More Advent poetry

God tries on skin
by Marjorie Maddox Phifer

Once, he stretched skin over spirit
like a rubber glove,
aligning trinity with bone,
twining through veins
until deity square-knotted flesh.

In a whirlwind spin
he shrank to the size of a zygote,
bobbed in a womb warm as Galilee’s shore.

In the dark,
he brushed up on Hebrew,
practiced his crawl.

After months scrunched in a circle,
he burst through his cellophane sac,
bloodied the teen legs
spread on the straw.

In his first breath
he inhaled the sweat
of Romans casting lots,
sniffed the wine mixed with gall.

Required Christmas Reading

Les Murray’s “Animal Nativity”

The Iliad of peace began
when this girl agreed.
Now goats in trees, fish in the valley
suddenly feel vivid.

Swallows flit in the stable as if
a hatching of their kind,
turned human, cried in the manger
showing the hunger-diamond.

Cattle are content that this calf
must come in human form.
Spiders discern a water-walker.
Even humans will sense the lamb,

He who frees from the old poem
turtle-dove and snake,
who gets death forgiven
who puts the apple back.

Dogs, less enslaved but as starving
as the poorest human there,
crouch, agog at a crux of presence
remembered as a star.

Text borrowed from here

O Father You are Sovereign

Like most hymns, this by Margaret Clarkson doesn’t make for great reading by itself:

1 O Father, you are sovereign
in all the worlds you made;
your mighty word was spoken,
and light and life obeyed.
Your voice commands the seasons
and bounds the ocean’s shore,
sets stars within their courses
and stills the tempest’s roar.

2 O Father, you are sovereign
in all affairs of man;
no pow’rs of death or darkness
can thwart your perfect plan.
All chance and change transcending,
supreme in time and space,
you hold your trusting children
secure in your embrace.

3 O Father, you are sovereign,
the Lord of human pain,
transmuting earthly sorrows
to gold of heav’nly gain.
All evil overruling,
as none but Conqu’ror could,
your love pursues its purpose–
our souls’ eternal good.

4 O Father, you are sovereign!
We see you dimly now,
but soon before your triumph
earth’s ev’ry knee shall bow.
With this glad hope before us,
our faith springs up anew:
our sovereign Lord and Savior,
we trust and worship you!

There is one line, however, that jumped out at me as I sang this in church a few months ago. I put it in bold above. “Chance” and “change” make a nice pair, but combined with the syllables of “transcending,” it’s quite arresting. (I might alter is to “All change and chance transcending” to make it less of a tongue-twister. But sometimes tongues need to be twisted.)

I also like the use of “transmuting” in the third stanza. There’s not much science, pseudo or otherwise, in hymns. Although I think the language of hymns should be drawn from the Bible, it would be fun to sing about quarks and leptons occasionally.

A Man Looks Forward

Invisible, yet active, headless, crowned,
A microscopic devil holds us bound
Inside our homes, aflush with fear
And fever, waiting for the axe.
We dread as much the atmosphere
Of quiet thought as brash attacks,
For contemplation shows us that the soul
Is damaged. Splendid, surely, but not whole.

In lieu of sackcloth, ghostly masks are wrapped
Around our mouths as, gasping, we adapt
To quarantine, these forty days
Of washing, fasting, sacrifice.
Each of us in our closet prays,
Raw fingers gripping in a vice
The subtle heart that brought us to this end
We knew would come, but could not comprehend.

Is there no mercy tipping heaven’s scale?
If viruses and panic cause travail,
They further make us look inside
Ourselves, undrape the sheeted mind,
And recognize the gods we tried
To curry favor with are blind.
The firmament above burns brilliantly
When Easter dawns. Oh, give us eyes to see!

A Man Panics Sensibly

Put on your best clothes
for the end of the world.
Wear mohair and gold
watches. A match
or two of tennis
wouldn’t be amiss
at the end of the world.
Plant a vegetable.
Fill a table to the edge
with dishes that draw
exhalations of thanks.
Pray. Play. Work. Eat.
Go to sleep asprawl
unlike a cowed goat.
For us humans being
at the end of the world
is the best time of all.

A Man Makes Nothing Happen

Auden famously wrote that “poetry makes nothing happen.” This has been interpreted by many to mean that poetry is really a frivolous enterprise, something you’d only engage in for fun. There’s something to that interpretation. After all, Auden said elsewhere that he thought of himself as “God’s fool,” good for entertainment only—an important but very much extraneous job.

Alan Jacobs has a slightly more nuanced view. In a talk he gave here in Birmingham last fall, he said the emphasis should be on the second word: “makes.” Poetry makes nothing happen, Jacobs explained, but it can prompt a lot. It’s a carrot and perhaps a stick, but not the horse itself.

Like generations of upstarts before me, I’m here to suggest yet another interpretation, one that hopefully complements Jacobs’ rather than refuting it. Mine is based on a pun that Auden was probably familiar with: the similarity of the words “nothing” and “noting” (that is, paying attention). As countless highschool students have been told, the title of Shakespeare’s Much Ado About Nothing carries both of these meanings. The play is about eavesdropping, miscommunication — noting — and, ultimately, a big fuss over nothing at all. (Yet it’s still amazing and wondrous. How do you do that, Bill?)

If we read Auden’s line as “poetry makes noting happen,” we hear him say that, though poetry doesn’t do much, it does make people pay attention. This wouldn’t be the first time Auden pointed out such a thing. In his Horae Canonicae, he spoke of “that eye on the object look” that artists display. Artistry means paying attention, for the artist as well as for the audience.

Does it work in the context of the poem? Here’s the second part of Auden’s “In Memory of W. B. Yeats,” from which the line is taken:

You were silly like us; your gift survived it all:
The parish of rich women, physical decay,
Yourself. Mad Ireland hurt you into poetry.
Now Ireland has her madness and her weather still,
For poetry makes nothing happen: it survives
In the valley of its making where executives
Would never want to tamper, flows on south
From ranches of isolation and the busy griefs,
Raw towns that we believe and die in; it survives,
A way of happening, a mouth.

It seems to me that both meanings make sense here: poetry does not force anything, does not fix anything. But it does survive as “a way of happening, a mouth.” Though it may not do much, it creates an opening. And open spaces can draw the eye.