Poetry as Perceiving

          I was in a seminar and we were reading Elizabeth Bishop’s “The Fish.” It is a great poem about perceiving, about the difficulty of knowing something accurately and poetically. In this sense, we could say that it captures the poetic angst that language fails to completely describe a scene; and to extend it, emotions. I have realised that when I read poetry, I carry a lot of baggage, I want it to teach me something: maybe about grappling with life, or how poets deal with life – because I think that they are oftentimes the most acute observers of it; maybe about social ills, how poets challenge – or even promote – the ‘ideologies’ we are enslaved to. I want it to be didactic, similar to how liberal humanists approached literature.

          Yet going through this seminar, I’ve realised that my mind needs to be trained to see, not recognise. But perhaps more than see, I need to perceive. I need to be sensitive to sound, to syntax, to diction and the ways words on a page relate to one another. I think poetry is poetry because it is unfamiliar, there is an element of ‘enstrangement’ (to borrow from Shklovsky) so that we are led ‘to a knowledge of a thing through the organ of sight instead of recognition’ (Art as Device).

          However, to be attentive to words is, I think, at the same time to be aware of its inadequacy to fully convey meaning. Bishop’s poem certainly does suggest that. It is a picture of perception, showing us its difficulties but also the ‘rainbow’ moments when we finally see. I think that kind of epiphany is akin to the ‘road to Emmaus’ seen where after Jesus shows how all Scripture points and is fulfilled in him, Cleopas and his friend said to each other, “Did not our hearts burn within us while he talked to us on the road, while he opened to us the Scriptures?” (Luke 24:32).

          Sadly, I think those moments are hard to come by, because we are swamped with the automatising and desensitising effects of the media empire. We as people don’t see anymore, because everything happens so quickly, there is no time to stop and stare and be amazed – amazed at how beautiful and ugly this world we live in is. Words and images do not make us think anymore, because to stop is to be left behind.

          So then I should be more attentive to words, and because words do not exist in a vacuum, to the people who say them or write them. Perhaps this will grant me a greater awareness of what others are thinking and feeling. Because I believe reading poetry is a process of training the mind’s eyes to see rather than recognise, then I hope I will be trained to see people rather than recognise them.

          There is probably an unspoken criterion that good poetry has to meet: universality. And on Calvary, the living Word who became flesh perceived human existence in all its glory and horror; he is both the particular and the universal. He is the light that gives people the ability to perceive. In other words, He is the perfect poetry. 

Poem: There is a Terror - Greater

I wrote a poem in response to the news of the Paris terror attacks, knowing that Paris gets coverage because it is an ‘important Western city.’

I didn’t spend much time on it and it’s not a good poem, and I must admit that reading Emily Dickinson has caused me to uses lots of dashes and to capitalise certain nouns. As I was writing, I realised that these two elements did help me in my attempt to articulate my thoughts. And I’m beginning to understand Dickinson a bit better.

But anyway, here’s what I wrote:

There is a Terror - Greater

There is a Terror – greater

Than the carnage in Syria, Beirut or Paris.

It’ll be a day of reckoning

Where none pleads innocence –

For we all like sheep have gone astray.

There is a Comfort – greater

Than the hashtags and profile picture changes can provide.

It’s news that justice will – nay – has been served

On all the evil of this world –

Meted out on a perfect man.

Let’s pray for Syria, Beirut and Paris –

And for all the suffering there is.

But will our hands and feet be equally as earnest

To bring murderers – of which we all are - 

The good news of Tree and Tomb. 

Thinking of Home

         After studying away from home for the past 3 years, I have realised that I find it extremely difficult to focus on my duties and responsibilities when I head back to my accommodation at the end of a day.

          I never was really lost when I was in primary or secondary school. I would come home and know what had to be done. Sure there was structure and routine, but those existed in a familial context; and it has taken me 3 years living away from home to realise that there are missing elements when a young bird leaves its nest.

