Category Archives: Gravitas

“The Phrase”

Hazel Reeves3

 

“The Phrase”

The phrase transcends the pen withdrawn
And so, too, the movement in and of itself.
The notebook’s filled, volumes line the shelf
And there upon a winter’s night, the low straw
Wins and he reviews the lot and finds the flaw
In each. Perhaps a word crossed out, a gulf
In time allows a light to objectivity less the self.
And when the wheel stops, the law
Of averages condemns the thing to sit there
Once again, forgotten, anonymous as a star
That far away, explodes with fireworks
That would consume a galaxy—matter gone berserk—
Ignite and what had no energies now amassed, a pregnant flare
Until at last, one starry night, a whisper reaches earthly ears.
Just so, the incomplete, the Word to words and back again
Traverse the gap as the task of phonemes
Aspires to ascend to higher stations, morphemes
Honoured in this natal happy path. Observe:
Throughout the zodiac of conscious meaning
Stars that matter to velocities in galaxies
Reborn inspire genitive ignition in the gravity
Of natural wisdom’s past and present leaning
To fruition in what was always meant to be.
The moon, in its phase; the sun, its angry season,
The poet writes within a pendulum of forces, reason
Bound, but nonetheless eternal mysteries
Revealed as the Ancient of Days calls behind the present hour
Words from phrases only time, distance and the pen can devour.
As the audience is eternal, so, too, what will compel
The heart and mind to ideal calligraphy; the wordsmith’s nod
Secure. And as “the source of all learning is the knowledge of God,”*
So, too, the gravitas of the nib cannot be silenced, nor the muse expelled.

Hazel Reeves2

*Bahá’u’lláh, “Words of Wisdom”, Tablets of Bahá’u’lláh

…pieces of scupture by Hazel Reeves...

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“The Changeling’s Off”

“The Changeling’s Off”

The changeling’s off degrees from centre stage;
Regrets but he neglects quitting early, spurns all but firm resolve
To be what he must be and in evasion and denial dissolves
In endless traction in the newborn age
That leaves him far behind,…or so he dreams.
He is the less for it; it’s true, but greater in the breach,
He leaps or lunges toward such goals as were never his, the reach
Beyond what was intended only days ago. Hours, he deems
His monumental costs delayed as what amount to pearls strung, displayed–
Themselves but miniatures, schemes so grandiose that rival truest choice
In actions innocuously exposed as are his works that cannot find a voice–
The either side of which are more commanding than the plays,
Themselves, no more nor less demanding on the patronage of audience:
Such bubble baths of bathos spawn endless hopes, awash in incidental arrogance
and to within an inch of anger and doomed, perhaps, to decadence.
“The child’s fallen through the cracks,”
They say, and sure, he knows it! Neither factions
Nor an infinity of purple lines, nor silence as a sanction
bring his thinking past the moment of attack,
The root, the centre of delight and gravitas
And at that age? Amazing! Teachers raise
Their hands and he applauds the praise
Of cause to no effect. He will salute the animas
Of every passing spark without a thought
To ground the notion. Lightning strikes
Inevitably–obverse of confirmation– to light
A path to pains that cannot be contained nor bought
And wonders how it is that others neither flatten nor allay
His ignorance and, leaving, lay to waste his salad days,.
The catalysts detached, and safe from harm and apathy
Reduce integrities to nothing more than sport. Liabilities, he earns; enjoined
Or praised: he treasures troubled space but only when purloined,
And, bowing low, he surgically removes the parasites of hosts. Relief
From all that’s supine trumps perception of the hand that’s dealt with deft
Disclosure hidden in the modus. Others merely operate and analyse;
The oil they seek is crude; his sensibilities refine the blatant lies,
And all those wisdoms as from boils are drained. The bereft
No longer fool the wwise, nor falsely warn the fool!
His simple confidence entrapped, he walks away, displays no sympathy
For maudlin sentiment, and, drowned–as was Voltaire!–
in trivial pursuit, antithesis, and antipathy,
He confidently scorns all suckers born upon  A ferial day; the hours cooled
In cauldrons, the stench of raw indifference is masked in nosegay;
Satisfactions realized, the succubus smiles and simply steals away.