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II
VERSE
I
I do not know him whom I love
But on the Wind’s breath and the salt spray. In the east the dawn brings up his name. The bird calling in the dune~grass
Takes his air in its throat.
The wave combs the driftwood roots With his fingers. His touch
Lit my Spirit’s single wisp of tinder,
My sad oil-wick.
His flames lent a wing
To fire a tundra
With the blaze of it.
II
‘You! Keep away from my children.
I want you to promise me
you Will not speak of these things anymore. This Village is complete without you people. It will move you on if you don’t fit.
Join it—it will take you to its heart.’
To join means silence, shouting a Name only to the low, tundra trees. Creeping, they hear us, some no higher than our feet.
Big tracks link us
to the great heart of the hear. The lagoon ice crackles alongside the perfume of spring. Surely a heart must listen. Somewhere.
Excerpts from ‘Tuna’ra Pioneers’
Poems set in Unalakleet, Alaska Audrie Reynolds (Alaska)
Beloved
0 Moon of my night’s Sky, how I have sung This love, my tides in flood,
In ebb, have held Your face, silver in the wave’s palms;
And in the rivers of my veins Your image breaks, and forms Again, tells Your light
From fingertip to brain, In all my continents, 0 Moon Of my night’s sky!
Shirin Sabri (Australia)
Monkey Boy
In Uganda, M usevenz' ’s soldiersfound children who had lost their families as a result of massacres. One had been raised by monkeys, and seemed in every respect more akin to the creatures which had raised him than 1‘0 his rescuers
The innocent
monkeys suckled him, made
a bed of woven branches
sheltered with dark leaves of shade.
Home among the yellow bamboo
brushed with wet green blades of leaf, where mist lapped slowly under the high flat
‘ roof of trees there were none like him. No brothers.
He shrieks as apes do, grins with rage, bare teeth, brows raised, hurls twigs at us.
Are we so woven in a web of soulsnot human
Without each other?
Shirin Sahri (Australia)
Les martyrs
Leurs yeux ont la lueur du Ciel d’espérance, Et leur regard contemple au-dela du présent, U11 monde mi se retrouveront leurs ames, Illuminées d’une auréole rouge.
Leurs membres tortures, écorchés, déchiquetés, Témoignent de leur désir brfilant Pour Celui dont le nom, seul, est leur source de Vie.
804
[Page 805]
VERSE
Ardemment ils s’avancent vers ce cercle d’amour, 01‘1 les attend Celui apres qui ils aspirent, Et leur coeur assoifié est enfin rassasié.
The Martyrs
Their eyes reflect light from the heaven of hope and they gaze beyond the present
to a world where they will rediscover their own souls illuminated by a crimson halo.
Their tortured limbs, flayed and mutilated, bear witness to their burning desire for Him Whose Name alone is the source of their life.
Ardently they advance toward the circle of love,
where He to Whom they aspire awaits them,
and their hearts—the thirst assuaged at last—find peace.
M. Lafaille (Belgium) (T ranslation by Debbe Jackson Simons)
A la juventud baha’i
(escrito para el ‘Movimiento Juvenil Bahd’z” de la Repzlblz‘ca Dominicana)
Ensefiadme 1a Fe de Dios, amados de mi alma; pues apenas si la he Visto. Con mi débil ojo sélo conquisto vislumbres de esplendores anhelados, entre zapata y armazones armados hoy y ayer. Tan 5610 por esto existo: que os movais puros entre un pueblo listo para recibir a heroes esperados. § Sed vos estos héroes, amados! Sois vos? Secad mis lagrimas, mi alma calmadla. Seréis los angeles de la promesa? Anhelo ver en Vida la Fe de Dios
bella en esta tierra. : Formad, alzadla!
Es vuestra esta hora que jamas regresa.
Rowe]! Hofl (Dominican Republic)
805 Sirét Quddfis, Husayn, and all the shining throng of martyrs hastened—long before their bath of holy blood—along this very path that leads to the bridge, and crossed Sirét in song. Plaise God for fiercest hate, for deepest wrong of blindest hearts most worthy of God’s wrath,
that brought these martyrdoms in aftermath to seal the perfect proof of love so strong.
