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
Furtive futures, tokens of the late night flower
And as he smiles, a common thread of thought, some random
Virtue and its knee-jerk negative recusal form régimes, their regiments set neatly in tandem
Each day with time enough to feed the guests between the hours’
Harvests. Memories posit foibles calcified from past
Proposals of support and action in what was always just around
The corner. Patience, saddling his ass, object to wastes grown profound
In almost every instance with innocuous verses that running circuits last
In time while losing time defines itself in terms of time, itself, and nothing stops
The show unless a rare and casual kindness from a stranger to the flock,
Or simply not who or what must have a right to be. He views what’s on the dock’s
Consignment nd recalculates the costs of baggage and accessories; the rock,
Within remains the same, of course; witness, yes, but still he is both what he is .
and as he was before he found his tests
To he the very meaning of his every breath; a gift, a bounty, an eternal yes
is there, but nothing closes close to closure. There is no subtle hint of rest.
Posted in Adagio, Anchors, Ballast, Dust, Foibles, Futures, Internal clock, Joy, Libraries, Lifelines, Melodies, Memories, Momentoes, Passions, Poetry, Tests, Thread of thought, Time, Verses
Tagged Age, Aging, Double Sonnet, Lyric Poetry, Sonnet, Sonnets