Cut from the green hedge a forked hazel stick
That he held tight by the arms of the V:
Circling the terrain, hunting the pluck
Of water, nervous, but professionally
Unfussed. The pluck came sharp as a sting.
The rod jerked with precise convulsions.
Spring water suddenly broadcasting
Through a green hazel its secret stations.
The bystanders would ask to have a try.
He handed them the rod without a word.
It lay dead in their grasp till, nonchalantly,
He gripped expectant wrists. The hazel stirred.
Excuse me while I try to form my feelings and hazy ideas into something that makes sense.
So the week before Spring Break (two weeks ago, I suppose), we were talking about Seamus Heaney in my Irish class. I adore Heaney, and his poetry is beautiful and meaningful and very much a living thing. Among all of the things that he has to say about life and Ireland and all the rest, something that struck me the most was his talk of the role of the poet.
Now by poet, I don’t mean strictly someone who writes poetry. That sounds funny. Let me explain. I mean “the poet” in a broader, more ancient sense, one that encompasses more than rhyming or what you may normally associate with poetry. I mean the poet as a sort of epic hero, who brings truth to his people, sometimes painfully. This is the traditional Irish view of the poet, or senchaí: someone with great power that speaks the truth, even to the king, and that some fear. He has the power of sight, and can use his words in satires against his enemies.
Or like the Oracles of Ancient Greece: someone who is chosen to be a mouthpiece of the divine, someone who is spoken through. Which brings me to the most important parallel to the poet, the true calling of such a person: the prophet, someone who carries the truth from God to the people. Although this brings to mind the prophets of the Old Testament who spoke with God (how amazing!), you can still be a prophet today. Anyone that God uses to speak through is a prophet, and God most certainly still speaks to people.
And around this time in my class, as we’re talking about poetry being made up of partly scop, or craft (being a good writer), and partly vates, or prophesy or vision, speaking the truth, I start freaking out. Really freaking out, and zoning out of some of the discussion or being way too much into other parts of it. I can feel myself getting excited all over again as I type this. I’m looking at my paper right now, and I have little notes scrawled all over it, like:
my heartbeat shakes my whole body in trembling rhythm with the hand of God,
Or this overly-excited realization of the poet’s job:
poet as a go-between!
a translator of truth!
a prophet! an oracle!
a tool in the hands
of He who holds all Truth
a liminal, ferried between
granted another sight by the
poet as messenger
of the eternal, birthright
of an oracle
why am I almost twitching?
a mortal body and an
like all the amphibians of humankind.
and I am suddenly restless,
yearning, churning, swelling
with a feeling I don’t know
and a desire for something past
this mortal coil.
My heart is beating with desperate purpose.
So, I was freaking out. And still am. Because I couldn’t, and honestly can’t, imagine a greater purpose than being spoken through. The lump in my throat tells me that I desperately want that, to have a purpose, to have this purpose, but I don’t know. I honestly don’t know.
We read another poem that day called “St. Kevin and the Blackbird” (click), where a bird makes a nest in St. Kevin’s hand and he is responsible for their lives and can’t move until they leave. I talked to my professor about the role of the poet and such things after class on my way to study for my calc exam (that was easy to focus on after all of this).
I wrote down all that I could remember of what he said. He looked at me and told me that the calling of the poet is not an easy one to accept. He asked me to remember St. Kevin. What did he do? He went out to the wilderness and hid away from everyone else. But God found him anyway.
You were made with a purpose, and you’re here for a reason. I watched the movie Hugo a few days ago (which I heartily recommend), and was nearly moved to tears by certain parts of it. There’s one part in there where Hugo and Isabelle are talking about purpose. Hugo looks at people like machines and wonders if they too become “broken” when they lose their purpose. It’s beautiful. And then he says this:
“I’d imagine the whole world was one big machine. Machines never come with any extra parts, you know. They always come with the exact amount they need. So I figured if the entire world was one big machine, I couldn’t be an extra part. I had to be here for some reason. And that means you have to be here for some reason too.”
You are not an extra part. I really identify with Isabelle. I wonder what my purpose is, too. But I know that I have one, because God has given me one. We were each made for something. And I trust that He will help me find that something.
See this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bcdEXHIuTxw Seriously, watch this movie.