
hoped for, hidden—& then, his face in the doorway—<i>have,<br />
eat—Yes, we are eaten</i>—still a future, grim, <i>O,<br />
<br />
won’t you come in.</i><br />
I would have baked the cake &<br />
died. Instead, you perform, participate in<br />
onerous miracle, & tomorrow<br />
wake up, blinking, hoary film under your nails.<br />
<br />
Posted with permission of the poet.<br />
<br />
Entry written by D.S. Martin. He is the author of five poetry collections including <i>Angelicus</i> (2021, Cascade) ― a book of poems written from the point-of-view of angels. His books are available through <a href="https://wipfandstock.com/search-results/?contributor=d-s-martin"target=__blank>Wipf & Stock</a>.<br />D.S. Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14495257418306466030noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2582717873070037366.post-87566035059079541782024-02-05T00:00:00.000-08:002024-02-07T08:45:18.837-08:00Elizabeth Bishop<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqVfJH9LR0aRRGGCMm_fF3cLokJ43Z47KcqktR9tkxTUO4Xr_vBBGyvsP9VY5wMXEFJ_Xv_2l8e6jVeWkmvZEZvDTGQs5E3eX1lHAoCa625lD1JvMvQ6XwZ27Gvx92smV0ZVjQoRNlRezb3e01URiCvG1v4hMmcCC1dFwyzlQFBRlOHD2m8G3Xg_8lId3H/s800/Bishop.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" width="200" data-original-height="559" data-original-width="800" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqVfJH9LR0aRRGGCMm_fF3cLokJ43Z47KcqktR9tkxTUO4Xr_vBBGyvsP9VY5wMXEFJ_Xv_2l8e6jVeWkmvZEZvDTGQs5E3eX1lHAoCa625lD1JvMvQ6XwZ27Gvx92smV0ZVjQoRNlRezb3e01URiCvG1v4hMmcCC1dFwyzlQFBRlOHD2m8G3Xg_8lId3H/s200/Bishop.jpg"/></a></div>Elizabeth Bishop (1911―1979) is an American modernist poet characterized by agnosticism, yet often wrestling with Christian faith. She was raised first by her maternal grandparents in Nova Scotia and later by her paternal grandparents in Massachusetts. <br />
<br />
She published only 101 poems in total, and yet was honoured with the Pulitzer Prize for poetry in 1956, and the National Book Award in 1970.<br />
<br />
Critic Tom Travisano says: “Although Bishop was no churchgoer, Christian motifs appear throughout her poetry. She had a religious nature and education, and the foundations of her work are recognizably Christian.” In 1955 she wrote to Robert Lowell, “I believe now
that complete agnosticism and straddling the fence on everything is my natural
posture —although I wish I weren’t.”<br />
<br />
Similarly, Cheryl Walker, of Scripps College in California, notes that two of Bishop’s favourite poets were Gerard Manley Hopkins and George Herbert. Bishop wrote about, “how really concerned Herbert was with all these insoluble problems of man’s relationship to God... It is real. —It was real and it has kept on being and it always will be, and Herbert just happened to be a person who managed to put a great deal of it into magnificent poetry” <br />
<br />
You can hear her reading the following poem which is from <i>The Complete Poems</i> (Farrar Straus and Giroux, 1983) at <a href="https://www.poetryfoundation.org/play/75635"target=__blank>The Poetry Foundation</a>.<br />
<br />
<b>At the Fishhouses</b><br />
<br />
Although it is a cold evening,<br />
down by one of the fishhouses<br />
an old man sits netting,<br />
his net, in the gloaming almost invisible,<br />
a dark purple-brown,<br />
and his shuttle worn and polished.<br />
The air smells so strong of codfish<br />
it makes one’s nose run and one’s eyes water.<br />
The five fishhouses have steeply peaked roofs<br />
and narrow, cleated gangplanks slant up<br />
to storerooms in the gables<br />
for the wheelbarrows to be pushed up and down on.<br />
All is silver: the heavy surface of the sea,<br />
swelling slowly as if considering spilling over,<br />
is opaque, but the silver of the benches,<br />
the lobster pots, and masts, scattered<br />
among the wild jagged rocks,<br />
is of an apparent translucence<br />
like the small old buildings with an emerald moss<br />
growing on their shoreward walls.<br />
The big fish tubs are completely lined<br />
with layers of beautiful herring scales<br />
and the wheelbarrows are similarly plastered<br />
with creamy iridescent coats of mail,<br />
with small iridescent flies crawling on them.<br />
Up on the little slope behind the houses,<br />
set in the sparse bright sprinkle of grass,<br />
is an ancient wooden capstan,<br />
cracked, with two long bleached handles<br />
and some melancholy stains, like dried blood,<br />
where the ironwork has rusted.<br />
The old man accepts a Lucky Strike.<br />
He was a friend of my grandfather.<br />
We talk of the decline in the population<br />
and of codfish and herring<br />
while he waits for a herring boat to come in.<br />
There are sequins on his vest and on his thumb.<br />
He has scraped the scales, the principal beauty,<br />
from unnumbered fish with that black old knife,<br />
the blade of which is almost worn away.<br />
<br />
Down at the water’s edge, at the place<br />
where they haul up the boats, up the long ramp<br />
descending into the water, thin silver<br />
tree trunks are laid horizontally<br />
across the gray stones, down and down<br />
at intervals of four or five feet.<br />
<br />
Cold dark deep and absolutely clear,<br />
element bearable to no mortal,<br />
to fish and to seals . . . One seal particularly<br />
I have seen here evening after evening.<br />
He was curious about me. He was interested in music;<br />
like me a believer in total immersion,<br />
so I used to sing him Baptist hymns.<br />
I also sang “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God.”<br />
He stood up in the water and regarded me<br />
steadily, moving his head a little.<br />
Then he would disappear, then suddenly emerge<br />
almost in the same spot, with a sort of shrug<br />
as if it were against his better judgment.<br />
Cold dark deep and absolutely clear,<br />
the clear gray icy water . . . Back, behind us,<br />
the dignified tall firs begin.<br />
Bluish, associating with their shadows,<br />
a million Christmas trees stand<br />
waiting for Christmas. The water seems suspended<br />
above the rounded gray and blue-gray stones.<br />
I have seen it over and over, the same sea, the same,<br />
slightly, indifferently swinging above the stones,<br />
icily free above the stones,<br />
above the stones and then the world.<br />
If you should dip your hand in,<br />
your wrist would ache immediately,<br />
your bones would begin to ache and your hand would burn<br />
as if the water were a transmutation of fire<br />
that feeds on stones and burns with a dark gray flame.<br />
If you tasted it, it would first taste bitter,<br />
then briny, then surely burn your tongue.<br />
It is like what we imagine knowledge to be:<br />
dark, salt, clear, moving, utterly free,<br />
drawn from the cold hard mouth<br />
of the world, derived from the rocky breasts<br />
forever, flowing and drawn, and since<br />
our knowledge is historical, flowing, and flown.<br />
<br />
Entry written by D.S. Martin. He is the author of five poetry collections including <i>Angelicus</i> (2021, Cascade) ― a book of poems written from the point-of-view of angels. His books are available through <a href="https://wipfandstock.com/search-results/?contributor=d-s-martin"target=__blank>Wipf & Stock</a>.<br />D.S. Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14495257418306466030noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2582717873070037366.post-4754368437302097482024-01-29T00:00:00.000-08:002024-01-29T00:00:00.143-08:00Petrarch*<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBte3fkjw6GX6RUPeHImmEQy7DvUN7WuDBECAYeWn2U4prJewIa6GY-srSG83fM5h_Z5weWbZ3ChPNGnyi8cgXSImeF3AXR1cl-KMsfSBiX90kyFoFP1O6ei9ZfJBw-i3l5skk3ew-fCb90yawfEBkKVwJJaLiIsamGphYtmttCoz7EEgxkNxIWNnJRue5/s200/Petrarch.png" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" data-original-height="200" data-original-width="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBte3fkjw6GX6RUPeHImmEQy7DvUN7WuDBECAYeWn2U4prJewIa6GY-srSG83fM5h_Z5weWbZ3ChPNGnyi8cgXSImeF3AXR1cl-KMsfSBiX90kyFoFP1O6ei9ZfJBw-i3l5skk3ew-fCb90yawfEBkKVwJJaLiIsamGphYtmttCoz7EEgxkNxIWNnJRue5/s200/Petrarch.png"/></a></div>Petrarch (Fransesco Petrarca) (1304―1374) is an important Italian poet whose influence ― particularly as the originator and populariser of the sonnet ― is still felt today. Although best known for his poetry, he was also a significant scholar. His influence can be seen in the spread of humanism, which Petrarch saw as being no contradiction with his stand as a dedicated Christian.<br />
<br />
Sometime between 1342 and 1353 Petrarch wrote <i>Secretum</i> ― a personal reflection on his life and the significance of his faith to him, in the form of an imaginary dialogue with Augustine. It begins with Augustine criticizing Petrarch for not having dedicated himself completely to God, through his love for the things of this world and his desire for literary fame. <i>Secretum</i> ― though not published within his lifetime, and possibly written only for his private reflection and self-criticism ― also became an important work.<br />
<br />
One of the things of this world he was obsessed with was a beautiful, unobtainable woman named Laura, who was married to someone else. <i>The Canzoniere</i> is his book of sonnets and other poems concerning his love for her, and his sorrow at her premature death.
