The many who remain to wait
Silently for some benign constriction in the state
Of things, some sinister situation in the molten core
Of what it is they hope that God forgets to do or say.
Oh, yes. There are the borders to defend,
Concessions, lights within the processed prisms bend
And warp–so many suns are strong–schemes to calculate
With nests to build and chicks to feed,
but come the harvest, guests, the gathering
And celebration, the stories to be sold across the newsstands of the land,
The hands all sit here waiting with the others in the band
And ask themselves why grace and bounty seem so much like common tragedy
When in the once desired brilliance of the promised summer’s yield
The time for satisfaction never comes and the crop’s left in the field.
Posted in Change, Chaos, Cycles, Death, Ecology, God, Greed, Lyric Poetry, Materialism, Poem, Poetry, Samsara, Sonnet, State of Being, Tragedy
Tagged Economy, End Times, Existence, Lyric Poetry, Sonnet, Strife, Tragic Flaw
Bahá’ís throughout the world gather today within the First Day of the Month of Kamál [Perfection] to celebrate the first day of the Bahá’í Month of Kamál.
“Sonnet in Honour of the Feast of Kamál or “Perfection”
Perfections and brief mortality lag for moments in a guarantee
Beyond the waiting grave; even in the womb, fluctuations
At the departure gate defy instinct and extinction in comic reproduction
Of the maelstrom. Carnivores in chaos renew the glaring tragedies
Of immortality as does sleep, a nightly purgative to all dreams.
Propinquity reviewed in bold idyllic matter turns matter to energies
In physical perception, penned at the pleasure of humanity–
The beverage curious and exotic–the poets’ ink ensuring every species’
Flourishing beyond the naked flesh of bodies in the simple rite of birth.
Apoapsis and the periapsis of the peoples’ need from the outer steppes
Of gravity and evolution to the thing desired,
re-created, wild and sculpted blossoms
Of the promise of ends in all beginnings,
millennia, themselves but steps
beyond the fallible suspicion of man or book,
the good shaman’s vain and futile search.
Yet even here, the contemplation
of a bowl of hemlock, perhaps to think:
If I fast forever, so will I dream as long;
and if I thirst forever,
Then, as surely I will someday drink.
Posted in Beverage, Birth, Blossoms, Carnivores, Chaos, Dreams, Evolution, Extinction, Fast, Grave, Gravity, Hemlock, Idyllic matter, Immortality, Ink, Instinct, Maelstrom, Millennia, Mortality, Naked flesh, Perfection, Poet's ink, Poetry, Propinquity, Purgative, Shaman, Thirst, Tragedy, Womb
Order comes to counter what’s been settled
In the extra room. Chaos speaks: eyes today
Stray south to storms in brew, but thoughts at play
Are not contiguous. Reminder! kettle’s
On, and minutes from the inspiration,
Coffee, and that special toast
I’d meant to have with friends.
No, there’ll be no invitations sent
Today, but in these simple transportations
Warm reminders to the nose.
Seize the season, sit back, smile, and savour
Silence in the afternoon and windblown flavours
Wafting in like ghosts of days long petrified—the rose,
For instance, the night I found that message taped to my front door.
I tossed the flower on the table and read the note right there on the floor.
Posted in Age, Aging, Chaos, Coffee and toast, Imagery, Imagism, Kettle, Lyric Poetry, Nostalgia, Poem, Poetry, Rose, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets
Tagged Age, Aging, Autumn, Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Relationships, Sonnet, Sonnets
“Yes, Of Course”
Yes, of course, until the consummate act;
That short sweet penultimate gust of wind’s a hurricane
If given half a chance; your word of caution, one’s whispered vain
Imagining breathed from one lost soul to yet another seals a pact
That places infinite variation at naught before the fact
And utter chaos in the glossary. The perfectly inane
Remains so long as everyone understands the midnight train
No longer runs its comforts here between abandoned stations
Formerly retained withal despite the costs and weathered till the waiting
Wooden benches are no longer polished to a shine by anxious travellers’
Backsides, these who only yesterday were soberly assured by cavillers
In all sincerity, “There’s greater worth to companies than to nations;
More to gain from printing presses than revenue beyond debating.”
