This, again, is my main site now that SU has flushed itself....
This, again, is my main site now that SU has flushed itself....
This is one of two sites to which I have fled from what's left of SU...
" He's Competent Enough"
He's competent enough,
His purposes, supra-deception; the lure, to entice.
As his blessings' victims savour His advice;
His beauteous summons--roughly
Marked beyond a border; everywhere
Here--redundant, simple supra-station
Hired, inspired, peerless in its erudition,
Heralding neither faith nor certitude, declares
His abstention from all beginnings which
Have no memory to ends that
Bear no fruit. His tapestries, exquisite,
Hung in crevices and caves, each brilliant stitch
Hangs limpid there beyond a gross finality,
Hang Heorot here where mortals
fear death and death is immortality.
Baha'is throughout the world commemorate the Birth of The Bab Who was born before dawn on 19 October 1819.
The Bab [1819-1850], Prophet-Founder of the Babi Faith was the Prophet-Herald of the Baha'i Faith. The expressed mission of The Bab was to proclaim the imminent arrival of "Him Whom God shall make manifest," namely Baha'u'llah (1817-1892), the Founder of the Baha'i Faith. [The title "Bab" means "the Gate" in Arabic.] This mission was somewhat similar to the mission of John the Baptist in appearing just prior to the Advent of The Christ. All Revealed Religions have had Precursors like John the Baptist before The Christ or Salman just before the Advent of Muhammad, Whose duty it was to prepare the people for the imminent arrival of the Prophet-Founders of Their respective Faiths. The Bab, however, was in Himself a Major Manifestation of God and therefore His Revealed Religion an Independent Religion and not a sect, and while His Ministry lasted but nineteen short years, its impact will be felt throughout the world for at least a thousand, if not thousands of years in the future development of an ever-evolving mankind. It is a Baha'i Teaching just as it is in previous Revealed Religions that as mankind evolves and in capable of receiving greater instruction and guidance Manifestations of God are sent to provide that instruction and guidance as the Mouthpiece of God in Their respective historical periods.
On October 19 [after sunset when the Baha'i day begins] or October 20 [before sunset when the Baha'i day ends], Baha'is observe this Holy Day by abstaining from work. There are no prescribed ceremonies, but gatherings usually involve prayers, devotional readings, music and fellowship.
On May 23, 1844, in Shiraz, Persia, the Bab announced the impending appearance of the Messenger of God awaited by all the peoples of the world. Following this announcement, the Bab was persecuted by members of the dominant Muslim clergy in what is now Iran. The Bab was arrested, beaten and imprisoned, and, on July 9, 1850, was executed in the public square of the city of Tabriz. Some 20,000 of His followers perished in a series of massacres throughout Persia.
Minor prophesies, you see, arrest attentions while the majors
Spend their auguries and send well-wishers to the drawing boards;
And, who knows can also no doubt doubt the hoards
Of wisdoms summoning the priests and all wizened pagers
To alarm, the preoccupation of both bed
And breakfast even on a holiday. They do not rest,
These prodigies of works in progress, filtered guests
And hosts of baseless hubris with corrosion in the lead
That lines the public coffers; petty on line petrels elect
To withhold judgment, approvals in a downward spiral
Finding loopholes; pernicious blemishes blushing
on the face of a viscous viral
Sun grown cumbersome with
slightest palsied movements to elude the defects
That stack the decks, whether wheels of Vegas
or occupied parks at Wall Street. The meek
Inherit nothing here; the air itself the jaundiced breath
of egregious greed, the vulgate and solipsis of mass deceit.
"Tonight, a Silent Message"
Tonight, a silent message, I can hear the pleading
Through the trees and branches of my old friend; my companion sings,
And I am somehow comforted. The fluttering of wings
Accompanies the rhythms of the encore; and you, again, repeating
"Into..." "Out of..." Lift, release so softly, gentle summaries wreathed in whispers,
Musings of what is not and never seen; tunnels and their tributaries,
Rushing, relentless repetition, applause, obituaries
To the spent and useless, harbingers of blisters
And the frostbite, erosion and fresh volcanic flood
And in the ancient chanting of a million
Dirges of the past and now redundant death--civilians,
Now--the arm'd legions follow closely through the blood
Of daily martyrs to the rescue to defend the furthest reaches of the empire.
