On the Importance of Poetry

One of my youth group kids (and his mother) mentioned the unimportance of poetry. Below is what I emailed him.

....Also, the Fr. Francavilla mentioned in his homily how secularists do not understand the importance of things which are not "useful," such as poetry. I thought of you immediately. :) Just because something is not useful, does not mean it is not useless.

The problem I think, since I too once thought that poetry was pointless, is that there is a lot of bad poetry out there. Plus, people use the art form, not to create something beautiful, which is the point of art, but as a way to "express oneself." Self-expression is not necessarily bad, but it is not the totality of what it means to create art...such as poetry.

Good poetry, like all good art, is beautiful. (See, for example, the book of Psalms in the Bible. That's poetry my friend!)

Do you like music? That's poetry set to music! Do you enjoy Shakespeare? That's poetry.

The most incredible (and Catholic!) men of the modern age understood the importance of poetry: C.S. Lewis (closet Catholic), G.K. Chesterton, J.R.R. Tolkien, Luigi Giussani, John Paul II...were all poets!

Why am I so passionate about this? Because Catholics, first of all, should understand the importance of truth, beauty, freedom, and justice. Dogs cannot write poetry. Birds cannot write poetry. Rats cannot write poetry.

It is precisely our humanity (made in the image and likeness of God) which allows us to write poetry. Art, poetry, painting, music, anything which expresses beauty and is creative is precisely what makes us like God who is the Ultimate Beauty and the Ultimate Creator (creative...).

This is something some Protestants do not understand. This is why their churches are sparse. This is why their architecture is ugly. Go to Europe. Why is it so beautiful? Because of the (now ancient) Catholic culture that once existed. Gothic architecture lifts our up our eyes, but not only our eyes, but our hearts to God.

Secularists do not understand this because they do not enjoy (JOY!) God. Unless something is useful (productive, makes money, etc.) it is not valuable. (This is why unborn children, the disabled, the elderly, are scoffed at while the Church has protected their intrinsic worth.)

Dostoevsky said, "Beauty is mysterious as well as terrible. God and devil are fighting there, and the battlefield is the heart of man. "

Poetry (and other art forms) is important because it is through the culture that souls can be saved. Dostoevsky understood this and so does the Church. This is why non-profits like The Foundation for Sacred Arts are so important.

Now I've given you a philosphical understanding of why poetry is important. I'm sure it would have been much better had I written a poem about it. :)

As you get older, you will, I am sure, continue to be a light and salt to the world. Just remember that the Faith is not about moralism, rules, etc etc. It is about encountering a PERSON. And this person, Jesus Christ, was above all, BEAUTIFUL, to the people who met him and continue to meet Him. They didn't understand Him, but He was beautiful, and where there is beauty, there is truth...and so they followed Him.

More people today convert to the Church, not because they understand the metaphysics of the Triune God or have worked out how Christianity is the only logical (and reasonable) system (athiesm is logical but not reasonable) but because they encountered something beautiful: the Gregorian chant, the liturgy (like the kids saw on Sunday...they were so moved!), an icon of Mary, or a person whose life is beautiful, like yours!

My Solitary Work Journey

By Lynne McGuire-my former co-worker at Crescendo Interactive. This was composed in July 2008 after I resigned my position.

With whom shall I share my poems
To whom will I write my odes
The thoughts in my mind will roam
Alone, on Intellectual Road

For Essie’s decided to wander
On a road so much less traveled
God’s theology she’s decided to ponder
All His thoughts she will unravel

And I’ll remain here
Alone
Forlorn
Care-worn
Heart-torn
Pining and whining, I’ll mourn

My dear Essie is bound for the East
While I remain in the West
She’ll tell all her good thoughts to a priest
And I’ll talk to Arthur, at best

Such are the fates of life, I suppose
These events make or break our days
They’re not meant for stimulating prose
They’re relegated to this paper phrase

But I have a big heart of forgiveness
And I’ll think of her fondly always
For my friend, the Adventuress
Will be blessed, what she does, always

En Route to Wilmington

On the way to Wilmington
Sat next to me the most delightful gentleman
Hair gray, deep blue eyes and wrinkles but a few
He could not be more than sixty-two!

Compared to men of my age
Who bore me as I waste away
This man had interesting things to say
Oh, and he's good-looking too
What's a woman like me to do?

Nothing much but sit and write:
Young men, listen, and take heed
This man can teach you what you need
(At the very least)
A hint of Old Spice cologne and smooth conversation
For a perchance encounter at the train station.

Bedtime poem

It is late and I am (of course!) awake
Perhaps the same is true for you
Of these late hours, what is to be?
It's almost morning, it's actually three!
I cannot read, but maybe write
Oh, you want a story tonight?

It is late and I am (of course!) awake
Perhaps the same is true for you
This bedtime story you request
I'll briefly tell, I'll do my best
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary...
Sound familiar? Don't blame me!
Edgar Allen Poe is a better poet you know!

It is late and I am (of course!) awake
Perhaps the same is true for you
Be not upset, your bedtime tale again I'll try
Wish me luck, my brain is dry!
Once upon an early morning, I could not write
So down went my pen, and off went the light!

(Goodnight!:)

Jasmin's Sojourn in Virginia-A poem

Bed at two, awake at ten
Our eyes are too droopy to start the day again
The pink princess is fast asleep, unmoved as a hidden forest log
I, the hostess, upset for missing my morning jog
SIGH, nothing is new under the sun
We raven-haired ladies have been friends since before twenty-one

Bed at two, awake at ten
Our eyes are too droopy to start the day again
I peek through the creak in her bedroom door like a timid rat
The sleeping beauty angers quickly at my loud tip-tap
Yet birthday adventure commences in light-hearted cheer
The merriment perpetuated with wine, you know she hates beer

Bed at two, awake at ten
Our eyes are too droopy to start the day again
Much Ado About Nothing, a steel-plated lunch, and Monticello
And conversations of suitors and disappointing fellows
Alas, we despair not for we have each other
Holidays like this, good food, and two Middle-Eastern mothers.