Poet, Priest & Parrot

In this chapter, the academy has become my monastery – a haven of study, absorption, and meditation, building bridges between the spiritual and the intellectual. I recently discovered I’m not alone. Hurrying toward a lecture, I was unexpectedly delayed – in the best possible way – by a Franciscan monk. He seemed completely out of place in that university passageway, and perhaps he felt the very same about me; a natural curiosity drew us together. We exchanged pleasantries, and his introduction got me intrigued. Firmly shaking my hand, he said, “I’m a poet, priest, and parrot.” The first two were clear, while the third hovered like a riddle.

My thoughts went to the saintly parrot from ancient times, Śukadeva, guardian of sacred tales. Perched upon the tree of Vedic wisdom, his beak delighting in the juicy fruit of the Bhāgavata, sharing it with the world – unchanged, unspoiled, rather made all the sweeter by his own relish. Was he referring to the sacred repetition of the “good word” which flows in every generation through the mouths of the saintly?

Not so. My new Franciscan friend meant something quite different. “I grew up a lover of poetry,” he said. “The beauty of words and wisdom led me to God. I entered the monastery; I became a priest. But in recent times, I have felt myself become a parrot – mechanical repeating, imitating, echoing – I have lost my voice, my creativity and artistry. I’m here to find myself again.” It was a striking opening line, eloquent in its brevity, clarity and honesty. “You still sound like a poet to me,” I said, even though I sensed his silent regret. I could relate. It’s not uncommon for the sanctuary to become a cage, where prayers feel like scripts not of our own making. At times, our own voice fades into the chorus of tradition, our individuality buried under the weight of collective expectation. He loved his community, his practices, his call to serve. Yet he understood that God’s laws were meant to awaken spontaneity, not supress it. “I’m eager to return” he said with a smile, “but this time as the poet.”

This is what true spirituality demands! Bhakti is art! To emulate and replicate is craft; to create afresh with authenticity is art. All art requires craft, but not all craft rises to the level of art. The artist – like the craftsman – patiently learns technique, refines it meticulously, invests hours of disciplined practice and becomes a student of the masters. Taking that, the artist then finds a spontaneous voice that is unmistakably their own. Deep spirituality calls us to find our singular expression within a world of infinite possibility. Perhaps the monk’s story mirrors that of many a spiritualist: those who, having found themselves, lose themselves again. If we are to be parrots, let us not be the mindless, imitative kind, but the poetic ones, who repeat sacredly with realisation and relish.

May the poet who became a priest return, once more, to being a poet – a profound poet.