Bahá’ís throughout the world gather today within the First Day of the Month of Kamál [Perfection] to celebrate the first day of the Bahá’í Month of Kamál.
“Sonnet in Honour of the Feast of Kamál or “Perfection”
Perfections and brief mortality lag for moments in a guarantee
Beyond the waiting grave; even in the womb, fluctuations
At the departure gate defy instinct and extinction in comic reproduction
Of the maelstrom. Carnivores in chaos renew the glaring tragedies
Of immortality as does sleep, a nightly purgative to all dreams.
Propinquity reviewed in bold idyllic matter turns matter to energies
In physical perception, penned at the pleasure of humanity–
The beverage curious and exotic–the poets’ ink ensuring every species’
Flourishing beyond the naked flesh of bodies in the simple rite of birth.
Apoapsis and the periapsis of the peoples’ need from the outer steppes
Of gravity and evolution to the thing desired,
re-created, wild and sculpted blossoms
Of the promise of ends in all beginnings,
millennia, themselves but steps
beyond the fallible suspicion of man or book,
the good shaman’s vain and futile search.
Yet even here, the contemplation
of a bowl of hemlock, perhaps to think:
If I fast forever, so will I dream as long;
and if I thirst forever,
Then, as surely I will someday drink.
Posted in Beverage, Birth, Blossoms, Carnivores, Chaos, Dreams, Evolution, Extinction, Fast, Grave, Gravity, Hemlock, Idyllic matter, Immortality, Ink, Instinct, Maelstrom, Millennia, Mortality, Naked flesh, Perfection, Poet's ink, Poetry, Propinquity, Purgative, Shaman, Thirst, Tragedy, Womb
“These Single Seconds”
These single seconds, presentiments of all
And nothing in eternity, everything in being
So alive; so much ado for yet another death in Venice, the seam
Of what is past as in a single passion’s pall
So sharpened in the moment that it’s cut
Is never noted until the point of infection. Minutes and the hour
Record a simple causal pause, time enough to harvest flowers
That will surely wilt so thoughtlessly. But
In the common flush of extremities, the blush, the rush, the flow,
This now is always yesterday’s dream, the stuff of self-deception,
Always what has happened just before, some weak inflection
Of realities and truth but crudely reckoned, a seed but newly sown
That only time can nourish. I’ve lived through nearly seven times ten in years
Through veils of unmitigated grace and holiness amassed in arrears,
Still, it is within another winter’s votary thought at last;
I know I will not be with you here beyond the death
Of these same embers in the hearth, this house arrest
Of days and nights so beauty-worn. I am the fast
In winter’s moonlight bringing closer all who see
So little light save in one another; days begun and then recessed
Before their time. And so it is with graduated rest
From daily obligations, time enough to dream, at least to seem
To one another safe enough for one brief season, a familiar in the close
Encounter with so little interest but in the present evening’s run
To fetch a cow within, a log from out back, to secure the barn.
Barely born, the moon grows reticent as the rising sun discloses
Evening weeds and as we build the fires and take the steam,
The fire’s warmth is strong and so is love…as so it seems.
Posted in Age, Aging, Death, Detachment, Double Sonnet, Emotion, Existence, Fidelity, Hope, Idolatry, Illusion, Imagery, Imagination, Imagism, Immortality, Love, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Pain, Patience, Philosophy, Poem, Poetry, Reality, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets
Tagged Age, Aging, Death, Death in Venice, Delusion, Double Sonnet, Emotion, Existence, Fidelity, Illusion, Imagism, Immortality, Love, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Pain, Poem, poetry, Relationships, 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 age, the arc, the spectre of unspeakables
And contention; a single strike will kill, but with the honeybee
Comes purpose by the lot and ensured harmony,
“Do not disturb!” and “Multiples; Invincibles!”
Reluctantly, to be sure, but timely come the constables,
Harbingers of an hour’s solemnity
And stark reminders of inevitable uncertainties—
“A step too far!” is heard, and while the intruder’s able,
The antidote comes in hosts, swarms
And spirits in the multiples and in the interim
Kindnesses in part to save the whole.
No bellicose delivery here, no spectacle of effort to console
The soul but simple missives bearing news of certified afflictions warn
Of death: “The hive or thee, my friend: the hive or thee; attend!”
