…a revision of the poem…
Swept aside, all moments and celestial mementos collide
And waste no never-mind on credence and retention
In the wake of greater cosmic rinds and supine celestial reflection.
Mortality by definition lies; not so through what histories imply
But in the daily interaction of missives from the Goal
And penultimate ilunga * of the Source or
Sanctions of interaction in the triumphant triad of the coarsest
Ores of time, of space, and all that matters. Time, the cosmic linen folds
Of space and active order; space, the theatre of experience at the heart
Of the observer; matter, but an audience, a phenomena in passive
Active shadows of Creation and its nemesis. Simplicity is massive,
Complexity but a word; a question’s languages are art
And science while the answers form the pathos and the abstract.
What is more pathetic than to be and yet be nothing in the act?
Simplicity in the classic form requires
The prefects of a perfect vacuum
Combined in such a way as compliments the acumen
Of a strident meme, the jealous zeitgeist, tests that to the whole inspire
An urgent need to pause, to linger over bodies no longer really there,
A little more than a half a generation’s substance in a given time.
So granted this, so beautifully and tragically resigned,
Aloud comes the elegies of episodes to “Move along!”or “Retire!”
With such a cry inscribed, there was and always is
A here and there in rapid profit worshipped, fierce
As gallstones of desperation: “This, our chosen age, rehearsed
Upon a cross of memories little more than lyrics of an ancient tryst!”
And, equally, the many crowned and catalogued, remain aloof
Through symmetries of perfection in a sacred dynasty of embroidered truth.
*The word is ilunga, from the Bantu language of Tshiluba, and means a person ready to forgive any abuse for the first time, to tolerate it a second time, but never a third time.
When there is this, that is.
With the arising of this, that arises.
When this is not, neither is that.
With the cessation of this, that ceases.
His Holiness The Buddha
Posted in Affirmation, Age, Aging, Antithesis, Arts, Buddhism, Change, Classic, Cycles, Double Sonnet, Elegies, End Times, Ends, Generations, Hubris, Hustlers, Hyperbole, Idolatry, Matrix, Meme, Memory, Negation, Nostalgia, Numinosum, Pathos, Poetry, Posterity, Pragmatism, Pyrrhic Victory, Relativity, Retirement, Samsara, Sciences, Seasons, State of Being, Stations, Synthesis, Thesis, To be or not to be, Tragic Flaw, Tshiluba, Yearning, Zeitgeist
Tagged Double Sonnet, Lyric Poetry, Sonnet, Sonnets
“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
“Within the Second”
Within the second, tension
Greeting and suspension
Sought by no one’s intervention
Never seen when the incision
First was made; immediately regretted,
The fisherman must pay out nets in
By miles in order to withdraw from what is set in
Stone for life and wife and children and the silence of posterity. Sunsets
Measured by exigency’s precision and jealous alacrity in moments
Of lucidity crown flights that condescend to incidents and stories
Never dreamed by this finest man or that great fish by land or sea
But in and with slightest motion’s predetermined goals, histories
Of continents and oceans satisfy Calliope
and there within their stations, torments
Boast of sacrifice for crowds where cowards
in the chorus crucify their tragic characters and epic plots
swell as sweat from depths within the pores of poets
finding every gilded ancient fear a kind of test
that does not rest but resonates as never-ending glory.
Posted in Action, Chorus, Classic, Crucifixion, Elements of Narration, Epic poetry, Fate, Fear, Fisherman, Gods, Greece, Martyrdom, Muses, Negation, Pathos, Poetry, Posterity, Providence, Rest, Sacrifice, Stations, Tragedy, Tragic Flaw
Tagged Calliope, Character, Chorus, Lyric Poetry, Plot, Setting, Sonnet, Theme
Too dark, the image is spontaneous surprise
Allowing for callow simplicity, widespread, not
Freely strung, perhaps, nor finely wrought.
Spoken, an oblique word to add to some collection, surmised
And measured plans without a thought to instruments of light,
Nor proper canvas housing hues and filigreed beams
To grace medieval drawings and ever-flowing dreams
In cold rejection foiled, splays to mask the monumental heights
Routine in use no matter how magnificent: you preferred hopes
To need, to full-grown trees but tiny seeds,
Or wholes that must in time disintegrate; a flute, perhaps a reed
In need of being played, the player all too often wrapped in robes
Of musk-dyed silks and ancient tides,
And all the while I merely smiled and let it die.
Posted in Desire, Detachment, Estrangement, Imagism, Love, Marriage and Divorce, Passion, Poetry, Relationships, Samsara, Seed, Tragic Flaw
Tagged Lyric Poetry, Sonnets
Bahá’ís throughout the world gather this evening and tomorrow within the First Day of the Month of Sharaf [Honour]
“Sonnet in Honour of the Feast of Sharaf or `Honour’”
Not that what is in my soul is pure, nor are my eyes
In proper shielded nor buttressed against what I shouldn’t see.
No, my thoughts are not secluded from my dreams;
Nor are these ears immune from feeble babblings of the sly;
My hands are not placed firmly where they must be;
Nor to my taste my food what it should be. All
That modesty and honour require are no more; nor is the call
Of truth without duplicity the centre of my heart’s sincerity.
These perfected imperfections commonplace before my face
Torment each hour with yet another hour and jaundiced joys in their way
Share glory with a plethora of follies strewn
throughout my hours’ remaining rainy days.
I am never far from falling short of all my own metaphor, the similes and grace
Of He who created me and the cynosure of they who didn’t…yet I continue on
That He remains the Melody of Virtue and I am become the lyric of Its song.
Posted in Age, Aging, Bahá’í, Bahá’í Faith, Detachment, Dross, Hope, Imagery, Imagism, Imperfection, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Poem, Poetry, Religion, Samsara, Selflessness, Sonnet, Sonnets, Spirituality, Tragic Flaw
Tagged Age, Aging, Bahá’í, Existence, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Poem, poetry, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets, Tragic Flaw
Occam’s rasor, perhaps, but what else is there
Between the stepping stones, the zeniths, the nadirs,
Putting aside the in-betweens, the shafts of spears,
The road less taken, that one trampled, the toxic air,
The steps that lead in either direction, the fare
Compared to destination, dreams that disappear.
Sooner or later, choice replaces every truth, the fears
That come when hybris meets hamartia? Tares
And thistles abound, the rent, the ashes, the cardinal numbers
Spread themselves among the ordinals and seem to sin no more.
Even so? What of these, the inevitable, the inescapable nemesis?
Step forward and discover the reason for the second step; the emphasis Is on the first? The second? A third? Awake, the final unction’s found in slumber; Asleep, the hours promise the penultimate hour, remembrances of the final door.
Posted in Aging, Certitude, Comedy, Death, Dreams, Emotion, Existence, Hope, Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Philosophy, Poem, Poetry, Reality, Relativity, Samsara, Sleep, Sonnet, Tragedy, Tragic Flaw
Tagged Age, Comedy, Death, Dreams, Emotion, Illusion, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Nature, Patience, Poem, poetry, Relativity, Samsara, Sonnet, Tragedy, Tragic Flaw