Category: Poets

Some Unusual Religious Views

I think most Catholic readers would read The Way of the Dreamcatcher from a very different perspective than I did. Instead of focusing on Lax’s religious views, I focused on his inter-religious views and how those are manifested in his poetry. At times it almost seemed to me that S. T. Georgiou was trying to fit Lax into the Catholic mould even though Lax seemed not to be anything but a typical Catholic. Perhaps, however, Georgiou was asking those question to illustrate Lax’s particular viewpoint, that his roots and his studies had enabled him to draw from many religious sources without losing his Catholic faith.

Knowing how close Merton and Lax were, Georgiou asks Lax if he ever wished to join a monastery:

Since you knew that you always had a strong spiritual and contemplative inclination, did you ever wish to enter a monastery, as did Merton.

No, and that’s because of the three monastic vows: Poverty, Chastity, and Obedience. Poverty, I was familiar with. Chastity I could get used to. But one thing I could never get used to was Obedience. I don’t like being bossed around! Being obedient to a superior really wasn’t a part of me. I remember when I graduated from grade school, my mother wrote in my autograph book, “To thine own self be true.” So she brought me up, right from the beginning, to be true to myself, and that’s an important lesson to get early in life.

I immediately identified with Lax’s answer. I’ve never liked taking orders, especially not on spiritual matters. For me, at least, there’s no higher truth than â€?”To thine own self be true.”

The Christian Scientist/Unitarian in me tends to believe, like Lax, that all faiths can lead to their own form of salvation.

But exactly how do we share, especially when so many faiths differ? Do you believe that all paths to salvation are valid.

Well, I think if you live gently, honourably, focusing on the cultivation of your heart, good things are sure to follow. And I have posted a note on the wall up there which might help to answer your question. It goes like this: “There are as many paths to salvation as there are people willing to be saved.”

That sounds faintly like the Japanese Zen poet Ikkyu, who said, “Many winding roads and paths lead to the top of the mountain, but at the peak, we all gaze at the single bright moon. “

Very good, yes, I’ve heard of that. I do appreciate the ecumenical and interfaith approach. We were meant to connect with each other, to take care of each other, to check up on each other. It’s all about communication.

I’ve never felt a need to justify my own religious beliefs or to convert others to my view. I’ve seldom had the chance to get to personally know anyone who’s not Christian or Jewish, but I suspect people deeply involved in their faith tend to be happier than those that aren’t. I do know that some of my favorite students over the years were quite religious. I’ve even envied other people’s absolute faith at times, though I seem to moe of a â€?”doubter” by nature.

As an artist, Lax finds many ways to celebrate his religion:

What if one can’t pray?

Then go to some quiet, scenic place and rest. Listen to a bird’s song. Take in the stillness. Or do something creative. Sing, dance, paint, smile. Help somebody. You know, feel the morning’s presence in every leaf. Share your joy. I feel all of that counts as prayer, especially if it proceeds from a joyful, loving heart.

I think I’ve mentioned previously that in many ways poetry served as my â€?”religion,” particularly poets like Walt Whitman, Emily Dickinson or even earlier English Poets like Blake or Donne. Later in life, I’ve turned more and more to Taoist and Buddhist poetry for inspiration. On the other hand, I know many birders who consider â€?”birding” their church.

I’ll have to admit that I was a little shocked when Georgiou made this statement near the end of his book:

In his quiet, poetic resonance, he reminded me of an Eastern sage, the “True Man” of Chuang Tzu, the Man of Te who in motion is like water; at rest, like a mirror; in response, like an echo; who in his stillness, remains pure. Lax naturally possessed what the Asian mystics term “Beginner’s Mind,” wherein all things are possible. Like Patmos itself, his presence was a place to start from, to be reborn and begin a revitalized understanding of the world.

I’m not entirely sure I agree with that assessment, but I’ll look for those elements when I re-read some of his poems. Perhaps it was an aspect of his writing that subconsciously attracted me and I just wasn’t aware of it.

S.T. Georgiou’s The Way of the Dreamcatcher

When I recently received a note from a blog reader Scott thanking me for posting earlier entries on Robert Lax’s poetry, I decided it must be the right time to read S.T. Georgiou’s The Way of the Dreamcatcher which has been sitting on my desk waiting to be read for a month or two at least. I still don’t remember exactly why I bought the book, though I suspect that Amazon suggested it since I had purchased several of Lax’s poetry books there five years ago.

