Poetry and Liturgy
Learning about poetry in high school English felt like a medieval torture device. Metaphorically tied to the rack of iambic pentameter, I was forced by my teacher to read poems I could barely understand to find stress patterns I could hardly hear. Yet the only discernible stress pattern I found was the pain of her making us read long dead English poets. She claimed the exercise “stretched” us. It would take me years to put my poetic bones back in their sockets (I still cringe when I hear John Keats’s “Ode on a Grecian Urn” despite the fact he’s one of my favorite poets).
In July 2022, I rediscovered my love of poetry. What I wrote on those warm summer days was free of the restrictions of iambs and feet and any kind of meter. If high school English was imprisoned my passion, free verse was my liberation. No longer did I concern myself with arbitrary stress patterns and syllable counts. I could shape the stanza according to my taste.
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It was the final night of a conference in London in November 2023. The honeyed notes of an acoustic guitar welcomed in an atmosphere of encounter; God was moving that night and we were sweetly lost in his presence. I was raised in the Pentecostal tradition, so contemporary worship is nostalgic. Over and above any praise style, it makes me feel like I’m meeting with the Lord.
An iphone shot from that night at the Renaissance Conference.
A few days later, I sat bleary-eyed in a wood-paneled chapel in Oxford for morning prayer. Reverently I recited words that have echoed on those walls over the centuries. Despite my exhaustion (it wasn’t even 7:00am yet), I tried to meet God in that litany. The effort, however felt lost.
On the one hand, I value liturgy and see its appeal. The Scripture readings, the sermon, confession, communion, all are elements with their proper place in the ordered script of worship. Liturgy felt like the grammar of prayer because it taught what to say to God and how to say it.
But I would often find liturgy reduced to rote repetition. When English classes got into the weeds of grammar, especially in diagramming sentences, I could forget the joy of words and the fun I have when trying to fit them together in new ways. If liturgy is the grammar, the charismatic worship of my youth felt like the spirit behind the words, the force giving them meaning.
The Bodleian Library at Oxford
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Once morning prayer finished, a few of us made our way to the great hall for breakfast. During the meal I chatted with a few them and learned about their research. One individual mentioned he was working on a translation project of a passion play from 4th-century church father. As he explained his topic, he made a comment that struck me. “Poets these days rarely write with meter or rhythm,” he stated. “They argue that it hinders their freedom of expression, and thus they throw away centuries of tradition. But they forget that true freedom of expression comes when you know your boundaries.”
As an advocate of free verse, I was ready to counter his assertion. But the caffeine hadn’t fully kicked in, so I couldn’t formulate my thoughts coherently enough to argue with an Oxford scholar. Instead, I pondered and found myself challenged in a healthy way.
What if my love of free verse is like my preference for charismatic worship? I thought. The liturgy of more traditional churches was like the iambic pentameter my high school English teacher tried to show me. I didn’t listen then because the concept was difficult to understand.
When I got back to the United States, I put this Oxford student’s thesis to the test. I attempted to learn how to write poetry in iambic pentameter. I’ve been studying the works of George Herbert and John Keats (not “Ode on a Grecian Urn”, however) and attempting to emulate their voices. I imagine free verse poetry and charismatic worship will always be my preferences. But I’m beginning to see the value in liturgy and meter. They’re the grammar that help me say things that are too difficult to vocalize on my own.
Once I’ve gained proficiency in Herbert’s and Keats’s styles, I plan to try this exercise with T.S. Eliot. He’s a poet I strive to emulate because he knows the rules of meter, rhyme, and rhythm, and he knows how to break them effectively. But I’m not there yet. I’m still a student of the basics. The poem below, “Enraptured”, is my attempt to capture the voice of George Herbert’s “The Altar” (also below). Note, the King James style language is my attempt to fully inhabit Herbert’s style.
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Enraptured
A humble heart thou dost desire.
A gentle hand you do require.
Reshape this clay you first hath made.
Remake these bricks you first hath laid.
And I will bow before thy throne,
Enraptured by thy love alone.