Wordsworth wrote an endless poem in blank verse on” the growth of a poet’s mind.” I shall attempt a more modest feat for a more distracted age: a blog, “Things which a Lifetime of Trying to Be a Poet has Taught Me.”
“What is a soul?” someone once asked C. S. Lewis. “I am,” he replied. That is, a soul is something that can say, “I.” This is a deceptively simple and ultimately profound answer, the implications of which deserve contemplation. Whence comes it that we can say such a thing? And what does it mean?
A simple center of focus, a fury of order
Which takes from available matter what it needs
To body forth itself; a heart that bleeds
Discursive Reason; more, a rapt recorder
Of all that passes, and a subtle sorter
Of all that it collects; a fount of deeds;
A seedling sown, itself a sower of seeds;
Establisher of I/Thou/It, the border.
Thus God created it; corrupt, it stays
The same, though in corruption: chaos creeps
In everywhere; the order all decays.
The matter mutinies; the memory sleeps;
The fountain flows polluted; in a daze,
The Reason wanders–and the Reaper reaps.
Remember: for more poetry like this, go to https://lanternhollow.wordpress.com/store/ and order Stars Through the Clouds! Also look for Inklings of Reality and Reflections from Plato’s Cave, Williams’ newest books from Lantern Hollow Press: Evangelical essays in pursuit of Truth, Goodness, and Beauty. And look for Williams’ very latest book, Deeper Magic: The Theology behind the Writings of C. S. Lewis, from Square Halo Books!
Donald T. Williams, PhD