Practical Criticism

Recently and quite accidentally, I came across a poem written by a contemporary Singapore poet which threw my mind back some 15 years to another poem I was reading then. I had studied the older poem in a strangely intent manner (for various reasons at that time), which was probably why it remained vivid in my mind all these years. The two poems are "churchgoing" and "Love III" respectively, I reproduce them in full here (with legal permission and the usual random clipart):

churchgoing

"and now we see through a glass darkly...." 1 cor 13:10

this morning i reached as far as
the clear glass doors of the sanctuary

and the affably opaque smile of the usher
on the other side, and peering in i saw

that someone had already taken
my favorite seat at the far anonymous

corner - a good seat by all accounts
because one only needs to shake no more

than three other hands when it came to
that part of the service, which had already

started - and i didn't want to interrupt God
who was evidently doing a great job with

the congregation, judging by their steadfast
glassy-eyed unanimity, from my clear glass

perspective anyway, so i turned around and
walked out the main gate, and lit my cigarette,

thinking of the parable of the virgins who
arrived too late and were locked out

(opaquely steadfastly oaken doors no doubt)
of the dinner banquet. then i sat down

for breakfast after that
and said my grace

but it wasn't quite the same at all.

- by Benzie Dio


Love III

Love bade me welcome, yet my soul drew back,

Guilty of dust and sin.
But quick-ey'd Love, observing me grow slack
From my first entrance in,
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning
If I lack'd anything.

"A guest," I answer'd, "worthy to be here";
Love said, "You shall be he."
"I, the unkind, the ungrateful?
ah my dear,I cannot look on thee."

Love took my hand and smiling did reply,
"Who made the eyes but I?"
"Truth, Lord, but I have marr'd them;
let my shame
Go where it doth deserve."

"And know you not," says Love,
"who bore the blame?"
"My dear, then I will serve."
"You must sit down," says Love,
"and taste my meat.
"So I did sit and eat.

- from "The Temple", George Herbert (1633)

"churchgoing" caught my attention for the reason that it refreshed some of the sentiments that I felt when I first read "Love III". Also, with the poem's modern and startlingly familiar (albeit intensely private) setting, it put me into a thinking mode about a number of issues that I have been mulling over regarding church life in the last few years - i.e. community, acceptance, and the "funny-shaped sheep" of Christ generally. I had written about these things in past blog entries, but I thought it would be interesting to look at them from a "literary" perspective.

So, purely for the fun of it, for old time's sake (and since one of the poets actually encouraged it), I am going to attempt a little comparative prac crit on the two poems. I am writing on the Blackberry on an airplane, so thoughts shall appear in bullets.

* Each poem is a re-working of a very well-known Bible verse. 1 Cor 13:10 in the case of "churchgoing" and Luke 12:37 for "Love III". In Herbert's work, the personification of God (Christ) is daringly human, tender, cajoling, solicitous even. Careful comparison with the scripture source shows how Herbert has juggled the characters and staging of the scene in his wonderfully witty way, worthy of a true Metaphysical poet. "churchgoing" likewise turns the preamble on its head in an intriguing way - we are used to the idea of the church looking into glass (perhaps darkly at first, if one was a dispensationalist) at the Truth, here someone outside the church looks in through clear glass instead, keenly observing what's going on inside. Who has the truer perspective? - is the question provoked throughout.

* In both poems, distance and space are used to convey the idea of intimacy, or the lack thereof, between deity and follower. At the start of both poems, the protaganist's desire to "draw near" to God is unspoken but palpable. In Love III, God and sinner becomes progressively closer, indeed the image of the eucharist brings about ultimate convergence- God is ingested by the sinner. In churchgoing, the opposite takes place, with the soul drawing back, guilty presumably of [cigarette?] dust and sin. God remains distant and untouched.

* I like the poignant social comedy in both. Who of us have not crashed a party of strangers and felt stupidly awkward at it? And who does not dread Friendship Break at service?!

* Cigarettes & dust. I am constantly amazed at the indictment ability of this. I am not a smoker, but I have a few close (Christian) friends who do (or did). The guilt surrounding the addiction is so real and so powerful, accentuated no doubt by the social stigma present in the community. One friend confided that she learnt to devise intricate strategies to make sure she gets a smoke when hanging out in a church setting without detection. Often it means having to find some place discreet in the middle of a gathering. She would have appreciated the "main gate" detail in "churchgoing".

* Finally, on Communion - it is still that undisputed image for fellowship with God and others. In "Love III", the sinner does sit and eat, which we may take as evidence of redemption. What about in "churchgoing"? In fact, the almost-churchgoer does sit and eat too, after voluntarily saying grace - should that not be taken as communion as well? But it is "not quite the same", he says. Why is that so? Did he feel that he dishonored God by turning up late at church ? (reminds me of the big signboard at my old church containing exactly that message for the latecomers every Sunday) Was it not the same because he would have preferred to eat (fellowship) with the glassy-eyed members of the congregation, and not alone? I am not sure one could tell entirely from this poem. Maybe it had something to do with practical self-criticism.

What the Living Do

What the Living Do

Johnny, the kitchen sink has been clogged for days, some utensil
probably fell down there.
And the Drano won't work but smells dangerous, and the crusty
dishes have piled up

waiting for the plumber I still haven't called. This is the everyday we
spoke of.
It's winter again: the sky's a deep headstrong blue, and the sunlight
pours through

the open living room windows because the heat's on too high in here,
and I can't turn it off.
For weeks now, driving, or dropping a bag of groceries in the street
the bag breaking,

I've been thinking: This is what the living do. And yesterday, hurrying
along those
wobbly bricks in the Cambridge sidewalk, spilling my coffee down my
wrist and sleeve,

I thought it again, and again later, when buying a hairbrush:
This is it.
Parking. Slamming the car door shut in the cold. What you called
that yearning.

What you finally gave up. We want the spring to come and the winter
to pass. We want
whoever to call or not call, a letter, a kiss -- we want more and more
and then more of it.

But there are moments, walking, when I catch a glimpse of myself in
the window glass,
say, the window of the corner video store, and I'm gripped by a
cherishing so deep

for my own blowing hair, chapped face, and unbuttoned coat that I'm
speechless:
I am living, I remember you.

From the book, What the Living Do: Poems, by Marie Howe, W.W. Norton & Company, New York, 1998. Written to chronicle the death of her beloved brother. Painting by Edward Gordon.

Been going to poems and writings about mortality often these days. I guess it may have to do with Grandma's cancer in the last two months. Thankfully, by some certain miracle, the large tumour had not spread to the other organs as originally feared. The doctor was so amazed that she called us in the middle of the operation to tell us that. Seeing my usually super-active and cheery Grandma so ill so suddenly brought life and sickness in juxtaposition in a way that made me look at ordinary things quite differently recently. I am not sure how long this will last, but the "dailiness" of life is now almost savor-able, rather than unsavory and boring. This poem captures it well, because the poet actually took a break from her grief and savored it. It's what we the living don't do.

Boxes

One good way to get familiar with transparent watercolors and figure out how they interact with one another is to practice painting boxes of color. Wrote this poem after one exercise during the weekend.

Boxes and boxes, boxes in boxes
Boxes alone, boxes together
I put you in one, you put me in another.

Which school are you from?
What do you do?
Where do you live?
oh, and how do you do?

Are you married or single?
Children, no, not yet?
I was called in 1998
Which year were you?

Boxes and Boxes,
I have ten pretty boxes
Tell me these things
And I will you too
How many boxes
Do you have in your boxes?

Process

It's not quite finished, but I am glad it won't take a lifetime, after all. I am finally enjoying oils.