My dear Wigglesworm, It’s been sweltering down here in the Lower Regions – you would think you were in the high summer of Boston, but no, it’s just hell. Anyhow, outbreaks of gonorrhea and florescent mosquitoes aside, things plod along as usual. But enough about the weather. I note with some consternation that your charge
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Caedmon, a middle-aged stablehand, was at a festive dinner with his friends, where each man played a tune and sang in turn; however, he was scared and left as he saw the lyre coming his way. Yet in his sleep, an angel accosted him and in his sleep asked him to sing.
I think I revisit this particular poem periodically, but it struck me differently this time, this time because while I agree with Larkin, I also profoundly disagree with him; and history disagrees with him as well, on the matter that church buildings are going into disuse. They are not. Church Going by Philip Larkin
I was delighted by the two poems in the most recent issue of the Ichthus. What I prized above all was the sense of good humor apparent in both “Zoo”, by Patrick Spence and “Jonah”, by Jeremy Pollacks. There are many great Christian poets who have talked about the fundamental brokenness of the world—Gerard Manley
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A friend once told me he suspected that the world and in fact, life itself, is a kind of divine conspiracy with the single purpose of molding souls – a vale of soul-making, he said. Perhaps that is so. Perhaps the moment we have obtained the right shape, have finally been burnished to his likeness,
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After an aimless time searching for an ambiguous truth, I behold the idea incarnate. It takes the shape my mind always dreamed– a fantasy realized and released– one pale lily among rough reeds. Without reaching out to its beauty, I fall back into tangibility, leave all untouched in silence, with nothing to show for sight.
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There was something so allegorical about the little trip down the creek into the lake in Puerto Rico, but in fact it did happen and it was completely physical, completely real. So I shouldn’t talk about it being metaphorical, since the only thing it was a metaphor of was itself. And there we were beneath
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