On the second floor of Bapst Library, near the back of Gargan Hall, you can find the Francis Thompson Room. In the context of this beautiful, safe, and peaceful place, you might not guess that a little over a century ago, Francis Thompson himself laid down his head in cold doorways. Far from our world of libraries and quiet study, he was suffering the agony of drug addiction, and bearing the cross of a faithful but broken man.
Thompson’s road from seminarian to opium addict to major Catholic poet was a long one, accounts of which you can read elsewhere. After about a decade on the streets of London, the writer received the transforming help of a married couple who edited a magazine together. They (like him) were Catholic, and they (like him) believed in art as a unique and powerful motion of faith.
And they believed in love. Thompson became not only a client whose writing they published, but a member of their family, where he found healing from his addiction and relief from years of turmoil. He lived his vocation as a poet, leaving behind great works like “The Hound of Heaven,” whose narrator tries desperately to run from God. The beating footsteps of the Almighty follow him wherever he hides—in laughter, sorrow, relationships, nature.
Catholics need poetry because people in general need poetry—but also because poetry uses ordinary language to aim for the transcendent, just as Catholics believe that ordinary things (bread, wine, water) can be swept up into the import of Heaven. If Christ is “the Word made flesh,” the deepest longing of every poem is to be united with that Word. We speak, write, read, and text so much each day that it’s dangerous to let our language slip away from the sacred.
These are just a few suggestions of poets and poems that can shock and elevate our hearts, the way the windows of a cathedral or the best notes of a symphony draw us. We could fill all the space in this newspaper with further suggestions—you probably have plenty of your own. But here are a handful.
Thompson is suggestion number one.
Alfred, Lord Tennyson’s “In Memoriam A.H.H.” Tennyson’s best friend, Arthur Henry Hallam (“A.H.H.”), died of a cerebral hemorrhage when they were in their twenties. Bit by bit, Tennyson poured his grief into writing; he finished after 17 years and 139 short poems, which make up In Memoriam. Taken a little at a time, these verses give you a glimpse into the progression of sorrow, and let you feel the mingling of his faith and suffering.
Christina Rosetti, “The Convent Threshold.” A stunning poem about conversion and regret.
John Donne’s “Holy Sonnets.” An Anglican priest and a powerhouse poet, Donne can pack a whole lot into the 14 lines of a sonnet. Numbers 10 and 14 are two of the best-known—read them aloud and you’ll see why. They have the force of prayers.
Gerard Manley Hopkins, everything. Speaking of prayers, this is a man whose work often sounds more like a cry to God. He’s quirky, complicated, and a little confusing, but it helps to focus more on the sound and the rhythmof the words at first instead of trying to hunt down all their obscure meanings. His shorter poems are fantastic, but if you put in the legwork for “The Wreck of the Deutschland,” you won’t be disappointed. How could the dying moments of a nun on a sinking ship not be dramatic, as she prepares to meet her Spouse?
The Psalms. Did you see that one coming? The Psalms have said beautifully much of what poets long to say. They’re all good, but I love Psalm 51—and if you listen to it sung in Allegri’s “Miserere Mei, Deus,” you’ll never regret that decision.
Of course, this doesn’t even scratch the surface of the beauty you can find out there. So in this new semester, let’s search out the best language, which lifts us to the best Love—and the words which lead us towards the Word Himself.
Featured image courtesy of Maroongold82 via Wikimedia
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