R.S. Thomas, in his poetry as
-- I assume -- in life, wrestled with doubt and the absence of God, but emerged
with faith nonetheless (often seemingly in spite of himself). He would have
agreed with contemporary theologian Douglas John Hall that "the Bible-writers
will give up on the glory of God before they'll deny the reality of human
suffering," and with the writer of the 23rd psalm that human life is, in
fact, a walk in the valley of the shadow of death.
In his
poem, "Geriatric," Thomas looks straight at these verities (although
with "rheumy" eyes), and discovers that not even God escapes the
reality of suffering; he is "torn" by the brambles, too. As is
typical of Thomas, he expresses a hope that sounds faint, but is actually so
deep that it is beyond our ability to completely grasp.
(At the
risk of providing cues that are an insult to the reader's intelligence: Charcot
and Meniere are, like Alzheimer's, diseases. "Rabbi Ben Ezra" is the source of Robert Browning's line, "Grow old along with me! / The best
is yet to be....")
GERIATRIC
What
god is proud
of this garden
of dead flowers, this underwater
grotto of humanity,
where limbs wave in invisible
currents, faces drooping
on dry stalks, voices clawing
in a last desperate effort
to retain hold? Despite withered
petals, I recognise
the species: Charcot, Meniere,
Alzheimer. There are no gardeners
here, caretakers only
of reason overgrown
by confusion. This body once,
when it was in bud,
opened to love's kisses. These eyes,
cloudy with rheum,
were clear pebbles that love's rivulet
hurried over. Is this
the best Rabbi Ben Ezra
promised? I come away
comforting myself, as I can,
that there is another
garden, all dew and fragrance,
and that these are the brambles
about it we are caught in,
a sacrifice prepared
by a torn god to a love fiercer
than we can understand.
of this garden
of dead flowers, this underwater
grotto of humanity,
where limbs wave in invisible
currents, faces drooping
on dry stalks, voices clawing
in a last desperate effort
to retain hold? Despite withered
petals, I recognise
the species: Charcot, Meniere,
Alzheimer. There are no gardeners
here, caretakers only
of reason overgrown
by confusion. This body once,
when it was in bud,
opened to love's kisses. These eyes,
cloudy with rheum,
were clear pebbles that love's rivulet
hurried over. Is this
the best Rabbi Ben Ezra
promised? I come away
comforting myself, as I can,
that there is another
garden, all dew and fragrance,
and that these are the brambles
about it we are caught in,
a sacrifice prepared
by a torn god to a love fiercer
than we can understand.
As I
write, I have two friends walking into the valley's shadow, caught in the
brambles. Here's to green pastures and the fragrance of that other garden.
Douglas John Hall quote (from
memory) from God and Human
Suffering, Augsburg, 1986
The
poem, "Geriatric," from No
Truce With the Furies, by R.S. Thomas, Bloodaxe Books, 1995
1 comment:
Another tear jerker, Dad. That is a sad poem, but at the same time very lovely and comforting. Thanks for introducing it to me.
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