“Swept Aside”

“Swept Aside”

Swept aside; moments and celestial movements collide
And waste no never-mind for credence and retention
In the wake of greater cosmic rinds and supine moot reflection.
Mortality lies; not so, what histories provide
But in the daily interaction of missives from the Goal
And penultimate illunga * of the Source or
Sanctions of reaction to the triad of coarser
Ores of time, space, and matter. Time, an active order within the folds
Of space; space, the arena of experience within the heart
Of the observer; matter, phenomena in the passive
And reactive shadow of Creation and its antithesis. Simplicity is massive,
Complexity’s absurd; the question’s languages are art
And science while those of answers gloat on pathos and the abstract.
What is more pathetic than to be and yet be nothing in the act?

*The word is illunga, 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


2 responses to ““Swept Aside”

  1. “…waste no never-mind for credence and retention
    In the wake of greater cosmic rinds and supine celestial reflection.”

    “waste no never-mind” is a beautiful phrase that falls in on itself…
    The whole quote above makes me see faux philosophers………
    “…the coarse
    Ores of time, space, and matter.”

    This is fantasmagorically wonderful 🙂
    “…space, the arena of experience within the heart
    Of the observer…”

    You’ve hit on a deep Truth here…………………………………….
    “…a gallstone of desperation…”

    Brilliant phrase!!
    “This, our chosen age, is rehearsed
    Upon a cross of memories little more than lyrics of an ancient tryst!”

    This brings bitter-sweet memories and raises tired hackles at the task of watching the world fall apart………
    “…symmetries of perfection in the timeline of embroidred truth.”

    This drives home, painfully and deep, my feeling expressed above–“brings bitter-sweet memories and raises tired hackles”

    • You have once more hit the nail on the head! If anyone were foolish enough to presuppose that clarity of thought and even the sort of vision that is the natural by-product of having been immersed in the unerring results of the Pen of Bahá’u’lláh for over four decades is a piece of cake, they obviously missed the point in the misfortunes of Cassandra at Troy; as visionary, as prescient as she appeared to be, she was forced to lived through the denial of her entire family and the whole of the city even to the point of thinking her mad, on the one hand, and, on the other, that she witnessed the death and fall of everyone whom she had warned and the demise of her city’s sovereignty. It can be no different for any least Bahá’í who sees plainly the ravages of the critical mass of humanity that has arrogantly refused even to glance at the Source of every ounce of progress made since that blessed Declaration of His Holiness The Báb but loudly proclaims the wonders of what was so abundantly blessed in knowledge, evolution, and progress throughout the whole of the 20th Century and even into the present as if the entire spectrum of the present were the result of some spontaneously combusted collage of accident or even of “natural selection.” What joy to know the truth; what utter sadness to see its Source so little.

      I prayed for you and others from Illinois south to Texas with the storms of the last two days. Yates Center, Kansas, my mother’s home town, was spared, but not so, St. John, Kansas, and of course Joplin, Missouri, an extremely important town in that part of Missouri and even into the extreme southeast corner of Kansas. And of course, the whole of northern Oklahoma and Arkansas was not spared. What I heard over and over again was gratitude to God for being spared; for those families who were not spared, of course, this total loss of life and entire physical or material wealth of whole families in a time already weighted by economic recession. Reminders are everywhere there that nothing in this world is so designed and constructed as to be enviable. God help them all.


      P. S. I had to revise a word or two of this poem; its origin was from some time ago, but its final form could not possibly have been brought together until the present. Frankly, writing that thing was something close to the imagined feeling of being in the presence of a tornado. All realities seem so “coarse” in the face of the powers and beyond of God’s Creation.

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