Two Poems for Reflection
In reflecting on my life, I think I need more poetry.
I read two poems today, both on themes of death, and both referenced on an NPR show today.
The Mole by Christian Wiman. This poem, which is posted elsewhere and I will not infringe on copyright by posted to my blog, is about death from cancer. It has some startling images and figures but since the poet himself is living with cancer, it is real and human and not an experiment in word play.
Sunday Morning by Wallace Stevens. Again, posted elsewhere and well known, I read it for the first time this afternoon. Despite having a M.A. in English, I have huge gaps in my literary knowledge and poetry is one of them. I am a novelist and tend toward that genre, regretfully or no. This poem fascinates me because it clearly is saying that the pull of Christ, and the cross, and the church is strong despite the poet's own advocacy of some sort of neo-paganism or earth/nature worship. That gravitation pull of the traditional faith takes a lot of momentum to break from, at least in the early 20th century. Now, I am not sure; culture seems to have broken from orbit.
Both are fascinating and as with all good poems, need, demand, repeated reading.
I read two poems today, both on themes of death, and both referenced on an NPR show today.
The Mole by Christian Wiman. This poem, which is posted elsewhere and I will not infringe on copyright by posted to my blog, is about death from cancer. It has some startling images and figures but since the poet himself is living with cancer, it is real and human and not an experiment in word play.
Sunday Morning by Wallace Stevens. Again, posted elsewhere and well known, I read it for the first time this afternoon. Despite having a M.A. in English, I have huge gaps in my literary knowledge and poetry is one of them. I am a novelist and tend toward that genre, regretfully or no. This poem fascinates me because it clearly is saying that the pull of Christ, and the cross, and the church is strong despite the poet's own advocacy of some sort of neo-paganism or earth/nature worship. That gravitation pull of the traditional faith takes a lot of momentum to break from, at least in the early 20th century. Now, I am not sure; culture seems to have broken from orbit.
Both are fascinating and as with all good poems, need, demand, repeated reading.
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