“He Is Not Lonely”
He is not lonely in his latter years, but of course he is alone.
On every street, along the pavement stones, his former goals
Address him; seasoned rites, they see in him but embers of their weary souls;
Natural heat all but spent and while desires linger, then enfold,
These few internal disciples succumb at last, albeit all but smother in the coils.
They sleep; he sweats. Yes, his eyes behold their darkest thoughts revealed,
Their inner dialogues people mirrors piercing heavy hearts as sealed
As are their paths; they, his sunshine; he, their rain. As so much wax will spoil
The wick, such sudden flooded flames extinguish hope for lasting light and pain
Is promised in its measured time. He’s always known his fuels’re ever drained
As sparks delight but cannot linger longer than a single song’s refrain,
Since all beacons and their oils retain the finite need in time to cool again.
Votive candles here upon the altar yield no greater price
Than that their flames in beauties share but prayers; their gifts, their sacrifice.
One breathes to read, or so the ancients say, and what mighty gales perfume
The nothingness of air and thence enhance the wit? The writ, no certain proofs,
And so on, and so forth, notwithstanding that, far beyond this, refutes
What dross in foregatherings may accrue from natural luminaries to but fumes
From either, and to the point, hyperbole. Perhaps, it’s true, but then again books
Bear genesis from what’s overlooked while the wise collect their residue.
So great an urge to be at one within oneself cannot be soothed
So easily nor guided nor delayed for want of kairos. The gods took
Ease of access from Eastern mists to proclaim the roof
Of life to be a satisfaction gleaned from lust and table scraps. For Greeks,
The holiness of Eros tendered resignations to disorder;
the source of oracles and distant sparsely peopled creeks
And icy streams in time gave form to Mighty Ganges and the Mother of all Truth
That we are not what we so loudly claim. For light ignites the flames
That burn away the veils as we ascend to God by way of all His Holy Names.
…painting above by Oleg Shuplyak…
Posted in Age, Aging, Eros, Ganges, Greeks, Holy Names, Hyperbole, Imagery, Imagism, Independence, Kairos, Lyric Poetry, Poem, Poetry, Sonnet, Sonnets, Wit
Tagged Age, Aging, Double Sonnet, Existence, Imagery, Imagism, Immortality, Kairos, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Poem, Sonnet, Sonnets, Tragic Flaw
…a revision of the poem…
Swept aside, all moments and celestial mementos collide
And waste no never-mind on credence and retention
In the wake of greater cosmic rinds and supine celestial reflection.
Mortality by definition lies; not so through what histories imply
But in the daily interaction of missives from the Goal
And penultimate ilunga * of the Source or
Sanctions of interaction in the triumphant triad of the coarsest
Ores of time, of space, and all that matters. Time, the cosmic linen folds
Of space and active order; space, the theatre of experience at the heart
Of the observer; matter, but an audience, a phenomena in passive
Active shadows of Creation and its nemesis. Simplicity is massive,
Complexity but a word; a question’s languages are art
And science while the answers form the pathos and the abstract.
What is more pathetic than to be and yet be nothing in the act?
Simplicity in the classic form requires
The prefects of a perfect vacuum
Combined in such a way as compliments the acumen
Of a strident meme, the jealous zeitgeist, tests that to the whole inspire
An urgent need to pause, to linger over bodies no longer really there,
A little more than a half a generation’s substance in a given time.
So granted this, so beautifully and tragically resigned,
Aloud comes the elegies of episodes to “Move along!”or “Retire!”
With such a cry inscribed, there was and always is
A here and there in rapid profit worshipped, fierce
As gallstones of desperation: “This, our chosen age, rehearsed
Upon a cross of memories little more than lyrics of an ancient tryst!”
And, equally, the many crowned and catalogued, remain aloof
Through symmetries of perfection in a sacred dynasty of embroidered truth.
*The word is ilunga, 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
Posted in Affirmation, Age, Aging, Antithesis, Arts, Buddhism, Change, Classic, Cycles, Double Sonnet, Elegies, End Times, Ends, Generations, Hubris, Hustlers, Hyperbole, Idolatry, Matrix, Meme, Memory, Negation, Nostalgia, Numinosum, Pathos, Poetry, Posterity, Pragmatism, Pyrrhic Victory, Relativity, Retirement, Samsara, Sciences, Seasons, State of Being, Stations, Synthesis, Thesis, To be or not to be, Tragic Flaw, Tshiluba, Yearning, Zeitgeist
Tagged Double Sonnet, Lyric Poetry, Sonnet, Sonnets