HOPES
I've been very contemplative today. I've been coming back to a line from a spoken word piece by Listener, called "Wooden Heart." Well, really I've been thinking about the entire "song" all morning since I think it reflects some of what I've been feeling and have felt across the board. The first time I heard it was live, in person. It was impacting in a way that I'd forgotten till the video came up on Facebook (of all things).
My hopes are weapons that I'm still learning how to use right.
My hopes are weapons. If my hopes are weapons, regardless that I'm still learning how to use them right - shoot. I have to ask, What are my hopes? Where do I put my hope? I'm the type that's prone to get depressed and have bouts of despair when things are tossed into confusion. But lately I've wanted to kick and curse and fight, and downright refuse to despair in light of events we weren't expecting. I don't know what direction our lives are going to take now, but I do know that I live with the belief that there's a God who not only cares in my distress, but is present and will provide. I've known that all along, even in my despair - but something is different now. I'm tired of curling up in a ball as a response to circumstances that are, in all honesty, outside of my control. I'm even shaking my fist at the winter weather and refusing to let a bleak season drag me down -- though sunnier days certain help me feel less oppressed.
WORDS
On a similar but also very different note, I stumbled across a poem I'd written and had completely forgotten about. I used to write poetry with some frequency, but since moving to the city and being a busy girl and otherwise preoccupied, I haven't written anything in several years. Perhaps this is a key to outletting some of my creativity, since creating massive pieces of artwork is not entirely possible at the moment. Anyway, I thought I'd share the poem. It was written in 2006, and I believe it may have been one of last poems I've written. It is titled Logos, as in the Greek word. I recommend checking it out in the dictionary if you're not sure what the word means. I was a fan of writing with uber imagery, like the kind that is bursting at the seams. You'll see what I mean.
What are words, but that which gives ephemeral form
to thoughts and pictures,
or syllables weaved together to create a new sound?
And from whence does it come?
A box that cannot contain that which it produces:
foreign creatures with wings,
anxious to break free and be taken away by the wind,
left to ride the backs of thunderheads
This is the immersion of voice, buried deep yet exposed,
raised letter by letter like the resurrection of saints
and falling as a holy waterfall
Yet so much more are the strokes of a pen
that grace the surface of a sleek white virgin page,
truly allowing it to breathe some new thing
Word given form, shape and purpose
bringing to potential paper and ink, united as a bride to a groom
The result leaves humanity colliding with divinity,
drawn in by a shepherd's hook that brings the cold close
and holds her in a warm embrace
What are these words that fall off the tongues of cherubim,
cresting the edge of the world like satin white horses?
The lungs of man will be filled with poignant pictures,
and trifold 'holies'
The pen will make his mark on internal walls,
saturated with the sound of glory
These new things, these shapes and figures-
whence do they come?
Not from the depths of the sea, nor bellows of the earth
is it heard or seen or smelt or tasted
A voice of such words that are foreign,
yet inviting the Dark to be pierced by Light
and speaking in a beautiful spectrum that is hidden by angels
The syllables are deep and brought to the surface,
the infrastructure of the world cradled in the palm of one word
and blazing into unseen cardiac highways
