Poem for June 23
June 23, 2012 § Leave a comment
Jonathan Edwards in Western Massachusetts
Edwards’ great millstone and rock
of hope has crumbled, but the square
white houses of his flock
stand in the open air,
out in the cold,
like sheep outside the fold.
Hope lives in doubt.
Faith is trying to do without
faith. In western Massachusetts,
I could almost feel the frontier
crack and disappear.
Edwards thought the world would end there.
We know how the world will end,
but where is paradise, each day farther
from the Pilgrim’s blues for England
and the Promised Land.
Was it some country house
that seemed as if it were
Whitehall, if the Lord were there?
so nobly did he live.
that the breath of flowers in the wind,
or crushed underfoot,
came and went like warbling music?
Bacon’s great oak grove
he refused to sell,
when he fell,
saying, “Why should I sell my feathers?”
Ah paradise! Edwards,
I would be afraid
to meet you as a shade.
We move in different circles.
As a boy, you built a booth
in a swamp for prayer;
lying on your back,
you saw the spiders fly,
basking at their ease,
swimming from tree to tree —
so high, they seemed tacked to the sky.
You knew they would die.
Poor country Berkeley at Yale,
you saw the world was soul,
the soul of God! The soul
of Sarah Pierrepont!
So filled with delight in the Great Being,
she hardly cared for anything —
walking the fields, sweetly singing,
conversing with some one invisible.
Then God’s love shone in sun, moon and stars,
on earth, in the waters,
in the air, in the loose winds,
which used to greatly fix your mind.
Often she saw you come home from a ride
or a walk, your coat dotted with thoughts
you had pinned there
on slips of paper.
her Pompey, a Negro slave,
and eleven children.
Yet people were spiders
in your moment of glory,
at the Great Awakening — “Alas, how many
in this very meeting house are more than likely
to remember my discourse in hell!”
The meeting house remembered!
You stood on stilts in the air,
but you fell from your parish.
“All rising is by a winding stair.”
On my pilgrimage to Northampton,
I found no relic,
except the round slice of an oak
you are said to have planted.
It was flesh-colored, new,
and a common piece of kindling,
only fit for burning.
You too must have been green once.
White wig and black coat,
all cut from one cloth,
like your mind!
I love you faded,
old, exiled and afraid
to leave your last flock, a dozen
Houssatonic Indian children;
afraid to leave
all your writing, writing, writing,
denying the Freedom of the Will.
You were afraid to be president
of Princeton, and wrote:
“My defects are well known;
I have a constituion
vapid, sizzy, scarse fluids,
causing a childish weakness,
a low tide of spirits.
I am contemptable,
stiff and dull.
Why should I leave behind
my delight and entertainment,
that have swallowed up my mind?”
Robert Lowell, from Life Studies & For the Union Dead (NoondayPress, 1956)