And I'm still here, I'm still here, and I still feel the fire.
"Seek a Lighter Hue"
Seek a lighter hue in pastel conversation,
Hoards of daily mass conversion
Of the every act to some point in time, a little light diversion;
The mirage, the art a while, and for the mind a choice illusion,
An arbitrary sunset clause for replenishing, the flag unfurled
In the early hours of mint and red carnations and the dawn's early munch
To satisfy the need to fill a shallow hour's shadow till we lunch.
She knows she needs but say the word--
I'm gone--with no one near enough to hear her scream
While in the down shift here as fickle seasons deem
It time to shrink to that tight knot. If the Gorgon stays
She'll have her way and always left with nothing left to say.
Did she really think it wise to lacerate the rules
With aphorisms on store-bought linens primed for workmanship on
Cloth, the only real estate, the final use for all those golden spools?
...by Nizar Qabbani
When you find a man
Every part of you
Who makes each one of your hairs
Into a poem,
When you find a man,
As I am
Of bathing and adorning you
I will beg you
To follow him without hesitation,
It is not important
That you belong to me or him
But that you belong to poetry.
Translation by Bassam K. Frangieh
and and Clementina R. Brown
"I Conquer the World With Words" ... again by Nizar Qabanni
I conquer the world with words,
conquer the mother tongue,
verbs, nouns, syntax.
I sweep away the beginning of things
and with a new language
that has the music of water the message of fire
I light the coming age
and stop time in your eyes
and wipe away the line
time from this single moment.
Baha'is throughout the world gather this evening after sunset or tomorrow before sunset to celebrate the first Day of the Baha'i Month of 'Ilm [Knowledge]
"Sonnet in Honour of the Feast of 'Ilm
What he knows is what he tells himself,
What Eblis 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?
Attention spans are short, fuses,
Matchless dangers; no matter--the need for caution
Is the norm in the middling run of things--en masse, a daily auction
In the race and competition trumps the general purpose. Muses
Ancient, gracious and inviable are ignored
In favour of what's been seen and stored
For youth, a future use; age, necessity itself takes the floor
While invention's mother's lost and no one knows what for
Except to say that something in the wind's
Bought something else again and when
The dusts are sifted and settled, so they say, the prairie hen,
The swallow and the bee no longer know where they fit in.
Capistrano weighs its greatest loss and hives their Zen
As power lines and cell phones sunder navigation to the very end.
"Because I Am"
Because I am I cannot doubt;
Because I asked the Muses much too much,
I found their questions only came when answers touch
The one who'd truly asked, a sudden thrall, another bout
Of wonderful, indeed as are they all, but not from inside out
But more than likely from a shirt I'd borrowed, shoes, and such
Accoutrements as pleased them all, my ego's crutch,
Evasion and a sense of powers dark and sinister with clout
Enough to raise a summer's gnats as armies in profusion
Reigning at the meadow's edge no longer than the lightning lasts but flashes.
Yes, I always ran but found my way back home again for more--
In time, of course I found no one knocking at my door or keeping score,
Although these doubts I found to be the food of courage, yes; and fusion,
When it came left nothing but the need for rain to cool the coals and ashes.
Messages of Reticence
Messages of reticence arrive in pedestrian flocks
With evidence of gridlock in the lives
Of more than just the few on line. Knives
And cutlery reign in token motherboards locked
Away with spoons and forks within the ease of metaphor;
They declare that all that can be done is done, the instruments are clean--
Spots, deposits, postings long removed, and still the cleaver gleams.
Iconic algorithms, "Who and what are we?"
Aid raining progenies, the soothing axioms, "But for; what for?"
Provide the loaves that all feed ferial days
of domestic castration timed at regular intervals at the buffet
When terror in the news does not suffice and consequences soar
To targets in some brief auspicious moment but stand ignored,
Pre-empted in favour of some soccer match
or just another day, or worse, a yesterday
Become the siren's voice of vague regret and ostentatious sorrow
In the wake of an endless rendering moot the cauldrons of the morrow.
The moment's gladiators honour heinous horrors in the hour;
Lamentations for the righteous who themselves are lost and having lost,
Remove themselves from grief, their leaflets tossed
About the fields in quires; unmitigated pathos, melons soured
Where victory's sod is red and barren, gardens harbouring shoots
Or several stems grafted as one of station without deciding
What the sunlight, what the shade. Profits riding
High or low-mown in the fields must in the end take root
Beneath the gathering gaze made jaundiced, jaded, blinded
By constant grazing with no regard for moderation, the ears grown dull
With relentless noise that drowns both rhetoric and prayer. In the lull
Between the courses at Thanksgiving, the phatic lists leave no print
and tongues grow mute with issues undecided:
Action and the signs of truth are nothing
in the Coliseum's oval offices;
Thumbs up or down, it matters little
for wizened mentors or callow novices.
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 regimes,
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 docks'
Consignments and recalculates the costs of baggage and accessories; the rock,
Within remains the same, of course; as 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,
And so he is what he remembers; the sum of mementoes of lifetimes
Dear to hearts long since gone beyond the seed. As to himself and memories
Once held close, there comes the need to memorize the many melodies
That in their day brought joy and lifelines
To the stuff of what it meant to be exactly who he was when he was there.
Sheer weight of anchors and ballast of the many ships in passing
Either in the stream or in the wake of vast expanding
Longer tides surpassing oceans' borders meet, bring lingering care,
That strange and potent stare at signs that once again the passions
Spent, he clings but lightly to the lining of a coat of many hidden thoughts.
These and more are eulogized in what remains for ought
He knows a paradise; some sweeter dream and certitude in eternity.
In the rusting hulks of yesterdays through accident and lust,
Will he be remembered in the libraries or buried in the piles of discards in the dust?
"Let It Be"
Let it be that I am and was not as I opened the far
Door, at first from within; I surprised
Its brightness as I walked away from what it was, my eyes
Fixed firmly, confirmations heavy lay within my heart and far
Above me in the wondrous lapis air the lazuli of eternal strife,
In droplets in the colden mists of pain; still, the hopes
Of millions reach me. I, the interloper
In any scene can walk no more but stumble. The knife,,
A strange commotion, windless gale of nations
While apathy and lethargy have paused, witness of oblation--
Yes, even they might smile to see such ominous elation
In the earth and worlds I see though my eyes have failed, and my agitation,
Addressed in congregations, histories, sciences and arts
So easily troubled in the waters of weightlessness at the quickening of hearts.
In answer to a chance note sent to me...
"Lady P: Yes, Well..."
Yes, well, after all, at least for you and me
There's everything to gain through truth and honesty;
We grope at times, but never quite make or break the call
From perfection to perfection gaining ground and 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 must cool
And build tomorrow's fortress in the season's rut. Know that fools
And angels build as well on sand as on a known caldera
Knowing 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.
"Sound the Bugle"
Lyrics by Gavin Greenaway
Written for the soundtrack of
Spirit: Stallion of the Cimarron
Sound the bugle now... play it just for me
As the seasons change... remember how I used to be
Now I can't go on...I can't even start
I've got nothing left... just an empty heart.
I'm a soldier... wounded so I must give up the fight
There's nothing more for me... lead me away
Or leave me lying here
Sound the bugle now... tell them I don't care
There's not a road I know that leads to anywhere
Without a light, I fear that I will stumble in the dark
Lay right down and decide not to go on
Then from on high, somewhere in the distance There's a voice that calls,
"Remember who you are... if you lose yourself,
Your courage soon will follow,
So be strong tonight... remember who you are"
Yeah, your a soldier now,
Fighting in a battle,
To be free once more.
