The Passing of `Abdu’l-Bahá

Bahá’ís of the entire world mark today as the Anniversary of the Ascension of `Abdu’l-Bahá. The passing of `Abdu’l-Bahá, the Centre of the Covenant, the Exemplar of the Faith, Son of the Prophet-Founder of the Bahá’í Faith took place at about one o’clock in the morning on 28 November 1921; Bahá’ís commemorate that Event at about one o’clock in the morning and have been doing so since His passing in 1921.

The news of `Abdu’l-Bahá’s passing on November 28, 1921, was received by the Bahá’í world and the citizens of Haifa with profound distress and grief. The Holy Land–a land all too frequently convulsed by religious conflict– witnessed an unprecedented event of unity and collective emotion in the aftermath of `Abdu’l-Bahá’s death. Jews, Christians, Muslims, and Druzes, of all persuasions and denominations; Arabs, Turks, Kurds, Armenians, and other ethnic groups were drawn together in mourning His passing and in sharing their common loss.

The funeral of `Abdu’l-Bahá, “a funeral the like of which Palestine had never seen,” drew “no less than ten thousand people…representing every class, religion and race in that country.” “A great throng,” the British High Commissioner wrote, “had gathered together, sorrowing for His death, but rejoicing also for His life.” The Governor of Jerusalem at the time also wrote in describing the funeral: “I have never known a more united expression of regret and respect than was called forth by the utter simplicity of the ceremony.

“The Winter Hours”

The winter hours are safest for
The plow; they so easily provide excuse to keep
On moving in the despair here to hopes of there with deep
Devotion to the task. No bus, no métro car,

No walk through cobalt icebound parks
Allows the luxury of lingering admiration.
Exposure of the limbs, the hands, the feet,
He’ll not remain in temperatures that have no heat

With trusts that have no memory. Transportation
Only occupies his thoughts, no time for sparks,
Nor importune the arc of sirens to the eye,
No genuflection to the fleeting moment, distractions on the fly.

Of course, the beauties of certain summer’s wealth
Will welcome him in time, but in the hour he relies on stealth.

Turn left at fountains, then, on the south side
Of the park and memories of the casual thought
On which he’s wont to sit and think, the onslaught
Of mental detritus, the afterglow of present monthly tides
Reminding him of Dover Beach, the spark, the entrance
To an evening caught now between a season’s wealth
And dangers toward the eleventh month, the twelvth
The watchman’s rigour’s last, perhaps, the sure advance
Of scrutiny’s decay in yet another year. Successes, they who take;
Hidden splendour, those whose losses born of need and pleasure
Will again at angles to a certain bend beyond the simple measure
Of the lanes. All within the year’s end clearly underestimate

The magnitude and weight of regret for all that’s passed: remorseless, the birth and death of stars evolving conflicts of never-ending light,
The brilliant azure oneness will bless the heart by day,
while nocturnal powers argue blatant blindness in the night.

“In Spheres”

“In Spheres”

In spheres the distance not the sight delights,
Oblique echoes lilting in the tilting constant flight
From source of light to casual perception; meteoric flares,
The comic swarms of relatives in action; pathetic dusts,
A tragedy of mountains’ remnants, collecting rust—
The pejorative to those who long to stay—a statutory lust
That leaves but traces in the clouds estranged in ageless translation. Cusps
Between the clods announce death but herald still-born birth
Of perspicuous beauty to eyes that see as days give way
To spaces rent and rhymed in mindless weathering. Know that these delay
Nothing in themselves; always late, always prime, cosmetic lies
Deceive the sight, delight in crystals born of violence reassembled and forgive
The sins of light that seconds fade while the token hour allows munificence within a single night’s museum,
Remembrances of past and future, we but mourners in the present mausoleum.

“The Café Stool”

“The Café Stool”

The café stool at the corner bus stop spins
Lukewarm as the smiles concentrate on the coffee. The counter reeks
Of vinegar and last night’s cream and stranded weeks
In tufts of cusps and smoke and maybes render standard wins

And dust bunnies in an otherwise long night’s wait. The daily burn
Put miles on both the urn and that old stool.
He’s going nowhere fast but yes, he knows the rules.
He’s been to school. He’s got a lot to say, and bile to burn

Before he bags the keys, and hits the road
For all it’s worth out there; and tell me, now, what’s

It worth? Another dime, another cup of time forever cuts
A path between the long and short, and both are simple codes

For what he means to say, “I’m here and going nowhere,
Fast, but, if you’ve found the exit, let me know, and I’ll be there.

