Christus Victor

Today is St George's Day, and also the anniversary of both the birth and the death of William Shakespeare.

Because of this (actually, it's a coincidence, but it struck me how appropriate this is!) I give you a Shakespearean sonnet on medieval themes, containing a dragon.

Christus Victor

The dragon Winter made a treasure trove

and all the jewels of Earth were in his keep.

He shut it tight, and fast the bolts he drove,

and, sealed with ice, stored it in caverns deep.

But all unseen, a thief came in the cold

and stole inside, before he shut the lid.

Life stole inside among the hoarded gold

Curled up beneath the covert gems, and hid.

Then, while the ransacked earth, by theft undone,

covered her shame and sorrow under snow,

Life smashed the roof.  Now look!  Catching the sun,

gold cowslip, daffodil and primrose grow.

That knight who stole the stolen, stands most brave:

Life’s oriflamme flies from that plundered cave.

On Reading Coleridge

I have just returned from a poetry retreat day at Otley Hall with three things I didn't have before: a much more intimate knowledge of Coleridge and The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, a reading list that ranges from St John Chrysostom to G K Chesterton, and a desire to mow a labyrinth into our back garden.

I have also returned with a poem, which I wrote as a response to Malcolm Guite's unpacking of Coleridge's poetry, and which I had the privilege of hearing Malcolm read aloud. Having heard recordings of him reading so many of his own poems, this was an unforgettable experience.

Here is the poem. I owe the Schroedinger image to Keren Dibbens-Wyatt, who wrote on Holy Saturday that Jesus was 'Schroedinger's saviour' in the tomb. The rest I owe to Coleridge and Malcolm Guite!

On Reading Coleridge

A sudden glimpse of everything connected

and I am outside, and invited in.

The circle of the God who loves the world

and loves me, broken through my sin

and ready for renewal, as the shoot

breaks through the bulb, and earth imagines spring.

Schroedinger's chrysalis hangs in the balance -

inside, a caterpillar dreams a wing,

imagining those painted sails unfurled.

How can you read the whole world like a poem

until you've read a poem like the world?