The following poem is from <i>The Canzoniere</i>, and was translated by A.M. Juster. This translation appeared in <i>The Christian Century</i> in 2022.<br />
<br />
<b>363</b><br />
<br />
Death dimmed the sun that dazzled brilliantly;<br />
my eyes, intact and healthy, are in shade.<br />
She is now dust who made me flame and fade;<br />
like elms or oaks my laurels wilt for me,<br />
so that I see my goal, though agony<br />
remains. No one else made my thoughts afraid<br />
and bold, nor chilled and scorched them, nor conveyed<br />
full hope, nor flooded them with misery.<br />
Released by one who jabs and mollifies,<br />
who tortured me for many years before,<br />
my freedom’s bittersweet, I realize,<br />
and to the Lord I thank and I adore,<br />
whose eyes sustain and oversee the skies,<br />
I turn—world-weary, not desiring more.<br />
<br />
Posted with permission of the translator.<br />
<br />
*This is the second <b>Kingdom Poets</b> post about Petrarch: <a href="https://kingdompoets.blogspot.com/2012/04/petrarch.html"target=__blank>first post</a>.<br />
<br />
Entry written by D.S. Martin. He is the author of five poetry collections including <i>Angelicus</i> (2021, Cascade) ― a book of poems written from the point-of-view of angels. His books are available through <a href="https://wipfandstock.com/search-results/?contributor=d-s-martin"target=__blank>Wipf & Stock</a>.<br />D.S. Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14495257418306466030noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2582717873070037366.post-1113447010126436562024-01-22T00:00:00.000-08:002024-01-22T02:49:06.703-08:00Laura Reece Hogan*<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdo1UaMyvzV-9Bduectf-8oRMTwxwW535OXDhwlXeOjUkLzs48kLg5JEUHPgnfqT6bpZYc5-UqWEMrsdGKIbWqi2yzdk2eEidP1KlXDbQF-h61ZZoW1k-iMFuGay_38o9B_dwyi8vJzFhBI04hjHS8AKN06knbthJ0GCoWt606SiO95eLrlbQ-_y228KNI/s600/Laura-new.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdo1UaMyvzV-9Bduectf-8oRMTwxwW535OXDhwlXeOjUkLzs48kLg5JEUHPgnfqT6bpZYc5-UqWEMrsdGKIbWqi2yzdk2eEidP1KlXDbQF-h61ZZoW1k-iMFuGay_38o9B_dwyi8vJzFhBI04hjHS8AKN06knbthJ0GCoWt606SiO95eLrlbQ-_y228KNI/s200/Laura-new.jpeg"/></a></div>Laura Reece Hogan is the author of two full-length poetry collections. Her new book, <i>Butterfly Nebula</i>, is the 2022 winner of the Backwaters Prize in Poetry and is published by the University of Nebraska Press. In this collection, Hogan focuses both on the micro and the macro, the deep and the distant, as she ponders the galaxies, life on the ocean floor, flowers, and insects ― from immense nebulae, right down to disembodied human tear glands growing in a petri dish. <br />
<br />
Marjorie Maddox has said of <i>Butterfly Nebula</i>, “Astronomical, biological, ecological, theological, metaphorical…How dazzling the shine of these poems, how far-reaching their light."<br />
<br />
Besides writing poetry, Hogan is the author of the theology book <i>I Live, No Longer I</i> (2017, Wipf & Stock) which was a winner at the American Bookfest Awards, The Illumination Book Awards, and the Catholic Press Association Book Awards.<br />
<br />
The following poem, from the new collection, first appeared in <i>The Inflectionist Review</i>. <br />
<br />
<b>Prayer For Traversing the Eye</b><br />
<br />
If I molt<br />
peel and cast<br />
the assemblage,<br />
push aside / bend<br />
behind can I sliver<br />
shiver atoms spectral<br />
can you splinter me<br />
cut down the camel<br />
of me shatter me<br />
until I shed me<br />
can you shove<br />
me through<br />
this frail<br />
slit?<br />
<br />
Posted with permission of the poet.<br />
<br />
*This is the second <b>Kingdom Poets</b> post about Laura Reece Hogan: <a href="https://kingdompoets.blogspot.com/2021/05/laura-reece-hogan.html"target=__blank>first post</a>.<br />
<br />
Entry written by D.S. Martin. He is the author of five poetry collections including <i>Angelicus</i> (2021, Cascade) ― a book of poems written from the point-of-view of angels. His books are available through <a href="https://wipfandstock.com/search-results/?contributor=d-s-martin"target=__blank>Wipf & Stock</a>.<br />D.S. Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14495257418306466030noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2582717873070037366.post-8929947378372735542024-01-15T00:00:00.000-08:002024-01-15T03:30:25.824-08:00Catharina Regina von Greiffenberg*<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwac4J2zXCwQk8-iZJCWLyJk5tHAX6o9uaJ3VVeM0KfjIw14FNqX4kngauW8ID_BUmzBMXJcLXBaVaxw_YbdWSd8L_x3QDtIxC-o3Qq-DfVvqLZUZzgElnhnJoAoB3K8V22Q-bikkiJVO5qLhck7ozEJhZNPiJ9_h8NHNlmePxpe7RE8bVaN8ICpM80s4Z/s164/Greiffenberg+photo.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" width="200" data-original-height="160" data-original-width="164" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwac4J2zXCwQk8-iZJCWLyJk5tHAX6o9uaJ3VVeM0KfjIw14FNqX4kngauW8ID_BUmzBMXJcLXBaVaxw_YbdWSd8L_x3QDtIxC-o3Qq-DfVvqLZUZzgElnhnJoAoB3K8V22Q-bikkiJVO5qLhck7ozEJhZNPiJ9_h8NHNlmePxpe7RE8bVaN8ICpM80s4Z/s200/Greiffenberg+photo.jpg"/></a></div>Catharina Regina von Greiffenberg (1633—1694) is an Austrian whose sonnets have much in common with the seventeenth century English Metaphysical poets. <br />
<br />
When I first posted about her back in 2017, I mentioned that three Canadian poets whom I know and respect — Sarah Klassen, Sally Ito, and Joanne Epp — had been working together on translating some of Greiffenberg’s work. Little did I know that this project would grab hold of them to the extent that they would produce a book-length manuscript. <br />
<br />
That book is <i>Wonder-Work: Selected Sonnets of Catharina Regina von Greiffenberg</i>, and consists of their new translations of 65 poems — many of which have not previously been translated into English. The title is well-suited as it reflects the compound nouns of the original German, and the sense of awe that runs through these poems.<br />
<br />
The poet-translators had to make significant decisions in bringing Greiffenberg’s sonnets into English. Because conveying her meaning and the beauty of her images was most important, they chose the poetic dance of alliteration and assonance, rather than trying to match the rhyme-scheme of the original German sonnets. One of the sonnets begins, “Oh you whose wisdom dews the stars, the source / of destiny—and yet without their work / your art alone brings everything to pass…”<br />
<br />
The English translation of the following poem first appeared in <i>The Polyglot</i>; it is included in Burl Horniachek’s fine anthology <i>To Heaven’s Rim: The Kingdom Poets Book of World Christian Poetry</i> (Poiema/Cascade, 2023) and is, of course, from <i>Wonder-Work: Selected Sonnets of Catharina Regina von Greiffenberg</i> (CMU Press, 2024).<br />
<br />
<b>On the Holy Spirit’s Wondrous Consolation</b><br />
<br />
Refreshment from on high, heart-quickening breath! <br />
<span style="color: #336666;">----</span>You heavenly balm! In suffering, Joy-Spirit <br />
<span style="color: #336666;">----</span>that comforts while defying death and trouble, <br />
<span style="color: #336666;">----</span>and calls forth in us joy more plenteous than sorrow.<br />
O let my life behold your heart-illumination!<br />
<span style="color: #336666;">----</span>Let misery be mocked while you are ever praised,<br />
<span style="color: #336666;">----</span>and I by you sustained with health and strength. <br />
<span style="color: #336666;">----</span>Waft over troubled waters, as when the world began.<br />
You good God-Spirit, pain-conqueror, overthrow<br />
<span style="color: #336666;">----</span>the soul-deceiver; let not his heart-tormenting fire<br />
<span style="color: #336666;">----</span>consume faith's oil in my lamp;<br />
let not his torturous grappling-hooks ensnare me.<br />
<span style="color: #336666;">----</span>Bedew my rose, O sweet soul’s dew, so she<br />
<span style="color: #336666;">----</span>may rise up, by your cooling strength, through fire.<br />
<br />
Posted with permission of the translators<br />
<br />
*This is the second <b>Kingdom Poets</b> post about Catharina Regina von Greiffenberg: <a href="https://kingdompoets.blogspot.com/2017/09/catharina-regina-von-greiffenberg.html"target=__blank>first post</a>.<br />
<br />
A launch event will take place — with Joanne Epp, Sally Ito, & Sarah Klassen — in the Atrium of McNally Robinson Booksellers, Grant Park, Winnipeg, at 7:00 pm on Friday, January 19th. Watch the
<a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6sYwLHwYb6o&ab_channel=McNallyRobinsonOnlineEvents"target=__blank>Live Stream on YouTube</a>
, or view it after the fact.<br />
