In these sonnets excerpted from his portfolio, Nathan Oddi (English ’20) poetically captures the spiritual strife inherent in much premodern poetry. In his first, “The Chamber of the Lord,” he ruminates on the anchoritic life of Julian of Norwich, particularly the bodily constraints of living a reclusive life and the spiritual rewards it affords. The second sonnet, “His Once-Royal Visage” is a testament to Miltonian ideas about Satan’s psychology and appearance:
My final sonnet has its roots in Milton’s Paradise Lost, though I approach Satan in a period much later than Milton, and he’s changed. Milton’s Satan is heroic in a rebellious kind of way— “and with ambitious aim against the Throne and Monarchy of God rais’d impious War in Heav’n and Battel proud with vain attempt” (Book I, 41-44)—charismatic—“[Satan] spake: and to confirm his words, out-flew millions of flaming swords, drawn from the thighs of mighty Cherubim” (Book I, 663-665) and still regal-looking despite his lot in Hell—“High on a Throne of Royal State…Satan exalted sat” (Book II, 1-5). But my Satan is older, more damaged than just the “deep scars of Thunder” (Book I, 601) on his face, the rage that drove him to trick Adam and Eve has no real outlet: it fuels him and has left his body (his face, especially) an abhorrent sight to behold, pure evil: think of it as his appearance reflecting his inner hate. I don’t specify it in the poem, but in retrospect, I reckon that behind the mask he wears, Satan’s face shows whoever looks upon it their worst fear, but worse than they could even imagine.
The Chamber of the Lord
The Lord, through which, is made possible all
Exists in each nook, crack of my small home
A bed, the dirt, where I kneel, pray, four walls
Protect me, for the devil looms and roams.
From wealth, I came, a source of pride and shame
Though not until almost too late when I
About to kiss the grave, He raised his flame
Inside my heart. Know this when I, sure, cry:
Forgives, He does, if you repent your ways
Prostrate yourself upon the mercy seat
Your errs, your lies, your sins, let all bare lay
Devote your life to God, prepared to meet.
This “box,” as some deride, exists to show
Despite dark shapes, through me, the Lord’s light glows.
His Once-Royal Visage
The mask he wears, from ore and fire, it stings
To see the fallen soul amid the gey-
-sers near. To him, in Palace, they much bring
Reconnaissance about the King and spies.
A slam upon the table, his wrath arisen.
The odds against his aims, his genius games
Compare not, for His awesome might builds prisons
Without a door, without a key, but flames.
A traitor in our midst, he claims, afire
Obedient lieutenants pick a soul,
A soul, a squire, perhaps, that did conspire
To kill the dark one, prince and evil all.
To him he shows his face. The horror looked
Upon, that none, not even God, can brook.
* * *
Nathan Oddi is a 5th-year English literature major. Before he graduates in the spring, in addition to his major, he’ll have three minors–screenwriting, professional writing, and economics, which express his varied interests (and “indecision, ugh”). In his spare time, he also plays music, mostly guitar. If things work out well, he’ll be the world’s first screenwriter-poet-novelist-guitarist-songwriter; “if not, one of the five is cool, too.”