‘Am I not your Lord?’ is the Sirét. ‘Yea, verily, Thou art!’ is Paradise, and naught but true love comes to the bridge’s end. Beloved, strengthen my love on Thy Sirat, that this soul, too, may blaze in sacrifice. Then say to me: ‘Thou art, indeed, My friend!’
Rmvell S. Hofi’ (Dominican Republic)
Extracto de La Puerta
ioh mi Sefior, mi Amado. Gracias por la merced de Tu cercania,
que me ilumina—despierta en mi
aquella dulce y embriagante sensacién de proximidad
que me hace eterno en la emocién,
en todas sus manifestaciones.
Ante Tu presencia, confundido como un ave herida
traté de confundirme con la nada ocultandome en mi ser humano,
pero Tu me purificaste con el don de Merced,
y esa luz intensa me envolvié lentamente
y pude por tu Misericordia
volver mi cuerpo, mi mente hacia Tu individualidad,
Ahora ya puedo sumergirme en el océano de Tu guia.
Mi ser languido ha sido Vivificado
por medio de la proteccién de Tu presencia,
que a1 igual que el esplendor que todo lo invade, llegc’) a lo intimo de mi ser.
30h mi Sefior! permiteme ofrecer mi Vida en Tu serVicio,
{Oh mi Amado, la razén de mi existencia.
Rad] Pavo’n (Ecuador)
[Page 806]
806 THE Bahá’í WORLD
0 Toi qui m’as ouvert a la Vie Si tu veux étre indulgent
C) Toi que je prie sous tous les Noms Aujourd’hui Baha’u’llah
O Toi en qui j’ai scellé mes pas Si tu veux bien de moi
Ici en cette enceinte sacrée 01‘1 ta Puissance illumine l’univers
Je te prie (5 Toi Amour des amours Si tu veux bien entendre
D’accorder 1a Guérison et la Vie A celle qui me mena a Toi
Et de m’accorder avec elle Une seconde dans ton éternité
O Toi 1e Feu de la Vie
Et 1a Guérison des planetes En Verité, d’éternité en éternité Mon Espoir est ta Volonté.
Alain Fenouillet (France)
Pilgrim Eyes
Clear liquid Flecks of gold tile Brick shards Brick dust rose red petals yellow orange blossom strewn green velvet Threshold.
White plaster walls blue shutters Cypress skies Pilgrim eyes
Separation-haunted
Shrine lit liquid bright pilgrim eyes.
Pamela Joan Carr (Israel)
The Court of Love
From the realm of mysteries
I came into the kingdom of existence Bewildered, distracted, anguished: Where is my guide, my companion?
To unlock the secrets of eternity
I spent my whole life
Knocking at the august door of reason Thinking, alas, there was one inside to hear.
Horsemen mounted on the steeds of fantasy, Gallop aimlessly,
Now here, now there,
Like flies struggling in a well-knit web.
That traveller who, in search of his goal, Traversed the world from end to end, When journey was done,
Knew the world was merely a cage.
From out this narrow cage
I spread the wings of love
And soared towards the retreats of my beloved: Then there was for me no grief
Nor care nor desire.
From the horizon of my heart
The light of my beloved’s face mirrored forth animating, enlivening and illumining the universe. In its glow the flame of the sun
was nothing but a faint spark.
Now that I have surrendered my heart in love,
My name is trampled in the streets,
But there are others, too,
From the secret of whose hearts
The veil has fallen:
Many are the scandalous lovers in the court of love.
Hushmand Fatheazam (Israel) (Translation from Persian original)
[Page 807]
VERSE 807
The Image
How, in bad times, shall the poet be honored? Is poetry equal to the news?. . . in the middle ofnuclear buildup, terrorism gone berserk, just think, poems?