<br />
Entry written by D.S. Martin. He is the author of five poetry collections including <i>Angelicus</i> (2021, Cascade) ― a book of poems written from the point-of-view of angels. His books are available through <a href="https://wipfandstock.com/search-results/?contributor=d-s-martin"target=__blank>Wipf & Stock</a>.<br />D.S. Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14495257418306466030noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2582717873070037366.post-71803901709589262452024-01-08T00:00:00.000-08:002024-01-08T00:00:00.131-08:00Rubén Darío<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1fKQsq1klBtYtuabde-O2Dd9wjtNvZ-y6MzJ_8BuUg8svleS9Z0UiIYL-pJg7PwGfocYF3UCndB4kTzw2d8wIyN11bzsFMIrwUdUFqGo9IKrsN_yTk4LRcVl3uwuAUCTGCWhFCdo-dRVIYNl2zRAwnOhdYYaApmMn9LlXHJ_X1ow2GADT7fNMZaYqIjLn/s600/ruben-dario-01.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="481" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1fKQsq1klBtYtuabde-O2Dd9wjtNvZ-y6MzJ_8BuUg8svleS9Z0UiIYL-pJg7PwGfocYF3UCndB4kTzw2d8wIyN11bzsFMIrwUdUFqGo9IKrsN_yTk4LRcVl3uwuAUCTGCWhFCdo-dRVIYNl2zRAwnOhdYYaApmMn9LlXHJ_X1ow2GADT7fNMZaYqIjLn/s200/ruben-dario-01.jpg"/></a></div>Rubén Darío (1867―1916) is a Nicaraguan-born poet known as the father of the Spanish-language literary movement, Modernismo. He began as a child prodigy, who moved to El Salvador and later to Chile, where he published his first book in 1888. In1893, he was appointed Colombia’s Consul to Buenos Aires, and five years after that he became a correspondent in Europe for the Argentinian newspaper <i>La Nación</i>.<br />
<br />
Darío was influential on succeeding poets including Pablo Neruda, Octavio Paz, and Federico Garcia Lorca. According to The Poetry Foundation, “Darío revolutionized poetic structure, stretching lines past conventional stopping places and utilizing wordplay, epithet, and alliteration in innovative ways.” <br />
<br />
Although philosophically a Pythagorean dualist, Darío struggled to achieve the balance this implied in light of the Christian faith to which he had been raised. In his poem “Song of Hope” he considers the events of his day in light of scripture:<br />
<span style="color: #336666;">--------</span>“…Has Antichrist arisen whom John at Patmos saw?<br />
<span style="color: #336666;">--------</span>Portents are seen and marvels that fill the world with awe,<br />
<span style="color: #336666;">--------</span>And Christ's return seems pressing, come to fulfill the Law.”<br />
Rubén Darío then submissively says to Christ, expressing his own role in light of this vision:<br />
<span style="color: #336666;">--------</span>“…My heart shall be an ember and in thy censer lie.”<br />
<br />
The following poem is from <i>Songs of Life and Hope</i>, a translation of <i>Cantos de Vida y Esperanza</i> by Will Derusha and Alberto Acereda.<br />
<br />
<b>Hope</b><br />
<br />
Jesus, incomparable forgiver of trespasses,<br />
hear me; Sower of wheat, give me the tender<br />
Bread of your hosts; give me, in the face of furious hell,<br />
a lustral grace from rages and lusts.<br />
<br />
Tell me this appalling horror of agony<br />
obsessing me, comes only from my heinous guilt,<br />
that upon dying I will find the light of a new day<br />
and then will hear my "Rise up and walk!"<br />
<br />
This post was suggested by Matthew White, an Australian <i>Kingdom Poets</i> reader.<br />
<br />
Entry written by D.S. Martin. He is the author of five poetry collections including <i>Angelicus</i> (2021, Cascade) ― a book of poems written from the point-of-view of angels. His books are available through <a href="https://wipfandstock.com/search-results/?contributor=d-s-martin"target=__blank>Wipf & Stock</a>.<br />
D.S. Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14495257418306466030noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2582717873070037366.post-84129310958364600692024-01-01T00:00:00.000-08:002024-01-01T00:00:00.352-08:00John Greenleaf Whittier*<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivfsQYs_CJ9EycQrbfnTQmP72DkNiULgJISbEnMupVGCUwDOnjmm3HuRO8vHuzofTr6tJK6F2Gy_DIK34_Gb_ayPyDHg3PZ3AEGuhBFVcEwBGI-ANzHIRHDAX_69g8L9cOi5rV3PT1gZYkrHX2r04ta0_qD9nHaIqkh9HNT_YWnXYbfTpTt0ywK3czvEpG/s844/John_Greenleaf_Whittier_portrait.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" data-original-height="844" data-original-width="531" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivfsQYs_CJ9EycQrbfnTQmP72DkNiULgJISbEnMupVGCUwDOnjmm3HuRO8vHuzofTr6tJK6F2Gy_DIK34_Gb_ayPyDHg3PZ3AEGuhBFVcEwBGI-ANzHIRHDAX_69g8L9cOi5rV3PT1gZYkrHX2r04ta0_qD9nHaIqkh9HNT_YWnXYbfTpTt0ywK3czvEpG/s200/John_Greenleaf_Whittier_portrait.jpg"/></a></div>John Greenleaf Whittier (1807—1892) is a poet whose literary ambition, and political aspirations both took a back seat to his dedication to the abolitionist cause — a cause that was not popular in New England. Much of his early verse was written as propaganda for the fight against slavery. He wrote for abolitionist publications, and then eventually became the editor of the influential <i>New England Weekly Review</i>. By 1831 he was a delegate to the national Republican Convention in support of Henry Clay, and then ran unsuccessfully for Congress in 1832. <br />
<br />
In 1857 Whittier helped found <i>The Atlantic Weekly</i>, which enabled him to publish alongside many of the prominent voices of his day. Even before the U.S. Civil War, his poetry began moving into themes of religion, pastoral life, and a nostalgia for the New England of his youth. <br />
<br />
Once his lifelong political cause had been accomplished, his new work led him to become the most popular of the Fireside Poets — alongside such writers as Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, and William Cullen Bryant.<br />
<br />
<b>Sound Over All Waters</b><br />
<br />
Sound over all waters, reach out from all lands<br />
the chorus of voices, the clasping of hands!<br />
Sing hymns that were sung by the stars of the morn,<br />
Sing songs of the angels when Jesus was born!<br />
<span style="color: #336666;">----------</span>With glad jubilations<br />
<span style="color: #336666;">----------</span>Bring hope to the nations!<br />
The dark night is ending and dawn has begun:<br />
Rise, hope of the ages, arise like the sun,<br />
All speech flow to music, all hearts beat as one!<br />
<br />
Sing the bridal of nations! with chorals of love;<br />
Sing out the war-vulture and sing in the dove,<br />
Till the hearts of the people keep time in accord,<br />
And the voice of the world is the voice of the Lord!<br />
<span style="color: #336666;">----------</span>Clasp hands of the nations<br />
<span style="color: #336666;">----------</span>In strong gratulations:<br />
Rise, hope of the ages, arise like the sun,<br />
All speech flow to music, all hearts beat as one!<br />
<br />
Sound bugles of battle, the marches of peace;<br />
East, west, north, and south, let the long quarrel cease:<br />
Sing the song of great joy that the angels began,<br />
Sing of glory to God and of good-will to man!<br />
<span style="color: #336666;">----------</span>Hark, joining in chorus<br />
<span style="color: #336666;">----------</span>The heavens bend o’er us<br />
The dark night is ending and dawn has begun:<br />
Rise, hope for the ages, arise like the sun,<br />
all speech flow to music, all hearts beat as one!<br />
<br />
*This is the second <b>Kingdom Poets</b> post about John Greenleaf Whittier: <a href="https://kingdompoets.blogspot.com/2015/04/john-greenleaf-whittier.html"target=__blank>first post</a>.<br />
<br />
Entry written by D.S. Martin. He is the author of five poetry collections including <i>Angelicus</i> (2021, Cascade) ― a book of poems written from the point-of-view of angels. His books are available through <a href="https://wipfandstock.com/search-results/?contributor=d-s-martin"target=__blank>Wipf & Stock</a>.<br />D.S. Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14495257418306466030noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2582717873070037366.post-13160149330025938722023-12-25T00:00:00.000-08:002023-12-25T00:00:00.133-08:00Jane Kenyon*<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbYJiy2NfN4bG2pfnwT4zkeu5qjl5ci_wozte6Cvc43eZAWkNJcQV50vQg6Oc6BJggEWUHWd57jlgO9skuWNXHvJqoQSuvvKufgd7KGMDPLnYtcaDXjdx5ae411MpsBpkdMOaZ3PEU717gcUGxcCbe_75yAvAP4fhjURYA9xQoaaYqghG51Fdr3FzRhl2g/s500/Kenyon.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbYJiy2NfN4bG2pfnwT4zkeu5qjl5ci_wozte6Cvc43eZAWkNJcQV50vQg6Oc6BJggEWUHWd57jlgO9skuWNXHvJqoQSuvvKufgd7KGMDPLnYtcaDXjdx5ae411MpsBpkdMOaZ3PEU717gcUGxcCbe_75yAvAP4fhjURYA9xQoaaYqghG51Fdr3FzRhl2g/s200/Kenyon.jpg"/></a></div>Jane Kenyon (1947–1995) is an American poet who was a student at University of Michigan when she met her future husband, the much-older poet Donald Hall, who was a teacher there. Her first poetry collection, <i>From Room to Room</i> (Alice James Books), appeared in 1978. <br />
