In 7th grade, a substitute teacher introduced us to poetry. Well, sort of. He circulated a copy of the lyrics for America’s hit song: A Horse With No Name. The class lit up like fireflies offering up their interpretations. DK, shoulders slumped, head down, was pretending to be reading the lyrics – - sat nervously hoping he wouldn’t be called on. The 30 minutes of inadequacy never vacated short term memory. (Samuel Beckett: I’m like that. Either I forget right away or I never forget.“) I came across the poem below by George MacDonald and I found it moving me…Spring fever perhaps….and as my eyes slowly worked down one line and then the next, I found my spirits lifting…Hey! I understand this. I get it. I like it. No, I love it. And, then. Reality. I reached the last line and was stoned.
Through all the fog, through all earth’s wintery sighs,
I scent Thy spring, I feel the eternal air,
Warm, soft, and dewy, filled with flowery eyes,
And gentle, murmuring motions everywhere—
Of life in heart, and tree, and brook, and moss;
Thy breath wakes beauty, love, and bliss, and prayer,
And strength to hang with nails upon thy cross.
- George MacDonald, Diary of an Old Soul
So Sensei. My wise readers. Help me out. Explain what the last line means. So, I can get to sleep. Or, better yet, tell me you have no idea either. And I’ll sleep like a baby. 
Source of Beckett quote and MacDonald Poem: journalofanobody
What kind of communication is that, when a poet writes something that no ones understands? If he meant to write it just for himself, okay, but if he wanted the world to read it, maybe he should write it so we can understand what he means. Oh dear… did a big black cloud just drift in to stand over the elephant in the room?
I read your comment last night. And couldn’t stop laughing. I’m still laughing.
On second thought, David, I shouldn’t have offered my frustrated opinion so ruthlessly. There is beauty in this poem, for sure, but it’s typical of so many poems in its obtusity (I don’t even know if that’s a word).
I checked the time stamp. It took you 4 minutes to re-group and re-fire. STILL LAUGHING.
Beautiful poem, Dave. I found on Amazon that “The Diary of an Old Soul is a collection of 366 daily Christian devotional poems by Scottish author, poet, and Christian Minister George MacDonald.” So, in that context, perhaps it means that because of all the beauty, being deeply thankful for the gifts of God’s creation, it gives a person the strength to make the sacrifices, devote our lives to give to others.
Wonderful interpretation Sandy. I’m going with it.
I like what Sandy said…
But I also believe that no one ever really knows except the poet what a poem really means. I remember those English classes too, where we were just supposed to somehow know what the writer meant. Even way back then, I remember thinking, “How? Let’s just ask the writer!” Now, I take what beauty I find in a poem, knowing that other people might be interpreting it differently, and that’s all okay by me.
Now you tell me Carol. (That no one really knows what a poem means.) You could have saved years and year and years of mental anguish.
Lol!!!
Macdonald, C.S.Lewis, J.R.R.Tolkein, G.K.Chesterton. All 20th century deep thinkers and writers and Christian theologians. They all had great respect for each other. And God, obviously. You know where I am. And I do hope you sleep.
I never heard of MacDonald. Or Chesterton until you introduced me to him. I guess one won’t be deep thinking based on what I’m reading. I have work to do.
Oh, this is a beautiful poem! I’m going to use it for the magazine. Since MacDonald was a theologian, and my parents paid for all this learnin’ in Creative Writing, I’ll venture to say that he is willing to surrender to the cold, uncomfortable winters in his life just as Christ was willing to give His life on the cross. He does this knowing that better days are ahead, as Christ knew that His death would end in resurrection and our spiritual salvation. Either way, you should sleep well knowing that you have been a curator of a beautiful work this evening.
LaMonique, I’m going with your last line. I did sleep well – I did think this was a wonder little poem. Thank you.
I remember reading that Paul McCartney was at the opening of a modern art exhibition and was looking at — it might have been a Lichtenstein,. Whoever the painter was the painting was very abstract and the painter himself was standing next to Paul looking on as well. Paul said something like — “What does it mean Roy?” And the great artist said — “Don’t know — but the big red blob in the middle kind of looks like a couch to me.”
Poems are usually somewhat more figure-out-able, unless they are not. In my freshman poetry class we read T.S. Elliot’s ” The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” and our Professor challenged us to figure it out through discussion in class but after about 2 minutes she said — oh hell — I’ll just tell you. And she did — she told us either her version or more likely the one she read in a text book on poetry — (an oxymoron I think).
To your poem — I think the cross might be winter — Thoreau reminded us that there are signs of every season during winter and we aught to notice. But to get to Spring we must bare the cross of winter. That’s my first read of the poem’s meaning. Not the poet’s by the way. Once a poem is released into the air its meaning is for us to divine. The poet is almost never around to explain herself. Ask and symphony orchestra conductor about who interprets a composition — the composer or conductor.
Frank, I have re-read your comment 3x over the past 24 hours. Thoughtful and insightful (as always). I learn from you my friend. Thank you for taking the time to share your thoughts.
David your warm responses to my replies cheer me up. You are so open minded and your posts and replies are heartfelt and very much appreciated. (BTW — I meant to write: “Ask ANY symphony orchestra conductor… I hope my typo didn’t confuse.)
Thanks Frank. No confusion here beyond my day-to-day mist.
Salvation?
You are asking me?
I have no idea what it means. But I am happy to go with it meaning that in order to appreciate what life has to offer we need to be prepared to make sacrifices. I can work with that.
Without sounding like a complete animist, I read this poem as the writer’s personal reminder that there is beauty and life and energy in all things, hope of the spring to focus upon, and to drink it in, or dream of drinking it in, especially when this world’s b*llsh*t tries to get in the way.
I had to look up animist Len. There you go big word dropping again.
Animist:
1. The belief in the existence of individual spirits that inhabit natural objects and phenomena.
2. The belief in the existence of spiritual beings that are separable or separate from bodies.
3. The hypothesis holding that an immaterial force animates the universe.
I like your interpretation. Thank you
We likely have to experience the challenges of life, recognize them for their value, and allow them to help us grow in our strength as humans. This strength would be in the form of compassion that begins with us individually and moves outward.
Thank you Ivon. Compassion is so large and so impactful.
My interpretation: This is Jesus talking to God. All his senses are heightened as he hangs on the cross.
Now your comment left me thinking. And thinking. And thinking. Thank you Sandy Sue.
My inner feeling is that possibly he believes in all good in the after life. And needs the strength to succumb to death not knowing if he will go to heaven or somewhere else without absolution!
Wow. Now I’m intimidated!