David Jones*

David Jones (1895—1974) is a painter and the author of two major works of modernist poetry: In Parenthesis (1937) and The Anathemata (1952). Guy Davenport, in the New York Times Book Review, said, “For David Jones art was a sacred act and he expected the reading of his work to be as much a rite as he performed in the composing of it.”

The Poetry Foundation describes The Anathemata as “modernistic, allusive, and fragmented…” which as I see it contributes to making it one of the most difficult major poems of the twentieth century. The poem is more than 200 pages in length, and leaps from theme to theme, place to place, and from time period to time period ― including ancient Greece and Rome, Western Europe and England, and by the end reflects on the Last Supper and Christ’s Crucifixion.

The David Jones Society webpage concedes that “Jones's style has been considered 'densely allusive,' 'fragmented' and 'palimpsestic…'” It says The Anathemata “traces the course of Western culture in light of its various geographical, mythical, historical and religious roots, using the Roman Catholic Mass as a significant framework.”

According to Robert Knowles, “The achievement, then, of The Anathemata is that it is an extended metaphor of what it is to be, uniquely, modern: for Jones, old forms of faith exist alongside present forms of explanation and the difficulty remains the association or integration of this apparent duality.”

What follows are the closing stanzas of The Anathemata.

From The Anathemata

At the threshold-stone
------------------------------lifts the aged head?
can toothless beast from stable come
----------------------------------discern the Child
in the Bread?

------------But the fate of death?
Well, that fits The gest:
How else be coupled of the Wanderer
whose viatic bread shows forth a life?
------------― in his well-built megaron.
If not by this Viander’s own death’s monument
by what bride-ale else lives his undying Margaron?
------------― whose only threnody is Jugatine
and of the thalamus: reeds then! And minstrelsy.
------------(Nor bid Anubis haste, but rather stay:
for he was whelped but to discern a lord’s body).

He does what is done in many places
What he does other
------------he does after the mode
of what has always been done.
What did he do other
------------recumbent at the garnished supper?
What did he do yet other
------------riding the Axile Tree?

*This is the second Kingdom Poets post about David Jones: first post.

Entry written by D.S. Martin. He is the author of five poetry collections including Angelicus (2021, Cascade) ― a book of poems written from the point-of-view of angels. His books are available through Wipf & Stock.

King James I

King James I (1566—1625), that is James Charles Stuart, was officially the King of Scotland and known as James VI for more than thirty years ― including throughout his childhood, when regents governed on his behalf ― prior to the union of the Scottish and English crowns in 1603.

In his native Scotland, he was a literary patron, and was active as a writer himself; there he headed a circle of Scottish poets and musicians known as the Castalian Band, which included William Fowler and Alexander Montgomerie.

James’ greatest contribution to English literature is the Bible he commissioned in 1604 — which became known as the King James Version or Authorized Version — and was published in 1611. It has been called "the most celebrated book in the English-speaking world" and has had, and continues to have, significant influence on its literature.

James believed in the divine right of kings, which had been the common perspective in Scotland. In England, however, Parliament had power despite James I’s belief that they had no rights at all except by the king's grace. This belief is reflected in the following poem, although he also makes it clear that the king (and I would add that parliament, and even cruel dictators) would have no power except that it is given by God.

Sonnet Prefixed to His Majesty's Instructions
to His Dearest Son, Henry the Prince

God gives not kings the style of gods in vain,
For on His Throne His sceptre do they sway;
And as their subjects ought them to obey,
So kings should fear and serve their God again.
If then ye would enjoy a happy reign,
Observe the statutes of your Heavenly King,
And from His Law make all your laws to spring,
Since His lieutenant here ye should remain:
Reward the just; be steadfast, true, and plain;
Repress the proud, maintaining aye the right;
Walk always so as ever in His sight,
Who guards the godly, plaguing the profane,
And so ye shall in princely virtues shine,
Resembling right your mighty king divine.

Entry written by D.S. Martin. He is the author of five poetry collections including Angelicus (2021, Cascade) ― a book of poems written from the point-of-view of angels. His books are available through Wipf & Stock.

David Scott

David Scott (1947―2022) is an English poet and Anglican priest who gained attention by winning the 1978 Sunday Times/BBC Poetry Competition. This helped lead to the first of his six poetry books, A Quiet Gathering, which won the Geoffrey Faber Memorial Prize in 1986. He is best known for his poetry, but he also wrote several plays for the National Youth Music Theatre with Jeremy James Taylor, and six books about the Christian faith, including, Moments of Prayer, and The Mind of Christ.

He was vicar of Torpenhow and Allhallows in Cumbria, then Rector of St Lawrence, was an honorary canon of Winchester Cathedral, and an honorary fellow of the University of Winchester. David Scott also served as poetry reviewer for The Church Times.

In 2008 the Archbishop of Canterbury, Rowan Williams, conferred a Lambeth Degree Doctorate of Letters (DLitt) on him “in recognition of his contribution to deepening the spiritual life of the Church through his standing as a poet and his teaching ministry…”

In 2010 David Scott took an early retirement, due to ill health. He died this past October.

