A Review of "The Cutting Edge," by Malcolm Guite

"The sciences long remained like a lion-cub whose gambols delighted its master in private; it had not yet tasted man's blood." - C. S. Lewis, De Descriptione Temporum

In "The Cutting Edge," from his new book The Singing Bowl, Cambridge poet Malcolm Guite describes what happens when the big cat tastes not only man's blood, but God's. Guite packs this poem until every line curls and sings with the pent-up power of a coiled spring. The kinetic uncoiling of the full piece leaves the careful reader stunned. Here is the poem in full:

At my back, like you, I always hear
The edge, the cutting edge is coming near.

Not the blind fury
With the abhorred shears,
But this is what I fear:
The stealthy scissors of a blinded time
Cutting through accretions of the past
Dully and daily deleting whatever is not next,
Sneering and sniping and snipping,
Excising every sign-post from the text,
Parsing all the parts that point away
To something other than our circled self.

I know the angels were the first to fall;
Cherub and seraph spiralled down
In circling curlicues of sacred text,
Flaring in ink and paper to the floor,
The shredded evidence of our affair,
Our old, embarrassing affair with God.
And God himself will follow soon enough;
A little word so easy to excise,
Another snippet from the cutting room,
A sweeping on the heap of history.

But still at night I tiptoe to the door
To rustle through these severed strips of love,
And strew my heart with scraps of poetry,
Forbidden hopes and shards of mystery.
They rustle through me in my waking dreams
And so I'll have a heart-, a head-, a handful when
The scissors come for me.

For at my back, like you, I always hear
The edge, the cutting edge is coming near.

The poem leads with irony as Guite invokes Andrew Marvell's famous, "To His Coy Mistress." In that poem, a young man seeks to wheedle his lover out of her virginity by invoking the relentless march of mortality. What Marvell's narrator hears at his back is "time's winged chariot hurrying near."

But that is merely death, and here the poet dismisses it almost casually: "Not the blind fury/With the abhorred shears." These two lines invoke the myth of the three fates, the oldest and scariest of which was Atropos who with her "abhorred shears" severed the thread of each person's life when the chosen moment arrived. The end of physical existence, the speaker assures us, poses a small threat in comparison to the loss of one's soul while still alive.

The linked imagery continues as the next stanza unfolds: Atropos in Greek means "un-turning." Now the lines abound exactly in imagery of revolving as words like "spiralled," "circling curlicues," and "flaring" seem to hold out hope of a relentless fate who finally relents. In fact, however, they depict the final falling of the severed thread. And this is not the thread of an individual existence as the previous stanza has made clear. It is "the text" that this force pares away. Those two words cover a lot of territory, but when written by a Christian priest, a safe bet says they at least include, and perhaps center on, the Holy Bible. Guite's language does the work of describing the attitude behind much of this sort of Jesus Seminar-style textual criticism. These are "stealthy scissors" that are "Sneering and sniping and snipping," a series of alliterations keen enough to give the reader's tongue a paper cut.

Then more allusion and yet more irony: "I know the angels were the first to fall," a phrase invoking the story of Lucifer's eviction from Heaven. But wait! These are the good angels, "Cherub and seraph," and human scholarship, not divine justice, lops them from glory. They spiral, circle, and flair: The words recall William Butler Yeat's "Sailing to Byzantium," where the speaker petitions the heavenly beings to "perne in a gyre," to whirl downward like the thread that whips through bobbin and spool until a movement so swift as to be imperceptible weaves individual filaments into one continuous cord. These heavenly hosts, by contrast, spin and twist, not into seamless unity, but away from oneness and into isolation. What Wordsworth said of modernity Guite says of modernity's engagement with divine revelation: "We murder to dissect."

