Category Archives: Accident

“Happenstance”

Catherine Manchester

“Happenstance”

Happenstance and glory of a measured breath, the sun and moon
And distant scintillating light deranged and rearranged
To suite the insignificance of magnificence of a single scene and page.
Another sentence, a paragraph in which I find myself within a backlit room
To mark the hours the Doppler shadows all misfortune casts.
I have revelled in these signs, these periodic tedious monotonies,
Their very rising at once the thrall before the fall, monopolies
Of time and times again that only now appear to mask
Because when all that is has come to pass I happen to be standing here
A witness to creation’s synergies newly birthed. In the cold stare
Of noonish sunlight I sense with fragile accuracy the beneficial glare
Of all my peculiars, entities and particles that occupy the ear,
Delight the eye, and not so subtly remind me that I am,
And need not doubt the ground on which I stand.

…painting by Catherine Manchester…

“Sonnet in Honour of the Feast of `Izzat or ‘Might”

Bahá’ís throughout the world gather together this evening after sunset or tomorrow before sunset to commemorate
the First Day of the Month of ‘Izzat…

“Sonnet in Honour of the Feast of `Izzat
or ‘Might”


Judge well, my friend, adduce astutely;
perceive the might of any man,
By salutation there above it all, crowned,
a tarnished name become a lyric,
A word in apposition to the current legend; manipulated Pyrrhic
Hero whose deceiving ears–offending, apprehending what demands
Command the poll and elevate a fleeting circumstance and fame;
Even the rose is granted for the sake of a specific hour, a simple song
Fossilised before the melody has ceased when so easily as on
A clouded noxious day, all verbs clot and pronouns reign
In arrogance as thoughts turn to vapours and yesterday’s gilding
Rise and fall. With nothing distilled from achievement
For want of aging, accidents deemed bold distraction
spend themselves in vain
In youth while untried strength
sustains the untended pun
Of forgery and fortune. But see this blossom
in the deepest well
And dying sees his heaven
while he knows he lives in hell.

–Once

…from: A Raison in the Sun, Act III by Loraine Hansberry

…BENETHA
Love him?
There’s nothing left to love.

MAMA
There’s always something left to love.

Have you cried for that boy today? Not for yourself and the family because we lost the money. I mean for him. And what he’s gone through. And God help him. God help him, what it’s done to him. Child, when do you think is the time to love somebody the most? When he’s done good and made things easy for everybody? That ain’t the time at all. It’s when he’s at his lowest and he can’t believe in himself because the world’s whipped him so! When you starts measuring somebody measure him right, child. Measure him right. You make sure that you done taken into account the hills and the valleys he’s come through to get to wherever he is….

“The Innuendo”

Alone_In_Fear-406524

“The Innuendo”

The innuendo woven not so much in the fantastic,
But in experience, a living witness within a precocious cloud,
A view to forward motion, counterfeit because in itself it is allowed
To be but never adequately traced: inertia has no station; static, elastic,
Yes, but to no greater purpose.  These, the chords of oneness in righteous bond
Cannot be but bastard confirmations of the spirit’s sparse but potent
Progress, motion, goal’s, the irritating “now” but well beyond the quotient
Of “then again…..” But there’s not it. There is no special wand
Nor spirit guiding, none the precious gift beyond simple accident in bands
Of language, maudlin to the ear which is to say we may embrace not knowledge, but the inordinate love of what the ear may be gifted to hear;
We may glory in what the tongue speaks, and its wonders to suspend the fear
Of dwelling on the absolute, mere ciphers written ingloriously on the sand.
And if, by chance, there is a point to these sentiments and if pernicious—these
Fine words—it is the soul and not the author, penned such thoughts with ease. 

” Striking Images “

“Striking Images”

Striking images pass muster swiftly at evensong, prehensile joys recall that
Memories linger as cinders, shadows, sorrows of the previous, which is to say
That what begins in joy must have an end. Would that the daily execution’s stay
Made sense beyond the dream, the diagram of calculated error in the flat
Of one man’s palm so that intrinsic to the finest fabric’s slightest flaw, within
The stitch’s realm materials might negotiate what only an apostrophe
Can define in this fine weave-space or that sublimity of tapestry;
Skeins and lots, souls and families suffice but to begin
Again or with not even common license elude what will or will not last.
Sadly, even they who know themselves sit quietly as accidents upon the shore
Of evermore and know forever that what they know they only borrow.
So, too, it seems for fireflies and dragonflies worn
Loosely by horizons of a world so few if any ever see. They merely cast
Aspersions for the dead and doubtless: Ask them, then, who folds the seas
And what will be, and what they find so wondrous in eternities.