The following poem is from Beyond the Drift ― New and Selected Poems, (2014, Bloodaxe Books).

Retirement

I’ll go into a wood, a barn, a room
and not come out until my heart
is settled back on God the pivot,
I the balance. A chance for poise
to get my giddy head becalmed
into stillness that absorbs. I wonder what?
Things I dare not write for fear
they might be so, the illness worse,
or better.
I’ll enter into converse with my soul
and hope again to learn a love for others,
and of others love for me.
To stop doing one thing, and discover
what refuses to be laid aside.
Nothing new perhaps; just former things
attentively revived.

This post was suggested by my friend Burl Horniachek.

Entry written by D.S. Martin. He is the author of five poetry collections including Angelicus (2021, Cascade) ― a book of poems written from the point-of-view of angels. His books are available through Wipf & Stock.

Margaret Kellermann

Margaret Kellermann is a multi-faceted artist, expressing herself through writing, visual art and music. Her latest publication is a middle-grade novel, Annie California: Book One (2021, Beachdog). Her earlier books (prior to 2011) were written under the name of Margaret D. Smith, including the poetry collections A Holy Struggle: Unspoken Thoughts of Hopkins (1992, Shaw), and Barn Swallow (2006, Brassweight Press). She lives in Humboldt County, in northern California.

She has said, "As a writer, artist and musician, I find myself doing art in a struggle to understand how to be in love with God, who refuses to be understood, even as he begs to be in relationship. God’s presence in me is like a grain of sand. He neither shows himself visibly nor goes away, and this agitates me daily. So I cover and cover that holy irritation with layers from my own core."

The following poems are taken from anthologies; the first, "Lily", appeared in A Widening Light, and the second, "Moon", appeared in Odd Angles of Heaven.

Lily
A lily shivered
at His passing,
supposing Him to be
the Gardener

Moon

It is colder here than on the moon. At least
it is light there.

There is no singer on earth like the moon,
except the owl.

Where the coyote runs, I see the moon
stand off, watching.

Echoes of God come dancing back
from the dark lake.

In the middle of God, the moon.

How can I bear to pass by?
I will stay the night.

Look, the moon is ebbing,
one wave lapping in.

Sometimes it is hard to trust
one's eyes.

If this is the way I should go―
at least the winter moon goes with me.

Posted with permission of the poet.

Entry written by D.S. Martin. He is the author of five poetry collections including Angelicus (2021, Cascade) ― a book of poems written from the point-of-view of angels. His books are available through Wipf & Stock.

William Carlos Williams

William Carlos Williams (1883―1963) ― a significant imagist poet ― was also a family physician practicing in northern New Jersey. Though not a churchgoer, he respected the faith of those he encountered through life and art. He admired Francis of Assisi for his poetic originality, his love of the natural world, and as a model of forgiveness and generosity.

In his poem “The Catholic Bells” Williams said, “Tho’ I’m no Catholic / I listen hard when the bells / in the yellow-brick tower / of their new church // ring down the leaves…”

His parents had been active members of the Rutherford Unitarian Society ― and his father read Dante and the Bible to his sons. Williams applied the Unitarian phrase “Nothing that is not true” to his imagist approach to poetry. He sought truth in the natural world, and the lives of his patients living in the tenement houses he visited. His wife, Flossie, said, “the people there expanded his imagination, and I noticed over the years how much they healed him.”

From his poem “Asphodel, That Greeny Flower,” Williams is frequently quoted as saying:
-----------------------------------------------"It is difficult
to get the news from poems
------------------------yet men die miserably every day
-------------------------------------------------for lack
of what is found there."

The following poem is William Carlos Williams’ declaration of his belief in the incarnation.

The Gift

As the wise men of old brought gifts
---guided by a star
------to the humble birthplace

of the god of love,
---the devils
------as an old print shows
retreated in confusion.

---What could a baby know
------of gold ornaments
or frankincense and myrrh,
---of priestly robes
------and devout genuflections?

But the imagination
---knows all stories
------before they are told
and knows the truth of this one
---past all defection

The rich gifts
---so unsuitable for a child
------though devoutly proffered,
stood for all that love can bring.

---The men were old
------how could they know
of a mother's needs
---or a child's
------appetite?

But as they kneeled
---the child was fed.

------They saw it
and
---gave praise!

------A miracle
had taken place,
---hard gold to love,
a mother's milk!
---before
------their wondering eyes.

The ass brayed
---the cattle lowed.
------It was their nature.

All men by their nature give praise.
---It is all
------they can do.

The very devils
---by their flight give praise.
------What is death,
beside this?

---Nothing. The wise men
------came with gifts
and bowed down
---to worship
------this perfection.

Entry written by D.S. Martin. He is the author of five poetry collections including Angelicus (2021, Cascade) ― a book of poems written from the point-of-view of angels. His books are available through Wipf & Stock.