It didn’t take S.T. Georgiou long to remind me why I had liked Lax so much when I first encountered him in 2005. The preface provides a succinct summary of three traits I most admire in Lax’s work. The one Lax is best known for is his spirituality,

In looking back at our meetings, what especially stands out for me, aside from Lax’s emphasis on the transformative and renewing power of love, is how much the poet was spiritually “ahead of his time” — a major reason he had so impressed me, and inspired my course of study. Long before it was popular to draw wisdom from various faith traditions and learn about Yoga, Zen, Sufism, and Kabbalism, the future hermit was actively engaged in a wide array of spiritual exploration.

Though Lax was born and raised a Reform Jew, his uncle, Henry Hotchner, was a high-ranking Theosophist who over the years had exposed his nephew to diverse ways of spirituality. Hinduism, Buddhism, and Taoism had intrigued Lax, but his growing interest in Christianity, (prompted by early Franciscan influence), and his deepening friendship with fellow student Thomas Merton while at Columbia University in New York, led to his eventual baptism in the Roman Catholic Church. Lax felt that he could be perfectly faithful to Christ while learning from other traditions. His inter-religious aspirations, extant long before Vatican II. distinguished the sage. He was a committed peacemaker who understood that the very fate of the earth depended on the world’s major religions engaging in regular and sincere dialogue. Like the early Church leaders, he understood that Christ the Word (the Logos) is accessible in seed form in both non-Christian and pre-Christian belief systems. How Christ works outside of Christianity Lax treated as a sacred, unspeakable mystery. In this way he emphasized the absolute freedom of God, who, in his divine work of providence and redemption transcends all limitations. For Lax, all inner roads grounded in wisdom and compassion ultimately led to the apophatic core of the Heart.

though as you’ve probably figured out if you’ve been here many times before, it’s the idea that â€?”all inner roads grounded in wisdom and compassion ultimately led to the apophatic core of the Heart” that most appeals to me.

I’m really not sure I ever noticed Lax’s concern for the environment in his poetry when I read it the first time, but perhaps I did subconsciously because it’s certainly one of my major concerns:

The poet-sage was also intensely concerned about the welfare of the environment, and this decades before the “Green Movement” of the early 1970’s and the current eco-crisis. He felt there to be a profound sympathia (a deep and abiding inter-relationship) between the macrocosm (the universe) and the microcosm (the human being). Since the time of Genesis humanity had been given the most holy task of stewarding creation, and this through love. To best balance heaven and earth, Lax felt it important for every caretaker of the cosmos to be as healthy as possible, hence his lifelong interest in prayer, meditation, diet, and exercise — concerns that would become socially popular from the mid-70’s on.

When I re-read some of Lax’s poetry and read another book coming this week I’ll watch closer for these ideas in his works.

I remember, though, I was originally attracted to Lax by his poetic style, not his ideas per se.

Lax also seemed to have anticipated Minimalism, the modern art movement of the 1950’s and 60’s which emphasized purity, clarity, and elimination of non-essentials. His sparse verse — ascetic and mantra-like melded well with his philosophy, “less is more.” Even as a budding poet. Lax had strongly believed that basic elements in both art and life help to shape one’s meditative clarity. Superficiality and excess are consequently jettisoned, leaving the aspirant to better focus on the divine Source of All, the Fount of Life and Light — certainly sound advice, especially in our depressed financial times. The worldwide recession is forcing many to re-evaluate their values and priorities, particularly in terms of worldly goods. Such reductionist concerns hearken to Lax’s perennial plea to “slow down,” “relax,” and “simplify.”

Lax’s devotion to the minimalist ethos ultimately centered on the holiness of the moment. He believed that if the seeker welcomes each moment with the fullness of love, he or she “takes care of all time.” Like the power of a single word, each moment is meant to be nurtured and cultivated slowly, gently, that its seed might wholly blossom in the hearts of those receptive to it.

That last idea of focusing on the moment takes on added significance since I’ve read more Buddhist literature since I first read Lax. However, I was really attracted to his minimalist style because it reminded me of William Carlos William. In a later discussion, when asked which modern poets have most influenced him, he replies

But the name that comes most clearly to me is William Carlos Williams. His words are so well chosen, so visual, so rhythmic, and resonant. He an economy of expression that is not tight-fisted. His words are liberating. He flows. He’s musical. I remember him saying something about how vital poems are for the health of mind and body…

Even later, he talks about Haiku, another personal favorite and my entrance into Eastern thought:

â€?”With regard to literary influences, Haiku showed me how minimal text can have maximum effect.”

