Bahá’ís throughout the world gather today to celebrate the First Day of the Month of Qawl [Speech]
“Sonnet in Honour of the Feast of Qawl or ‘Speech’”
Except to praise Creation and its Source,
Of what use are tongues, and what of speech
If not to practice affirmation, to reach
Beyond the baser nature—to stay the course
Of destinies and mighty histories,
Ensure the memory of battle lines
Between the Greater World and the Lesser we find
We must occupy…for a time—the lies and inconsistencies
Within the rented present tense? Respeaking irrelevant truths
In vain imaginings applied to the important against the backdrop of the Word,
The most important, the conscious choice between what we’ve heard
With clarity within the heart and what we have been told of old, roots
And tendrils of hypocrisy are struck dumb with but a look,
Surely. These, the Leaves and Boughs of Sadratu’l-Muntahá, Branches
never silent as from out the The Primal Mouthpiece, the Perspicuous Book.
Posted in Affirmation, “Sonnet in Honour of the Feast of Qawl or ‘Speech’”, Lyric Poetry, Poetry, Sonnet
Tagged Affirmation, “Sonnet in Honour of the Feast of Qawl or ‘Speech’”, Certitude, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Sonnet, speech, spirituality
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…
Posted in Accident, Affirmation, Age, Aging, All or nothing, All that is, Anagnorisis, Anguish of the night, Anticipation, Lyric Poetry, Mirage, Myth of Sisyphus, Poem, Poetry, Sonnet
Tagged Age, Aging, Delusion, Detachment, End Times, Existence, Illusion, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Sonnet, spirituality, Tragic Flaw
“With Mild Concession”
With mild concession, I consign myself
To oblivion in the bleaching hours, the heat
On one, the rain the other morning and repeat
In each of several sultry summer days. The shelf
Is dusty, floors are masked with soiled à meld
From weeks of traffic and debris, conceit
Upon the crowns of crass procrastination and defeat
And even neo-lethal in princpio moltissimo if held
For more than seconds in the fray and din that spells
Desire or want or all that we are wont to hedge the streets
Of our unequalled Americo-Euro afternoons that lead to night.
Oh, I would have it differently, indifferent to the pattern
That I bear witness and allegiance to in virtual existence.
But decades after the discovery, I’ve more common sense
Than to suppose that there is any real escape; tight
The bonds and tighter still addiction to nocturnal lanterns.
Posted in Affirmation, All or nothing, Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Nocturnal hours, Poem, Poetry, Procrastination, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets
Tagged Addictions, Age, Aging, Detachment, Existence, Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Nocturnal hours, poetry, Procrastination, Sonnet, Sonnets
“The Ignorant Mentality”
The ignorant mentality finds
Exception to what’s proposed;
And closed and indisposed to close
Inspection of the wound; then, proud philistine,
Contemplate well a rude rebuttal. Adamant,
Implacable will thus obfuscates against a so great a gift that’s offered.
Choose! righteously hold the line before a clearly proffered
Simple sacrifice. Come quickly, then, in heat; attend the chant
Of legions gathered in and for themselves. Relief is found
In ready fevered fractures formed by litigants in lethal
Indignation born not at all from wisdom. Withdrawal–
Now impossible–follows. Fissures and a fury in the sound,
Will attack and sack the messenger, who, barring flight
Becomes the consequence of his own eleisons in the night.
But summon courage in the circle,
Friends. Steps in blocks of four thrice struck
Upon an annual medallion redux,
Minted first within an ancient cycle
Of the whole of mammon and reignited
In the physic; seasons separate are reunited
As the central orb permits but unrequited
In the mind’s most jaundiced eyes. The abstract’s now cited
By the palm’s cartographers who say this Spring’s
Returned, but we know better.
Yes, of course, he’s seen these letters
From the Concourse on High, but in the ring’s
Obverse, so, too, are signs. The messages were ever slightly
Smudged in careless transit while the seals were never worn so tightly.
Posted in Affirmation, Denial, Hubris, Ignorant mentality, Philistines, Poetry, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets
Tagged Double Sonnet, Ignorant mentality, Lyric Poetry, Philistines, Separation, Sonnet, Sonnets, Strife, Tragic Flaw
“Well Of Course!”
Well, of course, we’ll share our horrors and all their cousins’ pains,
But can we share our joys? Oh, yes, the many, greater
Number know full well what burdens rise; satyrs
Know that all the world’s a virgin field, and plenteous the rains,
And who is truly satisfied or fit to live
From dawn to dusk and through meagre hours
To taste the bluest morning’s minute, winter’s darkest musks, and flowers
Abused or strewn about as summer’s dying sparks. Yes, pity all abandoned hives
Whence sweetest nectar gathered at the once with steaming strength adored
And more than once again purloined, transforms as healing to a thief, a man
Whose struggling embers in the hearth’s become so very disappointing, fanned
By autumn’s chill and left to smoulder, breath subdued, and blotted out, ignored.
Yes! And veins of midnights’ disaffection line the walls of all travellers’ miles,
But are we there when all there is of us are wreathes and simple smiles?
Posted in Affirmation, Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Poetry, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets
Tagged Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Relationships, Sonnet, Sonnets, Tragic Flaw
They linger by the window; they seek
What’s just beyond not so much from desire but punctuation.