T errence Des Pres
M iss Zarrz'n M uqz’mz’-Abydnih, aged 28, was one of ten women hanged in I'ran on 18 June 1983 for refusing to recant belief in the Bahá’í Faith. This poem is based on one Zarrin wrote shortly before her arrest and execution.
The enigmatic stranger gazing coolly at me
from the glass
reminds me of someone I knew in the past,
a once-familiar face
now only a dim memory.
Perhaps she lost her soul one day
in the smoke and din of this vast city when she was shopping distractedly for a new dress,
or maybe she thoughtlessly slipped it with a coin into a jukebox
and, dancing, didn’t notice its loss. Could it be that someone stole it while she lay sleeping,
just at the moment
when she surrendered
to the enchantment of a dream?
This much is certain:
in the morning
there appeared in the glass
the face of an unknown girl,
her grave eyes glistening with tears and filled with a terrible knowledge.
Roger White (Israel)
Pilgrimage to the Holy Placesand back. So sudden, so soon, so quickly over. Eternity had never been so brief.
Duane L. Herrmann (USA)
The Homeless
One April day, somewhere along the road between T oulon and H yéres, France, a group ofRoma sat around their campfire and listened to an introduction to the Bahá’í Faith. When the speaker finished describing the exile and i111pr‘z's011ment ofBaha’u’lla’h, 13-year old Angelo spoke up: ‘But then, Bahá’u’lláh, He was living like a Gypsy!’ In recent years, especially in Spain and France, many Roma have become Bahá’ís.
It was the fire that drew us, the dancing fire, In the Romani camp, under the evening sky. Mentioning the Loved One’s Name, we never tire.
They welcomed us warmly, but one youth shyer
Than the rest, hung back till we spoke the word Bahá’í.
It was the fire that drew us, the dancing fire.
T ell us! he begged. As we described the dire
Trials that beset our Beloved, we heard the young one sigh.
Mentioning the Loved One’s Name, we never tire.
We told of His exile, how His love would inspire
Response in His captors’ hearts. In the dark, did someone cry?
It was the fire that drew us, the dancing fire.
Up the ladder of stars the young moon climbed still higher
As we fell quiet watching the gold embers die.
Mentioning the Loved One’s Name, we never tire.
The boy broke the silence, our constricted throats grew drier:
Bahá’u’lláh was homeless like us! Recognition aglow in his eye.
It was the fire that drew us, the dancing fire.
Mentioning the Loved One’s Name, we never tire.
Roger White (Israel)
As The Wind
Be as unrestrained as the wind, He said Inspired, a reborn heart would blithely try Now toss like a kite in a storm-swept sky Turn, dive, then soar in the gusts overhead Fully free, but for that last slender line Trailing to earth, it tenaciously pulls
As if to remind that spirit controls
Only when faith breaks the ties that still bind.
R. Greg Shaw (USA)
[Page 808]
808
Unita
Mentre nel roseto ronzante alzo le lodi a1 Santo dei Santi nel mondo cade l’impareggiabile unité il nocchieto i1 fico 1a farfalla senza meta i1 cielo Che rischiara i0 che prego sottovoce 1a luce le cicale insistenti l’altra meta del globo le Americhe caotico rombanti i1 fuggiasco col cuore palpitante i1 suonatore di jazz 1a ballerina e la prostituta all’angolo di strada siamo un’unica realté protesa al punto zenit dell’Universo non V’e alcuna imperfezione o disarmonia un sovrappii‘i 0 un mancamento. Nessuna diflerenza incide i1 cuore degli uomini danaro razza sesso moda resta l’amore che ci fa fratelli.
Daniele Giancane (Italy)
The Old Custodian
The old custodian
in the garden of Riḍván
With the bent back
would look at me with vivid lights in his eyes
phosphorescent
when he talked about Shoghi Effendi
—Lemons fell like planets and there were two benches heaped with oranges The kindly old custodian of Riḍván buckled by the years but his soul
already in heaven.
Daniele Giancane (Italy) (Translation by Iskander T into and Elizabeth Peedo with Roger White)
THE Bahá’í WORLD
Goede Raad
Word vooral nooit dichter.
