“She Rests”

“She Rests”

She rests a little while, no need to take a number,
(No one’s in the waiting room) and there’s no line,
No reason in the recipe, no season in the rhyme.
Her spices whisper balances and spells and wonder:
her documents remain unsigned.
She’s not brought you to this moment bearing
Gifts, providing counterpoint to what is naturally defined.
No mystic declaration, no pieces placed to catalogue;
No salamander nursing smouldering fires, mystic fogs
To move the marker trifles to the left; she aligns
The edges, rescues symmetry from chaos in the thing,
Declines to offer comment while she muses on a mood ring.

…sculpting at top by Sheila Œtinger…

“They Might Have Opened All the Doors”

…again, in honour of the Blessed Event commemorated on this day…Bahá’ís throughout the world commemorate this evening after sundown and tomorrow the Declaration of The Báb, the Forerunner, the Prophet-Founder of the Bahá’í Faith, Whose purpose was to prepare the world for the imminent appearance of Bahá’u'lláh the Promise of All Ages and Religions and Founder of the Bahá’í Faith. The declaration of His mission on earth came in the early evening hours of 23 May 1844 when He declared His Advent to the first of the believers in His Faith.

“Whom do you claim to be,” he asked the Báb, “and what is the message which you have brought?” “I am,” thrice exclaimed the Báb, “I am, I am, the promised One! I am the One whose name you have for a thousand years invoked, at whose  mention you have risen, whose advent you have longed to witness, and the hour of whose Revelation you have prayed God to hasten. Verily I say, it is incumbent upon the peoples of both the East and the West to obey My word and to pledge allegiance to My person.”

—The Dawn-Breakers, p. 316

The Báb (1819-1850)

House of The Báb in Shiráz, Irán [destroyed by Muslims in recent years

On May 23, 1844, in Shiráz, Persia, a young man known as The Báb announced the imminent appearance of the Messenger of God awaited by all the peoples of the world. The title “Báb” means “the Gate.” Although Himself the bearer of an Independent Revelation from God, The Báb declared that His purpose was to prepare mankind for this advent.

Swift and savage persecution at the hands of the dominant Muslim clergy followed this announcement. The Báb was arrested, beaten, imprisoned, and finally on July 9, 1850 was executed in the public square of the city of Tabríz. Some 20,000 of His followers perished in a series of massacres throughout Persia. Today, the majestic building with the golden dome, overlooking the Bay of Haifa, Israel, and set amidst beautiful gardens, is the Shrine where The Báb‘s earthly remains are entombed.

They might have opened all the doors; they might have paced the floors;
They might have seen His image somewhere in the dream or lingering
In atavistic traces of His family line, the graces, strong and nimble fingering
Upon the instrument, the shrill nib carving statues from the stone,
in voice a thousand rapturous scores.
They might have seen themselves beside Him somewhere there in the breach,
His sun’s withdrawal at implosion, His apogée at dusk approaching
Whispering luminosities, crescendi in the vibration in clefs defying
barriers and shibboleths, crouching
In scattered catacombs, beyond the reach
Of mortals East and all expectant worshipers at West, in haste ancipating
Bas-relief scrawled along the walls and fractured vents
up from the seabed of all humanity,
Famed and storied such that His arrival only rivalled Bethlehem’s nativity
And by appointment, lest the Great Announcement
failed to spawn a catholic antipathy.
With but a word, the pantheon of deities and vain imaginings
that once were stone
were given breath to stifle such precocity in letters as the pen
Cannot recall nor circumscribe: that night, the Nineteen found their mark
as lightning from East to West and back again.

…admittedly obscure, my few words here will find their meaning in the hearts of all Bahá’ís who know the significance of this day; to all the rest, I beg indulgence for these few hours…

43:1 Afterward he brought me to The Báb, even The Báb that looketh toward the East: 43:2 And, behold, Bahá’u'lláh came from the way of the East: and His voice was like a noise of many waters: and the earth shined with His glory.

43:3 And it was according to the appearance of the vision which I saw, even according to the vision that I saw when I came to destroy the city: and the visions were like the vision that I saw by the river Chebar; and I fell upon my face.

43:4 And Bahá’u'lláh came into the House by the way of The Báb whose prospect is toward the East.

