In the Kingdom of Heaven all are taken up in song. It is right that our Faith is sung. Holy, Holy, Holy.

I begin to go deeper into the art of W.B. Yeats’ poetry with the help of A Reader’s Guide to... What I previously read about—that his poems collectively are one work—I now begin to experience. I see how through images these poems dance around the North Star.

The work of the hymnographer was to write the songs which are sung corporately. The work of the poet is to write the songs which are sung by the person. These are not at odds, but complimentary. The image of this is the corporateness of Christ’s work of redemption and that of the tongues of flame, the Holy Spirit, at Pentecost.

My own work must be rooted, grounded in the hymns of the Church. And yet, because it is a personal work, it may also, in fact must, be expressed in my own tongue, from my own experience, through my own heritage.

Intimate knowledge of the hymns will provide a framework and a source of images for my personal expression.

Dear X— (and J— and R—, whom I’m cc’ing),

Your quick comment on my poetry has kind of sparked me. Yes, I suppose it IS what I have chosen. And yet, I am very fearful of never writing anything really worthwhile.

I have this impression of the great writers as intellectual giants which cannot be met. And I have an impression of the current practitioners being an in-crowd full of allusions and inner-knowledge. And me, a college drop-out, who burns all candles at every end, burning quickly, smoky, short-lived. I picked up a writer’s magazine today. Nothing too high-brow, I think, and yet it is full of assumption and jargon. Names bandied, laced, and strewn.( Read more... )

Monica and I were talking on Friday about things that we wanted to do before dying. Ten years ago I would have—and did—think in terms of activities: traveling, white water rafting, etc—adventure seeking. Now I realize that I have one real goal which I have been toying with for years—I want to write a book, and not just any book, but a novel, or better yet, a poem, such as Gogol's Dead Souls.
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