<br />
Kenyon had had four critically-acclaimed poetry collections published, when she was diagnosed with acute lymphoblastic leukemia. She fought it for a year, and after a stem-cell transplant, the cancer returned. She died a few days later; she was only 47.<br />
<br />
In the <i>New York Times Book Review</i>, poet Carol Muske said of <i>Otherwise</i> – the book of new and selected poems Kenyon had been working on at the time of her death – “In ecstasy, [Kenyon] sees this world as a kind of threshold through which we enter God’s wonder.” <br />
<br />
Her papers, including manuscripts, personal journals, and notebooks are held at the University of New Hampshire Library Special Collections and Archives.<br />
<br />
The following poem first appeared in <i>Poetry</i> magazine in December of 1995, and was published in <i>Otherwise: New & Selected Poems</i> (1996, Graywolf). <br />
<br />
<b>Mosaic of the Nativity: Serbia, Winter 1993</b><br />
<br />
On the domed ceiling God<br />
is thinking:<br />
I made them my joy,<br />
and everything else I created<br />
I made to bless them.<br />
But see what they do!<br />
I know their hearts<br />
and arguments:<br />
<br />
“We’re descended from<br />
Cain. Evil is nothing new,<br />
so what does it matter now<br />
if we shell the infirmary,<br />
and the well where the fearful<br />
and rash alike must<br />
come for water?”<br />
<br />
God thinks Mary into being.<br />
Suspended at the apogee<br />
of the golden dome,<br />
she curls in a brown pod,<br />
and inside her mind<br />
of Christ, cloaked in blood,<br />
lodges and begins to grow.<br />
<br />
*This is the third <b>Kingdom Poets</b> post about Jane Kenyon: <a href="https://kingdompoets.blogspot.com/2010/03/jane-kenyon.html"target=__blank>first post</a>, <a href="https://kingdompoets.blogspot.com/2015/07/jane-kenyon.html"target=__blank>second post</a>.<br />
<br />
Entry written by D.S. Martin. He is the author of five poetry collections including <i>Angelicus</i> (2021, Cascade) ― a book of poems written from the point-of-view of angels. His books are available through <a href="https://wipfandstock.com/search-results/?contributor=d-s-martin"target=__blank>Wipf & Stock</a>.<br />D.S. Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14495257418306466030noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2582717873070037366.post-27456536721001147962023-12-18T00:00:00.023-08:002023-12-18T00:00:00.132-08:00Irene Zimmerman<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWltrALQzxwRGLp1StvUdRDsU3rHXAR3IJwvVrX9EZO_ar6MHYpjgZMFrt0-tKhZYaUKM4tESzSRZIWAKiWPrhcv5vDZYuqQO9pnm00qcrLyA7lpsGI3tPjLMigGLxNQoW63D4HhKmlGhcw_sRSI9TbXm7LxaOH2aeSTMKimXstis6opEn-XXhzTu6hdK7/s272/Zimmerman.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" data-original-height="272" data-original-width="185" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWltrALQzxwRGLp1StvUdRDsU3rHXAR3IJwvVrX9EZO_ar6MHYpjgZMFrt0-tKhZYaUKM4tESzSRZIWAKiWPrhcv5vDZYuqQO9pnm00qcrLyA7lpsGI3tPjLMigGLxNQoW63D4HhKmlGhcw_sRSI9TbXm7LxaOH2aeSTMKimXstis6opEn-XXhzTu6hdK7/s200/Zimmerman.jpg"/></a></div>Irene Zimmerman is a Franciscan nun who was born in 1932 and grew up in Westphalia, Iowa. She taught in a Catholic high school in Milwaukee for 20 years, was a French tutor at a boarding school in Germany, and later served as poet-in-residence at St. Joseph Retreat in Bailey's Harbor, Wisconsin. She is now retired. <br />
<br />
Sister Irene has published five poetry books, including <i>Woman Un-Bent</i> (1999, St. Mary’s Press) and <i>Where God is at Home</i> (2019, ACTA Publications).<br />
<br />
She reminisces about entering Alverno College at age 21: “The community’s charism of fostering the arts was [a] powerful influence. Singing in the sisters’ choir made me feel that this community was where I belonged.” Later during her years teaching in Milwaukee she found her poetic voice.<br />
<br />
The following poem is from <i>Incarnation: New and Selected Poems for Spiritual Reflection</i> (2004, Cowley Publications).<br />
<br />
<b>Incarnation</b><br />
<br />
In careful hands<br />
God held the molten world—<br />
fragile filigree<br />
of unfinished blown glass.<br />
<br />
Then Mary’s word: Yes!<br />
rose like a pillar of fire,<br />
and Breath blew creation<br />
into Christed crystal.<br />
<br />
Entry written by D.S. Martin. He is the author of five poetry collections including <i>Angelicus</i> (2021, Cascade) ― a book of poems written from the point-of-view of angels. His books are available through <a href="https://wipfandstock.com/search-results/?contributor=d-s-martin"target=__blank>Wipf & Stock</a>.<br />D.S. Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14495257418306466030noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2582717873070037366.post-81390011337956447362023-12-11T00:00:00.030-08:002023-12-11T03:49:21.315-08:00Leslie Leyland Fields<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFO1uv-mr5p48uN6kV2m8kl38jgYYhMGLZEhXjPl2QrnlVlGHXzlVl5wMjLL0H9XbX6Dlrl0xNlbhBeY7szkZEzT1LNdMDtVJjlvpe8V2QIq7ZiDQpniMTFg6vrUC_yFilV8dp08Aj0o9fa_tN8dcYipv0DB5wg2MbctKH5fLJuTk92gm6nCFYs82WmDnx/s1028/mail.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" width="200" data-original-height="860" data-original-width="1028" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFO1uv-mr5p48uN6kV2m8kl38jgYYhMGLZEhXjPl2QrnlVlGHXzlVl5wMjLL0H9XbX6Dlrl0xNlbhBeY7szkZEzT1LNdMDtVJjlvpe8V2QIq7ZiDQpniMTFg6vrUC_yFilV8dp08Aj0o9fa_tN8dcYipv0DB5wg2MbctKH5fLJuTk92gm6nCFYs82WmDnx/s200/mail.jpg"/></a></div>Leslie Leyland Fields is an Alaskan writer who has published twelve books, including <i>Your Story Matters</i> (2020, NavPress), <i>Crossing the Waters </i>(2016), and the poetry collection <i>The Water Under Fish</i> (1994). She has taught at the University of Alaska, and is a founding faculty member of Seattle Pacific University’s MFA program. She also founded the Harvester Island Wilderness Workshop, an annual writing retreat on her family’s wilderness island in Alaska.<br />
<br />
She and the poet Paul J. Willis have just had a new collection of Advent readings published by IVP: <i>A Radiant Birth: Advent Readings for a Bright Season</i>. It consists of 42 readings from the first Sunday of Advent through to Epiphany written by members of the Chrysostrom Society. Some of these readings are poems, while others are stories and essays, and they come from such highly regarded writers as Luci Shaw, Robert Siegel, Diane Glancy, Eugene Peterson, and Madeleine L’Engle ― all of whom are (or were) members of the Chrysostrom Society.<br />
<br />
The following poem is from Leslie Leyland Fields, and appears in <i>A Radiant Birth</i>.<br />
<br />
<b>Let the Stable Still Astonish</b><br />
<br />
Let the stable still astonish:<br />
Straw-dirt floor, dull eyes,<br />
Dusty flanks of donkeys, oxen;<br />
Crumbling, crooked walls;<br />
No bed to carry that pain,<br />
And then, the child,<br />
Rag-wrapped, laid to cry<br />
In a trough.<br />
Who would have chosen this?<br />
Who would have said: "Yes,<br />
Let the God of all the heavens and earth<br />
be born here, in this place?”<br />
Who but the same God<br />
Who stands in the darker, fouler rooms<br />
Of our hearts and says, "Yes, <br />
Let the God <br />
of Heaven and Earth<br />
be born here―<br />
In this place."<br />
<br />
Posted with permission of the poet.<br />
<br />
Entry written by D.S. Martin. He is the author of five poetry collections including <i>Angelicus</i> (2021, Cascade) ― a book of poems written from the point-of-view of angels. His books are available through <a href="https://wipfandstock.com/search-results/?contributor=d-s-martin"target=__blank>Wipf & Stock</a>.<br />
D.S. Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14495257418306466030noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2582717873070037366.post-61446941579727897872023-12-04T00:00:00.109-08:002023-12-04T10:51:01.977-08:00Pamela Mordecai<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTrqHlcGuYyYQsv8T7KtegNcA7LzCSA2UXuY7hKKCddo4nOBlb16UiyEBb_dQnS_NyoJF8nO0ZTcYZzG7802nOhXmRCb5dtEy4WmJFaOsWFHKqofV1hUrExOQ2lV6TSbho97iVkCV8YG_1BDcj7vHGfhGCoHDvtdEI9t2YkZIlgDEdjqcNkbvSIeWXOvh8/s318/Mordecai.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" width="200" data-original-height="318" data-original-width="318" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTrqHlcGuYyYQsv8T7KtegNcA7LzCSA2UXuY7hKKCddo4nOBlb16UiyEBb_dQnS_NyoJF8nO0ZTcYZzG7802nOhXmRCb5dtEy4WmJFaOsWFHKqofV1hUrExOQ2lV6TSbho97iVkCV8YG_1BDcj7vHGfhGCoHDvtdEI9t2YkZIlgDEdjqcNkbvSIeWXOvh8/s200/Mordecai.jpg"/></a></div>Pamela Mordecai is a Jamaican-born poet, who migrated to Canada in 1993. She has authored eight collections of poetry, five children’s books, a novel, and a collection of short fiction. A video collection of her poetry was produced in 2015 at Memorial University, St. John’s, Newfoundland. <i>A Fierce Green Place: New and Selected Poems</i> appeared from New Directions in 2022. <br />
