A religious studies major in college, I’m a sucker for poets who have a spiritual leaning, even if I am an agnostic who struggles with faith. I come by my doubts naturally. When I was a girl, my father took the family to an Episcopal church to experience what he called “an exposure to cultural archaism.” I remember the picture of Pale Jesus in the foyer. Where did you come from? I wanted to ask. Norway? It didn’t help matters that the same church had served as a school for white children whose parents opposed integration in the 50’s.
Nevertheless, I envy writers with faith. I enjoy reading the poets who have a Biblical story or logic to frame their works, poets like Richard Chess whose engaging monthly posts on Slate describe his life as a dialog with poetry and the Torah. Poets like Christian Wiman, whose book, Bright Abyss, speaks of poetry and faith in the face of personal illness and the current global crisis. Poets like H. L. Hix who rewrote the Gospel. Poets like Charles Wright, whose poems often possess a spiritual longing and humor that I can’t seem to get enough of.
One of my favorite mystics is the poet, Claire Bateman, whose magical writings are a pure delight.
Book Soup
When the youngest child in a family feels ready to give up the self-illuminating book all little ones sleep with, it’s presented at breakfast to the mother, who drops it into a large cook-pot where the night books of the older siblings have been waiting, tattered but still faithfully exuding small flashes of phosphorescence.
Everybody stands back as she pummels and kneads until the bindings come loose and the pages separate to simmer in the mingled lights all day long.
At bedtime, she ladles out a portion to each child to drink as they enter this new and longest phase of their family life, their stories glowing unseen within them.
Go to Source
Author: Nin Andrews
