As the summer slips away and I’m preparing for the classes I’ll teach this fall, I’m also readying myself for a course I plan to take: ENGL 351 – Creative Writing: Poetry.
Steadying myself is more like it.
Why did this seem like a good idea six months ago?
Actually, I’m still very committed to the class, still very much looking forward to it. But I also find myself feeling daunted and not a little stressed.
Not because of the professor: I have no qualms about my soon-to-be-poetry-teacher, Doug Van Gundy. He’s a good friend and colleague and a marvelous poet himself. He’ll be awesome, I know.
Neither am I (too much) concerned about the fact that I’ll be classmates with some of my own young students. There might be some awkwardness at first; Doug and I have talked a little about how to offset some of this. I’m hopeful that soon enough we’ll work out all the weirdness.
Poetry, of course, is not the problem. I love poetry. Love reading poems. Love learning about poets. I love sharing poetry with friends who also love it, and nothing is more satisfying to me than learning of a new poem from a trusted friend. I can be obsessed for days with a good poem. There are poems that have changed my life.
No, the parts of this creative writing class that have me feeling a little nauseous are the “creative” and “writing” parts.
Writing poems does not feel like something I can do, nor perhaps even ought to do. This is not false modesty on my part. I’m pretty sure that this kind of creativity is not part of my skill set as a writer.
I’m a theologian. Central to the task of theology is the routine avoidance of creativity or, at least, the forswearing of originality. The idea, communicated to me from my days in divinity school, is that theologians transmit a tradition; we don’t generate one. We make accessible the wise words of others, not our own. We are custodians, not creators; stewards, not inventors.
But it is also true that such transmission does not occur in a vacuum, that the context within which one does theology always requires something of a creative impulse, an imaginative bent, perhaps, even, an artistic eye. This is true, I think, because the ability to write theology well — to steward past tradition faithfully into the present for the purpose of encouraging lived discipleship now and into the future — this ability is linked to one’s facility with language. (Now there’s a connection to poetry I can latch onto).
And language is a slippery thing. And maybe theological language is especially hard to hold onto. It always wants to wriggle out of our grasp; it can be maddeningly elusive, fleeting, shifty, oblique. It is speech that is meant to furnish us with “a set of protocals against idolatry” but it does this always and only through a grammar of mystery and metaphor: God is one and three? Jesus is fully human and fully divine? The Kingdom of God has come, but not yet?
So it takes some creativity to wield theological language, to transmit theological truth responsibly, persuasively and — just as importantly — beautifully. And it is attention to beauty, I think, that most links good theology and good poetry. (Two of my favorite contemporary theologians, Rowan Williams and James Alison, write beautiful theology and one of them — Williams — is a fine poet to boot).
Theology that seeks to be beautiful pays a deep and abiding attention to words — to their power and their limitations, to their rootedness in the Word, the eternal Logos, the logic of the universe that orders all our speech (and all our living). Through language that attends with exquisite care to such things, good theology, like good poetry, issues an invitation, arranges an encounter, invites a response.
* * * * *
What I’ve noticed after a couple years’ deep immersion into poetry is that not only does the thought of writing poems intimidate me, but my own writing (and thinking) as a theologian (and a blogger) has begun to shift. As a poetry-loving friend helped me to name it recently: I’ve been reschooled in the power of what words are for, what words are meant to do.
If theology is — or ought to be — more poetic than polemical then I find myself less interested than I used to be in argument and debate, in entering the fray of yet another controversial issue for the sake of scoring points — or simply causing a stir. (One could argue that blogging itself, and especially blogging about the connections between religion, culture, and politics, by definition reveals a desire to stir things up, to court controversy. I hear that; I wrestle with that).
But the truth is that both/all “sides” of most public controversies are troubling and troubled. I can’t read a Franz Wright poem without knowing — deeply, viscerally — that brokenness and ruin are everywhere and in everyone, and that gratitude for glimpses of grace in the midst of such misery is the first (and sometimes only) response we can offer. Mary Oliver’s poems break open my heart to a world of beauty that is both ordinary and transcendent, immutable and transitory. I want to pay attention to that world, learn from those insights, teach that truth.