Je weet niet wat het is
je hart telkens en telkens opnieuw om te ploegen,
je zenuwen bloot te leggen,
je hoofd te vergeten,
Op zoek naar dat stralend woord dat ten enenmale weer kan geven de grootheid van Hem die je drijft.
Anneke Buys (T he Netherlands)
The Valley
The paths of the past come in from every direction.
I
We enter the valley on horseback; Pass through forests of flamboyan and almendros.
An afternoon sprinkle wets our brow.
Not a cool shower, but warm and salty like human tears.
Yes, this must be the Valley of Love.
11
We gather at midnight—our sufferingsto console each other,
calmed in waters of His Remembrance. The lonely heart and its company of tears make camp another night
on the long journey
home
to God.
C. S. Chalas (Puerto Rico)
Meditation While Teaching in Baja California Sur Mexico
I should like to fall through skylights of prayer and pierce my heart with a love free of self.
C. S. Cholas
[Page 809]
Gedichten van een pelgrim
I
Kwetsbaar, tastend in de holte van Uw Poort staan wij stil, opnieuw geboren in het Eerste Punt, Belofte van
Uw laatste Woord
II
Ondergeschikt aan
een Goddelijke Beschikking. Zoekend naar de Ander, die spreekt
alsof we volwassen zijn:
0 20011 van Geest.
Op weg
om samen
een wereld te bouwen;
hart voor hart
en plaats voor plaats,
roept Hij ons:
0 bewoners van M ijn Paradzjs.
Tastend naar
gemeenschap,
nog niet besefiend
waar dit zal eindigen
maar uitgenodigd
voor Eeuwig
noemt Hij ons:
0 metgezel van M ijn T roan.
VERSE 809
Poems of a Pilgrim
I
Vulnerable,
fumbling in the void‘ of Your gate
we stand still,
born anew
in the Primal Point, Promise of
Your last Word.
11
Subordinate to
a Divine Decree. Searching for the Other Who addresses us
as if we were mature: 0 son of Spirit.
As we strive
to build a world together, heart by heart
and place by place,
He calls us:
0 dwellers of My Paradise.
Searching for
community,
not yet realizing
where this will end
but invited for Eternity
He names us:
0 companion of My T lzrone.
Saskia van Baarda (The Netherlands) (Translation by Christa Wickrama and Leyla Alaie)
[Page 810]
810
A Ballad of the Soul in the Half—light
Half holy rang the bells rememberedHalf lead they sounded in his brain; His once high altar age dismembered, Its shades enclosed his childhood fane.
The spacious fanes then shared their loreHe sabbathed in the sand and birches, Fished for trout from a driftwood shore And for 21 Christ without churches.
He followed traces of the flameFiresigns for an errant spirit, when, Still a child, a strange new Name Lit a fire within him, not from men;
Lit half by pain a path above men’s schisms, Where he learned what all who love should know: Such light in eyes with pain aligns the prisms And holy fire may burn us here below.
Where night alarms and morning splendor Through the heart’s green forges pass; Where earth and fire and water render The rude and opaque heart to glass.
Where caution trades with wild tosses,
And compassion jousts with a mailed glove, Where abundance turns with a run of losses, And a wondering mind with wondrous love.
Where the world still on severance preys, Earth grief slowly cedes to laughter.
A severance price the pruned heart pays; Festivals of light come after.
Yet now such light and love so whole As foresaw no child nor mother,
Let grief and joy and a tranquil soul A11 trespass on each other.
So be swift, 0 soul, dismiss the chill; Go where the angel throng is growing: The signals clear on the Sacred Hill When the midnight wind is blowing.
Quentin Farrand (San Salvador)
THE Bahá’í WORLD
Invitation
§_hiréz, Medina and Késhén—I trace with my finger The stations of Your Via Dolorosa. The place names Spice the air with heat and half—forgotten things
Leading to this nuptial and confirming feast in Tabríz.
What call of destiny tempts martyrs to their fate?
