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
“She Knows She Knows So Little”
She knows she knows so little and even fewer see,
Or should the inverse be to serve the world; magnified,
Then, be the sight, and keener still, the diligence and pursuit, the urge to fly,
To float intentions and the mere suggestion of abstracts launched in fleets
As questions never fail to rise; but of course, in this world there is no rest;
There’s always more. Questions spawning questions will
Suffice in futures’ nests and past residuals the contexts for still
Small voices just as bells from Hell will drown a lion’s roaring texts.
There are, of course, as always ready answers, waxed and chloroformed,
For sale in the offing here; she merely asks, her interrogatives seine
For truths that skim the natural foam of oceans or knead the stains
Of cold cognition as yeasts will burn in turn
to breads of thought more easily absorbed.
Within a single glyph, a cliff from which her past visions shrink and scorn;
If not from this ship, then yet another barque of endless thought is born.
…drawing at top by Elia Vzquez-daz-Belloso;
painting at bottom by Steve Mills…
Posted in glyphs, Imagery, Imagism, Knowledge, Lyric Poetry, Poem, Poetry, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets, Thoughts, Truths
Tagged End Times, Existence, Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Patience, Poem, poetry, Sonnet, Sonnets, Tragic Flaw
“I Thought to Tell You”
I thought to tell you this, but then I knew
That any hopeful thing I’d cause to say
Would only serve as an apostrophe until the day
You might repeat without doubt, without the usual effort; by then, you’ll
Require nothing, you’ll not lose a syllable nor waste yourself in thought,
No hesitation in the lobby, no strain or pain at all; you’d know
That what you see within this sunrise can only grow
And assail you where your greatest strength remains; knots,
Issues, nothing matters here but action whose crown is certitude.
Exigencies of the moment smile and while there are so many winds,
Ambitions, urges, still what is of value, truly, must begin
When it’s begun, not merely when its known. Truths
And givens: not so; time and place and fruition
Early rushed are soon eroded, lost in lust, and buried in fatuous decision.
Substantial dividends, the grasses have their roots
In wholes and overweening gluttony upon any great savannah;
A cipher to the needs of elephants but not necessarily the rude hyena.
Whether for foraging or bloodlust, the arguments are moot.
Someone said the speaker’s soiled himself or worse; he’s said nothing.
Really? Is this what we believe? But the audience sits rapt and listening,
And in his fevered silence Crito sits there bristling
In the sweat of final bows to egregious appeal and nothing
If not futile to the likes of Socrates. Tragedy in the choosing
Of an hour that never is and only seems to be
Remembers in itself a splendid sharp hypocrisy, a certain will to see
The light reduced to sparks and fire, kindling from stolen virtues
extinguished for the sake of mere illumination for the philistines, amusing
If you’re not the one who’s speaking, or the author of what amounts to treason:
Protagonists of wisdoms favouring knowledge above experience are
the nemesis of balance between what is common sense and what in fact is reason.
Posted in Certitude, Crito, Experience, Imagery, Imagism, Knowledge, Lyric Poetry, Philistines, Poem, Poetry, Samsara, Socrates, Sonnet, Sonnets
Tagged Certitude, Crito, Double Sonnet, Elephants, Experience, Hyenas, Knowledge, Lyric Poetry, Philistines, Poem, poetry, Relationships, savannah, Socrates, Sonnet, Sonnets, Tragic Flaw
Choices waste themselves in prolixity, the dusts
Of propagation and abuse whose mission misaligns the niche
Wherein we dwell undisturbed but nothing more. The rich
Find paths no less rough-hewn; trust
Me, prairie dust will choke the delicate machine.
Nomenclature, its ideal lubricant, gives life to meretricious schemes
And notions and rust to any fine tuned mind. Notwithstanding reams
Of notes and mental reservations noted in the margins, still it seems
Like such a shame to waste a fine Mercedes
On a cornfield. Gather and surmise, but leave the ploughing to the John Deere,
Levelling and landscape to the Caterpillar, and fear
Of people to the politicians; to the fox, his rabies;
To the gentle soul, serenities and the honour of his ordained station.
By faith and knowledge emotions breed, by certitude, pure elation.
A judicious pause, no more than what a second
Brings to contemplate the obvious
Confirms what is self-evident; in the common wager, the benefits of lust,
In learning, the risks of conscious knowledge, the need to reckon
What is right or true in what one must do.
So wonderful a tool as simple thought will set the soul
At rest and validate an afternoon. Goals,
Rewards, momentum’s fulcrum follows through
From all that’s gone before to where one must be.
Such benchmarks offer solace to practitioners of routine,
Confound the imposition of countless dreams
Of obligation, incidental norms, and all that only seems.
And we, like all philosophers and thinkers on the trot,
Must step aside and learn to live with what it is we’ve got.
Posted in Age, Aging, Imagery, Imagism, Knowledge, Lyric Poetry, Poem, Poetry, Prolixity, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets, Wisdom
Tagged Double Sonnet, Lyric Poetry, Poem, poetry, Prolixity, Relationships, Sonnet, Sonnets
What, really, do we know about Pluto?…
“Myths and Logarithms”
Myths and logarithms reign within a dream
And all is measured by simple inference
As with pleasure in a fleeting license
Flows through all such vain imaginings, the seams
And hems of calumnies and innocence of ignorance, meandering liars
Poised to level all past histories to the rank of legends. Jewels, knowledge
That while oblivion is distant to the young, the greater folly
Lies in thinking of it so: no stillborn thing aspires
To rebellion; nothing “lasts” in depths and distances
That are not scarred by creeds that have no meaning
In the lexicon because they harbour just the other side of seeming.
Blasphemies feast on what is always well beyond the unforeseen,
The Sadratu’l-Muntahá that marks the boundaries
between what is and what while here can never be.