Yeah, that's worth fighting for.
The only way to deal with an unfair world is to become so absolutely free that your very existence is an act of rebellion. --Albert Camus
"Transitions"Transitions, troughs and floodgates
Swell before the crops are in;
Appointments rough-hewn begin
From centuries' wealth in soils. He hesitates.
Lamentations of the classic farmer's touch
Bestowed on something that was expected
Neither to outlast the seed nor tip the balance but once elected
Audit landscapes from the past and serve the sudden rush as much
As circumstance permits a well to gush and choose another path.
He was a teacher; was, and no doubt
Will continue to apply the touchstone to oils of souls
Whose mission is to lance the boils of youthful wrath
And freely prime the wells of mass miscalculation of the myths,
The babbling and cursive powers of hubris and its shibboleths.
"Oh the Moment, Yes"
Oh the moment, yes. Movement
Owns them both--stillness
In evening's fire's thought and witness
To a change. Cycles are but rudiments
Along the way as if cosmic paths were condiments
To reasons for it all, seasoning enough
To accent all eternal syllables and possibly a word; the stuff
Of endlessness in verbal arguments
That pause to take a breath and form an action--mind the road!
Delicate digressions vie with natural hesitation
To embrace the midnight hour as circumspection
In the minor chord and prelude to the code,
Anomalies in the nexus like pearls of depth and deepest night
That birth a blinding light as moths, those sycophants of dawn are drawn in flight
To mark a resurrection in the properties of death and blend
With all things living. Disappearance--
All that is in splendour's reappearance,
Redesigned to bind all broken hearts--is sent
To comfort both the faithful and the lost.
Seek confirmation, then, within the mind or soul,
but look to it in the end! as the beginning never folds
Nor those who look for solace in the costs
Of faith and knowledge; but losing teaches search
And then is gone. Certitude rises in the East,
With eyes held skyward. Hearts abound in inward feasts
Of broad intention, tone and pitch and blessed with inspiration reach
For patience in the present, memories from the past:
But living signposts held in escrow from first to last.
Baha'is throughout the world gathered yesterday before sunset to celebrate the First Day of the Month of Mashiyyat [Will]
"Sonnet in Honour of the Feast of Mashiyyat"
We bear witness to it in the station of a still
And changeless vision, cosine as it is to truth.
Volition reigns with all, and rules
To govern its existence will
Continue till the thing no longer bears its seal,
Its sign, its talisman nor sacred stamp
Of manifest yet hidden Lamps
By Whose Light truth's revealed or is repealed.
There is no greater will than this. We are
Witnesses, the signatories of a deed
Of lingering motives, contracts, seeds
Of instituted factors in the sole
And universal changeless Will and Goal
Whose pages neither bend nor fold.
They've really done it this time! Luckily, some time ago, I had begun to published the revised copies of much of my poetry on another site. When the dust settles, you can find me at:
In the meantime, I am still staring in disbelief at the news of what they've planned for changes of SU and one and all, to them as usual, I express here something of my feelings in yet another fourteen lines:
"A Scintilla of the Day"
A scintilla of the day is gleaned while Polyphemus
Dreams so blind to what he does and what he's just about to do;
The hours' weights roll like barrels set loose within the wagon. Through
This abyss time's indecision tractors in the slipstream
Posing questions now. In whose bailiwick does this homily reside when the season
To apply the blossoms of incremental will decide for whom this bell must toll?
...To push the envelope
That inch or two the other side of honesty and just beyond all present hopes,
Who falls further to the left or right from blind faith now to what amounts to treason
Plastered on the whitewashed billboard signs that stretch for miles along the highway
Leading from all former warmer smiles to far beyond a full blown nemesis. Clowns
Direct the traffic back and forth so many times that no one sticks around
To point the way back home; The Zephyr's bridled breezes softly say,
"No one's home; drive on!..." but leave distinctions blank, and yes, of course the rinds
Behind that rhyme with nothing but a waste of time?