Category Archives: Station

“Sonnet in Honour of the Feast of Mashíyyat” or “Will”

Bahá’ís throughout the world gathered yesterday evening after sunset or today before sunset to celebrate the First Day of the Month of Mashíyyat [Will]

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“Sonnet in Honour of the Feast of Mashíyyat” or “Will”

We bear witness to it in the station of a still
And changeless vision, cosine as it is to truth.
Volition reigns with all, and rules
To govern its existence will
Continue till the thing no longer bears its seal,
Its sign, its talisman nor sacred stamp
Of manifest yet hidden Lamps
By Whose Light truth’s revealed or is repealed.
There is no greater will than this. We are
Witnesses, the signatories of deeds
Of lingering motives, contracts, seeds
Of instituted factors in the sole
And universal changeless Will and Goal
Whose pages neither bend nor fold.

“Pacific Vision”

“Pacific Vision”

Pacific vision; a single cigarette, a candle
In a valley, the briefest transfer from so little matter
To some causal spark seen perhaps for miles, the latter
End of someone’s missing afterthought, and this, the mantle
Of exchange thus expressed is moot before an audience of sand
So far from its former station, progeny of mountains, so utterly lonely
Yet brilliant in insignificance because their present star is the only
Periodic indication seen of its kind. This fogbound hope is contraband
Of just another dawn.  A natural barrier, then, between the two
Of us ignites the enigma of a natural force, twice the paradox,
Thrice the witchs’ warning, the latest news from deep within the box.
I rest beside a celestial screaming stream, a protégé of simple views
And even simpler decisions. Dilemmas offered to the least in rhyme
Retain their energies but sacrifice their matter to the woof and warp of time.

“The Body’s Built for Stretch Marks”

“The Body’s Built for Stretch Marks

The body’s built for stretch marks, peculiars, indictments drawn from lines

Reserved for bruises, random ancient scars received at childhood,

Subtle abuses leading to arrests, differences in the artificer’s sketches, would-be

Blind catastrophe to a child bound for trial. Etchings, wounds, fine

Byzantine rites of passage penetrate the masses gathered in their schools

Of fantasies as testacies: for the ignoble, pastimes; the chosen, noble death

Certain. Pride of station, booty, brazen badges pinned to what is left

Of  that old shirt or those old pants, and in the end, the glass is raised to fools,

And myriad mirrors of Alma Maters. “Yes,” she said, “You’ll lose that baby fat,”

But she was lying as she sliced another quarter pound of butter

For the stir fry, dairies churned to proven grounds for utter

Joy at dinnertime for the calf, an unction for the stomach and hardening heart,

…Vanitas vanitatum omnia vanitas, and then some for the cat.

All is vanity if clutching at the straws of life and luck and liberty to boot

To generate bravado for hopes that render all his finite questions moot.

Catwalks above his life’s pavilions, sidewalks in a decent neighbourhood,

And nursing homes dot the landscape while all declare,

“You know, the Devil made me do it!”

Who denies the processes of thought, the fine idyllic conduits

From “Why not me?” to “All I am is what I should

Be,” whispered while whistling down alleys and paper routes; the avenues

Conjure images and constructs preserved en bas relief in two dimensions,

Melting icecaps in an ocean of invention and intervention at the mention

Of a third. “To whom and what for?” He wonders at the dews,

Fresh-formed deadlines, spinal taps and tallies, and reams of “Things to Do”

And all before the door is closed and locked, keys deposited at the main wicket.

Who’s survived to say that winter’s haze might raise the need to buy a ticket

To some gilded paradise conspicuous on the fridge, or a cruise for two

Along the coasts or toward the navel of the nation

As he remains at home inured of all such thought and aggravation?

So wide the miles to peace and once again some pompous reconciliation

As the Parthenon limps through yet another year

and cancer strikes the very spirit of the Holy Temple Mount;

In the malls of Washington and London the body count

No longer matters to the kids at dinner while the recapitulation

Of the days’ decapitation give reviews on CNN no rapt attention.

“Nolo contendere” say they, the salt of sorrow’s “single spies”

That marshal once again in “battalions”, with no word nor photo from the skies

Above the glass-lined pulpits of the ‘ulamas of cable news centres

or only slightly less innocuous city gutters, the catacombs of dubious mention

All along the Tigris, the Congo, above Solomon’s mines on the African Horn.

They know their losses simmer silently in the chambers of the heart;

They know their worth in sovereignties and ulcerating boils apart

From what is said of foes on Fox or activists on board the unborn

Born again processions that occupy the parks. Landmines litter, braying gospels

of long’s and short’s, the meretricious glitter scribbled hastily

on chits strewn throughout the bar codes in the canyons of every market floor

Just as surely as autumn leaves attest what may be God’s penultimate bounty,

Blatant warnings in blood  atop the sash of every second church door.