The Student as “Makar”: Original Poetry by the Junior Class | Thomas More College

The Student as “Makar”:
Original Poetry
by the Junior Class

by Dr. Amy Fahey, Visiting Fellow

Bard, scop, troubadour, rhymer—there are many terms for the poet, but perhaps my favorite is the medieval Scots “makar,” a term literally derived from the Greek ποιητής (poiētēs). To be a “makar” of poetry necessitates the careful study of the thing made, as well as mastery of the skills and techniques necessary for the making. 

The idea of the poet as “makar” provides a helpful corrective to the Romantic notion of pure genius, in which poets are said to be “born, not made.” Virtually all great poets have first been great readers and students of poetry. A notable exception is Caedmon, the first English poet known by name. As the Venerable Bede tells us, Caedmon, an illiterate cowherd who worked under the Benedictine abbess St. Hild at the monastery of Whitby, was divinely granted the gift of poetry, which revealed itself in the great Anglo-Saxon hymn to creation. “Caedmon’s Hymn” begins:

Nu sculon herigean / heofonrices Weard
(“Now we must praise / Heaven-kingdom’s Guardian”)

It is just such a hymn in praise of the Creator which so angers Grendel in Beowulf

Yet most of us will likely not have the poetic gift divinely infused. And even though some have been granted greater native ability than others, it is still necessary to undertake a careful study and imitation of the great poetic forms if one wishes to move from reader to makar.

At Thomas More College, we believe that all liberal arts students should have experience in not simply reading but writing poetry. Noted Catholic poet James Matthew Wilson agrees. “Verse,” he says, “has a dimension of reality that’s not found in prose. All language is rhythmic, but poetry is rhythm mastered and ordered and given definite measure and shape. So in that respect it’s a kind of perfection of speech. Your professors,” he further suggests, “wouldn’t let you graduate from college without being sound in prose composition and essay.  .  . . To be literate, you ought to know how to write in verse.”  

Last night, the Junior Class of Thomas More College, all of whom have been studying the craft of poetry in Writing Tutorial III: Fidelity to the Word, demonstrated their skill as “makars” in front of the (virtually) assembled student body and faculty of the College. For the past semester, in fulfillment of the stated aims of the course, the students have been moving, “as the medieval Cistercians would say, from sciendum to experiendum—from what must be known to what must be experienced.” 

Part of that movement from knowledge to experience has involved the creation of metrical compositions, which have enabled the students to “understand poetry from within as both reader and maker.” After careful study of the formal, stylistic, and thematic elements of several poetic styles, the students composed their own riddles, ballads, and sonnets. Each student selected one from among these three genres to present during last night’s virtual recitation. 

The recitations began with Patrick Kuplack’s stirring ballad, “The Maccabeus,” followed by Sean Tuffy’s riddle, which fellow students were invited to solve through the “chat” function.  Hannah Smith and Eva Solak then presented their sonnets, each drawing timeless reflections on the recent outbreak of COVID-19 and its effects on the dispersed student body.  Zoe Becher recited her moving World War I ballad, “Maggie Darlin,’” followed by Declan McArdle’s clever riddle, for which he provided the engaging origin of the metaphoric “clues”. Pauline Ullmer’s sonnet “Jerusalem”—perhaps inspired by her recent college-sponsored trip to the Holy Land—preceded the first of Owen Zaleski’s lyrical, classically-informed riddles. Joseph Kervick recited his sonnet on the recent reinterment of Francisco Franco’s body in Spain; this was followed by the final two riddles, composed and recited by Taylor Sbat and Ben Davis.  The final presentation was Elijah Moorman’s tragic ballad, “The Miller’s Daughter,” which he sang to his original tune while playing guitar accompaniment.  Instead of ending on such a moving, dark note, however, the event concluded with a surprise comic ballad, in which Joseph Kervick chronicled his futile attempts to avoid confronting Dr. Powers on the tardiness of his Junior Project. 

While the virtual nature of the event was in no way preferable to an in-person gathering of the students and faculty, the recitations nonetheless provided a bright ray of communitas in the midst of our present dislocation. The recitations also highlighted the success of the students’ diligent labors in the garden of verse, as they experienced for themselves “the perfection of speech,” moving from knowledge to experience, from readers to “makars.” 

You can find copies of the student verse below, including a link to the audio version of Elijah Moorman’s ballad. Answers to the riddles—should you not be able to solve them—are provided at the end.

I am the Enlightened one

Get up, for the bell tolls your time, your turn on the scaffold has come,
Under the whimsical whistle of my strike, I sever crown from bearer.
In the spring of hope, in the winter of despair, 
Life I render meaningless, my work better than that of any barber,
Let me shave the closest, lighten a complexion.
Oh I have met no match, no crown unsevered under me,
These things and more, a man like you should fear.
I am of times the best, and yet the worst,
Numb sleep I offer, a magicians comic act,
Every life must meet its end, yet I have connived for more than two. What am I?

—Sean Tuffy

“When I was free from study of great books”

When I was free from study of great books, 
I wished to give my mind a rest from stress, 
To the green mountain state I undertook
A trip to ski and laugh with friends unless
The deadly virus from the east, has struck 
the unsuspecting skiers and their town. 
Bright rays of sun in morn foretell great luck, 
No skier was downcast nor had a frown. 
Next day the clouds and saddened skies forebodes
That terror of the plague has reached the north. 
Go back to school and live on my old modes?
Or will this force the world into rebirth?

We live in fear of things we can’t control, 
But we have hope in Christ whom we extol. 

—Hannah Smith

Home in Hopes

Away from hands that reach to clutch our lungs
Now all have scattered bound away to homes.
We drove two days and through the night between
Past ghostly towns, dark streets where no one roams.
My ink-smudged hand-drawn map marked counties with
Disease, the places to avoid with care.
Our stops were rare but doused and blessed in floods
Of isopropyl alcohol and prayer.
The empty sidewalks, signs that flash “STAY HOME”
Bar usual excitement for a break.
Relief to be with family rushes us
On towards our lovely mitten home and lake.
But we will dash back soon, our hopes are high,
To see again good friends and Powers’ tie.

—Eva Solak

Maggie Darlin’

The summer sun shone bright in June,
The year 1918,
And Maggie’s man had signed his name
To wear the army green.

“My Maggie darlin’, this I pledge:
My love for you is true. 
From war I’ll come back soon’s I can;
Return and marry you.”

She gave a kiss and smile to him,
“I know you to be true.
Though land and country call you now,
Ne’er fear I’ll wait for you.”

She watched his ship sail out at dawn
Against the breaking sky.
The glist’ning tears that she held back
Were dewdrops in her eyes.

Some time had passed since Maggie’s man
Had gone to fight in France,
When ‘mong the daily mail she spied
What drew a second glance.

The writing on that envelope
Was from a hand she knew,
It brought news of a soldier dear,
The man she loved so true.

“Dear Maggie darlin’ though I must
For now be far away,
I fight the harder knowin’ that
I’ll see you ‘gain some day.

Your picture I do keep with me;
To see it cheers my heart.
It makes the distance not so hard
To bear while we’re apart.

A soldier’s life’s no easy thing,
But grace will help me through.
Be rest assured that I am well—
Though sorely missing you.”

This letter Maggie treasured dear
And read it oft’ again.
It gave her hope that he would soon
Come safe back home again.

In time another letter came,
Writ in the hand loved well:
“Sweet Maggie darlin’, it is true
That war is living hell.

I do not know what stirs in men
To make them harvest death,
Yet fight we must and not give ground
To keep our living breath.”

As Maggie read these words of his
A tear dropped from her eye,
“Dear God, please bring him back to me!
Don’t let my soldier die.”

Another letter came for her,
But yellow, typed in black.
Just one brief look and Maggie knew:
Her man would not come back.

— Miss Margret Johnson, 5 Beech Drive,
Ames, Texas, USA.
Regret to say one Private Jones
was killed in France today —

The summer sun shone bright in June,
The year 1918,
When Maggie’s man had signed his name
To wear the army green.

—Zoe Becher

“‘Til I’ve finished, please stay mute.”

‘Til I’ve finished, please stay mute.
First, I will expose my root.
Crowned with thorns, I lived below;
Downward, would I always grow?
I saw my neighbors, flam’ed, rise,
Leaving ash and me, the prize.
I was dead, but not for long;
A church warden did come along.
Soon he learned I could not flame,
So fire he did teach me tame.
Cradled by a five-limbed beast,
Now on halfling’s leaf I feast.
Among my fav’rite kith and kin:
A hawk-nose and a violin.
Countless halos do I wear
When my incense fills the air.
Tell me, stranger – don’t be shy!
Have you guessed it? What am I?

—Declan McArdle

Jerusalem

The stillness of the dawning morning, by
The call to prayer from one muezzin on
That sacred rock which saw Mohmmad fly
Into the heavens high, is quickly gone.
Once sun shone on the Jewish Temple set
Atop that rock of patrimony. They
Have wandered lost since its destruction. Yet
they bravely won a place to wait and pray.
The brave crusaders died below that fount
Of sun, to save that where their slavery
was ended. It is not the temple mount
they fought for, but this rock of Calvary
And this stone tomb wherein they Christ did lay
And rose with trembling earth at break of day.

