Everyone has a voice, and a choice to use it well, use it poorly, or not to use it at all.

Wednesday, March 23, 2011

Wake: a poem

While I was camping out in the highlands of North Carolina over Spring Break, inspiration came in a single phrase, as I exited my warm sleeping bag amid a light shower of snow: "emerge from my frozen chrysalis".  This poem was initially built to house that line, but as I wrote it (as often happens) I almost unconsciously incorporated deeper themes into it. These themes (the effect the wilderness has on us, the ongoing but incomplete spiritual resurrection of the living saints of God, my analogy of sympathetic vibration, the hope of Glory) are some of the main things I have been meditating on over the past couple years.

"To [the saints] God has chosen to make known among the Gentiles (non Jews) the glorious riches of this mystery, which is Christ in you, the hope of glory."

I have already spoken on the mystery and wonder of Christ literally living in the believer in"The Hope of Glory". A parallel hope, for a different sort of glory, is the everyday hunger I feel for adventure, struggle, battle, and victory. I think many people have this hunger.

However, at its most basic level, this is a poem about physically and spiritually waking up. 

March 2011
Willis Duke Weatherford IV

Both my eyes.
The night is done-
Wind, cold, flapping tarp,
Subject themselves to Sun-
Warm fingers plucking a harp.
A few flakes fall, a crystal kiss
On my resurrecting frame as I
Emerge, warm, from my frozen chrysalis
And the frigid earth heaves up to sky,
Convulsed in eager, violent joy,
Rise, strong, meet the pagan day!
Rise, hoping for Glory!
Rise, throw off the gray!
Stride forth boldly,
Wild wonders
Mold me,

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