Bahá’ís throughout the world gather this evening after sunset to commemorate the First Day of the Bahá’í Month of Sulṭán [Sovereignty]
“Sonnet in Honour of the Feast of Sulṭán or `Sovereignty’”
The sovereignties of celestial spheres exists to need,
The limitless has its limitations as nothingness withdraws
According to measure, star to planet, king to pawn
And back again; the elements begin eternal needs with seed
In matter or of energy–little difference the subject or predicate–
In clusters round the universal abyss. Heat and weight
Of particles in accident and by law are so great that seismic freight
Of galaxies and galaxies of galaxies, monarchs and their asteroids, late
And early viceroys and their sycophants cannot pause or hesitate.
It goes just so with all that is and is not His every breath within His dreams
As emanations of the seen and unseen posit progression in the cosmic stream;
Still other states of being thrive as condiments used within the universal state,
Signed by given temperatures, degrees of darkest matter unexplored,
In certain trust of sovereignty, tales of energies and matters
that will not long be veiled, belittled nor can they be ignored.
All truth passes through three stages. First, it is ridiculed. Second, it is violently opposed. Third, it is accepted as being self-evident.
—Arthur Schopenhauer [22 February 1788 – 21 September 1860]
Posted in Arthur Schopenhauer [22 February 1788 – 21 September 1860], Dark matter, Elements, Energy, Feast of Sulṭán or `Sovereignty’, Galaxies, Heat, Light, Lyric Poetry, Matter, Nothingness, Particles, Planets, Poetry, Predicate, Sonnet, Sovereignties, Stars, Subject, Sychophants
Tagged Arthur Schopenhauer [22 February 1788 – 21 September 1860], Dreams, Existence, Feast of Sulṭán or `Sovereignty’, Imagery, Imagism, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Poem, poetry, Sonnet, Sonnets, spirituality
Lost but the
…in interaction and appreciation of the poetic
words above of
Aptly expressed; a delicious thought, actually.
There is unequalled truth to this, the bailiwick
of those who know no doubt that blessings and curses
of this life are in fact inexhaustible, inextinguishable.
What is left then, but Creation, itself? What courage
does it take to approach all aspiration and consummation
in the ashes? Every planet’s doom is reunion with its star;
every star, its own appointment with the beginning
and the end of all that matters and energy’s just what’s left over.
And perhaps this is, after all, the raison d’être
for the inexhaustible,
the indivisible, inextinguishable
pain or sorrow, joy or bliss
within the mansions of this world.
If it is of God, it will last beyond leaving,
and as the longed for inauguration into the Next.
Be it the either which, expressed quite simply,
the Heavens and Earth may cease to exist–
in fact must in the end expire–but His Word
will never pass away, and neither the one
privy to Its existence;
and like all that is, we are in the end,
Whilst we breathe, so, too, breeds our sacred company,
so, too, our own clear magnification in direct proportion
to recognition of one another and in the reality
of His oneness, our own dear being,
Posted in "Notes from an Alien" by Alexander M. Zoltai, Alexander M. Zoltai, Aspiration, Baliwick, Beginnings and ends, Blessings, Consummation, Courage, Creation, Curse, Delicious thought, Earth, God, Heaven, Indivisible, Inexhaustible, Inextinguishable, Life, Mansions, Next life, Next world, Pain, Planets, Poetry, Raison d'être, Sorrow, Star, Stars, Words
…just a note to say that about a year ago, I posted the following sonnet induced by having seen the Moon and Jupiter in their full glory together; they’re both back, and contrary to public opinion, so am I; for the mind, “the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to:; for the heart, time is conquered, thank God… —Once, 23 July 2011
“Solace in the Courtesies”
Solace in the courtesies of the constellations, Jupiter
Surely there at sunrise, the brightest star,
Visible while the jealous moon, scarred,
The closest audience; apt, significant. The irony. Her
Dwarf, yet here in circumstance; the bond a quiet perpetuity.
The mighty planet rests for moments in the night,
And we regard the larger aegis the greater light
And think so little of her smaller celebrant; so great an inequity
In vision we’re wont to dote upon from such a station as this.
It is just so with all luminaries of perspicuous wisdom and guidance in the night
That they are worshipped in coal black skies, but preludes to the dawning light
Because it pleases the eye see none but them and rest awhile in ignorant bliss.
Yet with the rising of the sun, all former brilliance must surely fade,
Withdrawn by force to honour greater virtues than the night has made.
I wonder why it is that knowing consciously the identity of what that star is that shone this morning just before the sunrise and has been shining every morning so significantly in the southeastern skies makes so much difference. Tonight it was joined beautifully by proximity to the moon.