Posted in Age, Aging, Collective salvation, Contention, Honeybees, Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Poem, Poetry, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets, Spiritual consolation
Tagged Aging, Existence, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Sonnets, Tragic Flaw
Leaving? His, the dreams? His, these choice and tender tones, all
Too little too late for those who will be sooner told what is
By those who cannot hear His melody, His
Several Announcements, yes! The heart turns not to the call
For walls but to creation in itself, as scribbled on the slates
Signed upon the obverse in sundry geometric redundancy. Obliquely seen
We spy the models, traces, outlines, former dispensations, the obscene
Graffiti of the worldly scribbled in a clay-bound plate.
This? Not He in This, no! but That; the earth
Born in caul, the offal left, his mother’s goal is realised, her manifesto declared.
The promise of penultimate breath echoes in the Text with nothing spared.
Patient in patience, lover of all present laughter, the child, eternal mirth–
Of course–is etched in slates and scales beyond the present worried worm;
As from the womb, to this He comes so far; so too, to that He must return in Spiral motions, springs, and in the riverlets of natural seconds, tiny buds
Aligned within themelves with all the other benchmark orbs
And gentle points of sweeping reference. Our symmetry absorbs
The oddity of growth in worldly and arbitrary minutes: as the muds
Decree, the hills agree and we are of course its sands and random beaches.
Numberless and unadorned, emerging abstracts form our concretes,
Limpid liquids recreate themselves as pliant canyons, sculpted palaces; discrete
Particles mustered in battalions to address themselves as crystals, breaches
In the granite veins that will allow the light in time to pass on through.
And as we stand disarmed in deaf amazement, we ponder
What natural majesties must certify the ruby and the emerald to wander
Disingenuous, impervious to cost through sapphire dusts in cosmic spectacle too
Wondrously created to be seen with contaminated eyes
As all arrive or nothing comes to mind and our own sweet surprise.
Posted in Crystal, Emeralds, Imagery, Imagism, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Poem, Poetry, Rubies, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets
Tagged Age, Aging, Double Sonnet, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Sonnet, Sonnets
“Look To It, Friend!”
Look to it, friend! Some call it time,
Others less than seconds, others, singularity,
And at the least a mystery, perhaps an incongruity
Within the maze of observations and variations on the rhyme,
Some weathered moss-lined steps ascending forest temples
and the sacrifice of wine for blood in isolated shrines.
Argue, then, what it means to be an onion or the teapot’s spout.
They say, “Speak more plainly, flesh it out!”
And scarcely is the thought expressed than a paradigm, a scion
Of the times declares, “Not at all,…it’s in the wrist!”
Setbacks scatter as sands of many mountains
Leveled by long forgotten storms; something close to fountains
Swell from everlasting hotspots, springs, and lethal mists
Of natural fraud and tragic truths misplaced, misguided, and disgraced
By mortality set to music while eternity’s forgotten or left to waste.
Posted in Eternity, Imagery, Imagism, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Poem, Poetry, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets
Tagged Age, Aging, Delusion, Existence, Lyric Poetry, Sonnet, Sonnets, Tragic Flaw
…dedicated to the many who wonder what’s become of all that is and where the bottom is…
“‘The underside’ … it’s not just in tandem, ‘Once, it’s everywhere! … sigh …’”
And she was right. It seems the predilection toward
The animal appears where there is none; the tsunami’s force is froward
Where there is no place to go but straight to hell for all but those who fly
Or settle for a second-rate mortgage off the high road’s endless traffic.
And we along the shores of what’s become the greater sea who sit
And sign within ourselves no higher there, nor lower here, are aware of it:
There is no real rest from those who foment
Condescension to Creation, laced with lies
To trap the innocent, and revel in the vanishing point
Below the picture, well beneath the edges or between the joints
Of slender bones and tissues in the body politic; cries
Will rise for them and for their victims and their families,
The “taken”, “took” and “broken for which poets scribble homilies.
“The tree outside the window taps very gently on the pane … I want to think quietly, calmly, spaciously, never to be interrupted, never to have to rise from my chair, to slip easily from one thing to another, without any sense of hostility, or obstacle. I want to sink deeper and deeper, away from the surface, with its hard separate facts. To steady myself, let me catch hold of the first idea that passes … Shakespeare … Well, he will do as well as another. A man who sat himself solidly in an arm-chair, and looked into the fire, so a shower of ideas fell perpetually from some very high Heaven down through his mind.”
