Enlightenment? Maybe in a minute.

Old poems speak to old souls. I don’t read much modern poetry; there’s too much imagery and not enough message for me. I realize this preference means I’ll never get any higher than middlebrow status. But the highbrow air is pretty thin, and most of us are just trying to navigate the world as we find it. Sometimes, those old, dead-white-guy poems help us do that, when we can be dazzled by the elevated language and then just wrestle them to the ground without taking them too seriously.

If you give a minute or two to John Milton’s sonnet, “On His Blindness,” it may tell you something about who you are and what you are doing.

When I consider how my light is spent,
Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,

John Milton went blind when he was 43, so Wikipedia tells us; the light was gone and the world was pretty dark and pretty big for a poet. He might have written this sonnet as early as 1655, though it didn’t see print until a few years later. Perhaps at that time, he couldn’t know that, in spite of his fears, he would go on to complete his most epic works, like ten books worth of Paradise Lost. (Parts of which I have actually read. Frankly, I like his shorter stuff better.) But still — he wrote this poem at the brink of a huge loss, and the possibility that his life work might be over a lot earlier than he thought.

Now I’m not going blind, I’m pretty sure, but I am also pretty sure I’m more than halfway through my days, and sometimes I worry that I have said and done all I am capable of. With time, energy goes; focus scatters; accomplishments lose relevance. Even with sight, the world can look too dark and too wide.

And that one Talent which is death to hide
Lodged with me useless, …

Ah — the Talent! Scholars love this part, because it reminds them of that parable. Nobody understands that, either. I’m pretty sure Milton means his talent is his gift for writing, which will be useless, he thinks, if he can’t bloody see. I, too, love to write, and I’ve secretly hoped that maybe this could be my Talent — some gift of thought or perspective that is worth sharing. (When I say this, I remind myself of a person who gets introduced to Meryl Streep and says, with a self-conscious smile, “I’ve done a little acting, myself…”)

So John Milton tells us that, for him, it is “death to hide” that Talent. If he cannot write poems, or no one reads his poems, he dies. So naturally I ask, “Is it death for an ordinary person as well? If my one Talent is to write, is it death if I don’t write, and just go about my worldly business, till the Light really does fade?”

(Or what if that’s NOT my Talent? Well, crap.)

though my Soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest he returning chide;

John Milton confesses, “Well, I’d really rather use that Talent to serve God, you see, so that I don’t get into trouble when God comes back.” John’s a dutiful person, who believes, or says he believes, that everything must be done For God’s Glory. I have a version of that belief, too, even though for me, the impulse has been re-framed by a humanistic upbringing and my own agnostic vocabulary. I’d like to say I paid my way; that I gave a little more than I took, so that when God returns, God won’t chew me out for being a lazy bitch parasite. I vainly want to believe that my life will represent a net gain for the planet, however tiny. It’s a big dose of Protestant work ethic plus some ego I can’t seem to eradicate. So sue me.

“Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?”
I fondly ask.

So now John wants to get specific: “Look, if my Light goes out, then WTF? Do I have to just go be a roofer or a barista or something?”

Well, all you humanities graduates know what that’s about. (Q: How do you get a philosophy major off the porch? A: Pay for the pizza.)

But patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, “God doth not need
Either man’s work or his own gifts;

But then, according to Milton, the voice of Patience cuts in, pretty roughly, if you ask me: “You think God needs your punk-ass poems? Oh, you’re going to “Serve God” with your Talent — where do you think that Talent came from in the first place, you nitwit?”

It reminds me of the adorable gifts of macaroni and brown paper that our adorable children make in their expensive Montessori classrooms and bestow upon us with their grubby hands, as fair trade for their very lives and sustenance and all. And I love that stuff; I do. Ask my own grown kids how many years I kept the candles they dipped in pre-school, until they were little more than misshapen stubs of wax. They grew up all right despite that.

who best
Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best.

And Patience (or maybe it’s Perspective, or Humility) goes on to say: “I’ll tell you who God really appreciates — it’s people who stop complaining about everything all the time, and just deal with it, and maybe even be a little grateful for this thing you got called a Life, hmmm?”

I don’t really think of God as an Almighty Creator-Person, who would actually critique me for not using my language skills appropriately. But that’s not the point. Rather, Milton reminds me that this world, this universe, is so infinite and varied and staggeringly stupid and magnificently beautiful that human beings are doing well just to bear up under it.

His state
Is Kingly. Thousands at his bidding speed
And post o’er Land and Ocean without rest:

I always wonder whether Milton has his tongue in his cheek, here. I love the image of thousands of people, rushing around the world, Doing God’s Kingly Work as fast as they can. Crusaders, galloping into battle with banners flying. Missionaries, racing to introduce the Bible (and refined sugar) to indigenous people who were doing just fine without either. Gospel preachers “slaying people in the Spirit” in front of crowds of thousands, and then passing the basket along with some fear, guilt, and credulous wonder. That’s what you do if you think God is a King. It’s not what you do if you think God is love. In my opinion.

And really — God can’t get stuff done God’s self? Needs your two cents in there? Without you, God… Just… Can’t… Even? Right. And do you think your bishop’s mitre or your saffron robe or your Lucite pulpit or your Jumbo-Tron or your charitable foundation matter a tinker’s damn to the Universe?

They also serve who only stand and wait.”

Take a breath. Take a minute. Hell, take ten minutes. The world will still rock on.

You want to write something for the ages? Sure; fine. It’s also good if you read something for the ages once in a while.

You want to get your ideas out there, because you think YOUR ideas are THE ideas the world needs to hear right now? Well, maybe. Maybe yours is just the voice we need to hear, At This Cultural Moment, and by gosh, the world will listen this time! So go for it. But I can guarantee that your ideas are not original in the least, and if you don’t squeeze them out somehow, they will surface some other time, some other way.

So did this poem convince me I shouldn’t be writing on this platform any more? Heavens, no. It just means that I’ll do it for joy, and love, and amusement, and not for fear of eternity and oblivion. I’ll do it because someone else might enjoy it. I’ll do it because if an idea is worth having, then it’s worth stealing. I’ll do it to comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable. I’ll do it so I don’t have to be a greeter at MalMart to keep myself out of trouble.

I’ll write, and I’ll read what you are writing.

And then… I’ll stand and wait.

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