Tag Archives: Immortality

“He Chose What Homer Chose”

William Shakespeare
[23 April 1564 - 23 April 1616}

Today marks the Anniversary of the Birth of Shakespeare 450 years ago, and, according to what records we may or may not have, it also marks the Anniversary of the Passing of the Bard 398 years ago. The general facts concerning William Shakespeare support the idea that he was born and died on the same day. In honour of the occasion, of course, there is a repeat of a posting some time ago:

"He Chose What Homer Chose"

He chose what Homer chose; the place,
The measured lisp of every school boy; the time, eternity;
The hour, the glory of the present tense, the panoply
Of stars above the placeless with the taste
Of honeys made pedestrian, obscured by tongues, the paste
Left finite and sour from beyond divinity and the bower of worship--the realities
Of man, the Son of Man, the seat of constancy is faithlessness in cold identities
Obscured beyond the reach of all--
the trial of facelessness becomes their saving grace.
Who knew the eyes of John or Peter, Paul,
or the meek and more obscure Bartholomew
But that the rumours flew and vacancies were filled, their names
Now everywhere and nowhere is it written
How the Christ appeared, or how their God had smitten
What was left of their disguises, appetites and virtues notwithstanding crude
And morbid songs of their demise,

...and cannonlore for all that glory in the flames.

"The past cannot be cured."

--Queen Elizabeth I
[7 September 1533 - 24 March 1603]

“Yes, of Course”

“Yes, of Course”

Yes, of course, it’s in the silences, the gaps; what isn’t there,
A kind of saving grace. Yes, it’s in the wrist and more, a second
Maiden voyage. The news announces daily the Titanic’s jocund
Journey redux, greater for revision less the ware
And less absorbing in the loss of souls from rarer thinner air
Brought faithfully to task but mind you nonetheless a reckoning
Within a construct; no! an edifice of remembrances within the seconding
Of resolutions that determines Elliot’s wave within the self-defining stare
Of relative modernity; but one tsunami in eternity amid the voids of space.
The promise of redemption’s found in balances of degrees
In praise of beauty in the sun spots’ mighty aura, the aurora in the fray
Of loose inebriating Northern Lights–try distraction while you pray–
Try the Northwest Passage in the making high above the Arctic’s former grace
Notes, rhythms in the writ, a metaphor in G, perhaps, but played in C.

“There was peace and the world had an even tenor to it’s way. Nothing was revealed in the morning, the trend of which was not known the night before. It seems to me that the disaster about to occur was the event, that not only made the world rub its eyes and awake, but woke it with a start, keeping it moving at a rapidly accelerating pace ever since, with less and less peace, satisfaction and happiness. To my mind the world of today awoke April 15, 1912. – Jack Thayer, Titanic Survivor

“Imagination Styles the Face”

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“Imagination Styles the Face”

Imagination styles the face that solves a thousand wrongs,
While no one’s guessing what’s behind the door.
Better yet, the portal to escape closes just behind him; gore
And all that glitter exposed, moments redux of the earlier morning songs,
Playground glories among the boys and toys, seasons to declare
His eminence–petulant and sulking–ever short of rule, ever cool,
Who stalks the school yard–recess, lunch, and after school.
And preys on younger lambs who cannot see nor dare
To think beyond the present teacher and the class
To one day leaving what was never meant to be
A permanent abode but stepping stones to what only seems
To be a day’s delay to graduation fantasy, and one more hall pass.
“The blame is his,…no hers! No theirs, but never mine,
so why should I remain behind the rest?
I’m not the only one!” he says,
“But, then again, I never meant to study, people!
I never meant to pass the test!”

“What?”

night-in-crimea2

“What?”

What? could they not wait? Justice always outs in time;
What? since Abel, not enough blood? Soils do not leave
Themselves a choice in these matters; mothers grieve
As doctors weave solutions; where once their limbs aligned,
They are no more. And, for a bowl of soup this Esau
Yields at ought his heritage? Who isn’t fooled in the dimming eyes of Isaac
In the aftermath? Reconciliation, you say? Can a Caveat
To destiny be forgiven, and where the wound is raw
Can any skin but the tougher scars be grown from what is sown?
And when the perpetrators contemplate their last actions,
The rupture of the children; the bodies, the lasting hideous imagination
Of that day along the Ides of April for which no religous idyll can atone.
O Crimea now, O Syria then, O America ever vigilant!
O streets and markets free but never far from the malignant.

night-in-crimea

“And When He Looked Again”

sun2

“And When He Looked Again”

And when he looked again, he saw the two suns
Rehearsing illusions in the river’s voice, the highest good,
The other lost within himself; the tidal mirror could
Not bear separation from the source, one
In signs, yet silenced, ever flowing in what it did
In passing. Crudely graced, seducing visions perfectly,
The first declared itself a certainty,
Its faith a recreated memory, its secrets hid.
In less than seconds, there was nothing of the rival left
To view. A single pebble and the river, too deserted,
stretches seamlessly, the cleft
Between the golden orbs become a prism,
the heavens suspended twice, the right, the left,
The recreation of creation, binding immortal mortalities,
void and substance bereft,
The heavens and the earth; breathless, lost within a common interlude
Where visions set themselves through perpetual accident and certitude.

