It helps us to see, supplies great warmth, provides an abundance of energy, but what about reviving from within? Light has, from the beginning of creation, played an indispensable role in the lives of the living; no one can thrive without it. And apart from acquiring a variety of vital reputations in literature over time—some of these being a guide or a source of wisdom—perhaps its most inherent purpose, that of which it was originally designed to do, is to illuminate, to make bright what lies in the shadows. Afterall, if there was no darkness, why would light need to exist? That said, given the timeless relevance of this partnership, light became a most popular symbol for American poets in the contemporary era to experiment with in their modern explorations of the human condition, often using it to scintillate social issues and expose the cracks of crises that needed filling. And then there were those poets, such as Dana Gioia and Denise Levertov, who dove past the secular surface and returned to spiritual avenues, examining the implications of light as more than a source to see but a lasting treasure to seek. Though elusive, the external presence of light in both Dana Gioia’s poem, “Equations of the Light,” and Denise Levertov’s poem, “Flickering Mind,” is portrayed through an eternal lens while the lack thereof illuminates humanity's internal need for it in the face of darkness. Furthermore, in examining how passionately their faith in God has inspired their poetic content, this research paper will aim to explore the way light penetrates throughout the body of each poem in order to unveil the necessity of an everlasting source to reside in the vessel of one's soul.

Before understanding the reasons why and how this breed of light appears within Gioia’s and Levertov’s works, it is crucial to revisit its Biblical origins in scripture and how this message influenced their lives. Over a hundred verses fall in reference to light and is of so much importance that it was the very first creation God spoke into physical existence, in order to divide the vast darkness of a matterless earth. This is right away significant because it tells us that dark needs light to be exposed for a reason, not the other way around. That said, in the book, Dark Nights, Bright Lights: Night, Darkness, and Illumination in Literature, edited by Susanne Bach and Folkert Degenring, a valid point is made in the introduction about defending the dark, or rather, devillanizing its presence: “While it is true that light is privileged in Genesis since God calls it good, the night in turn is not explicitly labeled as evil. Indeed, the biblical night is not characterized by a complete lack of light,” thus taking into consideration the moon, the parade of stars that shower the sky (3).

In acknowledging the prelapsarian condition and the primordial splendor of evening light shows, it becomes clear that the problem with darkness comes not from its natural creation but rather its spiritual corruption. As believers who acknowledge a realm unseen, such is an otherworldly, warfare-filled conflict that both Gioia and Levertov were most certainly aware of. As a result, both poets have repeatedly given shadows notable appearances in their poems in order to reflect the residue of sin still lurking in the lives of their speakers. This makes sense after all, because what would a poet in this world be doing if they were to ignore the very source that tries so vehemently to dim all luminescence for mankind? Of course, making room for darkness is not the same as giving reign to it, and while light is a force that adapts to its surroundings, behaving contrastingly when encountering different objects, it also “... does not stop at property boundaries and spills indiscriminately from one area into another” (Bach and Folkert 1). If splashing into unknown areas without consent is light’s natural specialty, then consider how much more a supernatural light will shock the shadows of this world.

Critiquing this kind of invisible darkness, in return, naturally shifts all focus towards the incarnate light that God became for the sake of restoring the world from the inside out. Consider the spiritual essay, “Reflections on the Epistles of John,” featured in the book, What Light Can Do: Essays on Art, Imagination, and the Natural World by Robert Hass, wherein devoting a section to how literature and religion intersect, he addresses deep Biblical roots. Hass expresses how the disciple John was responsible for “writ[ing] the most profound and mysterious of the Gospels…” (277). One of the most notable reasons for this, as displayed in scripture most vibrantly, was because of his elaborate use of poetic language to describe the coming of Jesus Christ. He became, as John 1:9 states, “The true light, which gives light to everyone,” the even greater light foreshadowed by the initial “great lights” of the sky in Genesis 1:6, the omnipresent light that would absorb all darkness — the functions of his light are endless. That said, as Hass reiterates in his essay, “Notes on Poetry and Spirituality,” “...talking about light recalls the Gospel of John for a Christian,” and this certainly seems to be the case for both Gioia and Levertov, albeit showcased in reserved ways (302). Indeed, this saving light, entering their lives at different times, is the very one that is reflected in their poems, thus attesting to their personal testimonies in encountering the light within their very own walks of faith.

