Reversion and the Turning Thither: Writing Religious Poetry and the Case of Frank Samperi

Idcirco accidit ut, quantum illos proximius imitemur, tantum rectius poetemur. Unde nos doctrine operi intendentes, doctrinatas eorum poetrias emulari oportet.

Dante, de Vulgare Eloquentia, II.4

Thus it comes about that, the more closely we try to imitate the great poets, the more correctly we write poetry. So, since I am trying to write a theoretical work about poetry, it behoves me to emulate their learned works of poetic doctrine.

Translated by Steven Botteril

Emulation

What is at stake in choosing to be a religious poet? We find the strengths and weaknesses, the glories and the failures of this decision in the case of Frank Samperi, an obscure, experimental American poet of the twentieth century who wrote out of an explicitly Roman Catholic vision of the universe. The challenge of reading Frank Samperi's poetry is the challenge of reading religious poetry. Is Samperi a poet of vision, of singular insight? Or is individual vision antithetical to the doctrine he emulates in his poetry? In the Western tradition, when we think of great religious poetry, we think of Dante, Milton, Blake. Each is a poet of vision, of singular insight. Each is also a Christian. Samperi mainly emulates Dante, who looked through the communal vision of a medieval Catholicism, out of which his own vision emerged. Samperi frequently appeals to the "theological poet" who seeks after "Eternal form," of which Dante is exemplary. Samperi's theological poet is removed from the world, a lonely predator of the adoration. His separation and solitude are essential to an understanding of God's purposes: "true work can only have for its vision the Eternal the final identification forgone the abstractive useless" (from "Anti-Hero" in Quadrifarium).¹

Who is the audience, then, of the theological poet who writes out of the abstractive useless? Can we be nurtured by this poetry? Samperi's "theological poet" is an anachronism. By reverting to a medieval imagination and cosmology, he seeks to fortify his poetic vision. But the poetry—always resolutely spiritual in its aspirations—is not in the company of Dante or Milton or Blake. It is not great poetry. But it is spiritual poetry, and it is compelling poetry. What makes it compelling? What makes it striking?

As phrased, these questions elude their real concern. Rephrased, I might ask, Why am I so compelled by Samperi's poetry? Why do I find it striking? The challenge of reading religious poetry is a matter of cardinal importance to me. This is because I am largely drawn to poetry for its spiritual potentialities and potencies. This is also because I consider myself a religious poet. Furthermore, I am a Catholic.

There is a major tension between any communalistic adherence (or indoctrination) and an individual talent, powerfully augmented in poetry. As a poet informs her work with peculiar vision, it individuates and takes on value. The poet who asserts a communal vision acts as ventriloquist's dummy. Who speaks? Not the poet. Doctrine speaks. Or dogma speaks. Communio is essential to Catholic faith and prayer (just as the umma—the community of believers—is a priority for any Muslim). You can't believe merely in private. It is only in the communio that collective prayer can be offered and felt through the vehicle of the liturgy. Other prayer—petitio, or private asking; meditatio, or listening to God; contemplatio, or silent attendance to God's presence—rests on the bedrock of communio. But poetry is not prayer even when it is offered as prayer or is prayer-like. Poetry is making. It is an emulation of God's embouchure and the subsequent vocables uttered at creation. But it is not prayer.

What is the value, then, of attending to a poet whose private vision is an emulation of the communal vision...