Oh, well, and since you asked me, yes! The twisted lips,
Emaciated torso, darkest circles,
Smudges, really, orbs―a pair―and matching icicles
For breasts suggesting that they’re beyond suggesting; tips

Of fingers, possibly, or weaknesses supporting barbed wire frames,
And all this while naked, reading The New Yorker; raked, reclining, draped
Across a thing or two. A second piercing, pain, or whatever can be scraped
Together to perform the task achieves its consummate utilitarian fame

Expressed in motifs on the menu or à la mode made decorative and dative
In function, deliberately neutered as are the midnight waffles.
Yes! There’s so much that can be found in any diner or rendered awful
In some missing space or blank provided―the passive or the active

Voice required―sired, producing tired generations of sensations
To the point that what’s come in on the bus becomes the stuff of veneration.

“Of Course”

Of course you’re slightly disconcerted, you should be. Now
That you’re alive and well and thriving,. . . how
Else should you be?
  …after all, you’re really here….
You know;  a little here and there will never hurt,
And if you’re good at what you do, the benefiits assert
Themselves and sooner or later, we all get the point
. . .of knives and forks and spoons placed clearly on the table
When your but’s are in a basket and your no’s are out of joint
With the seasons and the people, and aliens that crawl
Through pipelines, conduits, and everything in the air ducts maul
The lungs because the filter’s often worse than what’s in the air.
Yes, well, someone’s never mentioned this and nor cared
Enough to remove the label when they had the chance,
The thing’s still  breathing; price tag thus, and at first glance,
The truth is just as obvious and nothing short
Of brilliant, worthy of  protection, worthy of report
Amongst the ever might-have-been’s.
But then the backfire and the stall, the mid-flight
Process includes a message from the pilot, “Don’t tell a soul
But we’ve already landed,  nor in bronze or silver, but solid gold.

“And Then We Come”

And then we come to points on rising suns
And beauties in the skies; the eyes,  sweet buds bloom along the dog run
Held in audience, thrall from so much beauty to be gleaned,
There among glare of sun and all its flowers; seen
And heard among the many who have come
To see you through the dance, the movement,  simple mansong.
Well, who can blame them, after all?
They are so beautiful, and conventions so installed
Withal that in the course of minutes you’ll applaud.
And give them what they want because they laud
Your tastes and know their needs to be the same as yours.
You’ll have no soul in torment since of course
You would not have yourself in doubt and you’ve no recourse,
. . .do you think?
Yes, well I don’t know, I ‘m not sure at all, at all.
Do I really think?
Do you really think the Buddha took the night off
From time to time to shake down bread while His saints soar aloft?
Tiger, tiger, burning bright, whose the lady for the night,
To tone the rigours. . . vigours. . .do it right. . . .

“My, My, So Come Now!”

My, my, so come now! We’re a busy man today.
Strange to see when, only yeserday I heard you say
You’d turned a leaf or two, induced a change
So greatly you could taste it

You’d packed her bags, and said you’d waste it,
Took a train (perhaps a plane), or took the cure
In no more likely place than tree rings, age,
Withal, sublime, and now the buffet’s on.

. . .You called my name?
You knew your time had come for sure.
You wanted me to take for granted all
Your best intentions, and forestall
. . .some rupture in the waterbed.

Was it something someone said, or were you that disturbed
With smirking, smugness, the perturbèd. . . .

(They’d never think of this before
To beat you to the punch to make the score
Themselves before the world, and all that’s holy);

So you were first to burn, the burn so soley
For the good it’d bring in time for auld lang syne,
And all that’s wholly pure and good tonight.

You know, when after all is said and done,

And certain things which must be spun
Restrain the world, there’s yet time to spin
The thing, and youth’s enough to win,
(You must have sown a few yourself and let the rest be damned.)

You do know why you pressed this thing tonight,
This thing you do when fires are boiling light,
. . . come on, you fool!…
Oh come all that’s faithful in the light tonight.

You know you’re on, so leave the wrath
As exposed as stumps and what’s still in the tub, a bath
Or better in the shower. Got a better plan?
Hey mahatma; got a better thing to do than leave?