sun-light-reflections

“The Cul-de-sac”

cul

“The Cul-de-sac”

The cul-de–sac within a maze does not wait
For introductions from the chair but bends the warp in time
To suit the labyrinth of audience, tempo and subtle rhyme
No greater than space required for one more trophy, a gilded plate
Or just another knickknack on the shelf; the current season’s wake
Allows so little time to plan for sudden guests whose line-up
At the door’s so crudely cumbersome and misaligned
That any gust of wind or shallow breeze contemplates
An exodus and the elevation of a queue to the rank of stampede.
No, we need no fire to raise alarms and no petrels to sing
The hourly anthem. Still it’s not so much what is, but what’s developing
That throws all order to the winds and what’s believed
Trumps what’s been gained upstaging all former rectitudes
And satisfaction, leaving grace disgraced and little left but platitudes.

… painting by Antonio Fontanesi…

“Limbs”

“Limbs”

Limbs, appendages, extensions, sinew stretched
Across the chasms, voids, and axles
Of Creation, forms to occupy the mind; cosmic jackals,
Vain imaginings sprung from fractals, etched
In plaited mesh and skeletal remains combine
To people thought and populate scenarios.
Nothing ever quiets the machine, the interim’s need will borrow
Legitimacy and gravitas from life’s single habit, refine
Its use for lifetimes, the penultimate line in verses
Penned to presage the tentative, the simple strokes of time.
Transition’s in the air, my friends, and next in line
For what’s about to come to pass might well be curses
For the speed with which the world embraces in exchange for its mistakes.
Only the Creator weds the art of accident to apposition for its own sake.

Month of Bahá [Splendour], Naw-Rúz, the Bahá’í New Year, the Spring Equinox

Bahá’ís throughout the world gather this evening after sunset within the First Day of the Month of Bahá [Splendour], the beginning of the first month of the Bahá’í Year, the arrival of Naw-Rúz, the Bahá’í New Year, the Spring Equinox, the first day of Spring. 

A Happy Naw-Rúz 171 B.E. to one and all!

171

“Sonnet in Honour of the Feast of Bahá or ‘Splendour’”

What greater splendour can there be in all creation
Than that the spectre of creation, the lightning’s grace,
A recognition of the Face
Of He Who in the blessed moment of elation
Outs form and substance to recreate stations
Of the greatest and the least, the favoured
Favouring within a regenerative sphere? Savoured,
Refined, bestowing rank and attributes to nations
And a crown to every whole who owns both fate and destiny:
Light-born spirits hear the cry
Throughout the world that yet another soul is signed
And welcomed by the denizens of heaven within the nest of He
Who made the Matrix, Who knew from time and dispensations immemorial,
In the ancient eternity of His Essence, His deathless spring, His Gift primordial.

“The Whale’s Eye”

deep_in_the_whales_eye_by_malstrummer-d31xz1o

“The Whale’s Eye”

The whale’s eye, the elephant, the gaze of tenderness in magnitude; schools
Of jack and halibut, determined unities in seas so deadly, so submerged,
The albatross so elevated that only vague inadequacies emerge
To name their realm—Jet Stream, Gulf Stream—moving trains in gravitas, spools
Payed out through skies and seas and threads
of all things lesser and greater in between.
Spied within the miniscule lens of a single spot,
The teeming millions merge as catalysts for the clot
And in an instant, a wondrous restoration, healing,
Growth, and reproduction or yes! a dissolution of all parts
Unto death, itself. A familiar spirit in an alien world will gaze in disbelief
Or then again in helplessness as ocean’s depths are strained, relief
No longer found in plunging to the deeps; restrained, their denizens depart
And reappear with regularity in the stratosphere
and while the megaliths”deeps declare
In silence all matters of the universe enthralled,
we as they in silence just stand or sit and stare.

4141-24488

…painting at top by Malstrummer of deviantArt…

“So Easy to Desire”

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“So Easy to Desire”

So easy to desire these miracles. But think
On this! Where’s the catch? the marvellous sleep
That comes to mind? what promises can keep?
What tests in time the price in days to come? These drink
To fortune, progress, and better days; these Sadducees of success
Attract millennia condensed within a briefer purse of seams
And hedges, hems round all for whom and what dreams
Of self and eternity? Beauty;s forplay and something’s earned but divine redress
Requires questions in the hours to come, those latter thoughts of distress
And wonder on some encounter in the looming longest night of nothingness,
Nemesis in paeans, time and endless waiting; rhymes are stress
Enough! these poesies and all that scansion in between lie flat, a wilderness
Of costs in hasty elevation of hymns that breathe the urge to to right a wrong
While in the time it takes to read this ode, its pen is dead and gone…

la plume de ma tante, indeed!

…art by Nick McKnight…