A few weeks ago, I learned from a friend that that bright, unusually vivid star was in fact the planet Jupiter. Not that the news was astounding, but in some quiet way it was comforting because as I looked out from my balcony in the early morning hours always just before sunrise, when the skies were clear I had seen that star and wondered just what it was. Somehow I wanted some confirmation as to just what that thing was. I wrote to my friend who was kind enough to confirm its identity for me that it is true that it’s Jupiter and it is very visible in the skies during the whole of June into July. Now, then, this silent delight in knowing consciously that I have seen with my own eyes this “other world” that shares our solar system in some subtle way pleases my soul. These are the signsof God, my friend, as if the moon and sun, the inevitable revival of the earth at spring, and countless spectacles of greater and lesser significance were not. Did I need another confirmation of the majesty of this Creation? These days, for me at least, even breathing is a sign of God and becomes more obviously so with every passing day at my age. —Once, July 2010
Posted in Affirmation, Appearances, Astronomy, Dawn, Illusion, Imagery, Jupiter, Luminary, Moon, Nature, Night, Planets, Poetry, Sun, Virtues
Gaea’s stations to the stars address her griefs, elations,
Prayers and growth, itself, her moment. She cannot rest;
Veins are clogged, marriage to a host of willing guest’s
Become the crucible to her common sense and revelations
Give her angst amid the luxury of her snows. She must think
But cannot; moves, but pursuit of progeny defies death,
Itself. In time, of course, she’ll find her goals in retrospect
Through cycles, time and space and she’ll drink
Deep the healing waters of reunion with her own, her proper self
Wherever ever lies–with minions, elves,
So many rites and spirals crude and rude, perhaps,
but ever pointing to the skies;
She weeps and rivers flow: the moon, his mystery, his mistress;
the stars, her loyal spies.
Mars ever declares himself the victor, always;
True only to what he is and what he feels
and common sense; zeal
Is passion unabated in the haze; the phrase
Is justice set above all love or hate
That cannot truly satisfy. The abyss, my friend; he stands and stares.
Who sees the ends before beginnings will not pay the fare
And will not hear the pebble drop. Too late,
It seems, he draws the line with single eyes
Or hairs removed and split from heedless heads.
He wills and the wine is crimson, so it’s said;
He loves himself and all who love him; he flies
From those for whom he’s longed and denies he’s ever erred.
Impertinence, sweat upon his brow; bile, his denial that he’s ever cared.
“He Ponders Little”
He ponders little because he sees no sequel;
Within a yawn, and from his belly births
Unnumbered, cataclysmic spirits
collapse within his girth;
And he is cognizant of others, sees no equal.
Sheer enormity and magnitude anoint him;
–“if he but blanch” we know our course–
And he is known by none of us and cannot force
As others who would be known; his limbs
Themselves a universe, his crimson boil a storm
Of such proportions as house nests
Of would-be planets, the paradigm lest
Any seek to be seated at his table. Paragon of space and form
Made captive by His Light: it is the Sun that gives him grace;
A measure, a single orbit, a weight within itself that is this place.
Blighted cabinet of offspring: the misbegotten seated in the loge
And they’ll none of it; she bids them seize the handle, hold their sign
And they respond with such dreadful imposition as to realign
The concourse until he cannot reach them. They suppose
What they cannot fathom; they’ve loosed the measure
Of their steps as if Arachne were their goddess locked within a wager;
Their tapestries will anger no one; no epic chorus lingers,
in space no longer dangers.
He’ll have the penultimate word; she, the first and last–a treasure
Hidden in enigma–and while she plots and dreams,
They wander far beyond the Tree than ever they before:
There are no impediments, no warnings at the door.
“They are loosed again!” he cries, and this is what she means
To see. But, what the gain
when cosmic waves decayed are rotten;
All this in intervention, laurels in revenge:
she, forgotten; –they that are his children, time begotten.
Atoms breathing throughout the sky; these winds, my spies.
I am the Azure One turned ruinous green from patrimony’s rust,
The curse of progeny and betrayal of a trust
In endless repetition written in the crystal inks of compromise
And back again to mark the Zugzwang of my prescience
Everywhere condemned to see what is not there.
My blindness, an abyss, the scent of mists
In Chaos, the script of the Sybil as she shakes her fists
And in her ranting shrieks that there
Among countless in children I will find
Impertinence and turbulence, and arrogance as the cradles rise.
I took no heed at first but as not every planet evades my stare,
I may not always strike; I alone am thunder. Comic weights dividing,
Tragedy’s tears will people space while mine are turned to lightning.
Goliath. Behemoth, yet my father’s eyes do not behold me.
Barren straits above the line of all my cisterns’ shores,
Are crystals, porous with litanies of creatures, future seas of worlds not born
Arraigned in prisms’ prisons to attract some feeble ray that only seems
To please the rhythms of the heart but never rule as I am warmed
By something undistilled and unrehearsed from memory; my advice
Is hoary white. Humoured as it is, it will suffice
To welcome both the fool and hardy in the undertow. I perform
What cannot be foresworn by an incident’s huddled worry on shores
Of continents and isthmuses where serried islands are but guests.
I might have ruled the whole but in the toss, the test
Of prophesies and fortunes were never kissed by either die.
I am content, it seems, to be and do no more
Than surfeit in the light of endless sapphires, blood to commerce,
Storehouse of the wealth of eons lost, to rise in glory and then disperse.
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.