Transfiguring: Poems

By Nathaniel A. Schmidt

At times brutal and raw, at others tender and sensitive, Transfiguring seeks to make sense of life in a world so often vicious and beautiful. A formalist work rich in imagery, allusion, narrative, and prosody, readers will encounter a surprising array of people and situations: from Icarus falling out of the sky to a chaplain sitting with his patients; from Judith beheading Holofernes to Saint Thomas reflecting on his doubt; from the poet growing his faith in an art museum to first hearing someone pray in tongues. Each poem wonders how these experiences, be they holy or horrific, shape us spiritually. Composed during a season of transition for the poet--into seminary, ministry, and marriage--Transfiguring processes experiences of loss, pain, and growth and wonders, What helps us to heal, and how do we hear God? It ponders what transfigures the human soul.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Resource Publications
• Release date: Jun 8, 2023
• ISBN: 9781666772531

Nathaniel A. Schmidt

Nathaniel A. Schmidt's poetry can be found in various journals including Windhover, Perspectives, The Anglican Theological Review, and The Penwood Review. Holding a Bachelor's degree in English from Calvin College, and a Master's degree, also in English, from the University of Illinois Springfield, he has taught for Spring Arbor University, Jackson College, and Grace College. Originally from the Chicago-land area, he currently resides in southwest Michigan, where he continues to find joy in the Word.

Book preview

Transfiguring

What if, when my steps darken a sanctuary

to become separated from the world,

a holy inferno enveloped my body

to burn away with its vortex of tongues

my clothes: consuming my overcoat first

before lapping my shirt and undershirt off

and turning to ash my trousers, boxers, and socks?

What if I was made naked like Adam,

each feature of my form fully displayed

before this fiery cyclone scalded my flesh

and blistered my skin into an unblemished state –

throbbing like embers plucked from a furnace

and rendered tender like a newborn’s rump?

Would I then not resemble the burning bush,

a living organism alight in the wilds

undevoured by this radiant power?

Yes, the very nature of my life would be changed.

No place could exist for my sandal’s dust,

the earth’s infections, or my heart’s vain filth,

for this Flame would baptize, refine, and cauterize

so I might stand in its purest presence

to hear the whispers from its thermal wind

I am who I am – as it embraces

before blowing me back into our world.

I

The curtain was torn from top to bottom

A pharisee of the academy,

I strut through the Art Institute

in the required vestments of my sect,

a corduroy jacket, Scottish scarf, hip glasses,

while smuggled inside my breast coat pocket

rests a contraband pen and a notebook,

covered in grey linen like an old corpse,

so I can practice my faith’s discipline:

studying what my fellow man has wrought

to glean insight on my way to the grave.

I pretend to meander, already knowing

the course I have pre-determined to take,

until I encounter Georgia O’Keefe’s

Sky above the Clouds IV.

Curated at the top of a central staircase,

the icon at the heart of this tabernacle,

I behold a distilled view from the air

that sees our world so distant, a blue wash,

far below the multitudes of white lozenges

that resemble icebergs floating in rows

more so than clouds, while on a higher plane

ethereal blushed horizons, alone, extend.

I’ve cultivated this view of Heaven

for years within my life, persistently

applying what I’ve learned as if an engineer

to construct a metaphysical craft

to fly me into some abstract serene,

a right knowledge of the laws of nature

promising my escape from gravity, guilt, shame,

but now something makes me question my quest,

confusing the trajectory I chose.

Was I called to ascend Babel’s tower?

Was my life’s purpose simply to get out?

I wonder as I sense an Alien presence

descending into this stairwell, altering thought.

People surround me, as foreign to me

as I am to them, but when pupils are opened

I see how their bodies are like my