Ezekiel

“What Granite Does Not Break”

“What Granite Does Not Break”

What granite does not break with the whisper of a reasoned word;
The season’s seed, what now were germ and planted long before
This station’s great arising at its first summons, atoms adorned
With struggle? Bruisèd sure, but upward blown the rumbling’s heard,
In lightning etched on thunder fractured walls, the cavern’s core,
And from that cradle’s mooring at the second call, the earthen floor
Of all that is this quest for drops condensed from prayers unfurled,
Whose form defies all reason. Time—a span of life—is all
There is to conquer else be swallowed in such storms devised―
As phantoms’ appetites for vanity, illusion, and the self and styled
To try imagined strengths and arrogance
before the third and last, and thus, the final call;
Recalled to life, and lives eternal in the
endless treasured journey-schools,
With opened ears, triumphant flight, and all despite
the earthbound croak of self-imprisoned fools.

“Une Cause Célèbre”

“Une Cause Célèbre“

Une cause célèbre is safe from harm and free
From all love’s pleasures earned, enjoined,
Apprised; he treasures peace purloined,
And surgically removed from hosts’ relief
From aristocracy’s hypocrisies through deft
And public disclosure in the motive; sophists sigh
That virgin sensibilities, blatant lies
And all that wisdom drained  (effects of theft)
No longer fools the wise, nor warns the fool:
He simply walks away, displays no sympathy;
For wounded pride, antithesis, antipathy
For suckers born each day. His embers cool
Within the semblance of truth: dismay,
Reaction realized, the catalyst will steel away.

…painting by Honoré Daumier…

“She Left for Paradise”

“She Left for Paradise”

She left for paradise just the yesterday
Admitted freely through an unlocked door,
A chance escape from where she was to just above the second floor,
Or possibly to the attic or the basement, at any rate away
Thank God, from where she thought she was while nothing gleaned
From nothing’s not that different and labelling’s all the same–
Even heaven must have names.
She stops by some disaffected spa, a coffee bar
To reconnoitre–cats do this. Something
Cold or hot, it makes no difference in the clutch
Of notions chosen wisely for the subway; nothing much,
But once arrived, the touch to give the right appearance–rings
And bracelets, no, but, yes, an i-Phone–finds a vacant chair within the class.
And while she sits, her thoughts are peach fuzz, powdered, smooth.
She’s posed a thousand questions placing each
Within a different light, a different wrap,
Disguises subtle as the traps
Devised for God-knows-why, and meant to reach
The station of a star not unlike her own; to hit the spot,
Delight, to actuate the possibilities:
An infinite momentum in the finite plausibilities,
Intransitive infinitives on the screen and incense lit with tiny candles hot
To touch, but only in the instant. Or while she waits perhaps
A second gilded thought is clearly written on the pristine ceiling
To make a wash of brackish classroom backgrounds, bleed
The many colours on the furthest wall to one when what is apt
To run is total loss of memory, samsara gleaned from evening pains,
And canvases measured not in strokes, but languid drops of rain.

“Hatchling”

“Hatchling”

The implication here is from the ancient; flee, then, hatchling, see to it
In some sweeter novice, some slight discretion, some light elective. Festoon’t,
Then, the nowly constructed, bought in haste, a fine young cocoon,
In binding shrouds’ thrice millions iron-silken chits
That glitter, blind those bloodless tones with proper milk, drawn through
Finely fashioned sleuce and straw arranged beyond your knowledge long before
You ever had a name. I knew you well before you were. I, myself, have worn
The vice-connecting tethers and gaudy ribbons flowing loose—
A wandering, breathing hydra gorging—presaged fate, itself. Without your eyes
You’ll discover soon enough your middle and latter twenty doubled, twice
Again! and thoughts of me will be distant memories’ banquets summoned by
Exclusions festering in mirrored eyes of fond admirers (sound advice)
From your graceless passion-grasping salad days. Their winking votive candles
Fire all in be-all Vegas chapels with or without witnesses and guests
amid all those clinking glasses and clacking sandals

“Sonnet in Honour of the Feast of `Azamat or “Grandeur’”

Bahá’ís throughout the world gather this evening after sunset or tomorrow before sunset within the First Day of the Month of `Azamat [Grandeur] to celebrate the first day of the Bahá’í Month of `Azamat.

