Poem of the Week: Transformed by Alan Groves

16 November 2012

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This week's poem was written by a young gentleman with whom my father is acquainted. When I read the verses for the first time, I knew I'd have to share them here. The lines are short and yet still maintain the searing poignancy of a two-edged sword, revealing the depth of the author's own talent. Please don't simply read over these words and forget them an hour later. Ingrain them in your mind; afix them to your heart. Will we stand for the principals of liberty, truth, and virtue, or will we allow ourselves to be forged by the world's gavel?

Transformed
By Alan Groves

My name is Democracy, for we are many.
I am the People. Sovereign. Supreme.
My will be done
On earth
For surely there is no heaven.

This World is the furnace of my imagination
And Society the utopia of my heart’s desire.
Its Inhabitants — my metals —
Whom I forge,
With the gavel of Law,
Into my own image.
I the People.

On the anvil of obedience they are
Transformed by the melting of their minds.
The evil obey.
The ignorant obey.
The righteous comply.
It is all the same to me.

The evil come rejoicing
At the hammer of my gavel
They understand. They see. And they willingly welcome
My grand image
 Of uniform perfection.
The Law, yes the Law, is the weapon of that perfection. 

The ignorant are fooled.
My Gavel — no, my instrument —
Performs
Melodious harmonies of hope and change.
Seduces
Their basest desires and most groveling propensities.
Promises
A steady crescendo of progress and perfection.
And enchants
With the whisper of a lullaby.
Then they are Transformed.

The righteous, O the righteous!
They see my Gavel for what it is
— Not an instrument of beauty, but a weapon of destruction.
But they do not want to see.
They are cowards. Hypocrites.
They do not want to remember how they lost it.

Yes, They are the true stewards of my Gavel;
Their God gave it to them.
Yet they lost it, like a child loses a toy.
There was another who took it from them.
I, the People.

The Father of Lies gave birth to me
 — The Son of Thieves.
You see, my father begot me
— Democracy.

For when there were only two, it was good.
But when he Fell there were three.
He deceived, and sin conceived.

But I digress! I inherited my father’s deception.
And I used it to take the Gavel.
Taken from the judges, I passed it to the kings.
From the kings I handed it to the People.
And with the People, I used it to crucify their Lord.

The Gavel belongs to the righteous.
It is a tool, nothing more:

To the backwards, the human expression
Of natural order and divine justice.
To the enlightened, a weapon of beauty
That can only be forged in the fires of
Chaos and destruction.

Yes, the righteous know this.
They are not fools.
They are cowards. Hypocrites.
They fear to take what is rightfully theirs.
They fear the consequences of confrontation.
They fear responsibility.
They fear stewardship.

And in their shame, they hide from themselves.
In their own bellies.
From responsibility.
While they and all the rest
Cuff the very shackles
That drag them to the furnace.

Blind though they may be
By their self-righteous peace,
All are transformed
Until Progress shall cease.


What poems have you been reading this week? Feel free to share them in the link-up below.

1 epistles:

"Gracious words are like a honeycomb; sweetness to the soul and health to the body." —Proverbs 16:24

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