Days and Times

      Poems from the Liturgy of Living

      Copyright © 2018 Paul K. Hooker. All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical publications or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publisher. Write: Permissions, Wipf and Stock Publishers, 199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3, Eugene, OR 97401.

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      The following poems in this collection have been previously published: “In Medias Res” in Austin Presbyterian Seminary’s 2016 Lenten Devotional: “It Is No Small Thing,” in Austin Presbyterian Seminary’s 2017 Lenten Devotional; “Prescription for Pentecost” in Windows; “We Pass Through Waters On the Way” in Insights: The Faculty Journal of Austin Seminary; “At the Font,” “The Space Between,” “Excavations and Exhumations: The Thirty-Two-Foot Principle,” and “Woodwork” in The Presbyterian Outlook; “A Prayer Before Advent” and “Silence Falls” in the internet edition of The Presbyterian Outlook; “When It Isn’t There” and “Green” in Poetry Breakfast (online poetry journal); and “Pilate’s Afterthought” and “Adventus” in Ecclesio.com (online journal).

      For Pat

      for whom mere words will never be enough

      “The morning air is all awash with angels.”

      —Richard Wilbur

      First Thoughts: An Introduction

      In these poems I have tried to pose, directly or indirectly, questions of faith and to explore them with an eye toward mystery, wonder, and occasionally suspicion. Some of these poems are an effort to tell the stories left untold by the narratives of faith. Some of them poke and prod the narratives of ordinary life to see where faith may be hiding itself.

      I have come to think of faith not as a series of intellectual choices but as an involuntary trust in something beyond me, something almost always unclear, ill-lit, and mostly inadequately characterized by the language religious people use to describe ultimate realities. For most of my life, I have used that language, too. But lately I have noticed within me an impatience with things about which I was once sure. The propositional language of theology, simplistic assertions of faith, and reified ethics of ecclesial life no longer seem trustworthy to me. I am fascinated with darkness and uncertainty and more willing to be wrong than I have ever been. Strangely, however, it seems to me not that I have lost faith but have only just begun to find it.

      Many of the poems in this volume fall into a classification I would call theo-poetry. The term is not original to me. As I understand it, theo-poetry refers to the poetizing of an existing faith, applying poetic imagination to the task of expressing faith claims and theological ideas. Theo-poetry does not so much seek to dismantle faith as to subvert its self-assuredness, to find language that surprises faith with the presence of mystery and wonder. Theo-poetry encourages playfulness with theology and faith, a willingness to challenge assumptions and say the irreverent word. If there is an aquifer beneath the poems in this volume, perhaps it is that.

      Because a part of the discipline in which I live includes the observation of the movement of time according to the great seasons of the Church’s life, I have presented the poems here in two parts that reflect that movement. The liturgical year has two great cycles, or clusters of seasons. Advent-Christmastide observes the wonder of the incarnation, and Lent-Eastertide approaches and interprets the mystery of death and resurrection. Throughout each of these seasons are scattered various holy days—the festivals of Christmas Day, Epiphany, Baptism of the Lord, Ash Wednesday, the Triduum (or “Great Three Days” of Maundy Thursday through Holy Saturday), the Resurrection of the Lord, and Pentecost—in which the Church lifts up for reflection some event in its own life or that of its Lord. The first part of this collection weaves in and out of these holy days and the liturgical year generally, wandering through them with wondering and occasionally suspicious eyes.

      But the great seasonal cycles of the liturgical calendar account for a little less than half of the year’s transit; the rest of time is understood as “ordinary,” in the sense that the Sundays are known merely by their numbers, or “ordinals”—second Sunday after Epiphany, seventeenth Sunday after Pentecost, etc.—rather than by the observation of a festival or special day. Though the intersection with the term “ordinary,” meaning “not special,” is not intended, there can be little doubt that in the long slog between Pentecost and Advent things get very ordinary, indeed. The second part of the project of these poems is an effort to re-enchant what has become ordinary, to expose the underlying wonder or mystery in events that have no place in the Church’s liturgy but a significant place in the liturgy of life.

      No poet writes alone, and I have certainly not done so. I must thank those whose critical and appreciative eyes have helped make these poems better. I have prevailed on the graces of good friends Christina Berry, Dana Hughes, Theodore J. Wardlaw, and Janis Williams more than is either fair or reasonable, but they have read and re-read without complaint. Tracey Lander-Garrett has lent her well-trained critical eye to me as I struggled with writing and editing several poems. My colleagues and friends Cynthia Rigby and Lewis Donelson have broadened my view of the theological possibilities of poems and poetry in free-ranging conversations that I have treasured. My colleague and friend David White has been my teacher and guide in the fields of aesthetics and theopoetics. All of these have in ways they do not know contributed to these poems; none of them bears responsibilities for any failures or shortcomings herein.

      Finally, I must thank Pat Thiede who has loved me, been patient with my curmudgeonly moods, and offered unfailing support as I wandered in and out of these poems. To her, with my undying love, this book is dedicated.

      May your own holy days and ordinary times be full of mystery and wonder.

      Paul Hooker

      Lent, 2018

      I Seek the Shining Darkness

      I seek the shining darkness,

      the basement path beneath believing,

      the way that knows but is not known.

      A voiceless song of echoed longing,

      empty skull in an arid vale,

      jawbone agape: a windswept moan.

      I seek the primordial Before—

      before light, or day, or even Word—

      region where the Serpent roams,

      dragon mother of the deep;

      her face the maw of fertile chaos,

      her womb is dirt, her breast is bone.

      I seek the land of birth and death

      from which come both birthing, dying,

      to which they go, their labors done,

      chthonic realm where little gods

      come and go without a sound,

      Ultima Thule, wanderer’s home.

      I seek the dawn of the second day

      not the day of witnessed passion