<br />
She often writes in Jamaican Creole, particularly for her New Testament trilogy , which has been written and published in reverse order. Dionne Brand said of the first section <i>de book of Joseph</i> (2022), "Pamela Mordecai is a wonder, a teller and a burnisher, working the syntax, rhetorical devices and pragmatics of Jamaican language to its perfection." <br />
<br />
The second book is <i>de book of Mary: a performance poem</i> (2015), and the final book <i>de man: a performance poem</i>, written as an eyewitness account of Christ’s crucifixion, appeared in 1995.<br />
<br />
I met Pamela Mordecai at a literary event presented by Imago at the University of Toronto in September. She was accompanied by her friend the St. Lucian poet Jane King.<br />
<br />
Martin Mordecai, Pamela’s husband of 54 years ― a writer, TV producer, civil servant, and diplomat ― passed away in 2021. Pamela Mordecai now lives in Toronto.<br />
<br />
The following poem was recently reprinted in the <i>Humber Literary Review</i> and comes from <i>de book of Mary</i>. <br />
<br />
<b>Archangel Explains</b><br />
<br />
Archangel, him smile wide, take a next<br />
sip, give out, “Do not fret, holy one. <br />
For de Spirit shall seize you. De power <br />
of De-One-Who-Run-Things take you in. <br />
Too besides, dem will call de pikni<br />
you going bear ‘Son of God’. <br />
El Shaddai going give him David throne<br />
for David is him forefather long time aback.<br />
And him going reign over de tribe <br />
of Jacob for all time to come, <br />
and him kingdom going last forever.<br />
It never going end.<br />
Not just dat. Hear dis news!<br />
Your cousin Eliza who bad mind<br />
people take to make sport and call mule<br />
she making baby too – gone six month<br /><br />
already never mind she well old, <br />
for Jehovah, him do what him please.”<br />
As for whether is El Shaddai send<br />
me to you, if you think to yourself,<br />
you will know if is so.<br />
<br />
Posted with permission of the poet.<br />
<br />
This post was first suggested by my friend Burl Horniachek.<br />
<br />
Entry written by D.S. Martin. He is the author of five poetry collections including <i>Angelicus</i> (2021, Cascade) ― a book of poems written from the point-of-view of angels. His books are available through <a href="https://wipfandstock.com/search-results/?contributor=d-s-martin"target=__blank>Wipf & Stock</a>.<br />
D.S. Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14495257418306466030noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2582717873070037366.post-66146546173272250112023-11-27T00:00:00.089-08:002023-11-27T05:30:37.212-08:00C.S. Lewis*<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCPwDJTjKw7aRNfDEpdSPQGc5dHayBVRZkCJ7D-zKpsVKWBqQIN8tPRr3SfksECsEf9XVLgDk8uHlS3XY5lzeJ3wTlM5fANSn1mZUXTF1I7UmuGB9DYxeo7wGlXzOU3qDeyymNYdkhLLgvbzOMx186KWB9KJPjGWDveKqNkXZyZMC0765KpsAX3sfqfCcb/s800/Lewis.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" width="200" data-original-height="659" data-original-width="800" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCPwDJTjKw7aRNfDEpdSPQGc5dHayBVRZkCJ7D-zKpsVKWBqQIN8tPRr3SfksECsEf9XVLgDk8uHlS3XY5lzeJ3wTlM5fANSn1mZUXTF1I7UmuGB9DYxeo7wGlXzOU3qDeyymNYdkhLLgvbzOMx186KWB9KJPjGWDveKqNkXZyZMC0765KpsAX3sfqfCcb/s200/Lewis.jpg"/></a></div>C.S. Lewis (1898—1963) is one of the most influential Christian writers of all time. He taught English at Oxford (1925—1954) and then at Cambridge (1954—1963), and was a close friend and significant encourager to J.R.R. Tolkien. <br />
<br />
Known to his friends as Jack, Lewis published more than thirty works, which have been translated into more than thirty languages, and have sold millions of copies. Ten years ago, this month, on the anniversary of his death, a memorial stone honouring him was unveiled in Poets' Corner in Westminster Abbey.<br />
<br />
As we approach November 29th (this Wednesday), his birthday, the podcast <i>Pints with Jack</i>, along with “over thirty Lewis societies and content creators” will be marking for the first time “C.S. Lewis Reading Day.” Watch the promotional <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jRokHwN3gN8&ab_channel=PintswithJack"target=__blank>video</a>, and then, if you are so inclined, listen to the <i>Pints With Jack</i> <a href="https://www.pintswithjack.com/s5e64/"target=__blank>podcast</a> from when they interviewed me about my book <i>Conspiracy of Light: Poems Inspired by the Legacy of C.S. Lewis</i>. (Poiema/Cascade).<br />
<br />
The following poem is available in his book <i>Poems</i> (1964, Harcourt, Inc.)<br />
<br />
<b>Footnote to All Prayers</b><br />
<br />
He whom I bow to only knows to whom I bow<br />
When I attempt the ineffable Name, murmuring Thou,<br />
And dream of Pheidian fancies and embrace in heart<br />
Symbols (I know) which cannot be the thing Thou art.<br />
Thus always, taken at their word, all prayers blaspheme<br />
Worshiping with frail images a folk-lore dream,<br />
And all men in their praying, self-deceived, address<br />
The coinage of their own unquiet thoughts, unless<br />
Thou in magnetic mercy to Thyself divert<br />
Our arrows, aimed unskilfully, beyond desert;<br />
And all men are idolaters, crying unheard<br />
To a deaf idol, if Thou take them at their word.<br />
Take not, O Lord, our literal sense. Lord, in thy great<br />
Unbroken speech our limping metaphor translate.<br />
<br />
*This is the third <b>Kingdom Poets</b> post about C.S. Lewis: <a href="https://kingdompoets.blogspot.com/2010/07/cs-lewis.html"target=__blank>first post</a>, <a href="https://kingdompoets.blogspot.com/2013/11/cs-lewis.html"target=__blank>second post</a>.<br />
<br />
Entry written by D.S. Martin. He is the author of five poetry collections including <i>Angelicus</i> (2021, Cascade) ― a book of poems written from the point-of-view of angels. His books are available through <a href="https://wipfandstock.com/search-results/?contributor=d-s-martin"target=__blank>Wipf & Stock</a>.<br />D.S. Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14495257418306466030noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2582717873070037366.post-53186546470177930392023-11-20T00:00:00.000-08:002023-11-20T00:00:00.150-08:00Marly Youmans<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_gj5FrHasDf1YuU35grEYymesQ7Rs2ex4N3ixdGT24qBRM5NofpIVk6U3WJs1_ucLBbnGnn-u2CgjjTTf9ZQtoK7hkVQqgPKI1yw2_yxWnqteezre_LTtSCPI2yDattNpxo5E3nRjmqRz_YgKKfEN-twbyiSOgWqeVdKIEQMZRBGYyKbEMV8vNBWlr39Q/s640/Youmans.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" width="200" data-original-height="426" data-original-width="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_gj5FrHasDf1YuU35grEYymesQ7Rs2ex4N3ixdGT24qBRM5NofpIVk6U3WJs1_ucLBbnGnn-u2CgjjTTf9ZQtoK7hkVQqgPKI1yw2_yxWnqteezre_LTtSCPI2yDattNpxo5E3nRjmqRz_YgKKfEN-twbyiSOgWqeVdKIEQMZRBGYyKbEMV8vNBWlr39Q/s200/Youmans.jpg"/></a></div>Marly Youmans has written sixteen books of poetry and fiction ― which is a good way to put it, since some of her books straddle the divide between genres.<br />
<br />
Her most recent book is <i>Seren of the Wildwood</i> (2023, Wiseblood) ― an epic poem written within the strict limitations Marly Youmans has placed upon herself. Its 61 chapters each consist of 21 lines of blank verse (iambic pentameter): <br />
<span style="color: #336666;">----------</span>Never speak of your passions by the wildwood—<br />
<span style="color: #336666;">----------</span>The needfulness that might have saved their lives… <br />
followed by five lines of rhyming verse:<br />
<span style="color: #336666;">----------</span>And trees<br />
<span style="color: #336666;">----------</span>May shelter eyes and ears <br />
<span style="color: #336666;">----------</span>That do not care to please—<br />
<span style="color: #336666;">----------</span>The shade where something hears,<br />
<span style="color: #336666;">----------</span>The dark where something sees.<br />
It tells the story of a girl, born after the death of her brothers, seemingly because her father had said,<br />
