Laurence Housman

Laurence Housman (1865—1959) is an English playwright, writer and illustrator, and the younger brother of the better-known poet A.E. Housman. He worked for several London publishers as an illustrator on such books as Christina Rossetti’s Goblin Market (1893), and his sister’s novella The Were-Wolf (1896). As a writer he is best known for his plays, beginning with the Nativity play Bethlehem (1902). Along with his sister, Clemence Houseman, he became active in the suffrage movement.

He caught my attention as a poet to include in this blog due to his book Spikenard: A Book of Devotional Love-Poems (Grant Richards, 1898), and how frequently in the other things he wrote, his subject matter related to Biblical themes.

Housman was raised in an Anglican household, and became quite interested in transitioning his church affiliation from Anglican to Catholic when in his early thirties, going so far as to attend a Catholic retreat that culminated in an Easter Sunday Mass, which Housman, in his hesitance, only observed. He said,
-----“A week later I went to Paris on journalistic work for the Manchester
-----Guardian and when I saw, in some of the lovely French churches, the
-----tawdry statues, emblems, and ornaments with which modern
-----Catholicism allows its altars to be desecrated, I began to be glad of
-----my escape: unreasonably glad, perhaps, but I cannot dissociate false
-----art from false worship. If there be a Personal God, the beauty they
-----produce and cherish is for me the surest sign that His worshippers
-----have the truth in them: if beauty is betrayed, God is betrayed also.
-----And so the foolish vulgarity of modern Roman Catholic art was a
-----decisive aid to my escape from St. Peter's net an escape for which
-----I became more and more thankful as the years went on.”

Not that aesthetic concerns are unimportant, but this subjective (art-based rather than theological) argument, and the phrase “If there be a Personal God,” causes me to question the depth of Housman’s faith, which is borne out in some other details of his life. Even so, his poetry is well worth considering.

The following poem is the title piece from his 1898 collection, Spikenard.

Spikenard

As one who came with ointments sweet,
Abettors to her fleshly guilt,
And brake and poured them at Thy Feet,
And Worshipped Thee with spikenard spilt:
So from a body full of blame,
And tongue too deeply versed in shame,
Do I pour speech upon Thy Name.
O Thou, if tongue may yet beseech,
Near to Thine awful Feet let reach
This broken spikenard of my speech!

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

George Johnston

George Johnston (1913—2004) is a Canadian poet whose work is characterized by rhyme and meticulous rhythm — for he felt that poetry should be memorized. A favourite poet, and influence was A.E. Housman. Northrop Frye said, "Johnston is an irresistibly readable and quotable poet. His finest technical achievement, I think, apart from his faultless sense of timing, is his ability to incorporate the language of the suburbs into his own diction."

He was known internationally as a poet and translator. He, and his wife, Jeanne, often hosted visiting poets in their home in Ottawa. When on sabbatical in England, from Carleton University, he became friends with the Welsh poet David Jones.

Stephen Morrissey, said in his “In Memorium” piece on Johnston: “George was preeminently a humble man, his religious leanings were to both Quakerism and the Church of England as he searched for an expression of his spirituality. He was a family man and...mentored younger poets...George treated me with respect as a person and as a poet. Overall he enlarged my life. What greater praise can be given to someone than stating that we learn to be a better person from their example.”

Nine days after his death in 2004, his wife of sixty years, Jeanne, died of a heart attack.

No Way Out

No excuse
Though I keep looking for one;
No use
Pretending it is not me, has not been done.

No way out
But always farther in
In doubt,
Fate-strong, heart-struck, ground fine.

I have not
Seen Paradise, nor its trees,
But what
I glimpse of unspoiled brings me to my knees.

Entry written by D.S. Martin. He is the award-winning author of the poetry collections Poiema (Wipf & Stock) and So The Moon Would Not Be Swallowed (Rubicon Press). They are both available at: www.dsmartin.ca

Countee Cullen

Countee Cullen (1903—1946) was a prominent figure in the Harlem Renaissance of the 1920s. When he was fifteen his grandmother, who was his guardian, died; Countee was adopted by the influential Rev. Frederick A. Cullen — pastor of the Salem Methodist Episcopal Church, the largest church in Harlem. He found himself at the centre of black American culture in his home life, and under the influence of Western white society in his education. He distinguished himself in his high school and at New York University. His first poetry collection, Color, appeared in 1925, the year he was accepted into the Masters program at Harvard.

In Cullen's poem “Heritage” he asks the question “What is Africa to me?” He admits his heritage does not include tribal idol worship, but is of following Christ, even though Jesus did not have black skin.
---------My conversion came high-priced;
---------I belong to Jesus Christ,
---------Preacher of humility;
---------Heathen gods are naught to me...
Cullen was conservative in his literary taste. He took English poets John Keats and A.E. Housman as his models, because he felt that all influences were his for the taking, and that art could overshadow the differences between races.

Simon the Cyrenian Speaks

He never spoke a word to me,
And yet He called my name;
He never gave a sign to me,
And yet I knew and came.

At first I said, “I will not bear
His cross upon my back;
He only seeks to place it there
Because my skin is black.”

But He was dying for a dream,
And He was very meek,
And in His eyes there shone a gleam
Men journey far to seek.

It was Himself my pity bought;
I did for Christ alone
What all of Rome could not have wrought
With bruise of lash or stone.

This is the first Kingdom Poets post about Countee Cullen: second post.

Entry written by D.S. Martin. He is the award-winning author of the poetry collections Poiema (Wipf & Stock) and So The Moon Would Not Be Swallowed (Rubicon Press). They are both available at: www.dsmartin.ca