Although I occasionally got the feeling that S.T. Georgiou is trying to pigeonhole Lax into the Catholic faithful, it’s a revealing book, one where I got a different perspective on Lax then I got from reading three of his poetry books. I’ll have more to say in the next few days.

Wagoner’s “The Name”

My favorite section of Wagoner’s After the Point of No Return is the last one where he writes about old age and death in fourteen different poems, many of them quite funny like one called â€?”A Cold Call” where the author is called by Holly â€?”from the cemetery,” a common event for those of us receiving Social Security here in America.

I liked all of them, because, unfortunately, they reminded me of some of my own thoughts about aging and losing friends rapidly. In the end, though, my favorite was a slightly different one

THE NAME

When a man or a woman died, something of theirs,
some token—a beaded belt, a pair of moccasins,
a necklace—would be left beside the path
where a hunting party, returning, would see it
and know that name was dead now.
They would remember how to say it,
but not at the campfire, not in stories,
not whispered in the night to anyone else,
but only to themselves.
Then, after years, when the right one had been born,
they would hold that child above the earth
to the four directions and speak the name again.

that wasn’t comedic, but best reflected my own feelings about death and how I’d like to be remembered.

I’d suggest leaving my Canon EOS1 D MARK IV on the trail after I die, but I’m afraid it wouldn’t stay there long enough to let my friends know I’d finally caught up with Skye and would no longer be haunting these trails.

The poem strikes a nice balance between somber and sentimental. We all want to be remembered, and what better way than having â€?”the right one” bearing our name into the future.

Though I preferred some of Wagoner’s early book, this is an enjoyable read.

Wagoner’s After the Point of No Return

I’ve been reading David Wagoner’s poetry almost as long as I’ve been reading poetry. He’s certainly the first contemporary poet I ever read. He taught a freshman English class I took at the University of Washington, and at the beginning of the class I went to the University Bookstore and bought his first two books of poetry. So, when his latest book, After the Point of No Return, came out there was never a doubt I would have to buy it, too. Old habits are hard to break, particularly since I’ve long identified with Wagoner’s poetry, especially those poems which center on the Pacific Northwest and are â€?”nature” poetry. In fact, I sometimes think he’s not recognized enough for his nature poetry because he’s such a prolific poet who seems ready to turn almost any subject into a poem.

Personally, though, I almost invariably prefer the nature poems and the poems where he seems to focus on his own personal life to the clever but, for me, less moving poems like â€?”Marksmanship” which cleverly describes a shooting range but leaves no lasting impression, and even leaves me wondering if he’s ever fired at such a range. I’ll have to admit that when you’re as familiar with someone’s poetry as I am with Wagoner’s it’s hard to find a poem that really moves you, especially on major themes. It’s easy to get a sense of deja vu. I couldn’t avoid that feeling for many of the poems, but luckily there are still poems that grabbed my attention.

â€?”Meeting a Stranger,” though, isn’t a typical Wagoner poem; in fact, it reminds me more of a favorite Mark Strand Poem I’ve written about previously, â€?”The Tunnel.”

You find a path. You follow it
It turns as faint as you are.
You see this stranger
walking toward you
from nowhere and frowning
as if you shouldn’t be there
but should get out of the way.
You realize you’ve been talking
to yourself, even singing.
You’ve broken his silence
by breaking yours.
You lower your eyes.
You turn your face aside.
You smile. You offer him
your no-longer-bleeding,
more or less clean hand.
He shakes his head.
He keeps his distance.
He edges around you.
You try to tell him
you’re lost. Nothing but breath
comes out of your mouth and his.

Perhaps I found this poem appealing because I’ve spent considerable time the last few weeks looking back over old photos and have often been pleasantly surprised by them, nearly as often as I’ve been unpleasantly surprised by how bad some I published on my blog seen in retrospect. It’s comforting to see ourselves as a single person, an integrated whole, but it’s hard to hold to that myth when we actually compare our past work and our past actions to our present attitudes and beliefs.

Perhaps even more to the point is that â€?”After the Point of no Return” many of us naturally begin to question our goals in life. The path taken becomes more and more obscure as we travel on until there’s hardly any sense of direction left at all, just the mechanical, plodding step after step. Some of us find ourselves talking to ourselves, (personally, I still contend I’m just talking to my old companion, Skye who has left me a little behind).

Perhaps meeting yourself heading in the opposite direction, working at cross purposes to yourself, is the ultimate recognition you really don’t know where you’re going, not a fact everyone will readily admit. Most of us, and particularly poets. fear when â€?”nothing but breath/comes out of your mouth and his.” We all want to tell our â€?”truths” and have others listen.