Reading Poems

"Maycomb was an old town, but it was a tired old town when I first knew it. In rainy weather the streets turned to red slop; grass grew on sidewalks, the courthouse sagged in the square. Somehow, it was hotter then: a black dog suffered on a summer's day; bony mules hitched to Hoover carts flicked flies in the sweltering shade of the live oaks on the square. Men's stiff collars wilted by nine in the morning. Ladies bathed before noon, after their three-o'clock naps, and by nightfall were like soft teacakes with frostings of sweat and sweet talcum." Harper Lee, To Kill a Mockingbird.

There is something so beautiful about a well-crafted sentence, an apt metaphor, or a collection of ink on a page that describes something so perfectly it takes you there. One of the best things about seminary was being required to read great books and then trying to write great papers. In the new paradigm of the "post-graduate" world, there is little time to read like that. I read the Bible a whole lot, of course, and scan resources for sermon preparation, but it is hard to find that hour to put on fuzzy socks and make tea and get lost in a book; if I can find the hour, there's no guarantee of another one, and by that time, I've forgotten the characters' names, who they are married to, and how we got to whatever page I've marked. It's not pretty.

I was unaware of what I was missing, the way a person doesn't know they need a haircut until it's been way too long, and then one day all of a sudden gasps at her reflection saying, "Is that my HAIR?" When one of my doctor-uncles had major heart surgery earlier this fall, he memorized long stretches of "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" to test his cognitive abilities after surgery. (I come by my geekiness honestly, ya'll). We recited together lines I had learned as an English major long ago: "In the room, the women come and go, talking of Michaelangelo...." and "I am old, I am old, I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled...." He lay in the bed with his books split open, to read when he was too wakeful to nap and too weak to walk around. This was the uncle who always admonished me as a child for reading too much fiction. He'd inquire about what I was reading, and warned me if I kept up with Dickens, and Hemingway, Morrison and Angelou, I would run the risk of being an English major, and then, God only knows what would happen. So I found it strange that he would be delving into poetry. He said, "I have been so busy with my medical practice that I don't have time to read books anymore--but I can read poetry."

The beauty of a poem is, you can read it while you are doing other things. You can take in the utter essence of something all at once in a poem, and have it unwind in your subconscious all day long. Someone said that a poem is not the story of an event; it is the event itself. I think it is life served straight up, with nothing watered down. To read a poem is to be vulnerable, and to risk being devastated in the course of being uplifted. In that way, to read a great poem is like reading scripture, the Word that so often devastates us before it becomes Good News, indeed the best news there is.

Inspired by Prufrock and Uncle Don, I began to revisit poetry I had not read in years and I signed up to receive via email, a poem a day from http://writersalmanac.publicradio.org/. I receive in my inbox these little jewels first thing in the morning and they are the first thing I grope for in the morning after the alarm clock. I gulp them down like vitamins. If they are really good, I send them to friends, especially friends who share my love for the right set of words. I discovered poetry is versatile--there are poems in the shape of rap and rock and poems about terrorism and poems about how it feels to lock the door for the last time at the house your grandparents lived in. There are poems about friends stolen from us and poems about stealing cold plums from the icebox. There are poems about ice cream and icebergs and icy glances of relationships gone wrong. So much in such a little package.

Words carry power and can reflect the world as it is, and the right words can even help make a new world. Words can hurt to the quick and words can heal the deepest wounds. And a great poem tells the truth. Preachers too, must be truthtellers and poets. They must be authentically "themselves" and yet remember they bring a Word that is also bigger, wider and deeper than the cups they must pour it into. Is it any wonder that when Mary speaks of what God has done for her, she turns from mere words to poetry?

My soul magnifies the Lord,

and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior,

for he has looked with favor on the lowliness of his servant.

Surely, from now on all generations will call me blessed;

for the Mighty One has done great things for me,

and holy is his name.

His mercy is for those who fear him

from generation to generation.

He has shown strength with his arm;

he has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts.

He has brought down the powerful from their thrones,

and lifted up the lowly;

he has filled the hungry with good things,

and sent the rich away empty.

She was, after all, singing about God's Incarnation in Jesus the Christ, the One who would be the Light of the world. He came into the world where hope and fear meet, and he came into it "full of grace and truth" (John 1), the Eternal Word made flesh, a sort of poetry-in-motion. So much in such a little package.