For Levertov, converting to Christianity in the latter half of her life proved to create a deeply experienced season of wrestling in the dark of doubt. Before resting in the light of spiritual surrender, her earlier work, though equally as impressive and laced with holy undertones, typically avoided discussing explicitly pious content. This changed upon her coming to Christ, however, and like the turn of a light switch, a dramatic shift was fervently reflected in her work. In the scholarly article, “Denise Levertov and the Poetry of Incarnation,” author Denise Lynch describes how, “Over the past two decades much of her work has been inspired by a Christian imagination that responds to the paradox of Incarnation in contrapuntal voices of faith, assurance, and doubt” (49). This, in one sense, is what makes Levertov’s poems feel so very human; she never shied away from acknowledging the mortal thorn of living in a world where unbelief can, in the darkest of times, seem easier than trusting anything at all. On this note, the best example of this secret tug-a-war within the self can likely be seen in her poem, “The Flickering Mind,” included in her 1997 collection, The Stream & the Sapphire: Poems on Religious Themes. Written in the form of a vulnerable plea, this is a poem that, at its core, displays a struggling speaker’s search to center themselves on the constant light (the Lord) when a fleeting light (her mind) has caused her to drift further away from him over time.

Right away, the speaker confesses that whenever they attempt to meditate on the Lord, they fail to stay focused: “I stop / to think about you, and my mind / at once / like a minnow darts away, Darts / into the shadows, into gleams that fret / unceasing over” (Levertov). This inability to concentrate shows the tendencies of their restless mind, which in this case, functions as an unstable container for a sporadic and unreliable light—distracted thoughts—to dwell. Consider how prone the speaker is to “dart into the shadows” when the true light comes to mind (Levertov). Automatically, it appears that these shadows play a critical role in affecting the speaker’s actions, so much so that it makes direct commentary on the extreme influence of darkness—the kind that cannot be seen but felt—most viscerally on humans of faith in this world. Ironically, however, just as there are two types of light in this poem, so are there two kinds of shadows when the speaker finally addresses the Lord’s presence. In a multiplicitous praise, the speaker calls him “the light, / the pulsing shadow,” and “the unchanging presence, in whom all / moves and changes,” a statement which, though multifaceted, is not as contradictory as it seems (Levertov). But how can he be both the light and the shadow when they are deemed as opposites? Certainly, this shadow is much different than the flimsy shadows her mind dove into in the beginning. And it is, because the nature of this shadow derives not from darkness but the vastness of his company that persistently “pulses” like the beat of a heart, never shifting in place (Levertov). What’s more, a reference to Psalms 91 is hinted at in these lines, where God is referred to as “The Shadow of the Almighty,” thus hovering over his children like a steadfast, protective blanket of warmth, not fear. How, then, can this light that claims to be so stable be also responsible for causing everything else around it to be remolded? It seems the speaker is reiterating not the condition of the light as conformative but rather its position as a source so powerful that it transforms everything, for the glorious good, that it comes in contact with.

Moreover, what the speaker begins to realize here, readers can further infer, is that contrary to the doused wick of the dark, Christ is an everlasting flame that, despite their trying to put him out, never stops burning for them. As Lynch describes, ““Flickering Mind” follows the movement of art and faith alike as they either retreat from the "unchanging presence" of the spirit or overflow the "cup" of emptiness with imaginative truth” (54). Indeed, her consistent emphasis on the importance of imagination inside of a poem, as seen consistently in Levertov’s poetry through a Christian lens, makes for a wonderful connection with the vast array of ways light can also be imagined, particularly through symbols that need light to enter into and set ablaze the bosom of an empty space. What’s more, given its diverse elasticity to be represented in an assortment of shapes, say streaks or sparkles, creative possibilities for which light can be actively played with are unlimited, that is, depending on the purpose it is fulfilling and in what way. Simply put, as this poem exhibits, “the spiritual imagination belongs to an order transcending time, an eternal order not only within nature but above it” (Lynch 51). Here, we see light as a supernatural fire that rises from within, the place it is bottled being a hidden jewel in a body of rushing water. Ending with a passionate question, the speaker returns to her mind and interjects a profound proposal: “How can I focus my flickering, perceive / at the fountain's heart / the sapphire I know is there?” (Levertov). Immediately one can assume that the struggle to “focus [her] flickering” is to tame the flesh-driven light of herself so the spirit-charged light of new life can abound within, throughout, and all around her (Levertov). In other words, this question highlights the speaker's desire to control the light that ruins, like a candle wavering in the wind with the sting of lukewarm uncertainty and doubt, in order to find the light that forever restores.

