Dear friends,
Good Sunday morning to you. Most years, I take a poet of voluminous work and read through their published material. Some years it’s a living poet, although mostly not. One year I read all of Emily Dickinson and it took two years; another year I read Langston Hughes and read him more than once (tricksy timewarp poets). I’d heard of RS Thomas and read a slim “selected” volume and loved what I’d read. But a few years back, I decided to read all of his work.
Ronald Stuart Thomas (1913-2000) was a Welsh poet in the old tradition of priest-poet. Ordained in the Church in Wales (the Anglican Church in Wales is not the established church of that country, hence it’s in Wales, not of Wales). Educated partly in England, RS Thomas believed passionately in his home country. He studied Welsh language; it was not his first language, and most of his work was published in English, although later in life some of his prose was published first in Welsh.
He’s a towering figure of 20th-century poetry on an international scale. It’s hard to find a book of his that does not deal with his major topics: Wales, resistance to “The Machine”, and the problem of God. He’s like a patron poet to agnostics. I am glad he lived. I imagine he’d have been difficult to live with.
I hear that the sermons he delivered were ones of honour. He knew the church did not employ him for his own whims, so he was careful in his language about religion when behind the pulpit. Behind the pen, however, his language was clear: his belief that belief is almost impossible (note the almost; his was a life of dedication to the impossible of art, integrity, and belief) is like a line of gold truth through his decades of writing. Consider this poem:
The Listener in the Corner
Last night the talk was of the relationship of the self to God, tonight of God to the self. The centuries yawn. Alone in the corner one sits whose silence persuades of the pointlessness of the discourse. He drinks at another fountain that builds itself equally from the dust of ruffians and saints. Outside the wind howls: the stars, that once were the illuminated city of the imagination, to him are fires extinguished before the eyes' lenses formed. The universe is a large place with more of darkness than light, But slowly a web is spun there as minds like his swing themselves to and fro.
From The Way of It by RS Thomas, 1977; see also Collected Poems 1945-1990 by RS Thomas, published by Phoenix in 1993
Who is this silent one who sits? Was it someone tuned to a different frequency? I love the offhanded dismissal of the philosophical considerations of the day: “the relationship of the self / to God” or “of God/ to the self”. As he says: “yawn”.
I’ve heard some try to persuade that the one “in the corner” is a messianic figure. I’m unconvinced. I think it’s a role in a room, not a specific individual. The role is that of the unconvinced, the independent thinker, the one nurtured by a different source, someone who “drinks / at another fountain.” That fountain is tough, though: it’s built from the “dust of ruffians / and saints.” Not easy to build such a thing, not easy to drink from it. Every group needs such a role, even though that role is often a lonely one. No wonder the character is “Alone in the corner ...”
The tableau changes. From a room, suddenly we are in the universe: “a large place with more of / darkness than light”. There’s a web there, a network of connection, and it is good minds that “swing themselves to and fro.” RS Thomas may be trying to describe his own vocation, or that of people he admires — someone who is in attendance but who knows their brain’s participation is necessary, as well as their body’s.
I read this poem regularly, to remind myself of that fountain, the need to drink from it, the need to listen to those who’ve drunk from it, the ruffians, the saints, the way that the urgent questions of the day may not be the most important.
My question to you this August morning is about the poem: where does it take you as you read it? What comes to mind, from its lines? From its work in you?
I’ll see you in the comments, friends.
Poetry in the World
A list of events: Online; in the US (Kent, OH; Rhinebeck, NY; Norfolk, VA; Durham, NC ); in Canada (Toronto); and the Scottish island of Iona
September 19–21, Kent, Ohio, US
I’m looking forward to being part of the 40th anniversary of the Wick Poetry Center at Kent State University, alongside Naomi Shihab Nye, Jane Hirshfield, and Adrian Matejka. You can register here, and find more information about the celebratory events here.
October 6–11, Rhinebeck, New York, US
I’m back for a week at Omega (just two hours north of NYC) for a week of reflection on poetry, poetry prompts, and group discussions. Expect lovely people, gorgeous surroundings and food, and conversations about how poetry opens your world. Learn more here.
October 26–27, Norfolk, Virginia, US
I’ll be giving some readings, a class, and a reflection, hosted by the good people of Christ & St. Luke’s Episcopal Church. Details will be on their website shortly.
October 30, Toronto, Ontario, Canada
I’ll be giving a lecture on literature and health at the Faculty of Health Sciences at McMaster University as part of the Hooker Lecture 2024 series. Details are coming soon.
November 3, 10, 17, 24, Online
Fill your Sunday evenings with peculiarity, poetry, and ancient literature: I’ll be giving new online lectures on “Strange Stories of the Bible”. I’m not sure if there will be four or five lectures — there may be one on December 1 too — but I will know soon. Keep an eye out here to learn more.
November 18–19 Durham, North Carolina US
I’m giving the William Preston Few lecture at Duke University. I’ll share details here as they emerge.
March 10–15 and March 18–23 2025, Isle of Iona, Scotland
I’m holding two Poetry Unbound retreats on the gorgeous Scottish island of Iona; each retreat is the same. Both retreats are booked up, but you can get on the waiting list by contacting the folks at the St. Columba here.
Many years ago, when I was still immersed in conservative theology, I began to struggle with the notion that my little sect of belief was THE one that knew THE truth about a god even we claimed was unknowable. One day, as I was walking across City Hall Park in my hometown, an Hassidic man passed me dressed in all his garb. I had the thought, "I am going to tell HIM that I know the real truth?" Nonsense. (Yawn)
These days I'm still drawn to the vastness of the universe (more darkness than light). So many things call me to worship.
That is where my mind goes when I read this poem.
I sense...tiredness. Exhaustion from the mental banter. The one in the corner wants more than intellectual discourse, even as the mind swings to and fro. There is a search for stability, something that holds it all together, something worth holding it together for. In the darkness, light spins hope from sources long gone (I think of Jeremiah Burroughs, George Macdonald, George Herbert). In the spinning, the lonely one knows answers won't fill every crack of darkness, but it is enough to have some light, and the rest...received by faith.