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
I withdraw so easily, or waking, dream
So soon as labour in the day ill-advised
Through doors whether in and out with nothing analysed,
Nothing tasted, nothing binding. Early minutes’ quiet gleaned
From what I see, Rorschach patterns reckon ends bit off before
I’ve done the deed. Salutations to the daylight in the darkness
Knowing light my only threat. I seek no rest
And simply wave my rights before I hit the bathroom door.
Another matin ritual and by the time I see the streets
My spirits rise to the anthem of invasion. papers purchased an there
When no one hears me enter ( no one saw me leave; no one’s left
Who remembers where I stood before it all–the cleft
Between the morning after and the afternoon before–the air,
The pavement, strokes of something like a sidewalk drawing note
That I arrived in time to beat the elect but somehow never voted.