My previous post spoke of Jacob's experience at the Ford of Jabbok when he wrestled with a man/angel/God. One of the poems of Gerard Manley Hopkins refers to this episode from Genesis.

'Carrion Comfort' is an expression of Hopkins' determination not to succumb to despair. He battled against a gloomy and depressive nature through much of his adult life but died with the words 'I am so happy' on his lips. For me this poem seems to express an honest ambivalence about his calling to the monastic life and his personal struggle with suffering.

It speaks to me at a very deep level, because I too have a depressive nature and sometimes have ambivalent feelings about my own calling. I would be interested to hear other people's impressions of the poem and particularly whether you can relate to it and, if so, in what way.

Carrion Comfort

Not, I’ll not, carrion comfort, Despair, not feast on thee;
Not untwist – slack they may be – these last strands of man
In me or, most weary, cry I can no more. I can;
Can something, hope, wish day come, not choose not to be.
But ah, but O thou terrible, why wouldst thou rude on me
Thy wring-world right foot rock? lay a lionlimb against me? scan
With darksome devouring eyes my bruised bones? and fan,
O in turns of tempest, me heaped there; me frantic to avoid thee and flee?

Why? That my chaff might fly; my grain lie, sheer and clear.
Nay in all that toil, that coil, since (seems) I kissed the rod,
Hand rather, my heart lo! Lapped strength, stole joy, would laugh, cheer.
Cheer whom though? the hero whose heaven-handling flung me, foot trod
Me? or me that fought him? O which one? is it each one? That night, that year
Of now done darkness I wretch lay wrestling with (my God!) my God.

Gerard Manley Hopkins

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It is Autumn now in England and the trees are looking like beautiful patchwork quilts - or Joseph's 'coat of many colours' (to quote the musical rather than the Bible)! Dappled colours, misty mornings, pale sunlight, glorious sunsets - it is a very lovely time of year despite it being the precursor to poorer weather and darker days.

And here is something else lovely that echoes the wonder of this season. I can just imagine Gerard Manley Hopkins sitting in the grounds of St Beuno's in North Wales writing this (he was probably safely in his room - but, hey, I can imagine)!

Pied Beauty

Glory be to God for dappled things --
&nbsp&nbsp For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;
Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches' wings;
&nbsp&nbsp Landscape plotted and pieced -- fold, fallow, and plough;
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp And áll trádes, their gear and tackle and trim.

All things counter, original, spare, strange;
&nbsp&nbsp Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)
&nbsp&nbsp &nbsp&nbsp With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;
He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:
&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp&nbsp Praise him.

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Gerard Manley Hopkins was a Jesuit priest and poet who lived during the latter half of the nineteenth century and became, after his death, one of the leading poets of the Victorian era. His style was innovative and unusual for that time, experimenting with rhythm, word structure and imagery.

I was introduced to his poetry at school and instantly fell in love with it - particularly with what seemed to me a freedom and playfulness with words. In later life, going on retreats to St Beuno's, I learnt more of his varied and fascinating life, of his depressions (which struck a chord with me) and his struggles to hold in tension his poetry and his Jesuit life.

This is one of my favourites of his poems:

God's Grandeur
by Gerard Manley Hopkins

The world is charged with the grandeur of God.
It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;
It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
And wears man’s smudge and shares man’s smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.

And for all this, nature is never spent;
There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
And though the last lights off the black West went
Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs —
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.

To get the full effect, read the poem out loud (even if you are on your own!). It can become a prayer of poignant praise.

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