Nor is any of this the product of "pure reason," passionless science that follows only where the evidence leads. Guite does all the work of unmasking the lie of disinterested scholarship with the single line about, "Our old, embarrassing affair with God." Yes, Christianity, religion of all sorts, arises from a deep emotional yearning; our theology is an "affair." At the same time, rationalism debunks this yearning not because the desire is inherently untrue (How can a desire be "untrue" in that sense?), but because it "embarrasses" (another emotion!) rationalist assumptions.
"And God himself will follow soon enough." Untwist the text that contains sacred revelation and ultimately the Revealed One disappears.

And then the furtive, subversive final stanza: "At night," "tiptoe," "forbidden" - the words conjure the image of a prisoner who sneaks into the open air. "Rustle" appears twice in four lines, and Guite is too good a poet to have done this because no other verb offered itself to his vocabulary. This word, and no other word, here creates the sound and feel rolling and wallowing in slivers of the written words of our ancient faith. "So I'll have a heart-, a head-, a handful" - the narrator stashes scraps of truth like a survivalist who stocks his doomsday bunker with MREs.

And "bunker" is the right word. Because it is a question of "when," not if, "the scissors come for me."  The lion has tasted man's blood. Shears wet with the life of Divinity cannot be stopped from turning on the human hands that wield them. And so the opening lines repeat at the end to sew up the poem. But while grim, the ending is not despairing. Though understated and apologetic, the enduring picture of this poem is the refrigerator raid on the leftovers of revelation and the daring child in his pajamas who pads down dark hallways to feast his fill. If the grownups have starved us with science, perhaps we must indeed come as little children.

The Party's Over: Second Sunday of Advent, Year A, December 8, 2013, Matthew 3.1-12

            In "The Custom House," the introductory chapter to his classic novel The Scarlet Letter, Nathaniel Hawthorne satirizes the career bureaucrats whom he supervised as surveyor of that establishment:

Mighty was their fuss about little matters, and marvellous, sometimes, the obtuseness that allowed greater ones to slip between their fingers! Whenever such a mischance occurred,—when a wagon-load of valuable merchandise had been smuggled ashore, at noonday, perhaps, and directly beneath their unsuspicious noses,—nothing could exceed the vigilance and alacrity with which they proceeded to lock, and double-lock, and secure with tape and sealing-wax, all the avenues of the delinquent vessel. Instead of a reprimand for their previous negligence, the case seemed rather to require an eulogium on their praiseworthy caution, after the mischief had happened; a grateful recognition of the promptitude of their zeal, the moment that there was no longer any remedy!

            Well, he had been fired from his post there and had vowed to take revenge, so perhaps his account is a trifle unkind. Still, who hasn't encountered the kind of bumptious officialdom that only acts when it's too late?

            John the Baptist seems to have taken a Custom House approach to the religious coalition of red- and blue-staters who dropped in to hear him preach. The Pharisees crowded to the Fox News and Tea Party right in both politics and theology. The Sadducees doubtless drove up to John's camp meeting in Volvos (if not Priuses!) that sported NPR bumper stickers. Curiously, John has the identical message for both: He orders the to slither off somewhere else and sell their snake oil. Then, mixing his metaphors to take the congregation on a bullet train to Eden, he tells them to stop eating forbidden fruit and bear the blossoms of real repentance.

            Then comes the Custom House clincher: It's too late to tend the tree after someone chops it down. The flood's coming so best learn now how to live under water. Wildfire's on the way: time to torch your selfish, sinful system so it serves as a firebreak instead of more fuel.

            In Advent, we await the coming of Christ. In retrospect, we relive the birth at Bethlehem and the Baptizer's first proclamation of the Kingdom. But we also harbor the prospect of Our Lord's final return. In either case, there's no more room for sinecured appointees who only heed prophecy after it comes to pass. We can seal the doors once the Spirit has flown or fly to the Spirit when He falls. We can file a police report once the thief has fled or seek Him when he comes in the dead of night.

            Hawthorne lost his government gig largely because the spoils system shut him out when a new party rose to power. The Kingdom of Heaven, however, recognizes only registered Repentants. And once the polls close, there's no point casting one's vote.