There is no wonder, after reading such a riveting poem, that Lynch believed “Levertov’s poetry of incarnation [was] imbued with faith in a divinity both transcendent and imminent” (61). Truly, there may be no other way to describe her work, as both the powerful and personal are encapsulated in this poem about returning to the light that lies within. Ultimately this transformation, as the speaker reveals, can only take place at “the fountain's heart,” which again aligns with another scriptural truth representing Christ, who was also known in Psalm 36:9 as being “the fountain of life,” freely offering an endless supply of living water for all souls (Levertov). If this is the case, how can the speaker, in her heart of hearts, return to “the sapphire [they] know[s] is there”? (Levertov). Consider once more the brilliance in this blue symbol, a richly, aqueous prism prepared to catch and keep his rays—the very rock that has the privilege to house the incarnate light of the world. If this sapphire is indeed her very soul and she herself has lost it, how will she find it again? The answer, which Levertov in her own life journey seemed to have found was the solution to doubt, is to simply to let go and have faith. “Of course, it is easier said than done,” one can imagine her saying in her gentle British voice but leaving her readers in this position of wondering certainly causes them to consider, as it seems so passionately intended, where they would end up if they would just follow that light. In truth, “Even a wavering faith,” or in this case, a faraway mind, “honors the Word and all that is implicit in creatureliness” (Lynch 64), for how would testimonies enlighten us without a little wrestling?

As for Gioia, even before he adopted a very not of this world identity in his poetic career, he had become acquainted early on with a different kind of cultural deracination. In the interview article, “If any Fire Endures Beyond its Flame: An Interview with Dana Gioia,” Gioia reveals to host Robert Lance Snyder how, “the notion of exile has always been present in [his] life,” largely due to the fact that he was “raised in an immigrant family in an immigrant neighborhood” (92). He describes how, where he lived, “everyone had come seeking a new life— at the cost of an old one,” and as a result, this conflict was naturally reflected in his poems with speakers that were searching for something bigger than themselves, perhaps a fresh beginning, with the help of a new light to guide the way (92). Blending personal experiences from his Latin culture and devotion to the Catholic church into his work, Gioia was equally aware that “displacement has always been a factor in human existence,” both from a perspective of a foreigner and a believer who, in spiritually setting himself apart from the world, suddenly becomes a stranger to it (93).

More on Gioia’s position as a displaced wanderer becomes increasingly evident in the article, “The Inner Exile of Dana Gioia,” where David Mason. explains how “his major point of view is that of the outsider, the inner exile, the man who cannot completely reconcile public and private realms, and who never feels that he belongs anywhere” (135). Of course, aside from the diaspora he has faced in the world, an incredibly significant layer would be missing if we were to ignore how his faith also played a role in making him feel this way. Indeed, Gioia was quite aware of the spiritual war waged in the dark against believers, which causes them to feel distanced, or disillusioned even, from the light that waited for them at the end of the tunnel in life. At the same time, Gioia also believed that “all reality is mysteriously charged with the invisible presence of God” (Mason 138). Moreover, it feels uncoincidental then that the speaker in his poem, “The Equations of Light” seems to assume a quite similar point of view in their quest to find a new life in a “perfect” light (Gioia). This, of course, is stifled with the pervasive tricks of darkness, or rather, the many ways it distorts the light and thus altering the speaker’s perspective in life.

From the very first line, the speaker, accompanied with fellow anonymous travelers, is set in motion, at the “[turn]” of the “corner,” with the reader being plunged into a journey of change right along with them (Gioia). Immediately, a different atmosphere, one of evident improvement from the previous blocks, is found with favor at last. Consider, however, why the speaker would have wanted to find this place to begin with. Not only does this anticipated “discover[y]” say something about the speaker’s desire to find a fresh beginning but their need to leave something undesirable, perhaps a season of darkness, behind. Instead, this is a place with peace, serene “tree[s],” and the most symbolically significant, an assembly of “streetlamps” that symmetrically align themselves down the street, mirroring radiant guardians in the night lighting an unfamiliar path (Gioia). Notice, however, how the light influences objects that are not illuminated, “splash[ing] the shadows of leaves” onto surrounding buildings (Gioia). Though it is perfectly logical to assert that the light caused the shadows, it is equally plausible to infer that the darkness is simultaneously responding to the light in exposing its hidden presence through the shadows.