Which isn’t to say that poetry doesn’t make room for the theologian’s (or anyone’s) righteous anger. Many a Wendell Berry poem will do that for you. And that can put me back into blogger-rant mode where I would beat up on Paul Ryan and lament a Romney/Ryan presidency as bad news for the poor and thus for all of America (which I believe it would be). Or I would say that Chick-Fil-A’s stance on gay marriage is unconscionable but so is their reliance on and perpetuation of an unjust, industrial food system.
There. Polemics done.
Now can we get back to poetry?
Soon enough. ENGL 351 starts next week.
August 14, 2012 at 12:06 pm
You shouldn’t fret. I’ve been appreciating your theological writing because of the great “images” your writing brings to mind. Also, people like OT scholar Walter Brueggeman lean towards the poetic and inspire with great writing. Naturally, the Psalms are both poetic and theologically complex. You have many great models to follow and (in my opinion) are already well on your way. Looking forward to the results!
August 14, 2012 at 12:17 pm
Thank you for this, Matt. I’m moved by your confidence in me . . .
August 14, 2012 at 3:05 pm
Debra, I’m excited that you are honing your clear gift of writing in a new way. Thank you for sharing with us and I’m looking forward to hearing more from you about your class. I hope you enjoy it!
August 14, 2012 at 3:29 pm
Jessica, thank you! Once again I’m a little undone by such confidence. I do hope to share more in the coming weeks about this whole new adventure . . . .
August 15, 2012 at 1:32 am
because writing does not originate in me the process, like snowfall, frees me from having to see the complete picture (the immensity)
August 16, 2012 at 6:38 pm
There’s some poetry here, Robert. 🙂
August 16, 2012 at 1:37 pm
Ahh, what a terrifying and daring thing you are doing. What a stunningly beautiful and life-filled thing too. I love that you are taking this up. As someone who recently finished an undergrad project expressing theology of the body in poetic form, I can testify to the challenge and the anxiety. If you felt fine about this, I would be concerned. But for all it’s anxiety and the problems which might arise, I can also testify to how worth it it all is. I would be anxious to see how writing poetry informs how you think about theology and vice versa, so I hope you will include us as you go along. May the poetry that flows out of you truly be word becoming flesh before your very eyes, and may you hear the breathing of our God in your images and phrases. Thank you for sharing a bit of your journey with us.
August 16, 2012 at 6:39 pm
Shannon, I need to hear more about your project . . . details, please. And thank you for sharing your wisdom from experience and your words of affirmation for me. I appreciate them very much.
August 27, 2012 at 7:42 pm
The details…
I did a semester long reading course in theology of the body, reading widely outside of theology first, and then more specifically in theology. So things like Mariana Caplan’s “To Touch is To Live,” Nancey Murphy’s “Bodies and Souls, or Spirited Bodies?”, Cavanaugh’s “Torture and Eucharist,” and a collection of essays entitled “The Embrace of Eros,” among others. In the midst of reading and researching, I was also writing poetry on themes I saw in the theology and the intersections with my own story and submitting them to my faculty committee of three to be critiqued. My poems are about the physical body, but also the body of Christ and what it means to gather. By the end of the project, I had 9 poems my committee felt were solid and a heavily annotated bibliography of the theological works and ten poems I felt had moved me or schooled me in the art of poetry (poems by Cairns, Galway Kinnell, Wendell Berry, Luci Shaw, Pablo Neruda, Rumi, etc…). At the end, I presented all nine poems in a poetry reading.
Writing poetry with an end in mind was really different for me. I’ve written since I was young, but not on a theme. However, I found that really, my work flowed naturally as the theology I was studying was raising questions in my own life, and I couldn’t help but write on those questions. Actually, five months after the project, I’m still wrestling with the theology and I would say my poems since have had a much deeper sense of embodiment to them than before.
I have the poems still and would be willing to share them with you, if that would be something helpful.
Hoping much goodness for you as your class gets off and rolling.
August 27, 2012 at 6:51 pm
Debra,
The best theologians are also poets. You have that within you.
September 2, 2012 at 7:06 am
Thank you, Darrell. I’m very moved by your encouragement.
August 30, 2012 at 8:11 am
If someone were to ask me what American theologian would make a fine poet, I’m pretty sure you would come to mind.
