Tag Archives: poet

Ash Wednesday the Poem by T.S. Eliot

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Ash Wednesday and the start of Lent is tomorrow and I came across this poem by T.S. Eliot called “Ash-Wednesday”, which is the first long poem written by T. S. Eliot after his conversion to Anglicanism (or the Church of England) in 1927. The entire poem was a big long for one blog post so I have made it available here in a pdf: Ash-Wednesday by T.S. Eliot if you want to read the entire poem. The full text can also be found at this website. I love how it ends:

Teach us to care and not to care
Teach us to sit still
Even among these rocks,
Our peace in His will
And even among these rocks
Sister, mother
And spirit of the river, spirit of the sea,
Suffer me not to be separated

And let my cry come unto Thee.

This is an interesting poem by T.S. Eliot. It straddles the line between secular and Christian poetry but opens the door for his later “Christian” poems. He shows the need for God, his lack of hope for everything in the world, and how “unworthy” we are when we come to God in our natural sinful state. A background reading of the book of Ezekiel would be a good idea prior to reading “Ash-Wednesday” as some who have analysed the poem far more than I have said it helps in a more full understanding of the poem.

I would love to hear how you or your church is observing Ash Wednesday and Lent this year. I’m looking forward to this time of reflection myself.

Theology the Poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar

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This is a followup post to The Pop-Culture Glenn Beck Theology article I published earlier in the week. I came across this poem earlier in the week by Paul Laurence Dunbar called “Theology”, and it struck me on multiple levels; it was hilarious and sad.

Paul Laurence Dunbar published his first book of poetry in 1893, a time late in the Victorian Period where poetry was not at its best and brightest period. Many of his poems were lighthearted and humorous, probably what drew me to this one.

a Poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar: Theology

There is a heaven, for ever, day by day,
The upward longing of my soul doth tell me so.
There is a hell, I’m quite as sure; for pray,
If there were not, where would my neighbours go?

Tick Tock Goes the Clock by Jacques Marciano :: Poem

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Today I have a guest author, one of my nephews (published here under my given pen name for him), graciously offered one of his poems for this Saturday sidenote post. After reading several of his poems I realized that poetry is certainly not dependent on age for elegance and beauty.  My first thought was, not bad at all for a 12 year old poet, but I am not sure age has anything to do with well written poetry.  When Edgar Allan Poe wrote “To Helen” in 1831 he was only 14 years old, and it still to this day it is referred to by some as one of the greatest American lyrical poems ever written.

Tick Tock Goes the Clock was the first of several he offered, which will probably grace these pages for the next few Saturday’s.  I am sure he would appreciate any comments you might want to leave.

Tick Tock Goes the Clock

Tick tock goes the clock,
Twenty-four hours in a day.
Tick tock goes the clock,
Little time do we have to play.
Tick tock goes the clock,
Working, toiling, and laboring.
Tick tock goes the clock,
Getting up in early this morning,
Tick tock goes the clock.
Every second just flies away,
Tick tock goes the clock
Watching the sun’s bright leaving rays,
Tick tock goes the clock.

The Complete Egoist by Arthur Guiterman

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I have tried over the years to reconcile the whole of what is social networking to how it helps or destroys the effort of devoting one’s life to the pursuit of God.  Reading through a sermon written by a family member in 1976, I came across this poem by Arthur Guiterman called “The Complete Egoist”, who wrote this around 1930 about our pursuit to self. I wonder what he would think of our narcissism in 2010.

A Mollusc who dwelt in primordial slime
Was always himself to the innermost core;
As being himself took up most of his time,
He never did anything more.
Still just as he was, though long ages have flown,
He stands on the specimen-cabinet shelf
A fossil, immortal in durable stone,
A monument raised to himself.

–Guiterman ~1930