<span style="color: #336666;">----------</span>“I wish I had a daughter, not you boys<br />
<span style="color: #336666;">----------</span>Who shut your ears and are no help to me!”<br />
Be careful what you wish for, indeed!<br />
<br />
Earlier poetry collections include <i>Claire: poems</i> (2003, LSU Press), and <i>The Book of the Red King</i> (2019, Phoenicia Publishing). She lives in New York State.<br />
<br />
The following poem appeared in <i>[A New] Decameron</i>.<br />
<br />
<b>The Hand</b><br />
<br />
I found a hand, half-buried in a field—<br />
Like light, it held all colors in itself,<br />
A sparkling white, perhaps alabaster<br />
Or moonlight pooled and then solidified.<br />
I bought the field. I dug around the hand, <br />
Hired men to drag it from the hiding place.<br />
They marveled at the size; I crossed their palms<br />
With silver, bribing them to tell no one.<br />
I scrubbed the dirt, the lichen flourishes<br />
And stains until the hand was luminous<br />
By day or night. It shone below the moon<br />
As if it were the glove to catch that ball.<br />
In summer, I lay naked in its curl,<br />
The coolness of the skin against my skin.<br />
In fall, leaves settled in the fingers’ bowl.<br />
In snow, the hand was lost beneath the stars.<br />
One night I dreamed the fingers held three keys.<br />
The first was silvery, a key of rain.<br />
The second, bronze, unlocking a great chest<br />
Where all the souls of those to be were stored.<br />
The third was golden, notched and nicked with signs,<br />
But what it meant, or why the angels flew<br />
Backwards and forwards, hunting the bright key,<br />
I didn’t know. I reached to them in sleep.<br />
Stories say that God could make a mountain<br />
With just one hand. To make a man took two.<br />
All I know is story. I called and woke,<br />
And dew was on my face like chilly tears.<br />
<br />
Posted with permission of the poet.<br />
<br />
Entry written by D.S. Martin. He is the author of five poetry collections including <i>Angelicus</i> (2021, Cascade) ― a book of poems written from the point-of-view of angels. His books are available through <a href="https://wipfandstock.com/search-results/?contributor=d-s-martin"target=__blank>Wipf & Stock</a>.<br />D.S. Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14495257418306466030noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2582717873070037366.post-42965497024773622612023-11-13T00:00:00.038-08:002023-11-13T00:00:00.148-08:00Elizabeth Melville<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3N316lZtEZG6uZZ5V9LBMk4QI_Z3LPblt0dJtjQCD7w7EjE41VzvOEjnr1yueAhzQh-9GzhB0ZxKVrN2augqhjUUbS07rYKZoN7azgcFjRMS4bCVyQfcSgux5E1W4u0aJZxaIIJdc6WT58Su4l3JS_QDFDZUq15WWBYR8wXytZnaZQH94WuWpjGZVg_IL/s540/Melville.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="330" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3N316lZtEZG6uZZ5V9LBMk4QI_Z3LPblt0dJtjQCD7w7EjE41VzvOEjnr1yueAhzQh-9GzhB0ZxKVrN2augqhjUUbS07rYKZoN7azgcFjRMS4bCVyQfcSgux5E1W4u0aJZxaIIJdc6WT58Su4l3JS_QDFDZUq15WWBYR8wXytZnaZQH94WuWpjGZVg_IL/s200/Melville.jpg"/></a></div>Elizabeth Melville (c.1578―c.1640), also known as Lady Culross, is a Scottish poet. The first edition of her <i>Ane Godlie Dreame</i> appeared in 1603, making her the first known woman in Scotland to have her poetry published. Her father, Sir James Melville of Halhill, served in the courts of Mary Queen of Scots, and King James VI (who became England’s James I in 1603).<br />
<br />
She described her 60-stanza, 480-line poem as an account of a dream she had had when in deep spiritual anguish. It has been suggested that John Bunyan’s <i>Pilgrim’s Progress</i> was influenced by <i>Ane Godlie Dreame</i>. <br />
<br />
Elizabeth Melville was active among those resisting English attempts to bring the Presbyterian Kirk under the authority and influence of the Church of England. She wrote the following sonnet for the Calvinist preacher John Welsh, when ― for holding a General Assembly at Aberdeen in July, 1605 ― he was imprisoned in Blackness Castle.<br />
<br />
<b>A Sonnet Sent to Blackness<br />
To Mr. John Welsh by the Lady Culross</b><br />
<br />
My Dear Brother with courage bear the cross.<br />
<span style="color: #336666;">---</span>Joy shall be joined with all your sorrow here;<br />
High is your Hope. Disdain this worldly dross:<br />
<span style="color: #336666;">---</span>Anew shall you for this wished day appear.<br />
<br />
Though it is dark, the sky cannot be clear.<br />
<span style="color: #336666;">---</span>After the cloud, it shall be calm anon.<br />
Wait on his will who with Blood hath bought you dear<br />
<span style="color: #336666;">---</span>Extol his name though outward joys be gone.<br />
<br />
Look to the Lord: you are not left alone.<br />
<span style="color: #336666;">---</span>Since he is yours, oft pleasure can you take.<br />
He is at hand and hears your every groan<br />
<span style="color: #336666;">---</span>End out your fight and suffer for his sake.<br />
<br />
<span style="color: #336666;">---</span>A sight most bright your soul shall shortly see<br />
<span style="color: #336666;">---</span>When show of glore your rich reward shall be.<br />
<br />
Entry written by D.S. Martin. He is the author of five poetry collections including <i>Angelicus</i> (2021, Cascade) ― a book of poems written from the point-of-view of angels. His books are available through <a href="https://wipfandstock.com/search-results/?contributor=d-s-martin"target=__blank>Wipf & Stock</a>.<br />D.S. Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14495257418306466030noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2582717873070037366.post-91224248914037235192023-11-06T00:00:00.026-08:002023-11-06T00:00:00.158-08:00William Shakespeare*<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf_1oYcYRawmqxkcDsljVtRkSF7JBlyiyKC_DqBWgQ217eEMVMnnePvPR_O9-w3B2-0_Hef1j-TCIH9F7OsZlAR8K-HYMkRF6w_kylGJBeAIgbygkm1LztWQBjqUBkBhsknRFPlyNDZ0icIhnQ7WsgvB6FuAkIKlj_Fmj8caxcCZ7FgJBsy1VxM4fTVmZw/s300/Shakespeare.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" width="200" data-original-height="200" data-original-width="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf_1oYcYRawmqxkcDsljVtRkSF7JBlyiyKC_DqBWgQ217eEMVMnnePvPR_O9-w3B2-0_Hef1j-TCIH9F7OsZlAR8K-HYMkRF6w_kylGJBeAIgbygkm1LztWQBjqUBkBhsknRFPlyNDZ0icIhnQ7WsgvB6FuAkIKlj_Fmj8caxcCZ7FgJBsy1VxM4fTVmZw/s200/Shakespeare.jpg"/></a></div>William Shakespeare (1564―1616) is considered by many to be the greatest writer this world has ever known. All hype aside, he is easily one of the most influential. <br />
<br />
His personal religious views can only be determined by things voiced by the characters in his plays, by what the persona of his sonnets expressed, and by his religious practice. According to the latter he would be seen as an Anglican Christian, although regular attendance at Church of England services was compulsory. <br />
<br />
He would have heard the <i>Bishop’s Bible</i> regularly read in church, but based on the language of his plays he was also familiar with the <i>Geneva Bible</i>, a personal Bible not used in the church, but owned by individuals for devotional study. Shakespeare clearly spent much time reading this translation. <br />
<br />
Being an Englishman of his age, he would certainly have seen himself as Christian. The following sonnet could only have been written by someone who did.<br />
<br />
<b>Sonnet 146</b><br />
<br />
Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth,<br />
[......] these rebel powers that thee array,<br />
Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth,<br />
Painting thy outward walls so costly gay?<br />
Why so large cost, having so short a lease,<br />
Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend?<br />
Shall worms, inheritors of this excess,<br />
Eat up thy charge? Is this thy body's end?<br />
Then soul, live thou upon thy servant's loss<br />
And let that pine to aggravate thy store;<br />
Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross;<br />
Within be fed, without be rich no more.<br />
So shalt thou feed on Death, that feeds on men,<br />
And, Death once dead, there's no more dying then.<br />
<br />
*This is the second <b>Kingdom Poets</b> post about William Shakespeare: <a href="https://kingdompoets.blogspot.com/2020/07/william-shakespeare.html"target=__blank>first post</a>.<br />
<br />