But I do want to challenge the idea of “creative” writing and its supposed difference from theology.
When we humans “create”, we’re not like God…we never start from scratch, we always start from the middle….
there is always something already given…there, in front of us…
prior instances…
antecedent hopes and fears…
I think that’s so whether we are engaged in doing theology, writing poetry, playing jazz or loving our partner…
in each case something has been given us, and we are asked to be true, faithful to what has been given….it’s always about faithfulness.
Poetry, it seems to me, is a human activity, where by imposing certain conditions (rhyme, meter etc.) we slow down language enough so it acquires a certain density, a certain saturation, where the abiding, devotion and attention that we talked about in Chicago can come to fruition.
In this, it’s like prayer…
one useful way to approach poetry is to think of it as prayer, of praise or lament, for what is in front us, for what has already been given…
Peace, John
September 2, 2012 at 7:11 am
These are very wise words, John – thank you. I’m especially appreciative of what you say about “abiding, devotion, and attention” being so central to the task of attending to language in the ways that poetry requires. And that is very much like prayer which I absolutely think it is. (Mary Karr as a compelling essay on just this idea).
And thank you also for your affirmation . . . I am always grateful (and a little overwhelmed) by your confidence in me!
September 2, 2012 at 7:14 am
Shannon: I’d very much like to see your poems. And maybe sometime in the near future we can find the time and place to talk about these things in person. I would love that. Thank you for all your helpful and affirming comments on this post.
September 2, 2012 at 7:44 am
Debra, I would love that too. Perhaps we can. I’ll email you the poems soon. Many blessings on you as you write…
September 8, 2012 at 3:39 am
I know I’m coming to this post late, but as I begin my own blog in an effort to sort out some of my own religious tendencies–skepticism vs. a profound respect for tradition–it is refreshing to see you frame this is a question of creativity avoidance. I work in an English department myself, and my husband is a creative writing teacher, so all this taken into consideration, it may make sense that my religious thoughts are so befuddled. I’m eager to read your future posts!
September 17, 2012 at 11:46 pm
I am starting to keep a daily journal and am finding that to be a difficult commitment, I want to be creative,but it seems like my mind goes blank or the words are dull and lifeless. I look forward to reading some of your work, knowing that with your extensive vocabulary, your work will be very creative and interesting. Blessings to all of your family.
September 18, 2012 at 5:35 am
The key to leaning (in college) to play guitar was 1) practice every day – I did this right after supper; and 2) limit – no more than 15 minutes. When I would practice longer, my fingertips (on steel strings) would hurt – a lot. Likewise, for me to write means 1) get out a single sheet of lined paper; 2) write today’s date 2012.09.28 Tue and then begin on the next line and write until I reach the end (of one page). That’s it. By writing in longhand, my thoughts easily outpace my ball-point pen AND I have plenty of time for revisions “in my head” before the words are out. I never know what I am going to write but for me there is always plenty. Make sure the censor, like the soldiers guarding the tomb, are asleep.
September 18, 2012 at 5:33 pm
Robert, thank you for your help in writing a daily journal. Debbie, thanks for this blog. I replied to your post hoping to encourage you and this kind man leaves a post encouraging us both. God blesses us by sending friends and stangers to uplift us by helpful words. Debbie, I am sure I speak for many when I say,”Hurry,we can’t wait to read your poetry!”
September 19, 2012 at 9:27 am
Just read your post and am so happy for you. I can’t wait to read your works.
I am confounded by the gift of the word shift from experience to paper.
December 13, 2012 at 6:06 pm
“Since an early age–13 or so–I have been a follower of Wordsworth and Blake, believing in the redemption of the earth–as it undergoes visible destruction–by the visionary principle in man, true imagination. By this power, which is love, the world is being remade, a spiritual world, in which all is restored. All my books are on this theme; and I like to think that by writing them, I have shared in the great work, as I try to live it out in other ways too.”
How brave but how wonderful for a theologian to be taking a creative writing course. My own theologising has been inspired by the novels and stories of Garoline Glyn – writer, artist, Poor Clare, who died young in her 30s and is the source of the quote above.
Yes, it seems to me that the problem is when theologians don’t dare to be creative. So I look forward to catching up with your subsequent posts and wish you well.