Customarily,

Doug

            

The First Sunday of Advent: The Crane

In medieval bestiaries, the crane often represents the one who serves out goods held in common by a community, and watches over the spiritual well-being of the other members. "Close," when used of the crane, means that it holds a stone in one raised claw. The stone is Christ; the claw is the disposition of the mind, so that one who has the care of others must keep Christ always in mind. If you are new to this  series, you can read the introduction with the opening sonnet here.

Argent: silver, often shown white

Close: of a bird, standing on the ground with the wings closed

Vert: green

Or: gold

Fess: a horizontal stripe across the middle of the shield, occupying about a third of the height

Vermillion: blue

Dexter: right

Bend: a diagonal band across the shield (top left/bottom right as viewed; this is known as a "bend dexter;" a bend to the left would be a "sinister")

He stalks into the clearing crane-head-high,

A streak of argent close against a field

Of vert-and-or fessed with vermillion sky,

Neck dexter bend, unbending purpose wields.

Unrippled image mirrored in the mere,

He presses on with unperturbed pace,

Deliberate speed, majestic yet draws near,

Preys 'midst the rushes with unrustling grace.

And once again we pray amidst the rush

And hustle to outpace the panting year,

The perning gyre that gyves and will not hush

To let us pause and pray for ploughshared spears.

Oh, clutched by Christ alone, God let me clutch

The corner stone and stop, and wait, and watch.

Heralding the Coming of Christ: An Advent Shield in Five Sonnets

Advent, the four weeks prior to Christmastide, has traditionally been for Christians a season of anticipation: We anticipate the celebration of Jesus' birth in Bethlehem and also the promise of his ultimate return. Several weeks ago I began, as I do each year, to ponder how I could best use this observance to prepare my own heart to hear God speak in this particular time. While walking with my dog in the reclaimed wilderness of an abandoned golf course, I was struck to see a snowy heron stalking through the shallows of what had been a water hazard. The adjective "heraldic" came to mind and started me thinking about the subject of medieval heraldry, on which I was - and remain - almost totally ignorant. A little research, however, revealed that many of the birds I see regularly here in the Coastal Bend of Texas had deep symbolic meaning for the knightly culture of the middle ages. I began to wonder if that antique language might not enable God's creation to speak to me in new ways.

In what follows I have sought to combine some images from my own observations of these animals with medieval traditions and the biblical associations of Advent. I have chosen the form of the Elizabethan sonnet, the sonnet of Shakespeare, which seemed appropriate for talking about heraldry, knights errant, and romance. I have borrowed much of the technical terminology of heraldry, which will probably be as indecipherable to the reader as it was to me when I began. I will preface each poem with a brief glossary of terms that I hope will help with this.

In a day when the "holiday" (as opposed to Holy Day) that C. S. Lewis sneeringly dubbed "X-mas" (as opposed to Christmas) begins just after "Halloween" (not, as it long was, All Hallows Eve), I need a good deal of help to open myself to God's work. I intend these sonnets to function in the same way that my solitary rambles with my dog in the wilderness of an overgrown golf course function for me: as a shield that buys life-preserving space and a chance to breathe between me and the relentless sword-blows of modernity's assault on silence and slowness. I hope that they will prove helpful to others in this effort.

Introduction: A Non-Combatant's Apology for Taking Up Arms

"As to his blood, I suppose the family quarterings are three cuttle-fish, sable, and a commentator rampant." - Middlemarch by George Eliot

This remark by Mrs. Cadwallader, the rector's wife, passes judgment on both the heritage (blood in the sense of ancestry) and spirit (blood in the sense of "red-blooded") of the Reverend Cassauban. Elsewhere, when Sir James says of the reverend gentleman, "He has got no good red-blood in his body," the clerical lady replies, "No. Somebody put a drop under a magnifying-glass, and it was all semicolons and parentheses." Medieval crusaders were quick to notice the similar shapes of a cross and a sword, but perhaps it is also worth noting that the only reason we now know the stories of cradle or cross is because someone knew about black marks on white surfaces.