          Sure there is freedom, yet there is also a sense of restlessness. I believe it is easy to overcome the uneasiness of leaving home by indulging in activities that occupy our time, mind and energy, yet these lines from George Herbert’s poem ‘The Pulley’

                   When God at first made man,

Having a glass of blessings standing by;

Let us (said he) pour on him all we can:

Let the world’s riches, which dispersed lie,

                   Contract into a span.

So strength first made a way;

Then beauty flowed, then wisdom, honour, pleasure:

When almost all was out, God made a stay,

          Rest in the bottom lay.  

          For me, this sense of restlessness is perhaps due to a lost sense of real community. I know I am much more hardworking when I am out of my current rented house, but when I am inside my room, I often am distracted.

          I don’t believe there is a quick fix to this issue. Perhaps I could be more meticulous when I am planning my timetable, or perhaps I should be more disciplined in implementing my proposed plan for when I get back. Yet, I think there is a deeper issue that I have to resolve. Should I seek a permanent sense of rest and security on this earth? Should I seek to establish a comfortable hearth and home? I certainly think that the answer is ‘no’ even if I want it to be in the affirmative.

          The Apostle Peter calls Christians exiles (1 Peter 1:1; 1:17), and he wants us to have a future-focused framework. He says ‘therefore, preparing your minds for action, and being sober-minded, set your hope fully on the grace that will be brought to you at the revelation of Jesus Christ’ (1:13).

So I am living today waiting for the time when Jesus returns to me home. If today, or tomorrow, or the day after, I feel rootless, like a fleeing refugee, I have to remind myself that this shouldn’t be unusual. Instead, I should relish in the hope that one day, those memories I have of my childhood spent with family will be perfected when my Saviour and my King returns to take me and my Christian brothers and sisters home. There, we will find perfect rest.  

Poem: Once upon a Time

I wrote a poem for my school newspaper. Not sure if the form works, but I hope I achieved the effect I was aiming for. Feedback would be much appreciated. So here it goes:

Once Upon A Time

I watched my star of innocence atop

My roof go down, like brash Phaeton whose

Discontentment of his lot on earth, sought

To let the threads that held him earthbound loose.

No great amount of truth-seeking can rend

The veil that hides the truth that in man dwell

Such greed and pride and selfishness that bent -

A perfect world into a perfect hell.

A quick peek, a furtive peep – Terror yields.

Now I know not to which tale I make my plea:

That which, truth concealed or that which it reveals

This then my despairing confession be:

I pine for ‘once upon a time’ – that myth

Before the painted veil called life was lift. 

Poem: The House

I thought I'd share this poem I recently wrote. It's not great, but perhaps it will still be heard. 

The House

Let the doors be shut

And bar the windows too.

Lock the gates

That life may not tread

On its ground now bitterly shedding

The footprints of ebbing memories.

For this house is no more,

Its front an empty shell.

Its heart for bless’d Utopia has depart

A place of perfection surpassing all

The echoes of glories these four walls

With scarce, faint, dim, and weak vibes did impart.

The days progressed to years on end,

Till thoughts of hearth to forlorn pits descend;

Now warmth has left the double doors,

And silent whispers kiss the dusty floors.

For this house is no more,

Its front an empty shell.

Demons

I was listening to Imagine Dragons’ song ‘Demons’ and the lyrics struck me as being very true. The chorus goes

                    When you feel my heat

                    Look into my eyes

                    It’s where my demons hide

                    It’s where my demons hide

                    Don’t get too close

                    It’s dark inside

                    It’s where my demons hide

                    It’s where my demons hide

I think it is true that naturally we are very protective about who we really are. We never really consciously reveal our true selves to other people; because we know that it’s ugly and it’s messy and we are afraid that others cannot accept us for who we are. I know that’s very true of me.

But I think what is hardest for me to do is to let the people we are closest to see who we really are. Perhaps it’s because I don’t yet know if they will accept or reject me. I don’t want to disappoint, but I am often a disappointment to myself. I think it’s really tough trying to figure out the best way to be real to other people.

