Naphtali is a hind let loose: he giveth goodly words.
Genesis 49:21
Frederick Buechner once said, “We move into the extraordinary by way of the ordinary.” In poetry, this happens by way of a compressed code of analogs; often, two or more very ordinary things begin to reveal something that was hidden at first. The etymology of analog gives us two words, ana and logos. It quite literally means “the word, again.” When we think about communicating well in ink, we are considering the art of writing. When we think about compressing that art of writing, we are considering poetry. Good poetry, as with other good art forms, is a creative attempt to persuade the imagination of the recipient into a deeper state of moral integrity. Poetry uniquely attempts this goal by way of symbolic compression.
It is not helpful to think of the imagination as a thing that exists in opposition to the intellect; rather, think of it as something alongside the intellect. Plato saw imagination as an inferior form of the intellect.1 Aristotle saw it as a faculty that allowed our minds to hold concepts without requiring empirical input.2 Coleridge considered both creativity and reason to be kinds of imagination that he reframed into a bi-cameral structure: primary imagination (empirical data reception) and secondary imagination (the transformation of the data into something else like creative function).3 T. S. Eliot described the imagination as being something like the incubation room for moral formation.4
While imagination and morality are inextricably joined, this does not mean that the goal of art should be to moralize. Moral formation does not come about at the hands of moralizing; legalism does. It must also be remembered that the highest praise God had for a made thing is to call it very good. The good is undeniably a moral category, and so a Christian should never think of art as merely aesthetics, as though, like taste, a person either appreciates Impressionism or they don’t. In the creation account, God first acts as the Maker. He then acts as the Critic. Prior to Adam receiving his wife, the work was given an assessment of being “not good”, at least in some manner. When the work was completed, it was “very good.” What this tells us is that there is such a thing as an objective standard for art and all other made things.
In Genesis 49:21, we are taught something about Naphtali, something about a deer, something about captivity and freedom, and something about gifting with words. The code of compressed analogs creates a correspondence pattern between these parts; not only do we emerge with a deeper understanding of Naphtali, we emerge with a deeper understanding of what it’s like to be skilled with words. It’s a praise-worthy gift. It’s a blessing. Scripture does this all over the place.
Consider a poem that employs imagery of a person in the cold who at first bristles against the chill, then pushes through, and finally accepts the fact that they are in it and their body then acclimates. Of course this says something about winter. But what if the overall meaning of the poem is actually about how pain, analogously, is fought, then yielded to, and then accepted as the reminder of how death is inescapable. In that case, there is more of a lesson about pain than there is about winter despite the communication between the parts. This is precisely what Emily Dickinson does in her poem “After Great Pain, a Formal Feeling Comes.”
Analogical code shares information both in the direction of the literal and in the direction of the signified, but most of the traffic usually heads in one direction. This is towards the literal meaning. Since this is a more complex cartography than is called for by prose, practicing poetry requires patience and asking questions.
Many people fail to appreciate poetry because it often requires a more disciplined engagement than does prose. Many want the efficiency of bare data laid out on a linear line of reasoning, even in their art. The disciplined engagement is a prerequisite of many art forms, but it is especially true of poetry. The worthwhile result is more than mere pleasure. As countless philosophers and theologians have summarized, beauty is visible goodness. If the art is good, it should contribute to the moral formation of its consumers. This means that good art should not produce snobbery; it should produce godliness.
At Sacramentum, the one day conservatory that is hosted by our church, we have eleven questions in our morning catechism. One of the questions asks, Why should we be thankful for the weather? The answer is:
To the snow He says, ‘Fall on the earth,’ and the shower of rain, His heavy shower of rain, serves as a sign on everyone’s hand, so that all whom He has made may know it. Then the animals go into their lairs and remain in their dens. From its chamber comes the whirlwind, and cold from the scattering winds. By the breath of God ice is given, and the broad waters are frozen fast. He loads the thick cloud with moisture; the clouds scatter His lightning. They turn round and round by His guidance, to accomplish all that He commands them on the face of the habitable world. Whether for correction, or for His land, or for love, He causes it to happen (Job 37:6–13, RSV).