In this case, it is not so much about how the lamp is shining on the leaves as it is how the emergence of the shadows reflect the dark’s reaction to the light. This is important because in evaluating the character of these lamps in connection to the life of the speaker, the light always remains reliable throughout the poem, despite any confusion created from darkness to think otherwise. An example of this can be seen when the “glowing” windows, being the transparent apparatuses they are, purposely invented to invite light into buildings, “promised lives as perfect as the light” (Gioia). This, for one, offers insight into the nature of this light as something flawless—a spotless source enclosed in a case of glass, preserved tightly from the exteriors of darkness, yet powerful enough to still seep through its container and shine outwardly. But could it be, in this proposition to have lives like the light yet never truly have access to the light suggest that darkness is trying to impersonate the true light? Afterall, in its games this is what darkness does here—fog one's vision to make it seem like light, if not granted on its terms, requires some formula to solve, or a series of calculations have to be made before they can find the key to unlock the light let alone keep it.

Halfway into the poem, Gioia’s “streetlamp utopia” begins to radiate ominous tones, the kind that make this secret haven feel more like a massive delusion. But what is causing the speaker’s perspective to be distorted? Certainly, it is not the light but rather the propositions of darkness, the “evening offer[s]” that have disfigured the speaker's perceptions in the light of reality. Similar to Levertov’s poem, the speaker propels forth a question about the authenticity of the light. They ask, “Or were we deluded by the strange / equations of the light?” which speaks, again, not to the nature of light but the distorting of the light which has happened in the event of darkness attempting to destroy it (Gioia). If this is the case, then one might reevaluate how brave mortal lights have to be when up against a mass of night that aims only to swallow it. As Mason highlights, Gioia was undoubtedly a poet “longing for the intimate touch from which we have fallen, and it is from this intensely private grief that he has forged his humane and human vision” (135). Ultimately, his conviction to reflect the worldly groans of a lost Eden in the fight between good and evil comes out in instinctual ways, emanating the artistic side of a believer. What’s more, the creation of such poetry may very well have been an outlet for Gioia to cope with the suffering caused for those exhausted souls who are unapologetically agleam for Christ amidst the mass of sin’s shade.

Though Gioia agrees with Snyder’s remark about how his poetry is “rarely overtly religious” (97), even he admits that all of his poetry is undeniably “deeply theological” (98). In return, this opens up the possibility to invite God into the conversation when looking at the way light unfolds within “Equations of the Light.” That said, with the way this poem ends, Gioia seems to be critiquing the darkness in a way that teaches the reader a lesson about the consequences of drifting away from the light in this world, in this case representing God as a living lamp of refuge, leading the way through a realm similar to the “valley of the shadow of death” in Psalm 23:4. Unfortunately, after lingering in a delusional juncture that felt like “a flicker in the air,” “a curl of smoke flaring from a match,” the very corner that the speaker happily turned in the beginning in order to start over is the very one they believed, in the end, they had no choice but to return to in the end. So, who or what is to blame for “turning the corner back into [their] life”? (Gioia). Certainly, this decision feels less like a progression towards the light and more like a backwards step into the darkness. Are the shadows or the self to blame? Perhaps Gioia is trying to say it is a mixture of both. Furthermore, he has made it clear that although the complexities of chasing the light in a fallen world can cause the possession of it to feel complicated, that certainly does not mean it is impossible. Light, in this case, is simpler than the dark wants to give credit. One simply has to allow it to come in.

Ultimately, the identity of a light lies within its function, for the way poets showcase its behavior almost always determines what is being said in light of it. So, how can one be sure Gioia and Levertov are using light in this way? Apart from ingraining appropriate bibliographic context, the best way to determine if light should be interpreted as Christ-like in these works is by evaluating its character. While Gioia and Levertov may have reflected light through different point of views and symbols, both poems share in common the absolute constancy of this eternal light and the speaker’s continuous search for it within their own lives. As we know, the artificial lights of this world are bound to shift and only temporarily satisfy. Moreover, as the strategic implementation of shadow play unfolds within their works, Gioia and Levertov critique not the character of the light within but rather the condition of its material surroundings throughout. This is why, at times, an almost overwhelming amount of darkness invades their poems, although they are careful never to douse the light completely. This shows how, in the end, light is the force that stands. In the same way, Christ’s light, in the souls of those who have welcomed it, remains solid, unphased, irrevocable, and always proving to be the more dominant force in the fight against spiritual darkness. On this note, there is an exhortation that Levertov once made in her essay, “Technique and Tune Up,” which was featured in her book published in 1984, Light up the Cave, where she speaks to this same cause through a writerly lens:

Before you leave the well-wrought, honest poem to set off on its own adventures through the world, see if with one final flick of the wrist you can shower it with a few diamond talismans that will give it powers you yourself—we ourselves—lack, poor, helpless human creatures that we poets are, except at the moment of parting from the poems we have brought forth into daylight out of caverns we don’t own but have at times been entrusted to guard and enter. (Levertov 77)

Here, Levertov encourages the poets of this world to go the extra mile and dazzle, with the light they are gifted, a double dose of elucidating ornamentation in order to highlight all otherworldly grandeur that points to the Creator of light. She is asking them to be brave enough to extract those hidden words out of tunnels burrowed into the secret and unfamiliar dark, say strongholds or trials, and cast the light they possess onto places that dwell in thick and stubborn realms of pitch black. Finally, Levertov is yearning to inspire writers to lift words up and then leave poems in the presence of the light that once clarified them too, emphasizing their role as messengers of light who have been sent out into a shaded world to shine without ceasing. This is not unlike Christ’s parable in Mark 5:14-16, where he describes how “A city set on a hill cannot be hidden,” this city being his followers, and then instructs all of them to “let [their] light shine before others.” In a world where lights tell stories, “Literature is thus a medium that allows a deeper understanding of extraliterary phenomena” (Bach and Folkert 8), in this case poetry being the transformative vehicle for a spiritual spectacle to unfold. Indeed, it appears that a faith filled Levertov was on this very mission in her poems about light after all.

Ultimately, whether it be a streetlight or a jewel, the way in which both lights unfold in these poems shows readers that it is certainly a force that desires to find a home within. Both the heart representing a living lantern, or a gleaming gem offers insight into how they are only truly made alive by the light that brings them to life. After all, what are these vessels but empty shells without the light that ignites them internally? As we see in Denise Levertov’s “Flickering Mind,” all the speaker desires to do is to come home to the precious center of her Savior where her soul might be quenched with brilliant light. With this, Levertov truly manifests how priceless it is to have the immortal light tucked away in the evanescent self. Similarly, in Gioia’s “Equations of the Light,” it is clear the speaker didn’t want to invite the dark corner back into their life but rather the sublime light that lit the entire way of his temporary stay in that new place. Thus, Gioia points to the lantern needing to be lit from within. Mason puts it best: “We don’t need to feel belonging in order to see the blessings where they are, the shimmering gifts, the world’s beautiful otherness, tongues in the trees, books in the running brooks, and sermons in stones…” (146). Riveting indeed, though in this case the light of eternal belonging does not have to be seen with the naked eye in order to be felt from head to toe, beaming from human to human. An even more exhilarating endeavor for a poet, when it comes to a light that reflects the glory of God, one that beams with an everlasting grandeur, there is no telling how many ways it can be imagined. So, in the end, what are Gioia and Levertov telling us to do with the light when we cannot see through the shadows? Whatever the case, they are certainly calling us to hold onto it.

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Gioia, Dana. “Equations of the Light.” Poetry Foundation, 1991,

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/46417/equations-of-the-light. 

Hass, Robert. What Light Can Do: Essays on Art, Imagination, and the Natural World, Ecco, 1st. ed., 2012, pp. 277-302.

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https://www.biblegateway.com.

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 Religious Themes. New Directions, 1997, pg. 15.

Levertov, Denise. “Technique and Tune up” Light up the Cave. Published for James Laughlin by New Directions, 1981, pg. 77.

Lynch, Denise E. “Denise Levertov and the Poetry of Incarnation.” Renascence, vol. 50, no. 1-2, Sept. 1998, pp. 49-64.

Mason, David, “The Inner Exile of Dana Gioia.” The Sewanee Review, vol. 123, no. 1, pp.133-146.

Snyder, Robert Lance. “If Any Fire Endures Beyond its Flame: An Interview with Dana Gioia.” Christianity & Literature, vol. 56, no. 1, Sept. 2006, pp. 87-111.

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