Although good poetry is often complex and enigmatic, there is a value in verse that is both lucid and lyrical. The poetry of the Psalms, for example, is beautiful yet understandable at first glance. Worship songs and hymns are other examples of lyrical yet easy to understand poetry. In his poem “Jordan (1),” the 17th century English poet George Herbert challenges his fellow poets’ penchant for convoluted verse. Instead, he argues for clarity: “is all good structure a winding stair? […] Must all be veil’d, while he that reads, divines, catching the sense at two removes?”[1] Reading poetry doesn’t have to resemble ascending (or descending?) a staircase designed by M. C. Escher. Like Herbert, I believe there is room for good poetry that clearly speaks to the reader. Here is a pair of sonnets I wrote that are intended to be clear (I hope!) but also meaningful. The pair of poems is called "Symposium," and the sonnets represent a glipmse into a discussion between a preacher and a lost soul.
[1] George Herbert, “Jordan (1)” The Temple (UK: Penguin Classics, 2017), 76.
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“He is more than an unmoved mover. He is moved by compassion—by love—he wept!”
Before Christ awakens our soul to a new life in him, we may be quite content with our lives. We feel as though we are kings of our circumstances, and we believe that we are free to live and do as we please. In truth, we are bound by the world, our flesh, and the evil one. Although we “rule” a space no bigger than a nutshell, we count ourselves a “king of infinite space.” This line (and the title of this sonnet) comes from Shakespeare’s Hamlet, where Hamlet states that, like us, he would be content to be king of a trouble-free kingdom, even if it’s as small as a nutshell.
Yet, thankfully, Christ doesn’t leave us to our false comforts and our delusions of kingship… he unravels a person’s life, shatters our crowns, and breaks our scepters. In her book, The Secret Thoughts of an Unlikely Convert, Rosaria Butterfield calls her conversion to Christianity a “train-wreck”[1] as she describes how Christ dramatically upended her life, her career, and her relationships. The metaphor is apt—Christ literally breaks into our lives, shattering our old ways of doing things and our old ways of thinking about things. Although an incalculable blessing, being “born again” is as dramatic as physical birth. When we encounter God, we meet the true King of Infinite Space. This poem is meant to capture this conversion experience. [1] Rosaria Butterfield, The Secret Thoughts of an Unlikely Convert (Pittsburgh: Crown & Covenant, 2012), 25. 4/2/2020 2 Comments Poem: Evensong at St. Paul's
I travelled to Great Britain a few years ago with my wife. On our first day exploring the sprawling city of London, we came upon St. Paul’s Cathedral. The early 18th century cathedral is an architectural masterpiece designed by Christopher Wren; however, what we found when we went inside was no mere monument to a man’s creative and engineering genius. We found a place to worship God. I wrote this poem describing our experience attending an evensong service at St. Paul’s.
Evensong at St. Paul’s Jeremy W. Johnston I. In a city of beautiful buildings, here is another, yet unlike any other: St. Paul’s. We walk, we gaze, we wonder is there time?-- The evening is here. Day is closing for the day. But then a sign calls us—a literal sign—invites us to Evensong. We climb up stone steps, enter in. Even the small doors seem massive doors, weighty tomes hanging on brass hinges that shut out distractions, shut in the distracted. The walking and talking and busyness and bustle all become strangely dim. Silence becomes our song. We are submerged into the stunning stillness. So much larger on the inside. Look up, can’t help but look up—in life we need to look up more. A twilight, sky-like ceiling and world-like walls, so vast yet still too small. Even here is too finite for the infinite to dwell. This man-made place for the maker of man: the best we can do—this! is barely a droplet of dew. Outside, we’re wanderers in this city, tourists in town, set apart, outsiders. We’re aliens in—but not of—this urban place. But in here, inside, We’re now in and a part of this sacred space. II. The ancientness. The art. The Faith. I belong here. Still I feel painfully exposed and alone. It’s humbling to be so small for this brief hour. God seems so distant here because he is echoed everywhere. Indeed, we are separated by an infinite divide but we begin to chant, and recite, and sing, and hear of the One who fills the boundless chasm, who spans the ever-expanding space. Holy words for Holy God; carefully prepared words, some ancient, some old, some uttered soft, some spoken bold. Haunting voices rising up to darkness and mystery-- my ears, my neck, my mind, my skin—I feel the sound of truth surrounding immersing me, gently washing over me like the very breath of God. Words so right and real; this place, so here and now. God’s beauty is seen, the goodness of the Good News is heard-- every note, every utterance, every square inch alludes to his wonder, his transcendence, his descent, his ascent, his nearness, his farness. This is Evensong. This evening service of prayers, Psalms, and singing a symbol of unity, harmony a paradox of the near farness of God. III. Liturgy, ritual, words recited, words sung-- We’re reminded that this is a religion as well as a relationship. He is Creator, we are created. We are together, we are alone. This is not yet heaven, though it is heaven that this hour harkens us to see. So, despite the wonder, so much to look at, too much to take in, I still find myself on this earth. My feet still feel the floor. My body is still a body, pulled down by gravity of the world and worldliness. So the tide begins to rise, the tide of blood, muscle, and bone rises over my mind, my soul. My weary traveller’s bones—the night of flying, the day of walking, the hunger for seeing, the desire for doing, and the peace of this place-- overtake me. My lids slip down beneath the surface, over my eyes, like the not-so-watchful three in the Garden of Gethsemane. This edifice, this service, my effort to worship One who exceeds imagination. We’re always reaching up, but you, O God, must always lift us up. And you do. ©2020 |
Jeremy W. JohnstonChristian, husband, father, teacher, writer. Archives
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