—Pauline Ullmer

“No shepherd guards me, a solitary sheep that grazes”

No shepherd guards me,      a solitary sheep that grazes
In fields and forests,       God provides my feasts,
Eating the making of monarchs,      Devouring the milk of Aephelius.
My fleece, grown with feasting,       changes to fat and banded fur,
My wool, striped and tawny,       becomes the spinning wheel. 
Confined to a crystal room,       I labor to become a common tiger,
My body is scoured and picked,      I am spun into spools of thread,
Now I am knit into a shawl,       I am now the image of a soul
A rebirth into a royal robe,       one of Psyche’s shape and style,
The nature of Nessus’ shirt,       and the nymph Pharmaceia’s spring,
Is woven in the tawny scales       and the sable veins of my cloak.
I catch the hands of Notus,       beginning a homeward path,
From the northern Acadia,       to the southern land of Aztlán,
Fleeing frost and seasons end,       seeking summer and the sweep syrup
Of velvet stars and living gold,       to bring new life, to start anew.

—Owen Zaleski

“The chant of nuns,        climbs from the wooden convent”

The chant of nuns,        climbs from the wooden convent,
They are an ancient order,        blessed by Ambrose and Bernard
Little servants of light,        singing songs of life,
In habits of gold and black,         busy with blessed work.
Wearing gauzy capes,        they wander the woods,
With spears self-murderous,        they move with swiftness,
To the fields and trees,        to find throughout
the blood of Adonis.         The burgeoning brothers of Attis.
As the sun finds its rest,        to their rural nunnery they return.
they gather their good harvest,        greeted by their mother-abbess.
Secured in growing masonry,         they make the younger brew of Medb.

—Owen Zaleski

Moving the Generalissimo from the Valley of the Fallen

How odd that they should fear the Dead but not
The one who lives. The Living stood upon the peak,
The Lord of all the world, the Dead, now meek
And powerless, lain at his feet to rot.
In life the Dead had served the Living Lord.
When regicides had come to slay all those
Who served that king, the Dead had stood opposed 
With armies strong to stop the fearsome horde.
Now lain to rest, that horde still fears the Dead,
Worried his soul, with Santiago’s, might
Appear on hoary steeds, and charging, lead
The armies of the Lord in the final fight.
Hiding his corpse won’t bring them peace, for though
The Dead is gone, the Living’s yet their foe.

—Joseph Kervick

“The ground is where I live” 

The ground is where I live 
I listen when commands my master give 
A traveler yet not the leader 
Not author, but reader 

Soul not immortal, a supporter 
A beautiful transporter 
Worn-out thin, yet I persist 
My master can’t resist 

Fast or slow, you choose the speed 
After all, I am not the lead 
Excessively noisy 
Classy and pointy 

Dress me up, dress me down 
Master, you deserve a crown 
Fashion is the aim 
Can you tell me my name? 

—Taylor Sbat

“Born to deceive       but never lie”

Born to deceive       but never lie
I can make you king   or make you die
I twist mens’ lives      their truths I hide 
I’m always different,    yet always the same 
I’m found in all the world   from fumes of oracles
To raider’s sea.    In robin’s city 
A villain named for me  uses me to taunt his enemy. 
A monster I fed    on mountain high
Then betrayed her    and beheld her die
 Down in deepest dark     deep cave dweller 
Whispered my secrets,   wits he clashed,
To earn his meal.   ’Til his enemy 
cheated my game  And cheated his death.
I sing of ravens, time, and death,     sparrows, wind, and desks, 
Now I sing of my name    now speak it back to me.

—Ben Davis

The Miller’s Daughter

At harvest time, I went to grind
The wheat that I’d been sort’n
Twas there I spied the millers las
And set my mind to court’n.

I brought her gifts of humble make
For I was not well laden
And in return her smiling touch
Was all I asked in trade’n

The autumn through we spent at will
No forest glade untrodden
But autumn fades and in its place
Comes winter oft forgotten

A fool was I to think that such
A maiden soft and tender,
Would not draw more than one man’s gaze
One suitor’s desperate ardor

And so it happened late one night
With winter wind a lashing
A man came walking to her door
A looking for her loving.

He took her by her slender arm
Spoke sweetly of desire
But when she told him of her love
His eye turned red with fire

Alas, I came too late that night
To visit my true lover
I found the mill door standing wide
A banging like a shudder

She lay there twisted on the floor
Chaff turned her hair to golden
A whisper all that she could make
To tell of what had happened

For hate of you and love of me,
All blinded by his passion
He’s killed the thing he cannot have
Turned rosy cheeks to ashen

Then fire burned in my eye too
I vowed to take my vengeance
With sword drawn and voice pitched low
Growled, death shall be his sentence

I found him in the village near
A drinking all alone
Sitting as though nothing done
His face was set in stone

I drew my sword and lunged at him
My blade it sought his heart
But quick he moved and better proved
He aim and deathly art

He fell in death, but so did I
Or soon as I do reckon
I clawed my way back toward the mill
My lover’s kiss to beckon 

So on a cold and dolesome eve
Where happiness had started
I pined and died at true loves side
My breath with her’s departed

—Elijah Moorman

*Answers to riddles: guillotine, pipe, monarch butterfly, bee, shoe, riddle

 

For further reading:

A poet lovely as a tree: Dr. Amy Fahey on Joyce Kilmer

Junior Projects: Round Two

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