Entry written by D.S. Martin. He is the author of five poetry collections including <i>Angelicus</i> (2021, Cascade) ― a book of poems written from the point-of-view of angels. His books are available through <a href="https://wipfandstock.com/search-results/?contributor=d-s-martin"target=__blank>Wipf & Stock</a>.<br />D.S. Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14495257418306466030noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2582717873070037366.post-14016619809460350562023-10-30T00:00:00.006-07:002023-10-30T00:00:00.150-07:00William Everson*<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdAY8yjKIgONbXKaF5mc_vTh7OezDGKrbhkEyM2E_zBzX-6Jm7JSB-2pnG1E14MLG_HGD8GaCmZZ2W9-p_h2c8rU6M6PNECQOvSpW5W8VBua7NK-Ce6Pxruag5iCFEe6dE-fcpo0b9FrGK_4NOm8pZfehkI_26wL91wZDrdGD5LiWlGcodv-oxrJass9fG/s237/Everson.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" data-original-height="237" data-original-width="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdAY8yjKIgONbXKaF5mc_vTh7OezDGKrbhkEyM2E_zBzX-6Jm7JSB-2pnG1E14MLG_HGD8GaCmZZ2W9-p_h2c8rU6M6PNECQOvSpW5W8VBua7NK-Ce6Pxruag5iCFEe6dE-fcpo0b9FrGK_4NOm8pZfehkI_26wL91wZDrdGD5LiWlGcodv-oxrJass9fG/s200/Everson.jpg"/></a></div>William Everson (1912—1994) is a northern California poet, known as part of the beat movement of San Francisco in the 1950s. His early books such as <i>These Are The Ravens</i> (1935) established him as a nature poet. He embraced Catholicism in 1948, and he entered the Dominican Order as Brother Antoninus in 1951. <br />
<br />
His rise to fame came during this time of discovered faith — as his second wife returned to church, and encouraged him to join her. Ironically, because they had both previously been married their union was not recognized by the Catholic church, and so they separated and, years later, divorced.<br />
<br />
In 1957 Kennoth Rexroth’s “San Francisco Letter” in the <i>Evergreen Review</i> declared the significance of this new movement of poets — including William Everson — which established him in the popular press as “The Beat Friar,” and led to readings across the US and as far away as Europe.<br />
<br />
He left the Dominican Order in 1969 for a secular life to allow himself to pursue a romantic relationship with the woman who would become his third wife; he did, however, maintain his poetic vocation and his Christian faith.<br />
<br />
<b>Out of the Ash</b><br />
<br />
Solstice of the dark, the absolute<br />
Zero of the year. Praise God<br />
Who comes for us again, our lives<br />
Pulled to their fisted knot,<br />
Cinched tight with cold, drawn<br />
To the heart’s constriction; our faces<br />
Seamed like clinkers in the grate,<br />
Hands like tongs—Praise God<br />
That Christ, phoenix immortal,<br />
Springs up again from solstice ash,<br />
Drives his equatorial ray<br />
Into our cloud, emblazons<br />
Our stiff brow, fries<br />
Our chill tears. Come Christ,<br />
Most gentle and throat-pulsing Bird!<br />
O come, sweet Child! Be gladness<br />
In our church! Waken with anthems<br />
Our bare rafters! O phoenix<br />
Forever! Virgin-wombed<br />
And burning in the dark,<br />
Be born! Be born!<br />
<br />
*This is the second <b>Kingdom Poets</b> post about William Everson: <a href="https://kingdompoets.blogspot.com/2014/04/william-everson.html"target=__blank>first post</a>.<br />
<br />
Entry written by D.S. Martin. He is the author of five poetry collections including <i>Angelicus</i> (2021, Cascade) ― a book of poems written from the point-of-view of angels. His books are available through <a href="https://wipfandstock.com/search-results/?contributor=d-s-martin"target=__blank>Wipf & Stock</a>.<br />D.S. Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14495257418306466030noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2582717873070037366.post-6660832335396535832023-10-23T00:00:00.000-07:002023-10-23T00:00:00.163-07:00Gwenallt<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNLArGsmh9Qh5kV6SjOb1-wQPgi_jaBkDm8DdpPKBwiVOldYUaNUcEtC0muU9J6TVFHCMUhlVyiktXQ7I5c2AN2FSJdng-BFlpS8NjfOcDfhTUzy4mEpBwDsB4RVkHwoSry5CRaRo7Vm5ZQU9Mcb6XAIhe4_pYfS8Ln9oD7OMdghgHIG4w2ABx_GRLPg77/s225/Gwenallt2.jpeg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" width="200" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNLArGsmh9Qh5kV6SjOb1-wQPgi_jaBkDm8DdpPKBwiVOldYUaNUcEtC0muU9J6TVFHCMUhlVyiktXQ7I5c2AN2FSJdng-BFlpS8NjfOcDfhTUzy4mEpBwDsB4RVkHwoSry5CRaRo7Vm5ZQU9Mcb6XAIhe4_pYfS8Ln9oD7OMdghgHIG4w2ABx_GRLPg77/s200/Gwenallt2.jpeg"/></a></div>Gwenallt (1899―1968) is a Welsh poet, born as David James Jones, who adopted Gwenallt as his bardic name which he created “by transposing Alltwen, the name of the village across the river from his birthplace”. At age 16 he joined the Marxist Labour Party, and during the latter part of WWI was imprisoned as a conscientious objector. After the war he studied Welsh, and by 1927 was appointed Lecturer in the Welsh Department of University College Wales, Aberystwyth.<br />
<br />
He outgrew the political idealism of his youth, but also faced disillusionment with other structures. He was passed over, time and again, for a professorship by college authorities, and he was unsettled in his search for a spiritual home ― reacting strongly to what was said or done by church leadership. He was raised as a Nonconformist, flirted with Catholicism, became a member of the Church of Wales for many years, but ended his days as a member of a Methodist Chapel at Aberystwyth.<br />
<br />
Gwenallt wrote his poetry in Welsh, and the first of his five poetry collections, <i>Ysgubau’r Awen</i> (1939), was published to much critical acclaim; in time he became a major voice in Welsh poetry. He also eventually wrote two novels, although his poetry remains more influential. He is noteworthy for his passionate, spiritual voice, his precise local imagery, and the universal significance of his themes.<br />
<br />
Here are two English versions of one of Gwenallt’s poems ― which I include for comparison, and to demonstrate how the translating of poetry is akin to writing the poem afresh, hopefully as close to the spirit of the original as possible. The first version was translated by Patrick Thomas ― from <i>Sensuous Glory: The Poetic Vision of D. Gwenallt Jones</i> (2000, Canterbury Press); and the second is translated by Rowan Williams, from his book <i>Headwaters</i> (2008, Perpetua Press). Patrick Thomas and Rowan Williams have both granted me permission to include their translations.<br />
<br />
<b>Sin</b><br />
<br />
When we strip off every kind of dress,<br />
The cloak of respectability and wise knowledge,<br />
The cloth of culture and the silks of learning;<br />
The soul's so bare, so uncleanly naked:<br />
The primitive mud is in our poor matter,<br />
The beast's slime is in our marrow and our blood,<br />
The bow's arrow is between our finger and thumb<br />
And the savage dance is in our feet.<br />
As we wander through the original, free forest,<br />
We find between the branches a piece of Heaven,<br />
Where the saints sing anthems of grace and faith,<br />
The Magnificat of His salvation;<br />
We raise our nostrils up like wolves<br />
Baying for the Blood that redeemed us.<br />
<br />
<b>Sin</b><br />
<br />
Take off the business suit, the old-school tie,<br />
The gown, the cap, drop the reviews, awards,<br />
Certificates, stand naked in your sty,<br />
A little carnivore, clothed in dried turds.<br />
The snot that slowly fills our passages<br />
Seeps up from hollows where the dead beasts lie;<br />
Dumb stamping dances spell our messages,<br />
We only know what makes our arrows fly.<br />
Lost in the wood, we sometimes glimpse the sky<br />
Between the branches, and the words drop down<br />
We cannot hear, the alien voices high<br />
And hard, singing salvation, grace, life, dawn.<br />
Like wolves, we lift our snouts: Blood, blood, we cry,<br />
The blood that bought us so we need not die.<br />
<br />
This post was suggested by my friend Burl Horniachek.<br />
<br />
Entry written by D.S. Martin. He is the author of five poetry collections including <i>Angelicus</i> (2021, Cascade) ― a book of poems written from the point-of-view of angels. His books are available through <a href="https://wipfandstock.com/search-results/?contributor=d-s-martin"target=__blank>Wipf & Stock</a>.<br />D.S. Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14495257418306466030noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2582717873070037366.post-56451590128147596312023-10-16T00:00:00.011-07:002023-10-16T00:00:00.135-07:00Thomas á Kempis<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg63bWmZtNG9Q7r80kAykstSNIPo5h1bEvSmyEgv4Y8l7_g0Lhg-Jt6jUMZqfLyuJHNIarY5KjcrnR2E9b7NZ0q-fPbXuysARwzJZbeeJfvkCtXMu4-Sil_s0wEKylBmNU-0A-DYPye9h8WA8oRiX9o54ijqKCgNnTelI9vh8fiIwGbD77DG3Ssnl7JNzuo/s275/Thomas.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" width="200" data-original-height="275" data-original-width="275" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg63bWmZtNG9Q7r80kAykstSNIPo5h1bEvSmyEgv4Y8l7_g0Lhg-Jt6jUMZqfLyuJHNIarY5KjcrnR2E9b7NZ0q-fPbXuysARwzJZbeeJfvkCtXMu4-Sil_s0wEKylBmNU-0A-DYPye9h8WA8oRiX9o54ijqKCgNnTelI9vh8fiIwGbD77DG3Ssnl7JNzuo/s200/Thomas.jpg"/></a></div>Thomas á Kempis (1380–1471) is the author of the well-known devotional book <i>The Imitation of Christ</i>, which was anonymously published in Latin in the Netherlands in 1418. He was born in Kempen, near Dusseldorf, Germany. He received Holy Orders in 1413 and was made sub-prior of the Monastery of Mount St. Agnes in the Dutch city of Zwolle in 1429. <br />
