Pen This to Chris Wren
Once upon a cloudy morning
To the wind blowing
To the birds I sing
Oh Christopher
Where are you Wren?
Are you like me when…
The voices offend
Does the Abilify sanctify?
Does sanity even satisfy?
The calling that we both had
The itching we loathe so bad
For the love-of-self demands to crucify
Tell me, are you sorrowful or are you glad?
The enlightened need not know me
They must stay doubtful
They must not see
So, I cut ties with my past self
No more chasing demons
Witch hour’s twelve
Though I think about you
In my secret hours
Asking if what’s mine is really ours
Wondering about our shared secret powers
May the hidden knight stay hidden
While the quarantined home-ridden
Buying himself time before the deluge
As those who hear may seek refuge
He will come down from the mountains
With a face calm and a spirit gold and mean
When time demands her to be the fairest queen
About this poem
This poem is about my past struggle with schizophrenic episodes, and medication really helped me to the point that I don’t need to take them anymore now. But, deep down inside I’m still questioning about the source of the voices, and if there’s a world beyond the material. So, I faintly remember a story about Christopher Wren, an acclaimed English architect and renaissance man. The story said that when he was a child, he was bedridden and he would hear voices talking to him through the presence of birds. And, I thought to myself *how interesting*. The poem really encourage those who are neurodivergent out there to never really give up on themselves. And that, even though there are trials and tribulations, there are really secret powers we all hold to help those who are in need; those who seek refuge from the deluge. more »
Written on October 20, 2022
Submitted by michaelwpwenas on October 19, 2022
Modified on March 05, 2023
- 51 sec read
- 2 Views
Quick analysis:
Scheme | AAAXBBX CCDDCD EXEXFXXGGG HHIIFJJ |
---|---|
Closest metre | Iambic tetrameter |
Characters | 885 |
Words | 170 |
Stanzas | 4 |
Stanza Lengths | 7, 6, 10, 7 |
Translation
Find a translation for this poem in other languages:
Select another language:
- - Select -
- 简体中文 (Chinese - Simplified)
- 繁體中文 (Chinese - Traditional)
- Español (Spanish)
- Esperanto (Esperanto)
- 日本語 (Japanese)
- Português (Portuguese)
- Deutsch (German)
- العربية (Arabic)
- Français (French)
- Русский (Russian)
- ಕನ್ನಡ (Kannada)
- 한국어 (Korean)
- עברית (Hebrew)
- Gaeilge (Irish)
- Українська (Ukrainian)
- اردو (Urdu)
- Magyar (Hungarian)
- मानक हिन्दी (Hindi)
- Indonesia (Indonesian)
- Italiano (Italian)
- தமிழ் (Tamil)
- Türkçe (Turkish)
- తెలుగు (Telugu)
- ภาษาไทย (Thai)
- Tiếng Việt (Vietnamese)
- Čeština (Czech)
- Polski (Polish)
- Bahasa Indonesia (Indonesian)
- Românește (Romanian)
- Nederlands (Dutch)
- Ελληνικά (Greek)
- Latinum (Latin)
- Svenska (Swedish)
- Dansk (Danish)
- Suomi (Finnish)
- فارسی (Persian)
- ייִדיש (Yiddish)
- հայերեն (Armenian)
- Norsk (Norwegian)
- English (English)
Citation
Use the citation below to add this poem to your bibliography:
Style:MLAChicagoAPA
"Pen This to Chris Wren" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 2 Jun 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem/143414/pen-this-to-chris-wren>.
Discuss the poem Pen This to Chris Wren with the community...
Report Comment
We're doing our best to make sure our content is useful, accurate and safe.
If by any chance you spot an inappropriate comment while navigating through our website please use this form to let us know, and we'll take care of it shortly.
Attachment
You need to be logged in to favorite.
Log In