George Herbert: thundering at goddess and god

Disclaimer:  I often cringe when I come across protestations of faith which assume rightness.  Nonetheless belief, life, death, life after life, the sublime, life before life, have always been been hobbies of mine. When I mention them I talking about myself as much as when I write on Mr. Movie Snack or politics. To hide my great interest would be dishonest. Okay, I'm not telling "all" but one size doesn't fit "all" so who tells the greater lie?

Yes, my choice of illustration (left) is whimsical and not necessarily referential or logical but, I suggest, charming, well, more likely weird. And who doesn't like weird? A related [R.S. Thomas, also Anglican priest and poet who admired Herbert]: [R.S. Thomas: I have heard...] is here.

I have no problem with atheism, but do think it's a belief and that belief is belief, even in reverse; right? My overstatement sweeps all the toy soldiers off the table--just like that; it's not going to win any mock battle. I did try atheism for two years. I was nineteen; edging twenty-one when I recommenced belief.

It took years and years, however, for me to sweep Sarah Sarai's ego off the table so I could deepen my sense of the divine. But that's a different story.

Yesterday I discovered this wildly famous sonnet by George Herbert, Anglican minister and poet; knew John Donne. I had to have heard it quoted; probably read it; don't remember at all and am simply happy to have it called out. "Church" is just a word as is "mosque" as is "temple." The greater container for divinity and expression of gratitude, the latter being the only true prayer, is the beauty, is mystery. "Reversed thunder"? Back at ya, divinity.

What I don't believe in is my ability to indent. If "Prayer" doesn't have proper indentations, just click here==George Herbert's "Prayer"==to see a closer facsimile.


PRAYER. (I)

PRAYER the Churches banquet, Angels age,
Gods breath in man returning to his birth,
The soul in paraphrase, heart in pilgrimage,
The Christian plummet sounding heav’n and earth ;

Engine against th’ Almightie, sinner's towre,
Reversed thunder, Christ-side-piercing spear,
The six daies world-transposing in an houre,
A kinde of tune, which all things heare and fear ;

Softnesse, and peace, and joy, and love, and blisse,
Exalted Manna, gladnesse of the best,
Heaven in ordinarie, man well drest,
The milkie way, the bird of Paradise,

Church-bels beyond the stars heard, the souls bloud,
The land of spices, something understood.

Source: Herbert, George. The Poetical Works of George Herbert. New York: D. Appleton and Co., 1857. 61-62.

Poem: "Further Arguments" -- Nonbelievers, sisters

I dedicated "Further Arguments" to one of my sisters, a nonbeliever to her core.

She was a good mother to my niece and nephew and though she considered retiring in the Southwest, didn't because, "I don't want to miss out on E- and E- [her grandchildren]. They're too much fun." Friends, financial security--or as much as anyone not wealthy has--she led a good life.

Given our fanatical Christian Science childhood--Mom was a convert, and you know the fervor of converts--with tones, jokes and intellectualizations of our secular Jewish father--any spiritual closeness or abhorance makes sense although the other three daughters found "spiritual paths."

I'm a mystic (bold of me to say, but there it is) (more to it, but I'll leave it there for now). My only complaint in this regard with my sister was her antagonism toward belief. You could not say a word to her about anything remotely related to spirituality, let alone cast your eye upward before digging into a good meal without a sharp remand.

But sharp and quick criticisms generally mean a deep nerve has been struck; a childhood memory is unhealed. The four daughters had plenty of them.

My sister died far too young, of cancer. She went through four years of chemotherapy. To the end she held hard to her nonbelief; foolish or brave; definitely honest. After she passed I went to Gilda's Place for grief support. On hearing the above, a counselor said, "Well, now she knows for sure." Here's the poem (not written with her in mind but dedicated to her).

Further Arguments

If there is a god you must sculpt my bellied likeness then
bury me so dirt chokes my cry.
If there is a god you must bruise me with your broad hand,
the one with the Rolex.
If there is a god, you must snap my bones and giggle.
If there is a god, you must punch my womb and admire
my body’s pliancy.
If there is a god you must plunge me to a watery death,
as an argument rivaling Aquinas’ that there is a god.
If there is a god you must burn me, millions of me,
and warm to the frisky stench.
If there is a god, pray gratitude you were not born me,
and who will blame you?
You are reading this, you are not reading this. There is
a god.
You are listening, you are disinterested. There is a god.
You feel shame, or none. There is a god.
I am four hundred dead in the desert yet there is a god.
My children are target-rage and yet there is a god.
I am laughed at and condescended to and there is a god
there is, trust me.
I took the leap of faith over your life, proving there is
a god.
We are kneeling on our hearts agreeing this thing in each
of us is what I am calling god.



Published in The Minnesota Review [Spring 2007] and in The Future Is Happy [available at Amazon; SPD is restocking the collection].

Image from hopifriendseducation.org