Tag Archives: Immortality

“A Single Digit’s Secret”

Energy

“A Single Digit’s Secret”

A single digit’s secret is the outward sign, then two; begin again
And all becomes nothing. Friction is the willing conversation of the elements,
Induction, intertwined interpolations; equity, evidence
Of heat expressed in growth and progress, in the main
A corner filigrée cut of crude credulity. Intelligence,
The Sculptor; magnificence, the Marble; both unknown
And evanescent. Potentials―crops and fruits―are honed
From ancient scans in sands and recipes, and what is sent
To press or put to bed eludes both novelty and ingenuity.
The poet knows what cycles reconnoitre in redux and La Ronde.
What will be has always been while what is seen
Is simple resurrection but with a difference, credulity
In the repeat, as when immortal rumours couched in histories set
Themselves as precedents while external forces hedge their bets.

“I Found Someone”

headache-quinn.anya_

“I Found Someone”

I found someone breathing as if to pray.
No prayer, of course, no sign, no moon, no stars, but silence—
Calm to souls and solace in crisis
Of questions—so many hopes absurd and loosely bound.  What’s payed they say
Gives animas to eternity. shielding simple fear from terror’s
Bid to amaze. I would not ask outright, I had no right, then,
I take flight, taut in twilight when
From weedy wordless cancers’ branches—errors,
Really, to the whole–to innocence conjures lasting alibis,
Superfluous sentinels ever come to rest, fruits of thought-oppressed
Violence. enough that vine and wine is produced—inebriation of more from less,
A wrath, the test of what some old man surely spoke. Patient bluest sighs
Among sparrows egg him on while sitting on a porch swing, wisdoms all at once:
“Make peace with the Fathers,” says he, “prepare to flee the Sons.”

“Oh, I know”

“Oh, I know”

Oh, I know it”s been said before but bears repeating:
Unless a man embrace estates, his sense
Of eternity, his gifts of endless strife and goals of regret intense
Enough to merit periodic casual to shameless open weeping
In the corridors; unless the deadly abyss of every night’s sleeping’s
Prone to breach and rupture within his dreams or by the clock;
unless ‘neath the lens,
His page is thus combustible by the light focused upon a spot,
his joy depends
On something well beyond his own heart’s contumely,
his gates–his paradise, his weeping–
Fall well beyond the storehouse of his eyes and its catalogue of fears,
His light is changed to fire in tragedy and myths of talismans that guide his way.
Again, unless all this is welcomed well before the final hour, his pride will swell,
His vanity implode, and circumstance becomes
a euphemism for all he sees as hell.
Remember please that breath and breathing signify that death is ever near
And in these final years, satisfaction’s just another word for nothing left to pay.

“I Am”

“I Am”

I am my feet, or my history tells me so;
My shins; dexterity amid the rocks reveal it may be true;
My thighs; their balance in distraction sees me through
Illusions at the level of the  groin’s most pernicious foes,
Receptacles as voids in need of better news; and though
I am my mother’s navel, my father’s love left so many similar clues—
The evangel to what was otherwise ignored—that the view
In any given moment’s blocked.  Here, then, my heart maintains its flow
In reasonable annuity, and I’ll be damned if I am weak,
But if you ask my legs, you’ll find a sometime potent posse,
Nothing else. My once proud pectorals could
Never act alone―as if they thought they should―
But laboured twice the time for heartfelt evidence
That given time I would succeed―
And so I have as I can plainly see.
I am my eyes whose rivals in the ears
At times have overcome the world and all its fears,
But though twice born view both here and our eternity
I see but vanity served that while I eat, I hesitate and feed
On noise and what is after all experience in arrears.
I am my mind; “Cogito!”— the mantra’s cadence shows as through the years
I’ve dined on fine receipts and tallies that what I meant most certainly should be
The outcome of all my powers to deduce a spark from what I’ve seen,
A truth in what I’ve done and glean from what I’m told I’ve been
  This, despite  what I know I am,…but let that pass. I am
In fact conceit, itself, and in its place I stand
And where I sit and both but simple remedies to all I’ve gleaned:
“I am,” the Ancient Sage made replied, and “that I am,” shall be
a fleeting moment’s apostrophe to truth and not at all what I believe.

*********

3:14 And God said unto Moses, I AM THAT I AM: and He said, Thus shalt thou say unto the children of Israel, I AM hath sent me unto you.
Exodus

“The Underside”

…dedicated to the many who wonder what’s become of all that is and where the bottom is…

“The Underside”

“‘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.

Once

“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
Virginia Woolf
[1882-1941]

“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

“Lest We Despair”

midnight1

“Lest We Despair”

Lest we despair, there are always wondrous souls
Who do not merely feed the ether, drain abundance,
Neuter actions, waste the oneness,
The common bounty with dalliance in quotidian goals.
So where lies the dignity of thin air, the drift, the all,
The strength, the constancy, the very point
Of light save in special souls adroit
In what it takes to make the least at nightfall?
Benchmarks will mark a life of thought and inspiration.
Luminaries allowing shelter in shades of night are not at all
Deterred or long delayed by the earth’s rotation nor do they stall
As prey to some glorious thrall but follow through to consummation.
The globe abounds in cycles, seasons and the daylight vulgar hours,
Kenotic moons to drown the noise of madness as the midnight flowers.