This passage of Holy Scripture is also poetry. In it, the reader is required to slow down and to consider meaning that would otherwise be lost on him. How many times has this passage been read but the lesson was lost on the reader: that God has placed raindrops that fall on the human hand as an instructive sign? How often does the rain-soaked pedestrian recall Job 37? But we are told that the rained-on man is to look down and see the sign of water on his own hand and to understand, “Ah. This meaning is layered. It means that God, perhaps, may want me to change. Whether for correction. Does this water on my hand come as a threat, as a primal reminder of God’s judgment in the flood? Am I in need of correction?” When he sees the water on his hand, does he stop and attempt to understand the sign? “Ah. God knows the land needs this and He cares, not only for me, but for the alfalfa and the sugar beets. What a good God.” Whether for the land. When a man sees the trails of water from the drops that hit his hand as they fall from the sky, does he remark, “Ah. God loves me.”? Or for love. If we don’t learn to practice poetry, we are unable to properly engage with the world that God has made and we are missing out on opportunities to become more like Him. These verses in Job train the pedestrian or the farmer to consider drops of rain as an instructive environment of inquiry. If there is no practicing of the poetic, the lesson is lost.
I once had a professor who said that if you are going to dissect something, you usually make sure it’s dead first. With poetry, you don’t want to treat it like a paragraph that’s been soaked in formaldehyde. How do we attempt to understand it then? In a manner similar to the work of natural biologists. Understanding poetry is a kind of biology, a kind of investigation of a living thing. Imagine, when attempting to understand it, that you are not dissecting a dead page, splayed out before you on a metal table: rather, you are stalking the wild analog.
This is George Herbert’s poem “Money” from a collection entitled The Temple. It is an English sonnet. In it, he develops a biographical snapshot of money, but expect that he is doing more than telling an origin story. Is there a way in which the reader is learning virtue and expected, in turn, to come away from the poem having become more virtuous? Does the suggested meaning correspond to what God, in His revealed Word has called good and what God has called not good?
Money, thou bane of bliss, and source of woe,
Whence com’st thou, that thou art so fresh and fine?
I know thy parentage is base and low:
Man found thee poor and dirty in a mine.
Surely thou didst so little contribute
To this great kingdom, which thou now hast got,
That he was fain, when thou wast destitute,
To dig thee out of thy dark cave and grot.
Then forcing thee by fire he made thee bright:
Nay, thou hast got the face of man; for we
Have with our stamp and seal transferred our right:
Thou art the man, and man but dross to thee.
Man calleth thee his wealth, who made thee rich;
And while he digs thee out, falls in the ditch.
Proverbs, similarly to Herbert’s lines, asks us to go slow before writing our review of what first appears to us as attractive. If we were to go to the adulterous woman’s house, we would see that she sleeps atop a mountain of bones. The more we examine her, from the objective standard of God’s holiness, the more inclined we become to avoid her wares, to avoid her house, and to plug our nose when a waft of cinnamon is carried on the breeze from her neck. The absence of virtue makes the beholder see through the façade of attraction. A good woman, we learn, is beautiful, not necessarily attractive.
In Herbert’s poem, the money shines, but Herbert knows from whence it comes. Who cleaned it up to make it look so appealing? Here is the truth. Man is content to put his own face on the coin, unknowingly transferring more than mere image; man transfers his very birthright. And so with poetry, Herbert is teaching us that the story of money is connected to the story of Esau. Esau’s story is not merely a lesson about a foolish man a long time ago; rather, it is the story of every man who is willing to trade his soul for a thing that broadcasts a temporary promise of pleasure. Every fool trades in beauty for attraction when he is not capable of discerning virtue. Esau then is recognized in the story of the fool in Proverbs who is led away to the graveyard on the chains of perfume and innuendos. Esau becomes an analog zip file of images like Scrooge, Shylock, Dorian Gray, Dracula, and countless others. Poetry like this trains the imagination on what is good and what is bad and thus teaches the artist how to relay the compressed truths proportionately.
Poetry is a necessary tool in Christian discipleship. It is a staple in the hermeneutical pantry. Poetry is not going away; it is the language of eternity. Signs and symbols continue to unpack meaning as farther beyond our moment than we are able to conceive. In the practice of poetry, we not only discover riches, but we learn how to pass them on.
Garrett Soucy lives in Maine with his wife and nine children where he is the pastor of Christ the King Church. He is also a writer and musician.
NOTES