Psalm 13 and a Poem for St. Francis

Note from Andy

I’m noticing a curious thing as this project continues to develop: the double creative constraint of creating a rendition of a psalm that pairs with a new poem has been good for my creative energy. This has been so true that I’m finding that even more constraints seem to equal more energy. When I have hit a roadblock, the way out seems to be “add another creative constraint” and suddenly the problem unlocks and more words flow.

This poem is no exception. I’m tying together three things instead of the normal two: Psalm 13, the Life of St. Francis of Assisi, and a new poem. There is a post coming in the pipeline that has four constraints: Psalm 16, the conversion of St. Paul, the poetic form of a villanelle, and a new poem. It seems a bit counter-intuitive that more constraints would produce more creative freedom, but that is what is happening.

Rendition of Psalm 13

Will you forget me forever, God?
How long will you hide from me?
For how long will I be left with only
The quiet wonderings inside myself
As I carry my grief from day to day?
How long will my enemies stand over me and crow?

Look at me. Consider me. Answer me, God.
Make your light break over me.
Open my eyes or I will close them in death.
Don’t let the things that would throw me down
Discover that they have overcome me.

Nevertheless, I have pledged myself to your unfailing love.
I long to hear news of the victory of your salvation.
In my heart, I feel the joy of it already.
Even poetry, even song rises out of me
Because my God has richly seen to me.

Notes on the Rendition

The first and last lines of the rendition are highlighting the fact that this psalm has a whole narrative arc inside it.

The psalmist begins with an unquietness that has lodged deep inside him. He carries his grief and his fear wherever he goes. Then he asks God to see him, to answer him, and to break over him like the sunrise. By the third stanza, something has steadied. He has made contact with some truth or purpose or hope that has rekindled a joy inside him. Even poetry returns and he finds himself singing.

The final line is meant to parallel and reverse the first line. The psalmist began the psalm forgotten about and closes the psalm having been seen and seen to.

Notes on the Poem

As always with this project, I found a lot of creative possibilities within the constraint of pairing a re-written psalm with a new poem. Images and language jump from one to the other like sparks in adjacent fires. Both the poem below and the rendition above are talking about being seen and heard, about opening one’s eyes, about finding peace where you can find it, and about trusting God who has been kind even when trust faces long odds.

This poem draws inspiration from the life of St. Francis of Assisi, but who was St. Francis?

Throughout the Late Medieval period, there were already many reform movements happening in the Catholic church before the Protestant Reformation. In many ways, the movements that became the great monastic orders of Catholicism started as mini-reformations that acted as course-corrections for the excesses of the Medieval Church throughout the centuries. The Franciscan Order, and the humble itinerant friar who founded it, were no different.

St. Francis was born in 1181 to a wealthy family in Italy. In his early years, he was a foppish boy of privilege, indulging in fine clothes, shows, and all the pleasures Assisi had to offer a young man of means. In his early twenties, he tried his hand at soldiering on a campaign against neighboring Perugia and was taken captive. He spent a year in captivity and experienced an illness that brought him to the lowest point in his young life and triggered soul-searching that would sew the seeds of the spiritual awakening he was about to experience.

After his release, he became increasingly estranged from his family and his friends from the lavish days of his youth as began the spiritual transformation that history would remember him for. When a friend asked him whether he was thinking of marrying, he answered: "Yes, a fairer bride than any of you have ever seen: Lady Poverty.”

The following months and years were a story of vivid and radical metamorphosis. He took a pilgrimage to St. Peter’s basilica only to join the poor begging at the steps before the entrance. He fasted and sought solitude. He had a vision of Jesus telling him to repair the church. After a conflict with his father, he renounced his inheritance and tore off the clothes paid for by his father’s money, and walked naked into the hills to beg and live the life of a mendicant friar.

Rather than becoming a social outcast, however, he became a spiritual hero. Francis’ simple life and simple devotion to serve God by serving (and joining) the poor ignited what would today be called a “revival.” Young men flocked to Francis’ example, renounced their wordly possessions, material comforts, and followed him. A few years later, Francis and his band of friars marched to Rome to ask permission of the pope to found a new religious order. The pope granted Francis’ request after a dream in which the walls of the church tumbled down only to be held up by a small man wearing a threadbare linen robe.

From here Francis’ reputation for peace and holiness becomes almost legendary. He embraced lepers and taught his followers to care for them. He preached sermons to animals. People called upon him to resolve their disputes. He tamed the fierce Wolf of Gubbio by calling the creature to repentance. During the Fifth Crusade, Francis crossed the battle lines to preach the gospel to the Sultan of Egypt. Near the end of his life, he received the stigmata, the wounds of Christ on his hands, feet, and side. Other than the founding of the Franciscan order, St. Francis’ most enduring work is his “Canticle of the Sun,” a hymn that praises God for creating “Brother Sun, Sister Moon, Sister Death, and Brother Fire.”

…

One last note. St. Francis was very much in my mind when I wrote the poem for Psalm 73 (“We Laughed as Loud and as Wild as we Would”). In some ways, Francis epitomizes what that poem (and Psalm 73) are all about. I couldn’t resist pulling some of the language from that poem into this one in order to make that link more visible and overt.

Give the Poem a Title

I’ll title this poem in a couple of days if I don’t hear from you, but I’m leaving the first pick for readers. The naming convention for these poems is that the title must be a line from the poem.

Send your suggestions to andymatthewpatton@gmail.com or leave them in the comments.

Poem for Psalm 13—Brother Fire, Be Gentle

I know you lost yourself
Without meaning to,
But wait and beg the light for light
As when Francis bent himself at night
With the wild wolves and prayed:
O Lord, thou inflaming love,
Burn here.

I know you thought nothing heard you
But even the woods are fuller with ears
And things drawing near when you draw near,
As when Francis preached
To the fox-hued sky and night birds
Calling on hushed wings,
And everything held itself still,
As when Francis, penniless and sated,
Prayed and sang and waited.

I know you were hunted, hangdog,
Alone those years,
But bow your head and hold fast.
Suffer slowly for as long as it lasts
As when Francis, dying,
Said to the hot iron
Moving toward his eyes
To blind and heal him:
Brother fire, be gentle.

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Psalms: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 31, 32, 34, 35, 38, 39, 40, 42, 43, 46, 50, 51, 53, 54, 62, 63, 65, 66, 73, 74, 75, 84, 86, 88, 90, 91, 100, 107, 110, 114, 117, 118, 119, 120, 121, 122, 123, 124, 125, 126, 127, 128, 129, 130, 131, 132, 133, 134, 137, 139, 140, 142, 147, 148.

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Photo by Fr. Daniel Ciucci on Unsplash