Sing Me My Song | Epiphany 1
1.11.26 | Matthew 3 | Fr. Benji Davis
I have decided to start writing short introductions to my Tithe Poems in order to offer a bit more traction for those that are not super keen on poetry (or try to be but get easily frustrated). I know some of my family members likely subscribed to these poems out of more loyalty to me than to poetry, so hopefully some thoughts from me are helpful. You can always skip to the poem if you feel so lead.
I will also say I have left my poem something of a mess—so read through it for lines that resonate with you, not so much for an overall design!
The poem for this week is inspired by Fr. Benji’s sermon on Matthew 3 on the feast day of the Baptism of our Lord. This begins a five week sermon series focusing on getting “back to the basics” of deeply rooted discipleship to Christ. With the focus this week on identity, I had two things in the back of my mind while writing this poem.
First, the phrase “Song of Myself” which, is the title of a very long poem by Walt Whitman in a few different editions in the second half of the 19th century. To be clear, I have never read nor studied his poem. It is one that I intend to read, but I have procrastinated a long time on it. This is due to the fact that I have tended to detest a lot of early American poetry (17th - 19th century). I took one class on this era in college, and it was my least favorite to study, especially Emerson and Thoreau. I think this was because I saw in their writings all the groundwork for today’s American hyper-individualism (what I have heard some call “expressive individualism”). I know there is still much to be gained from these authors, but I have not yet taken the time to appreciate them better. Despite all my frustration with those authors, I do actually like several poems by Walt Whitman (who is from the same era)—BUT the title of his long poem, Song of Myself (1855 & 1892) , does suggest that it fits in the great American tradition of extreme individualism. The opening lines are: “I celebrate myself, and sing myself / And what I assume you shall assume, / For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.”
Second, I’ve been reading At the Back of the North Wind (1871) by George MacDonald. I got half way through this book four years ago but got bored in the middle. However, I am quite enjoying returning to it. MacDonald has a depth that he does not give out very easily—you have to work a bit harder and be ok with not understanding everything in his fairyland. Yet he delivers to those who seek him. This book has many beautiful insights. I am eager to read this to my kids one day. In this novel, the North Wind is somewhat of a lesser god who takes a small boy on adventures with her. The North Wind apparently always has certain work assigned to her, sometimes pleasant and sometimes unpleasant. She tells the small boy with her that she always knows what she is supposed to do because:
I am always hearing, through every noise, through all the noise I am making myself even, the sound of a far-off song. I do not exactly know what it is, or what it means, and I don’t hear much of it…but what I do hear is quite enough.
I think this is a lovely way of thinking about the Holy Spirit’s call on our lives. It is also very convicting to think of the song the Lord is summoning us with can win out over “over the noise” we are making in our busy, cacophounous minds (quick plug, just to put it out there—the next collection of poetry I intend to self-publish this year is called A Quiet Mind. It is quite close to finished!)
Hopefully these notes help explain some of my scrawled sermon notes!
Sing Me My Song | Matthew 3
From infancy on through all the rest
I am, am being, have been;
in early days any sense of my self
was cobbled together
from hints and half-baked notions.
So late I have begun
becoming who I am.
It is a process, to understate it.
I am myself and am
far-off from myself.
I am formed, forming,
and being formed
by hands I cannot see.
A voice sings over me;
A voice I almost know.
It’s the song of myself
and it’s ugly—
yet it glimmers
with something moving
towards a fresh and lovely sound.
I start to hum and harmonize
alongside other voices
that sing like me, but different,
but like me, and like that voice
I cannot get out of my head.
(I should probably end the poem there, but here is the rest of it)
When at the end of my effort,
at the end of my failed effort,
straining my burning lungs,
here in the croak of my broken voice,
a breath is given me
like water for the dizzy,
a crash of life itself into my life.
I take a breath I did not have
to sing the song of myself,
the song I failed to write,
that song I’ve heard
since my first breath,
far-off and indistinct,
but trilling with a hope
that is not me and is mine.