Posted in Cavillers, Chaos, Comforts, Consummate act, Corperations, Debate, Glossary, Gust of wind, Hurricane, Infinite variation, Midnight train, Nations, Poetry, Printing press, Stations, Train, Travellers, Wind, Wooden benches, Word of caution
Tagged Delusion, End Times, Lyric Poetry, Sonnet, Sonnets
…dedicated to the many who wonder what’s become of all that is and where the bottom is…
“‘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.
“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
“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
Posted in Affirmation, Animal, Arts, Change, Chaos, Civilisation, Distraction, Duplicity, End Times, Family, Hubris, Hypocrisy, Isolation, Lonliness, Mankind, Materialism, Mediocrity, Mortality, Negation, Poets, Reunion, Separation, Willaim Shakespeare [1564-1616]
Tagged Immortality, Love, Lyric Poetry, Relationships, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets
“Two of Them”
Two of them apprised will rise while only one survives;
The first, a germ like any other, in the second,
Excellence as loving makes it so. She reckons
Life in paragraphs and chapters, derives
Pleasure in the phrase, itself–in leisure lies
The notion of posterity, the fecund
Last and lonely station of a book—the legend
More important than the fact, the spies
Than what is spied upon. Where there are three
The Chinese say, some one of them must be a teacher.
Let both in compromise find refuge in the third
That one may truly love, the other form the words
Recording signs and sighs of mystery
And ritual and yet another sermon for the preacher.
“He allowed himself to be swayed by his conviction that human beings are not born once and for all on the day their mothers give birth to them, but that life obliges them over and over again to give birth to themselves.”
Gabriel José de la Concordia Garcia Márquez [1927 -- ]
Love in the Time of Cholera
Posted in Affirmation, Antithesis, Change, Chaos, Creativity, Evolution, Love, Numinosum, Poetry, Preacher, Pyrrhic Victory, Relationships, Selflessness, Stations, Synthesis, Teacher, Thesis, Writing
Tagged Lyric Poetry, Sonnet
With balances between necessity and plan–
The wife, the work, the friend–the three provide
A triad of security, and adjuncts to the ego, His swollen will at once subsides
Of course yet in collision, profusion in the offspring of propinquity. A man’s
Foundation will subdue or soften accidental fears, and nearly all confusion.
Men and wives unite to qualify the sanctity of introspection in both their lives.
The right hand knows what’s in the rites of progeny; the left, the hive’s
Eternal invocation, and mutual rapport from positive judicial collusion
Attracts the light within a close exchange and intercourse. With the friend–
The natural measure–labours then ordained support the whole
Of both the man and all that he can be, the sum of wife, friend, and all his roles,
Holy ballast in the ship, in surest navigation on a line of progress to the end.
The rudder his, so, too velocity, and all his energy: he breathes
First in then out in perfect ease and knows what he’s achieved.
Posted in Balance, Chaos, Family, Fidelity, Poetry, Relationships, Service
Tagged Friend, Lyric Poetry, Sonnets, Wife, Work
Anxiety brings to mind a smile, a certainty
That what is good is merely stalled
On sidetracks to avoid collision, the call
To order from the ethereal unseen; eternity
Does not disappear with so little provocation
As a disagreement, a suspicion of a difference
Of opinion, or what appears to be interference
Even to the very gates of defeat. The invocation,
“Thus far and no father!” is but a station’s stop
And not a terminal carved in destiny.
Nor is it understood to be a bending of the knee
To anything short of order in the chaos and the melée. The shop
Is closed when systems fail and nothing lasts forever:
Where there is place and time, re-creation pulls the levers.