<br />
Thomas’s responsibilities included copying manuscripts ― he is said to have copied the entire Bible at least four times ― and in teaching novices. He wrote four booklets for this purpose, which were eventually compiled as <i>The Imitation of Christ</i>.<br />
<br />
<i>Christian History</i> says of <i>The Imitation of Christ</i>, “Sir Thomas More…said it was one of the three books everybody ought to own. Ignatius of Loyola, founder of the Jesuits, read a chapter a day from it and regularly gave away copies as gifts. Methodist founder John Wesley said it was the best summary of the Christian life he had ever read.” Many consider it the most influential Christian book, next to the Bible itself.<br />
<br />
<b>Oh, Love</b><br />
<br />
O love, how deep, how broad, how high,<br />
beyond all thought and fantasy,<br />
that God, the Son of God, should take<br />
our mortal form for mortals' sake!<br />
<br />
He sent no angel to our race,<br />
of higher or of lower place,<br />
but wore the robe of human frame,<br />
and to this world himself he came.<br />
<br />
For us baptized, for us he bore<br />
his holy fast and hungered sore;<br />
for us temptation sharp he knew,<br />
for us the tempter overthrew.<br />
<br />
For us he prayed, for us he taught;<br />
for us his daily works he wrought,<br />
by words and signs and actions thus<br />
still seeking not himself but us.<br />
<br />
For us, by wicked men betrayed,<br />
for us, in crown of thorns arrayed,<br />
he bore the shameful cross and death;<br />
for us he gave his dying breath.<br />
<br />
For us he rose from death again,<br />
for us he went on high to reign;<br />
for us he sent his Spirit here<br />
to guide, to strengthen, and to cheer.<br />
<br />
All glory to our Lord and God<br />
for love so deep, so high, so broad,<br />
the Trinity whom we adore<br />
forever and forevermore.<br />
<br />
Entry written by D.S. Martin. He is the author of five poetry collections including <i>Angelicus</i> (2021, Cascade) ― a book of poems written from the point-of-view of angels. His books are available through <a href="https://wipfandstock.com/search-results/?contributor=d-s-martin"target=__blank>Wipf & Stock</a>.<br />D.S. Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14495257418306466030noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2582717873070037366.post-9176668387776591532023-10-09T00:00:00.006-07:002023-10-11T12:33:41.256-07:00Sofia Starnes<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmg79ilRj6zDljQZS9OuD6uD65LLhOQScO3_UHL9EG6yelZXyRP00B8BOFsJEe_4vNY1KEETgOcMQS73E7sG80h37vIWRhhewZ4g0fLtytDr-kvj0j1AstVTeSUrP46IcdOgUhUtsuRxpdvV7woafWL050yt4489itXd49EJX4kOSjSFyNn_c1jxKPwajr/s250/Starnes.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" width="200" data-original-height="250" data-original-width="250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmg79ilRj6zDljQZS9OuD6uD65LLhOQScO3_UHL9EG6yelZXyRP00B8BOFsJEe_4vNY1KEETgOcMQS73E7sG80h37vIWRhhewZ4g0fLtytDr-kvj0j1AstVTeSUrP46IcdOgUhUtsuRxpdvV7woafWL050yt4489itXd49EJX4kOSjSFyNn_c1jxKPwajr/s200/Starnes.jpg"/></a></div>Sofia Starnes is the author of six poetry collections, including <i>The Consequence of Moonlight</i> (2018, Paraclete) and <i>Fully into Ashes</i> (2011, Wings Press) and is a former Poet Laureate of Virginia. I know her best from her role as Poetry Editor at <i>Anglican Theological Review</i>, where she served from 2007 to 2020. <br />
<br />
She was born and raised in The Philippines, speaking Spanish at home, and English at school. While in her teens, her family left for Spain, to escape the Marcos dictatorship. She took a degree in English Philology while in Spain, eventually married an American, and moved to New York. <br />
<br />
Sofia Starnes recently told <i>Fare Forward</i> about the collection she is currently working on; all of the poems follow a 16th century form called the dizain, consisting of ten lines with ten beats per line. The following poem, which first appeared in <i>Plough</i>, is from this new manuscript.<br />
<br />
<b>Zeal</b><br />
<br />
Oh, to imagine I’m shielding You, when You’re<br />
secure as a chant in a red hymnal,<br />
hope of our eyes. You step away on sure<br />
voices, in a child’s throat made for canticle.<br />
<br />
Oh, to dream I’m some ardent sentinel<br />
bearing the moon on my watch, between a church<br />
and a fire, when it’s You who lifts the torch,<br />
clears the tares, so that we might see the stones<br />
<br />
pointing home. You pick Your way through the scorch,<br />
calling stragglers— Oh, those dallying bones.<br />
<br />
Posted with permission of the poet.<br />
<br />
Entry written by D.S. Martin. He is the author of five poetry collections including <i>Angelicus</i> (2021, Cascade) ― a book of poems written from the point-of-view of angels. His books are available through <a href="https://wipfandstock.com/search-results/?contributor=d-s-martin"target=__blank>Wipf & Stock</a>.<br />D.S. Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14495257418306466030noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2582717873070037366.post-1170638254448178412023-10-02T00:00:00.016-07:002023-10-02T00:00:00.141-07:00Robert Herrick*<div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYRHnoAZiKn-i_ZzFnp6DvdLKKjLQw3IOfPIAPhTAJ0Li0yJ91uDbAAAypYqRtK4oWhWQHfGXvGSgK5_SBzXP4kJb5W_VZUtqDVXL5fU30p_LPqD90r-EiYlIaJ2EppUZrlo35uiiU94gM_y1tPhAInwGahArn6MVaKj9PTFWMtW5-bSk_bc_d87pM03wT/s1024/Herrick.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="744" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYRHnoAZiKn-i_ZzFnp6DvdLKKjLQw3IOfPIAPhTAJ0Li0yJ91uDbAAAypYqRtK4oWhWQHfGXvGSgK5_SBzXP4kJb5W_VZUtqDVXL5fU30p_LPqD90r-EiYlIaJ2EppUZrlo35uiiU94gM_y1tPhAInwGahArn6MVaKj9PTFWMtW5-bSk_bc_d87pM03wT/s200/Herrick.jpg"/></a></div>Robert Herrick (1591―1674) is now considered one of the most important English poets of the 17th century, although this is a recent perspective. He was not well-known in his own lifetime, was almost forgotten in the 18th century, and has only risen in the esteem of scholars in the late 20th century. He produced just one extensive poetry collection: <i>Hesperides: Or, The Works Both Humane & Divine</i> (1648). <br />
<br />
He was a member of the Sons of Ben, a group of poets and playwrights influenced by the writing of Ben Jonson; other poets associated with this group include, Richard Lovelace, Sir John Suckling, and Thomas Carew. Jonson and his followers regularly met in various London taverns.<br />
<br />
Herrick took holy orders and was ordained into the Church of England in 1623, and in 1629 he became the vicar of Dean Prior in Devonshire.<br />
<br />
<b>His Wish to God </b><br />
<br />
I would to God, that mine old age might have<br />
Before my last, but here a living grave;<br />
Some one poor almshouse, there to lie, or stir,<br />
Ghost-like, as in my meaner sepulchre;<br />
A little piggin, and a pipkin by,<br />
To hold things fitting my necessity,<br />
Which, rightly us'd, both in their time and place,<br />
Might me excite to fore, and after, grace.<br />
Thy cross, my Christ, fix'd 'fore mine eyes should be,<br />
Not to adore that, but to worship Thee.<br />
So here the remnant of my days I'd spend,<br />
Reading Thy bible, and my book; so end.<br />
<br />
*This is the third <b>Kingdom Poets</b> post about Robert Herrick: <a href="http://kingdompoets.blogspot.com/2012/03/robert-herrick.html"target=__blank>first post</a>, <a href="https://kingdompoets.blogspot.com/2019/05/robert-herrick.html"target=__blank>second post</a>.<br />
<br />
Entry written by D.S. Martin. He is the author of five poetry collections including <i>Angelicus</i> (2021, Cascade) ― a book of poems written from the point-of-view of angels. His books are available through <a href="https://wipfandstock.com/search-results/?contributor=d-s-martin"target=__blank>Wipf & Stock</a>.<br />D.S. Martinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14495257418306466030noreply@blogger.com