A poem about Spencer…by, Leslie McGrath

The Seminarian Changes Course at Westerly

        for the congregants of Christ Church, Westerly

 He has been famous for some time–

for his humility as much as his poetry–

and because has turned toward God. 

He has turned toward serving God,

enduring years of study and supplication

at an age most men have settled into comfortable habits.

We are seated in the sanctuary.

We’ve read in unison from The Book of Common Prayer.

We’ve sung the old hymns whose words we still fudge,

their melodies from a time of simpler living,

more complicated music.

He approaches the altar dressed in a postulant’s white robe,

holding with somber concentration the pitcher and basin

with which the priest washes

before Communion. She drapes the towel she uses

to dry her hands

over his extended forearm.

He bows and moves away.

It is a privilege to witness complete engagement in ritual.

After the service, we move through a long breezeway,

its polished linoleum floors, its windows on a memorial garden

just beginning its April awakening,

to the Parish hall’s faded blue walls.

There is coffee, hot water for tea,

and a tray homemade goodies—

cupcakes, brownies, and gingerbread crucifixes

gleaming with sugar—

arranged on a folding table draped

with a well-mended cloth.

In a crowd of muted Episcopalians

he is not difficult to spot. 

He has shed his robe

and the clerk’s polish borne of years of attention

to cut, trim, and finish

lay on him undimmed. His French cuffs ease

a perfect inch below the sleeves

of his navy blue pin-striped suit.

After the church guitarist’s songs

and a introduction from the divinity school professor

who oversees his entrance to the priesthood’s lofty,

distant offices, he takes the podium timidly.

He thanks the congregation for its guidance, his mother

for her enduring love.

He begins to read his poems,

poems of unabashed devotion.

The microphone cuts out from time

to time, as though the wind is turning

a degree or two.

He’s unaware that some of his lines go unheard,

and that the three starched white tips

of his pocket square

point slightly toward his heart  

like a schooner sailing the blue depth of his chest,

bound for deeper waters, other weathers.