There are no unsacred places; there are only sacred places and desecrated places1.
Poetry connects us to the sacred even if it does so in unconventional ways. Awe, centering, and transcendence are all feelings and experiences I have had hearing poetry in Unitarian Universalist services, and reading poetry on the page. I imagine some of you have experienced them as well. Naomi Shihab Nye, Denise Levertov, Adrienne Rich, and of course Mary Oliver, are all among the poets whose words have centered and uncentered me in services of our tradition. The power that poems can wield as sources of deepening is incredible. But the quality of poetry that has moved me the most is its ambiguity, something I think sets it apart from other inspired creations. I want to explore the power of that ambiguity with you today.
Like Mary Karr in our reading2 this morning, poetry was also a healing balm when I first started reading it intentionally. I could not stand to read any more prose after I finished college. I had spent the previous four years studying the humanities, and being harder on myself than I needed to. I was tired of prose and a little defeated. I had spent much of those four years dreaming of going further into academia – researching, teaching, and of course reading. But by the time I reached the end of my senior year, I couldn’t find the emotional fortitude to continue with that plan.
But burnt out as I was, I couldn’t not read either. Reading has been a great joy and source of sustenance for much of my life. It has been a way of connecting to the ideas and experiences outside of myself – an enriching practice. So, I thought if the prose I had been so used to reading in the last few years had worn me out, maybe I should try something different.
Poetry proved to be both a balm and a way through. Much of what I read was beautiful, and contemplative, and it repaired my love of the written word. It helped me find the space to step away from more prosaic forms of writing so that I could return to them, and actually enjoy them. I attribute much of the impact of these poems to their ambiguity. Unlike prosaic writing, poetry is often not concerned with describing things in a matter-of-fact, this-then-that, linear, rational way. In her Poetry Handbook, Mary Oliver describes that sort of “informational writing” as an antithesis to poetry. “Its words are exact,” she writes. “They do not desire to cast two shadows. The language is cold. It does not reach for any territory beyond the functional3.”
While this sort of writing has its place (many good places even), it leaves out human experiences it cannot touch. Meanwhile, poetry can do what the rational and linear cannot. It can touch the warm places, the experiences that happen whether we can identify any function for their occurrence or not. Poetry can account for the ambiguity in our lives.
Many of the poems I have loved best, that have reached into me the deepest, have an uncanny quality to them. Do they capture the poet’s first-person point of view, or someone else’s? Do they describe things that really happened with some creative license, or daydreams, or something else entirely? You may have felt that uncanniness as you listened to your neighbor’s poems earlier. Reading and receiving these sorts of poems is a way of practicing the acceptance of ambiguity and still finding beauty and meaning in it.
In social work, in ministry, in seminary, I have encountered so many ambiguous stories and situations. Very often when I am working with and listening to someone, I can tell that I’m not getting the full story. And depending on the nature of the relationship, I may never have the chance to get it. Even with people who I have known most of my life, I know that I will not get a complete understanding of every situation they share. Complete and perfect understanding is not mine to demand, and I am called to stay present whether I get that understanding or not. Practicing acceptance of the ambiguous, of the unknown, of the things that stand outside our comprehension, is a practice of love. An inarguably sacred practice. This is a lesson poetry can teach us alongside the appreciation of its other deepening qualities.
As our time together comes to an end, I want to leave you with these three questions:
1. Wendell Berry, “How To Be A Poet,” Poetry 89, no. 1 (2001): 270, accessed January 6, 2024, https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/browse?contentId=41087
2. Mary Karr, “Facing Altars: Poetry and Prayer,” Poetry 93, no. 11 (2005): 125, accessed January 6, 2024, https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/browse?contentId=68348
3. Mary Oliver. The Poetry Handbook (New York: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt, 1994), 89.