Bahá’ís throughout the world gather today within the First Day of the Month of Kamál [Perfection] to celebrate the first day of the Bahá’í Month of Kamál.
“Sonnet in Honour of the Feast of Kamál or “Perfection”
Perfections and brief mortality lag for moments in a guarantee
Beyond the waiting grave; even in the womb, fluctuations
At the departure gate defy instinct and extinction in comic reproduction
Of the maelstrom. Carnivores in chaos renew the glaring tragedies
Of immortality as does sleep, a nightly purgative to all dreams.
Propinquity reviewed in bold idyllic matter turns matter to energies
In physical perception, penned at the pleasure of humanity–
The beverage curious and exotic–the poets’ ink ensuring every species’
Flourishing beyond the naked flesh of bodies in the simple rite of birth.
Apoapsis and the periapsis of the peoples’ need from the outer steppes
Of gravity and evolution to the thing desired,
re-created, wild and sculpted blossoms
Of the promise of ends in all beginnings,
millennia, themselves but steps
beyond the fallible suspicion of man or book,
the good shaman’s vain and futile search.
Yet even here, the contemplation
of a bowl of hemlock, perhaps to think:
If I fast forever, so will I dream as long;
and if I thirst forever,
Then, as surely I will someday drink.
Posted in Beverage, Birth, Blossoms, Carnivores, Chaos, Dreams, Evolution, Extinction, Fast, Feast of Kamál or "Perfection", Grave, Gravity, Hemlock, Idyllic matter, Immortality, Ink, Instinct, Lyric Poetry, Maelstrom, Millennia, Mortality, Naked flesh, Perfection, Poet's ink, Poetry, Propinquity, Purgative, Shaman, Sonnet, Thirst, Tragedy, Womb
Tagged Existence, Feast of Kamál or "Perfection", Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Perfection, poetry, Sonnet
Perfections may not last long in rarities
Of this air but there is a comfort brewing
In the taste, a passing glance in viewing
Where it is we came from, the disparities
Between less than nothing known–clarities
In gravitas notwithstanding–and eschewing
Voids and loudly damning first the bluing
Lapis of the granite’s core–the heart’s forever grieving–opportunities,
Then, to be or not to be in favour of a breath that simply is.
These richer blues turn to brilliant scarlet and the race is on;
Crimson rivers determine little but the goal
Allotted, beyond the present comes the darkest coal
That graces, liberates the delta’s fan and justifies its bliss
And many blame the violin but few the cello’s song.
Whatever anyone else says or does, I must be true to myself, just as if gold or emerald or the color purple would say, “Whatever anyone may do or say, I must be an emerald and keep my color.”
Marcus Aurelius Antoninus Augustus [121 – 180]
Posted in Age, Aging, Lyric Poetry, Musical instruments, Ontonegy, Perfection, Poetry, Samsara, Sonnet
Tagged Age, Aging, Cello, Certitude, Coal, Emerald, Existence, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, poetry, Sonnet, Tragic Flaw, Violin
Healing? Perfection, you say? Did you believe
That tidy sum of legends, convenient quatrains and ancient tales,
These, the recipes for centuries will produce the cure for what ails
You and yours? Do you pray that all of theirs was yours to achieve?
Every saint and seer on the viral booksleeves
Of philosophies, theosophies and all their prophesies have revealed
Answers to the riddle of the Sphinx and while they’re dead,
you live to break the Seal,
You alone redress the wounds of poverty, the plea to bleed
The truth and overcome the odds-on favourite at the mall,
the quintessential finish line and be on track in time for curtain calls?
Possibly you’ve penned a line to cinch the magic formula for a first edition haul;
Perhaps a second coming, a third, or possibly the greatest of them all.
No doubt, you’ve found a tail to match the last donkey out of town, fruition
of your ever waking moment to engage the world, a thaumaturge of intellect,
a new-hatched cacophony of casuistry to claim the vacant chair of erudition.
Posted in Age, Aging, Casuistry, Chair of erudition, Healing, Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Perfection, Poem, Poetry, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets
In reply to a beautiful note sent to me…
“Lady P: Yes, Well…”
Yes, well, after all, at least for you and me
There’s everything and all and even more through truth and honesty;
We grope at times, yes! but never quite make or break the call
From perfection to perfection gaining ground then risking all.
But, there’s the rub, the same for everyone who breathes
To live and not the other way around: as boiling lava seethes
So, too, the will from time to time relieves itself, erupts and then must cool
To build tomorrow’s fortress in the season’s rut. Know that fools
And angels build as well on sand as on a known caldera
Seeing safety’s but a syllable, a symbol, chimera
Of the mind or possibly a maxim born of boredom
And nothing more than light conversation over hay or sorghum
With a denizen of Hell, itself, who’s merely waiting for a train,
And you with no umbrella to protect you from the evening rain.
Posted in Angels, Boredom, Breathe to live, Caldera, Denizen of Hell, Fools, Hay, Hell, Honesty, Lava, Maxim, Perfection, Poetry, Rain, Rub, Sand, Sorghum, Syllable, Symbol, Train, Truth, Umbrella
Tagged Existence, Lyric Poetry, Relationships, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets