Tag Archives: Pain

“This You Chose”

“This You Chose”

This you chose, you know, the lethal wound, external fire,
Internal final cut the cleanest; the choice was never mine.
This you chose; your arms, your scent defined
The borders, walls, the floors, the exposure. Your desires
Say nothing past the yesterdays of pre-dawn, and glad
I was to rest the while, and glad you are that I am gone.
But nothing’s rendered in the late night’s song,
The me in you, and yes! You know the sad
Result: that moon’s pain can not know a sequel.
The senses, these you know , with no contempt,
But radiant resignation in the hours of heat and pure idolatry. Spent,
The sentence stands within this world. These final sentiments rule;
The veil, the truths we’ve always known; the hourglass, the idols of our nights,
Its sands, a closing hush of breath at daybreak when all our meteors take flight.

“Sonnet in Honour of the Feast of Masá’il or `Questions'”

Bahá’í’s throughout the world gather today to commemorate the First Day of the Month of Masá’il [Questions]

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“Sonnet in Honour of the Feast of Masá’il or `Questions'”

Of sons, divinity required sacrifice;
Both obliged presented gifts, yet one
Found pleasure in the Judgment, son
And God were pleased; but, that the sacred rite
Eluded what was offered by the second
Brought an anger and a fire in Cain,
The fruit of envy, rancour, and desultory disdain
To both the elder brother and the God-reckoned
Greater of the two. Asked the Light,
“What hath made thee wroth?” silence was the answer.
The question posed, there rose no reply but cancer
Deep within the marrow of he who in his flight
Deduced the primal human action of the will:
Unbridled passion and the naked urge to kill.

“So Who’s’t Knows”

The Deluge by John Martin (1806-70). 1834.

“So Who’s’t Knows”

So who’s’t knows the end in such benign beginnings,
The coming floods that fallow flow from all that snow
And ice held hostage by the cold alone when any fool knows
That what comes down must in time admit a hit in later innings
The last whose time is preordained, the added sweater helps but winning
Nothing ‘gainst the close exchange that comes within the glow
Of this year’s logs piled high at the hearth, the comfort zone
Cannot endure another fiercer facing, just another frieze in reasoning
When all that matters now is reduced to splinters
In the opening hours of the wake of powers beyond a stream,
Beyond the hopes of wagers strung on nothing more
Than readings from the runes or yet another card pulled before
The Gipsy’s deck was shuffled or wrinkles of the winter’s
Palm were read, too little information here for dreams.

“Bethlehem’s Hours’ Mourn”

“Bethlehem’s Hours’ Mourn”

Bethlehem’s hour’s mourned, furtive glances northward toward Nazareth;
Veiled her expectations as soon enough her promised Son survives.
She knows that somewhere in between this king contrives
Within himself to build a wall. He practices precision; he does not guess.
He knows exactly what he wants, and from the East come
Three who only recently made queries round the campfires
‘Neath the skies beyond the Jordan. Casually they’ve inquired,
“What are these walls, and what the genesis of guns
And orchards plaited all along the shepherds’ run? Whose images are these,
And what is it they disguise, the vulgate for the people?”
Yes, they come, these three, adrift once again stalled between the steeples,
Barred, forbidden. Then again, their passage isn’t what it used to be.
They ask in vain and find the answers come as no surprise.
The king’s awake tonight; he’ll not fool the wise this time.

“Sad You Say?”

“Sad You Say?”

Sad you say? I knew you meant it;
Yes, my sadness drained through your fingers
Leaving little more than moisture. Something of me lingers
With you that you own is yours. Summits
Of either joy or pain remain to use the heart, the limits
Of the body—anywhere will do—from head to toe; these, the singers
Intone its presence, equations flatter integers
Enough to anoint themselves exclusive in finite intimates
And variations for the sake of form.  These flights of melancholy
You mistook for yours; as well,  your joys I imagined mine  in the mirror,
And neither of us were the wiser in the final calculation.
If one of us is right, we’ll see our satisfaction and salvation
In what little time remains to us in life; the eternal holy
Light is never long in coming. If one of us is wrong,
…there is no deliverer.

“With Every Newscast”

malaysia-airlines-crash-2-gty

“With Every Newscast”

With every newscast comes the view, a plane
Is down in oceans, miners trapped in gas,
And then, of course, the common daily tasks
Assigned authorities to find the lost, the lame,
The disenfranchised strain of minds that lose
Themselves, and then must all be found.
The searchers spread through inlets and the grounds
Of parks, and far-flung camping paths. They choose
To find these souls because there is no choice,
Perhaps a kind of last respect expressed—humanity
Enforced by wrote—and cause enough to see
What can be done to locate bodies, voice
Concerns and let it go at that. And, who am I
Who asks wherefore, and who are they who die?

“The Lady with the Cane”

Lady1

“The Lady with the Cane”

The lady with the cane got on the westbound 90 Bus
With considerable difficulty and slightly confused just in time
To find a seat toward the front. All went well and fine,
And had there been no seat, no problem, none, no fuss,
The kindness of strangers would soon insist that she
Had a comfort seat. All could see the worth of this
Retiring lady who’d been happy in her time to raise three fine kids,
Survive the War, and Great Depression, proud and free
Of debt, all despair, her physical impairments totally dismissed
With no regrets, and radiant acquiescence through it all.
In time, two loud young teenage girls got on the bus,
Two shrieking sirens, harpies heard throughout the bus, trust
Galore that absolutely no one would look up or raise a word. The ball
Began, of course, and what was said and done would curl your hair,
And they were right, of course: no one stared or even seemed to care.

…painting by Lucian Freud…

“She Drops Her Mysteries”

Fabian Perez 1967 - Argentine Figurative painter - Tutt'Art@ (34)

“She Drops Her Mysteries”

She drops her mysteries, her veiled hints,
And off! “And I’ll be back,” she says, she will
Return with more. The wineglass chilled,
He’s left to savour what remains, discarded lint
From promises that have no manners. What remains
Is no concern: “We’ll touch on that when I return…”
And in the vagaries of something learned
In all of this lies a pattern, some blue vein
Of thought, a misnomer finely wrought
In filigree though no one really cares to hear the tale. Here,
Perhaps, the story should end, so then of course he waits, preferring fear
To anger in the end to fuel the blight and conjure bitter thoughts
That were the table turned there’d be a fresher start,
A simple dinner leaning more toward matter and very little art.

…painting by Fabian Perez….

“If You Were Me”

Couple

“If You Were Me”

If you were me, you’d easily see
What bitter mead I taste when I must be with you; pernicious seeds
And, yes, if then within a single stroke the artery that  cedes
The conversation’s sovereignty bleeds, I prefer to feel no consolation weaned
From what and who you are within me. Safely resting, I am silent, halves
Of us dropped from either follow just as surely as the flesh to feed the worm
When once and twice again we leave volition fast asleep along with shoes
…in the other room placed neatly by the door. The unified germ–
The healing talisman, the extreme unction of a lifetime, sacred salves
That penetrate visions seen within and far beyond our darkened eyes
Assume a single station here–and so the pattern’s set,
And I am left in time with pressing harvests, bins of useless labours, wastes
Of stubble, ploughed yet fallow fields whose worth is paralysed
And even lionised in memories of former truths so compromised:
The spirit cannot die but sacrifice to earthly temples comes as no surprise.

…painting by Ventzislav Piriankov

“How Many Transfers”

midnight_train

“How Many Transfers”

How many transfers, how many lives
And never mind the pain;
I ascend descending steps and reign
For miniutes on the platform sans fatigue, forgetting strife.
Less the aromatic oils of obstacles, reticent, perhaps, for yet another year’s
Summer’s breath. This station welcomes that train
Long before it leaves. Weightless freight speeds gently seen through panes
Of plastic;  the métro’s brilliance holds nothing more pernicious than it’s dawn,
while evenings’ dusks merely signal calm amid collective progress in arrears.
Knowing anything (a slight surprise) does not smooth the way,
No urban superstition nor phatic prayer, no tragic flaw
Abides dissembling diatribes to thrwart decision.  Intervention
Needs not advertise a lack of means to champion fixed decision
From nothing more than daily pundits’ milk straight from the elect;
No thing in heaven or in the earth is ever quite remembered
At the baggage claim as all my January’s premonitions die as early as December.