Ermine: in its original form is the winter pelt of the stoat, an animal which turns all white except for the tip of its tail. An ermine fur consists of black "tails," or figures, on a white field.

The pen, men say, is mightier than the sword;

They're right, for all I know, and yet it seems

Fair maidens rank brave deeds above apt words,

And more prize righting wrongs than writing reams.

My heraldry boasts but an ermine field,

Inky invertebrates ramp on my arms.

The man of bookish theoric on my shield

No quarter yields but does no body harm.

Black tracks backtrack through time and never cease:

Old thoughts that give fresh wounds are our sure peace.

From "Nothing There Is Not More"

Some of you may already have heard that I have a chapbook of poetry coming out. "Nothing There Is Not More" will not be available for shipping until February 28 but can be preordered now at Finishing Line Press. The book must receive fifty pre-orders by January or it will not be printed. (I think John Grisham gets the same deal on his books.)

The sonnet below is from the book. I got the idea from a sermon by the Cambridge priest/poet Malcolm Guite, who, after a reading of Revelation 3:14-22, commented that he would like to see that scene portrayed by some great artist in a painting or stained glass window on the wall of a mighty cathedral.: the risen Christ vomiting up the prosperity gospel and commercialized Christianity. While I have no delusions that I am a great artist or my poems a majestic house of worship, the idea intrigued me. The first line came to me rather quickly and I hammered out the rest, mostly on neighborhood rambles with my dog, Spurgeon, over a period of months.

Laodicean Sonnet

So then because thou art lukewarm, and neither cold nor hot, I will spue thee out of my mouth. - Revelation 3.16

"If you want a religion to make you feel really comfortable, I certainly don’t recommend Christianity. I am certain there must be a patent American article on the market which will suit you far better." - C. S. Lewis

I saw the face of Christ fish belly-pale

And bloodless blanched. Five wounds in mottled skin

Glowed livid. From his bowels keened forth a wail.

Bright blazing eyes blank, banked, glazed, gazed within.

Chest's sudden spasm under golden sash

Belched forth and splattered plastic platitudes.

From white robe's hem now ricocheted and splashed

Best lives, bland smiles, be-happy-attitudes.

From sword-sharp mouth vast waters thundered forth

Great half-chewed chunks of saltless sentiment.

Gobs, globs of branded worship without worth

Spewed, spattered, spat in torrents of torment.

'Midst Heaven's host dry heaves declared a stop.

Christ wiped his mouth. An angel grabbed a mop.

A Sonnet for Veteran's Day

For Veteran's Day I am posting the following sonnet. It is one of a corona of linked sonnets I have written on seven of the traditional Stations of the Cross. When the women of Jerusalem weep for Jesus (Luke 23.27-31), he calls on them to weep for themselves and their society. It is my belief that Our Lord speaks, on one level, to the specific political situation of the moment: Israel's rejection of Jesus' non-violent gospel will lead to military revolt with the destruction and slaughter that follow. So today, I offer this poem as a tribute to those valiant men and women who give their lives for my protection, as a prayer that a day will come when that sacrifice, at least in that form, will no longer be necessary. Of course, laying down our arms will mean taking up our crosses.

Christ Addresses the Women of Jerusalem

He turns our tears to those for whom he weeps:

The victims of war’s purple testament.

A woman’s tenderness of heart he seeks

To see the price of power, and lament.

The tree he bears, though dead, is green with hope

Of life lived out in meek humility

And violence overcome by love’s wide scope,

And ending of the sword’s futility.

We weep beside the way of Calvary’s cross,

Yet set aside our crosses for the way

Of swords drawn to revenge our pain and loss,

And yet more swords in yet a drier day.

‘Neath our false tears he falls yet full of hope

And naked waits for hate’s uplifting stroke.