I withdraw so easily, or waking, dreamed
So soon as laboured in the day ill-advised
Through doors whether in or out with nothing analysed,
Nothing ostracised, nothing blind. Early minutes’ quiet gleaned
From what I see, Rorschach patterns reckoned ends bit off before
The deeds were quite done. Salutations to the daylight in the darkness
Knowing light my only threat. I sought no rest
But simply waved my rights before I’d hit the bathroom door.
Another matin ritual and by the time I see the streets
My spirits rise to the anthem of inversion, papers purchased and there
When no one hears me enter (no one saw me leave; no one’s left
Who remembers where I stood before the fall–the cleft
Between the morning after and the afternoon before–the air,
The pavement, strokes of something like a sidewalk drawing, noted.
I’ve arrived in time to beat the elect but somehow never voted.)
Posted in Age, Aging, Detachment, Dichotomy, Disappearance, Double Sonnet, Dream, End, Lyric Poetry, Poetry, Sonnet
Tagged Age, Aging, Detachment, End Times, Existence, Imagism, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, poetry, Sonnet, Tragic Flaw, Wisdom
Bahá’ís throughout the world gather this evening after sunset or tomorrow before sunset to celebrate the first Day of the Bahá’í Month of ‘Ilm [Knowledge]…
“Sonnet in Honour of the Feast of ‘Ilm or`Knowledge'”
What he knows is what he tells himself,
What Êblis whispers to him, what unfolds
Within; which is to say there’s no Golden
Ratio beside what’s stored so neatly on the shelves;
Which is to say that knowledge forms his selves
In all there is, all that can
Be earned, and later learned; which is to say this man’s
Passions’ orison’s once removed from childhood’s saturated wealth
Is innocence abused, its light’s defused, dissolving into ruins at the edge
Of his own mother’s womb to repeat the keys and chords of Cain. His test,
A recurring scream; his dreams in ruins, the colony is resettled. Let it rest.
And cease the plaintiff cry for more when the ore and samples’ core
survives the crucibles’ age-old pledges.
Light resolves to virtue, fire to vice; what, then, but God’s own spittle
Can be so disparate from heaven…or in the end can the Golden Calf from hell achieve so very little?
Posted in Êblis, Cain, Childhood, Chords, Crucible, Dream, Golden Calf, Golden Ratio, Innocence, Keys, Knowledge, Lyric Poetry, Ore, Orisons, Passion, Plaintiff, Pledges, Poetry, Scream, Self, Sonnet, Spittle, Tests, Womb
Tagged Age, Aging, Existence, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Sonnet, Tragic Flaw