So yeah, there are demons that I hide, afraid of revealing them to the world. But often they haunt me; when I am alone, or when tired, when I’m faced with pressure or disappointment. This sounds bleak, but yes, I do think life is such – we often create illusions and consider them our reality; and we trick ourselves to believe in the stories we write: getting a good career, being a kind person, taking care of the planet – delusions really to feed the human ego.

But I’ve found one story that I think makes sense. It’s the story of the Bible – not the stories we find in the Bible - but how the whole Bible depicts and describes reality: that there are demons hiding in us, and that God Himself has come to deal with that problem through Jesus’ death on the cross and resurrection 3 days later. Colossians 2: 13-15 goes

And you, who were dead in your trespasses and the uncircumcision of your flesh, God made alive together with him, having forgiven us all our trespasses, by cancelling the record of debt that stood against us with its legal demands. This he sat aside, nailing it to the cross. He disarmed the rulers and authorities and put them to open shame, by triumphing over them in him.

So my demons have been dealt with, they have been defeated and forgiven; and I am no longer a slave to them, though I am still prone to heed their seductive calls. But when that happens, I guess I need to remember that what’s real is not the show I put on, but that I have been saved from my demons, and I no longer need to hide them – at least not from my Saviour.

But not hiding them from the world? I know I’ll still struggle to do that. Will people accept me when they see those defeated demons desperately try to regain a position they will never again attain? Maybe not. But that’s alright. I am reminded of a hymn I really like that says

                    When Satan tempts me to despair,

                    And tells me of the guilt within;

                    Upward I look and see Him there,

                    Who made an end of all my sin.

So even if everyone in the world despises me; even if those I hold dear rejects me, I know that Him who created me, and in whom I live and move and have my being, will not. 

Poem #5 Perspective on Might - John Poch: The Enigma of Modern Poetry

Superior to the philosopher of God's absence,
the avalanche is patient above those pines
it might sublimely clean its teeth with.
At the lip of the highest peak snow accumulates
on a dead man's moustache like a dead man's moustache.
Repetition isn't funny to the dead man who never
made it to that bar in Champagne for champagne
or to the avalanche whose time has almost come.
We might consider how scale means to climb
or to remove the scales from a dead creature
with this precious, precise violence we call a knife.
A philosopher needs a sharp knife to cut the cord
of pride hanging her like a Christmas ornament
from her parachute caught in the trees of the supernatural.
After all, God is present as that last snowflake settling
on the lip, the tickle which has come a long way
to now. From afar it looks so soft. Even the knife.

          Being someone who prefers traditional formal poetry, I have often asked myself how anyone can appreciate modern poems written in ‘free verse.’ Perhaps the biggest struggle I have with appreciating these kinds of poems is that I don’t know where to start in my analysis of it. I am beginning to suspect that I need another way of understanding free verse. Someone noted that lesser examples of free verse reads like chopped-up prose, and I guess that my apprehension towards this genre is partly due to the (apparent?) lack of structure and form in the poetry.

          But I am hoping to start learning how to read and enjoy free verse, otherwise I will only be outdated, so I thought that this poem would be a nice one to share. I cannot say I fully understand what the persona is saying. It does however suggest that ‘the philosopher of God’s absence’ should be a little more humble, because she is hung ‘like a Christmas ornament’ by her pride. The image of being ‘her parachute caught in the trees of the supernatural’ evokes a kind of helplessness and weakness. It is after all trees of the supernatural, and I am assuming that philosophers generally do not believe in the supernatural. 

          If I read the first 3 lines and the final 3 lines as frames or the bookends of the poem, then structurally the poem has a progression from God’s absence (marked by the philosopher’s presence) to God’s presence. Furthermore, the choice of adjectives in the final 3 lines bring to mind smallness, for example ‘snowflake,’ ‘tickle’ and ‘soft’. I think these words are used so that the irony of circumstances becomes all the more striking. ‘The avalanche whose time has almost come’ is described meekly to show how one should adopt a proper perspective on might. This is because, ‘from afar it looks so soft. Even the knife,’ but both in reality are much more superior than the ‘philosopher of God’s absence.’