Ask Mirzá Muhammad-‘Aliy—i-Zunlizi, hung from the same nail
His head protecting Your bare breast.
Is it the promise of eternity on old men’s lips?
Who speaks when they are at rest? Is this a quest
For the Holy Grai1~A passing glimpse of the inner ‘1’?
Or is it that, at this new Carla, the lover’s transmutation
Wedded the giver to the gift, becoming indistinguishable?
Pat M orrissey (Scotland)
0 Gott!
Ich weiB meine Not, Du hast sie geendet. Ich weiB meine Schuld, Du hast sie gewendet. Ich weiB meine Kette, Du hast sie gebrochen. Ich weiB das Wort, Duck hast es gesprochen. Ich weiB den Weg, geh’ Du ihn mit mir. Sei Du mein Begleiter, Ich vertraue nur Dir.»O Gott, rfihre Du meine Augen an, daB ich aus dem Dunkel in’s Helle kann. Aus der Not, aus der Schuld, aus der Kettenhaft, IaB’ mich schaun Deine Schonheit und erfahren Deine Kraft. Herr, ich danke Dir, daB Deine Zeit heit Ewigkeit.
Eve Hemmerlein (West Germany)
[Page 811]
VERSE 811
A Whisper at Dawn
Listen to the wind flowers Whisper at dawn.
Hear them breathe
The Secret name.
A gate opens
But the hand is gone. The loosened latch Speaks
And the restless flowers Lean Eastward
In an unborn breeze.
See! A white bird flies Towards the awakening sun.
Olive V. Applegate (USA)
As I Slept I Dreamed
A dream. A path.
Who is on the path?
Who walks by my side?
It is the Greatest Holy Leaf. She takes my hand.
‘Do not~stumb1e so,’ she says. ‘See who waits.
See who waits by the Gate.’
A path. A Gate.
Who is at the Gate?
Who stands there smiling?
It is the Báb.
He beckons.
‘Do not tremble so,’ He says. ‘See who waits.
See who waits in the Garden.’
A Gate. A Garden.
Who is in the Garden?
What voice calls from the Tree? It is the Nightingale. ‘
He sings.
‘There is no fear,’ He says. ‘Come into the Garden.
See the Roses in the Garden.’
Olive V. Applegate (U.S.A.)
The Hanging
Birth
from a tight circle
with pain, wonder and light draws her
into this world.
Young girl
embracing life and love
bares her slim throat
and dreams with opened eyes.
Woman
her heart is ready.
Neck tightly circled
with pain, wonder and light. Too soon
her soul takes flight.
The circle is released.
Sheila Banam' (USA)
From 21 Prison in Irén
Not long ago their Hero
saved the world from a prison cell.
Now,
salvation comes
by their enduring the crown of thorns.
Hostages to the world, they’ve become the ransom’s rose.
Yet,
what price are
we prepared
for them to pay, what cost their lives for ours?
Freedom
may be theirs
when ours is won, their lives released when ours are claimed.
And the Hero known.
Mary Dockens-Lillejord (U.S.A.)
[Page 812]
812
The Prisoner
For Bahá’u’lláh, The Messenger of God
I Prisoner, Exile, Rose, Scion of Law, Miracle of Reason II
Crimson Justice, Eden’s Phoenix, Man’s Question, Heaven’s Answer M ichael Fitzgerald (U.S.A.)
Here I Stand
With Bahá’u’lláh. There is no more I can say.
My whims join me to his grace, my reason accents the decision of my heart with a fortress that circumnavigates, embraces and restores Socrates. Yes, and diminishes him out of sheer forcible Martyrdom. For Bahá’u’lláh, death on the cross, at the hands of poisoners, was too easy. These
he overcomes like the sun rising after war.
With him I stand for I am tethered on a tightly wound knot and rope that has always brought me home.
M ichael Fitzgerald (U.S.A.)
Strange, to rise Newborn Amidst the ashes Of the past. To leave behind The beaten path And tread, With humble feet, The new.
Strange, to have Within
A surging sea. With rising tides To carve,
Along the shore A destiny.
