Lessons in The Method, #23
by Martin Jago — the Friday Poem on 04/10/24
Yes, this poem takes a gentle look at religious belief and offers a suggestion as to how art might take its place, but it’s also an exercise in compassion. We love the turn in the fifth stanza, and the way the poem recognises the possibilities inherent within it but chooses to stay rooted in reality. It’s clever, and beautifully made.
Lessons in The Method, #23
The day you stop me on campus, Benjamin,
Bible in hand, asking if I believe and I respond,
pointing to the building I’m walking towards,
That’s my church. Theatre? you say, incredulous.
Yes, or a painting hanging on a wall. Or this poem,
Art a secular prayer, but yes, I say, keeping you
on track, Theatre. After all, not even the most
Method of Method actors ever falls into
the orchestra pit and isn’t that like you, Benjamin
at your father’s funeral last June, sweat bleeding
into the armpits of your crisp blue shirt, playing
your part, believing you might meet again until,
subsumed by grief, you turn and finally break
the fourth wall in yourself, facing the thousand-seated
auditorium of your subconscious and speaking,
not the illusion of truth, but truth itself without
a word, weeping to be held. And Benjamin,
just because this is a poem and I could give you wings,
I won’t. I’ll leave you here instead, feet planted
on the campus grounds, Plaza Vaquero to your right,
its fountain trickling in your ear, mouth agape,
something awakening, as in a secular prayer.
Martin Jago is a British-American poet based in Los Angeles. His debut collection, Photofit, is published by Pindrop Press (2023). He is the author of four nonfiction titles on Shakespeare. His writing has appeared in literary magazines like Agenda, Acumen, The Moth, LIT Magazine, Naugatuck River Review, Presence, The Penn Review, Sierra Nevada Review, The High Window, The Indianapolis Review, Artillery Magazine and the poetry podcast Poetry Worth Hearing. He holds a Master’s in Creative Writing from the University of Oxford where he was an F.H. Pasby Prize finalist.
Wow! I love this poem, especially the volta. "Sweat bleeding/into the armpits of your crisp blue shirt" is such an arresting line and the breaking of the fourth wall is breathtaking - had never thought of the pain of grief in that way before - facing the audience and speaking "truth itself... weeping to be heard". Shattering, beautifully done - the power of poetry to help you see something like you've never seen it before. Wish I'd written it (and there's no higher praise than that!)