As if we can not be denied nor satisfied, we never quite say enough.
Spoils, the pain of living fêted, foils in which we grope and grow
As serious as honeybees, as laborious as ladybugs indifferent as they know
Their daily bread and signs depend not on commerce but industry. Rough
Terrain, yes! but praise no matter what may be the trappings.
The cause is paramount, practitioners partition tracks of land
And sacrifice themselves in the finding—as do mountains inevitably to sand
Or are simply swept away in time along the delta seashores lapping.
Random landings shoulder makeshift homes with open arms
Along the scores of symphonies, a little high amid the treble, alarming
All that’s bass—too many notes, perhaps—but not for the proud volcano.
Gifts in memory or dreams, men now somehow reign in stars and haloes.
Even so, it’s not so much the harvest in files but humanity sheds a light
On God’s humility in grandeur’s breath that gives all that blossoms life.

“Idyll of the Notes”

“Idyll of the Notes”

Idyll of the notes: strike the first, then close the second; together,
Hail propinquity, call a third to birth a melody:
From nothing more, strange grace.  Thoughts become celebrity
In congress with emotion in the progress—tethered,
Binding doubled, redoubled—repeated over time,
A saturated affair, approbation
With solemnities, an aspiration
Quickened within a rhyme
Of mere coincidence and proclivities; a leaning
Toward an accidental brilliance, plaudits gleaned
From union and fresh existence and what seem
At first but three streaks’ slight in plaited harmony gleaming,
Potential fugues’ intrinsic affinities drawn from thin air.
Purity of heart inspires the masterpiece and who bears its weight?
At once in lieu of action words foolishly assure themselves it’s not too late.
Without the chill of intellect, there can be no intensity, no heat;
Without emptiness, what, then, is required,
Nothing lacking; nothing is inspired,
Nothing dreamt if in the night there is no sleep.
No path; no looming future present if there is no past,
No memory, no hint of satisfaction where discomfort
Is not found; no unity displaces discord
Where envy or the trial of jealousy cannot last.
Where the comely courage of Perseus if
No Medusa, no Tiresias, no hindsight sorely missed;
No hint of blush in virgins, whose innocence is kissed
And gone for evermore. Richer the magnitude of precious gifts
If lovers prove untrue; the straight line lies and light will bend
Where eternities cannot be seen beyond the beginning and the end.

…art work at top by Paul Pinkman…

“As Summer Gains”

“As Summer Gains”

As summer gains, Ophelia’s hours heighten in the weeds
Of something special strolling in the halls as her sweet prince recalls
The love they might have had and what conceals the serpent in the walls.
In daily season’s advents loyally are born fresh notions, spring’s sweet wheats,
Reminders of promissory notes to the many for whom they strive.
Given such gratuities, these comings’ true returns exact a toll where Piping Fates
Shed seeds of future cares and carelessness that takes
Exception to themselves. What they are is mirrored in the rising suns as trials,
Lethargy, fatigue, the burdens and annual fruits of winter fade. These fresh disks
Do not forget the coming harvests to be gathered, first in sudden growing sleeves
On gracious grateful trees, then in planted bounty crops that nothing grieves,
Their season’s fruits secured, their lofts restocked, and to these ends their bliss.
When Ophelia’s gown grows grappling heavy as it must, desire melds to peace:
In time she’ll choose an autumn’s leave, the end of love and Hamlet on his knees.

“She Suspects He Knows”

“She Suspects He Knows”

She suspects he knows the truth, sows it openly before
His eyes. “It’s thoughts,” she says, “that are the enemies
And ideas that spin the winning remedies
For now, for ever and all my yesterdays. So more’s
The search for leaves of print and fresher mantras soaked in peace
And love, and marinated in the blessing of a sage
Albeit the `carrot’ seems to curry rage
And disappears down the rabbit hole to please
The bleachers, the preachers and those who `know’ the age!”
She bought the book, retired to read, and strove
To keep the incense burning on the stove,
Or is it called an altar, now, or is it time to disengage?
The lonely trap to truth is through the mind;
From mind to heart’s the bridge to what she’ll never find.

…painting at bottom by Egon Schiele…