Two Years of Poetry, Philia & Frosting
It's the last day of January and the 2nd anniversary of The Beauty of Things. Thank you, my friends, for giving me and my writing a chance.
It is January 31st, therefore, it is the last day I can squeeze in this poem by Robert Bridges (1844-1930) who, despite having been Poet Laureate from 1913 to 1930, is probably best known for making his friend, Fr. Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844-1889), posthumously famous.
However, as you can see below, Bridges was a fine poet himself.
“January” by Robert Bridges
Cold is the winter day, misty and dark: The sunless sky with faded gleams is rent: And patches of thin snow outlying, mark The landscape with a drear disfigurement. The trees their mournful branches lift aloft: The oak with knotty twigs is full of trust, With bud-thronged bough the cherry in the croft; The chestnut holds her gluey knops upthrust. No birds sing, but the starling chaps his bill And chatters mockingly; the newborn lambs Within their strawbuilt fold beneath the hill Answer with plaintive cry their bleating dams. Their voices melt in welcome dreams of spring, Green grass and leafy trees and sunny skies: My fancy decks the woods, the thrushes sing, Meadows are gay, bees hum and scents arise. And God the Maker doth my heart grow bold To praise wintry works not understood, Who all the worlds and ages doth behold, Evil and good as one, and all as good. This poem is in the public domain.
I chose “January” not so much for the poem, but for the poet and the role that philia (φιλία) plays in the world of poetry, for if it were not for the friendship between Hopkins and Bridges, we would have never known the beauty and grandeur of the former’s poetry.
I am currently reading the works of the Catholic poet and essayist John Martin Finlay, who died at too young an age from AIDS-related illness, and I am struck by the care that his friend, David Middleton, took in making sure that Finlay’s contributions to 20th century American poetry are not forgotten. Middleton serves the same role that Bridges did for Hopkins: literary executor.
I am sure a lot of people will argue that you don’t need friends to write good poetry. However, I think in my case it would be impossible. Poetry is a way of speaking to others, and I need to have “others” to speak to. In my graduate program I feel a deep sense of philia for the other students. For those who are extremely talented, I would want their legacies to be known.
Friends and family who know me well have asked why, with everything else that is going on in my life, would I take up a Masters of the Fine Arts in Creative Writing. Poetry, of all things!
The fact is that this is my mental health and self-care. Poetry has given me culture and community. It gives me friends when I have always had trouble making them, and I get to meet them in person like I did recently this month.
I get to make friends with people who are just trying to understand poetry, like my friend Mike at
. He has free online poetry discussion group on the first Thursday of every month at 8:30pm. You certainly don’t have to be an expert to attend. You just have to be curious about poetry.
Bear with me on this tangent…
Since I have a bunch of new readers, I want to share something else. I love to bake. A lot. Cakes, cookies, breads, bagels… and baking has given me a joy on the same level as poetry. I’ve written about cake being poiesis, and those who attended Frost Farm last year got a taste of what I mean.
All of this may have started with my 1st birthday cake, which I obviously didn’t make…
And here’s the cake I baked for my 45th birthday.
It’s my Substack’s birthday, and I can write about cake if I want to.
Thank you for reading this quirky anniversary post. I appreciate you. I’ll write something more nourishing next time.
Happy second anniversary! I had never heard of this poet—amazing that we wouldn’t know Gerard Manley Hopkins without him!
Lovely my friend and congratulations on such a wonderful accomplishment. I feel I need to up my efforts a bit on the poetry side of things as I am woefully negligent in my experience and understanding of the great poets.