Dagmar Dole (1902—1952) Pioneer from USA. to Alaska, Denmark and Italy (from letter 27 May 1938 to Marion Hofman)
THE BAHA I WORLD
The Candle: Heart Opening
Both ends aflame: this one in midnight hell, a discordant, revolutionary, smoking gun. .. the other in specious paradise, a sweet—singing, devious, kind-curved houri . ..
A white-hot candle with both ends aflame: our ends meet in the middle ground of ‘whatever lies between them,’ undeviating heart, flowering and tasting Glory.
Andrew T. Moo (USA)
Forgotten roads, empty windows, closed doors. Red sky at night, fallen shadows. Hollow rooms, sleeping walls, dirty floors, stale air. Torn Cloth, cold hands, rose petals and thorns. Unfinished poems, vacant eyes, closed lips.
Evening stars, patient moon, lonely moon. Running deer, small stream, dusty wind, Steep road, climbing stairs, starving village. Small shop, old bread, heavy coins.
The Master smiles. He touches the hands. He gives the gifts and asks not the same. Other days, before my time, before my eyes.
Same place, burning candles, weeping candles. Burning hearts, hungry hearts, cold hands. Tell me again:
Shrines, graves and Persian rugs.
Gardens, rooms, writings and prayers.
Don’t ask my name—Alláh-u-Abhá.
David Foroughi (USA)
[Page 813]
VERSE
Bahá’u’lláh loved the beauty and verdure Of the country. One day He passed the remark: ‘I have not gazed upon verdure for nine years. . . ’
‘Abdu ’l—Bahd
Suflused in sensation of auburn-amber light sounds of an oakleafed path fragrance of earth, sumac and beech, and the feel of bark, rough as my father’s remembered hand in mine
I am startled arrested by the sudden sight of berries clustered and blood-red among the golden tones of F all.
The crimson speaks of You, O ‘7 Shipwright and Captain of the Crimson Ark.
May I feel this beauty for You and~ofler my sensations
as a gift, a sacrifice to
Your long airless time?
Accepting, You become the eyes wherewith I see, the ears wherewith I hear, and the
forest path is leading
me to rapture.
Look, Lord! See that exquisite turbanned acorn, that field a Persian carpet of wine and mauve and cream.
Now is that row of misshapen cedars dark against the yellow woods become the Pines of Bahjí
and I can only weep and turn toward home.
When You feel beauty, King of Kings,
it is more than I can bear!
Carol Handy (USA)
813
Poems for the Bahá’í Fast I
The prayer-wheel of the year’s revolved again.
Before dawn memory returns. Breakfast steams.
Songs drop like wild grapes from the morning air.
We go into our lives as into dreams,
days of mystery, quartz-crystals steeped in light,
our reverie’s ginger—scented. Magnetized night
vibrates a Charge out of the ground. First thunders strain
toward equinox. Promises to surrender
and be glad scatter from a bride’s bouquet.
Afternoons, mired in leaden torpor, haze
hangs in the mind, we almost cease to care.
Prayer, slow fire in the mind to lift our gaze
above the drowsy middle distance. Let
our thirst and hunger fan the crackling husk.
The rasp of flint will kindle that swift flight
to the Kingdom. Flanking dark rushes there
in muflled dampness, swans like clouds adrift
in holy rapture, bobbing white on white.
Paddling and diving, the flock feeds at dusk.
Il
Accretions of the old year are sifted
in this threshing of the will.
From the elements we’re divinely rifted to dance where everything is still.
The bottom of the year’s used up
in shifts and shines, like the way sunlight sparkles in an empty silver cup
or hollow bones ascend to flight.
This rhythm of the soul begins
that world order that before long
will sound a note that will sustain far—reaching resonance of a gong.
The years are stanzas of a song,
each ending with this same refrain,
the one chime binding the one Chain. So we ascend from dawn to dark
as on a flight of spiral stairs.
The sun traces its lengthening are upon the backs of prayers.
John Simpson (U.S.A.)