You really want to lead, and bless the soils with seed.
In an evening not unlike this night there’s yeast this affair.
You want the world to see your hair
And how you move it all and how you salt the soil,

How you shake doxologies, burn incense and holy oils
Replicating earthly canon till the cows go home,
And once again, of course you’re all alone. . .
. . .did I say that?
. . .did you say that?  Did I say that?

” Sometimes”

“Sometimes”

I sometimes think that happiness and joy
Are nothing more than hints of what’s to come,
What floods the mind the minute we are numb
To all this world’s profusion, enjoyed
As hors d’oeuvres that we so urgently demand
These states of being caught within the bailiwick of science,
Or the wider, freer brushstrokes of alliance
With the ego in the arts, and worse. And as we can
Inhale the sundry ethers of the hour’s liqueur the waste
Is in the exhalation and all that can never be constrained
Within the finite body’s workshop, the afterglow remains
To service seeds of fields of suns meticulously refined, the tenuous tastes
Of what lies just beyond the gravitas, the concubines of space and time:
Within that world, bliss; in this, a cosmic door prize for the blind.

 

Less sincere and not entirely moot,

The thought of what it is the poor

Conceive as midnight’s missing sun―the cure

For every second wicked fear that suits

The howlers that in haste construct from roots

And tendrils of what’s so ironically obscured

By little more than hidden light with pure

Imagination mixed―demur and demons loot

The pitiful remains of hopes and weights

Accorded place and station out of sight

And far beyond the pale of leisure’s stains

Upon a pride of literary lions’ tired and tattered vain

Attempts to survive through pen and page. Pain

Shows deference for justice in the night

 

Of such an aim because it does not turn

A page or wrestle with a churlish verse

Or if it has, it’s penned but chocolates, terse

And instant, yes, but nothing lasting learned,

And few retain such warmth in merit so taciturn

And brief that in the throes of fever see the breath as cursed

As desire meets the frigid air and cannot bear the worst

And best beneath Orion’s fickle nightly stare. The urn

Or precious alabaster box awaits us all as wisdom

Sees or does not see surprise in purpose for it all.

There must be some judicious gain or helpful word

That grants repreave or respite from the mold

And model of our outworn lives that decision

Leans toward flight for the many before the final call.

“The World Will Soon Enough Unite”

Yesterday marked the Anniversary of the Birth of Bahá’u'lláh, Whom Bahá’ís of the World regard as the Manifestation of God for this Day, the Promised One of all religions, the Prophet-Founder of their Faith. The Birth of Baha’u'llah is one of nine holy days in the Bahá’í Calendar that is celebrated by Bahá’ís and during which work is suspended. The Holy Day celebrates the birth of Bahá’u'lláh, the Prophet-Founder of the Bahá’í Faith.

 

 

The world will soon enough unite, but not for love
Nor traffic, nor trading certitude for the sake of progress, peace
Or brotherhood or nonesuch religious truths; no, hatred does not cease
To suit egregious monthly recipes. The weekly treasure trove
Of convenient disaster placates crowds whose cry is doom
Whose reason deadens eager ears with bold bathetic lazzis. Audacity
In the nightly death toll seals a thinly clad tenacity
Of migrant militants whose creative zeal leaves little room
For doubt that they mean business. No. The whole
Will come into its own, the tribes at last lament as tears
Of mothers cease and nations lose their froth in fears
When peace revisits every valley as Prophets have foretold,
And all because it is His will that it be so.
This Great Peter will not willingly leave his Rome,
And while once again they part His robes
and desecrate the many-fractured Holy Mount,
slightly to the north the Word, Itself, has found Its Palindrome.

“Disconnect the Vowels”

Disconnect the vowels, then, read what’s left
Within the strophe that makes sense to you; leave
Judgments by the door. Wear no sleeve
On which to pin a sentiment nor shibboleth bereft
Of common sense because the urgent cause
For which the precious ointment was adopted long ago
No longer finds its use. Justly, as it should, in isolated slow
Progress through generations, the hoary stories pause
As literary cusps on scrolls between cycles’ broader strokes
Stoke what it is we know or think we know, or what all know as lies.
The verdicts will, of course, disguise themselves as scripture in the eyes.
And do you think so handsome gilded spokes
Of wheels as cycles’ pillars, circumferences to cover centuries of fears
So fragile that words inscribed in tears will touch the hearts and reach the ears?