“Not That What It Is”

“Not That What It Is”

Not that what it is is what it is, but what’s occurred
Is yours and yours, alone, while you insist
That curses blessed are blessings on a sometime list
Of what’s been missed and what’s been left behind these hoary curls
Belongs to you and you alone. Bliss bereft within your world
Is what I am because I know what love isn’t and what’s dismissed
In what we can so easily resist. You’re too good to me in all of this;
I know because I’ll be leaving soon and we’ll be hurled
So far out there that none of what you said and what we did
Will be remembered further than a passing glance
Through pages in some anthology or in a leaden book
Of poems with a long brass chain and hook
That keeps the leisure hours from outright theft
Of memories and souvenirs of what was left
Of us before the curtain fell with no place else to dance.

“Perfections”

“Perfections”

Perfections may not last long in rarities
Of this air but there is a comfort brewing
In the taste, a passing glance in viewing
Where it is we came from, the disparities
Between less than nothing known–clarities
In gravitas notwithstanding–and eschewing
Voids and loudly damning first the bluing
Lapis of the granite’s core–the heart’s forever grieving–opportunities,
Then, to be or not to be in favour of a breath that simply is.


These richer blues turn to brilliant scarlet and the race is on;
Crimson rivers determine little but the goal
Allotted, beyond the present comes the darkest coal
That graces, liberates the delta’s fan and justifies its bliss
And many blame the violin but few the cello’s song.

Whatever anyone else says or does, I must be true to myself, just as if gold or emerald or the color purple would say, “Whatever anyone may do or say, I must be an emerald and keep my color.”
Marcus Aurelius Antoninus Augustus [121 - 180]

Meditations

“Sonnet in Honour of the Feast of Núr or `Light’”

Bahá’ís throughout the world commemorate tonight after sunset and tomorrow before sunset, the first day of the Month of Núr [Light]. To each and all, a beautiful Feast!

“Sonnet in Honour of the Feast of Núr or `Light’”

He is much more than what He attracts; refraction of it all,
In lucid words these polished mirrors,
This luminosity in splendourous waves
that soothe all blatant latent fears
Within spheres of objectivity;
smartly uniformed, high-buttoned, tall,
Erect and unembellished,
capital of some fine handwriting
Scribbled there along the temple walls.
Script, the random code found
Wanting notwithstanding bolder strokes
of solace and credulity crowned
In serifs; lightest lightning
strikes a newly seated summer’s sighting,
Calligraphy to the eyes, herald of eternity…
…to the beholder; what? there
Upon the Holy Cliff, His brow–
the spring from stiller waters, golden pools;
Yes, clues. Siren and alarm
made moot above the spools
and threads that agitate creation’s needles’ dance
and aggravate of what remains where
Once there was a void. He leaves His mark
and we remain the ghostly detail of the lace;
I need not tell you Whose the eyes,
Whose the illumined brow; I’ve seen His face.

Rumi
“Light and Shadow”

…Thou art the shadow of divine Light.
We are Thy shadow in this world.
Who has seen a shadow
separated from the Light?

Sometimes the shadow stays next to the Light.
Sometimes it disappears into the Light.
If it is next to the Light,
Light and shadow are equal to each other.
When it disappears,
it merges and unites with the Light…

When it realizes it’s disappearing,
the shadow grabs the Light tightly
with the hand of desire.
In order to have God’s radiance,
this desire takes him to God.

The story of the union and
separation of light and shadow never ends.

“Eddies”

“Eddies”


Eddies edge pools of stilled and darker waters
Seeking, touching near what I’ve yearned
To know and where it was I learned
To close my eyes to images, tattered patterns, charters
Leaning gently north and east from where
It all began; stillborn journeys of patience, winding,
Woven, stolid movement while in action, stillness, finding
Nothing farther here or there than when I felt the glare
Of anger in the stars, no closer goals than when the sun
Denies its heat and lifting shadows, flees righteousness far beyond
My shallow mysteries and inexperienced gaze. I pause now and then on a span
Of steps, draw sweet ease within, and remember when it was began to run.
Lungs no longer large enough,
no bellows’ voice above the braying throng
Remains; no breath sufficient housing for the word,
…no everlasting melody in song.
I might have shone so brightly with a little gumption,
Possibly a nudge or two from vested interests,
Kinder words or just perhaps a brighter world. My life suggests
As much and while the ëgo’s none the worse for wear, presumption
Rests with those who argue with their fate
While I’ve remained asking nothing of it. I’ve no axe to grind
In this fine valley; nothing close to envy comes to mind
In thinking on what might have been if fragments left in testate
Had been a touch more polished, more evenly refined. I rest my case,
It seems, on what so easily comes to pass,
And what does not. Others I’ve taught.
What lessons I designed or ought
To have devised were nothing if not meant to last
Beyond my station, even further far removed from glory
Than the width of my recurring shoes or the copyright of my story.

Photographs above by Josh Sanders…