Souls in single file grant noteworthy unction
To the slightest glance howsoever intently; no more than a peek,
And as it happens simply walk on by. Innocuous. The poet says
That passion will consume its fruits,
And I believe him as the notion suits
The age in which I live or the page I read; but if he seeks a “Yes!”
doubts evaporate like myrrh as she’s quite forgot
When she airs her rooms and threads her loom as if the purpose
in his witness were merely ballast for pain–
All her earthbound joys share the momentary respite
of a rural mailbox, at best a little shelter from the rain
For those who still receive their letters with the circulars. Caught
In fantasies defined in galaxies that disappear at sunrise
there remains the death knell of all wounds and worlds,
A poverty of nouns and adjectives that obfuscate reality
beyond the pale of words.
Posted in Affirmation, Earthbound joys, Ephemeral pursuits, Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Myrrh, Negation, Pain, Pale of words, Poem, Poetry, Poets, Punctuation, Queue, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets, Words
Tagged Double Sonnet, Emotion, Existence, Imagery, Imagism, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Pain, Poem, poetry, Relationships, Separation, Sonnet, Sonnets, Strife
“There Is Little Here”
There is little here to think on, nothing left to do.
I’ve chosen rooms to rent, nothing owned. I have no roots to nurture
Through to darkest nights nor reservations booked for future days, nothing sure
To last beyond what only looks to be horizons; feet but join no queue;
No driving passions, nothing held in escrow while wandering in the wings
That cries for flight; no bonds, no everlasting melodies, no kiss
To seal an hour of centuries, nothing in the mix to further bliss
Beyond a single breath. There is no truck with imagination here, no ring
Of brass to share the crucible with other alloys. I simply know and master miles
Between the loaves and fishes of endless hills, or, closer to the truth, hold
Court to witness visions that I see within my cold
And cobalt midnights, amber mornings, the sepia afternoons that smile
And bid me solace in congratulations in as many confirmations
Noted in the margins of my silent walks through fields of affirmation.
…painting above by Ariel Gulluni
Posted in Affirmation, Age, Aging, Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Poem, Poetry, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets
Strident moments come as uninvited as
The telephone―those halting motions―stop.
Listen. But, must it ring? He stands among the pines atop
What Easterners call their mountains, a willing witness held fast
By what he it is he sees and aware, somehow, of cold
Hard knowledge locked in granite thoughts. Awake, there is no place,
No haste when he is here. Here it is, the smell and taste
Of elusive space joined naturally with old
Odd familiar feelings that have no business
Being here. Hearing everything, he negotiates no streets
No alleyways, no place to park; no pavement meets
His feet, but there’s a kind of dizziness
In all this air that almost laughs at breathing.
He’s nowhere in particular and has no plans for leaving.
He’s made the miles and truck stops all across the state
To feel the blessing of the eyes, the risen voice
Of one who cannot be moved; the choice
Is always his, oh yes, of course, and he’s arrived, and late
Enough each time to bear the weights of witnesses that his
Are not the eyes, nor his the sacred words
That anyone can use. He’s created nothing here and so he’s turned
The car around and while it may be circumspect, he’s heading home.
Then comes the once again, the call
Is always there, that Tennyson and Frost in all the walls,
That albatross of restlessness that bleaches clarity in tones
Of sepia and bronze and clothes the nakedness of all
Past memories perfumed in ancient rhyme. Silences make every room
A canyon trussed by random thoughts of
“Yes?” “Tonight?” or “Soon?”
His dreams define the miles within his skies, but goals
Are drowned within the pits, the bottoms, deadly dregs
Of what this world seeks to meet the eye; the festered eggs
To what in nature all become; foals
To what dark stallions then are bred?
He need not strain himself to know the truth of this,
And in his several steps he leaves no trace
Of what he’s become to mark his leaving of the place.
Specialties and exhibits, the inner lining of the kiss
That one day brings up bubbles from the depths of every cauldron;
Progeny and circumstance, my friend! Mortality confirms in
No uncertain terms a many-hidden hydra and remorse
For what a man must abdicate when incident has run its course.
…what’s this? Yet another image [the one just above and not the pinecone...] filtched from Louvain95…? Yes, it is, and yet again, an expression of admiration and thanks to this lady and her site for visual experiences.
Posted in Affirmation, Age, Aging, Albatross, Banalities, Beginnings and ends, Breathe to live, Catharsis, Changeless vision, Hydra, Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Poem, Poetry, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets
Tagged Age, Aging, Double Sonnet, Dreams, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Sonnet, Sonnets, Tragic Flaw
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 who penned such thoughts with ease. These, my words, will not endure; they dwell
Within the canvas stretched taut by hand, commingled with my blood
That has no patience in its present station. The cud
Is there, perhaps, and what is felt
May be forgiven its fibres: thatched roofs and hives
Yield similitudes, some passions, a slight nod,
Perhaps at best, a stay of execution but sans lightning rod,
A tool, a catalyst with which its throne and queen survives
Their moments of glory ere the day they find themselves alone.
Something ever lacking in the honey. Transitory needs reveal their secrets
In the rough draft, as natural tides recede in time in egress
From the scene; but what? What remains in the station of a drone?
No progress is forthcoming in the champions of an age
Where the presence of the tides means the turning of a page.
Posted in Accident, Achievement, Affirmation, All or nothing, Apostrophes, Appearances, Audience, Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Poem, Poetry, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets
Tagged Age, Aging, Double Sonnet, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Poem, poetry, Sonnet, Sonnets, Tragic Flaw
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.
Posted in Accident, Achievement, Affirmation, Aging, All or nothing, Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Poem, Poetry, Sonnet, Sonnets