The Mark on the Wall
“Wife, child, brother, parents, friends…We come only to go apart again. It is one continuous movement. They move away from us, and we move away from them. The law of life can’t be avoided. The law comes into operation the moment we detach ourselves from our mother’s womb. All struggle and misery in life is due to our attempt to arrest this law or get away from it or in allowing ourselves to be hurt by it. The fact must be recognized. A profound unmitigated lonliness is the only truth of life.”
R. K. Narayan
[October 10, 1906 -- May 13, 2001]
(shortened from Rasipuram Krishnaswami Iyer Narayanaswami)
The English Teacher
Posted in Affirmation, Animal, Arts, Change, Chaos, Civilisation, Distraction, Duplicity, End Times, Family, Hubris, Hypocrisy, Isolation, Lonliness, Mankind, Materialism, Mediocrity, Mortality, Negation, Poets, Reunion, Separation, Willaim Shakespeare [1564-1616]
Tagged Immortality, Love, Lyric Poetry, Relationships, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets
“Perhaps Too Obscure”
Perhaps too obscure, absolutes, prerogatives, profits,
Relatives, feathers of the phoenix–costly downs for pillows,
Materials for bedding–indeed the silhouette
Of controversy in the bower prohibits
Poesy from kneading souls and seeding requisites
For immortality with mortal flaws and fatal shallow
Pools designed for poets such as these that wallow
In the larder oblivious to dangers, intrinsic
Natural blinds to tar pits where only fugitives
Attempt to flee from what is evident in destiny.
Notice neither freedom for the bird nor fish
To feed them gather here; unheeding species. Lavish
Ignorance and wanton lust are lost on adjectives
Whose ontogeny merely seeks but life and progeny.
Posted in Ignorance, Immortality, Lust, Mortality, Negation, Obscurity, Ontonegy, Phoenix, Poesy, Poetry, Poets
Tagged Lyric Poetry, Sonnet, Sonnets, Tragic Flaw
“Summer Like the Lion”
Summer like the lion has so little time;
Reflections on horizons only seem at rest,
Refractions, hungers in the higher grasses are at best
A blind, a routine introspection, attest to sun and pride,
Alike as natural season’s slightest change rewards the prey
Of both with perspicuous signs and insecurities but nonetheless
Concrete enough to cause a wonder in the every power; less
Than single clouds occlude the sun, the slightest hint of grey
Upon the main, both signal gain and loss. Clearly crowned,
They have no equal in selection’s schemes
Save Death, itself, yet each pays out in measured penalties. Extremes
In greatness and renown sustain but reasons, diadems and crowns
Subject to circumstance of cycles in the main—in means
A certain end—in cosmic tragedies beyond the need of seasons.
Posted in Animals, Cycles, Death, Destiny, Existence, Imagery, Imagism, Matrix, Mortality, Poetry, Providence, Reason, Seasons, State of Being, Stations, Tragedy, Tragic Flaw, Zeitgeist
Tagged Age, Aging, Lyric Poetry, Sonnet, Summer
“A Summer’s Aimless Thought” or “Don’t Ask Why I Wrote This!”
And so the lesser heat descends upon us once,
But, come again?…and now the skin is damp
For no good reason, nothing more than clams
Must feel through all their night’s eternity, abandoned
In watermarked enclosure, rarely asking where
Their homes are logged–no! nor even more from life
Than what is strained for food. If found, the knife
Will end it all. From accidental currents traffic cares,
From aimless waves and tides and what seals may accrue,
Seadogs innocently involved and driven by their own
Insensitivity to feelings and not so much in interest as they comb
The seabeds looking for what mindless kelp must do–
For supper–Yes! We dine tonight: the sacrifice of clams and oysters,
And budget-minded shrimp, and the choir?–crabs conveniently cloistered.
Posted in Animals, Chorus, Distraction, Entertainment, Existence, Imagery, Materialism, Mortality, Nature, Poetry, Sacrifice, Seasons
Tagged Crab, Lyric Poetry, Shrimp, Sonnet