A poem inspired by:
Ye are even as the bird which soareth, with the full force of its mighty wings and with complete and joyous confidence, through the immensity of the heavens, until, impelled to satisfy its hunger, it turneth longingly to the water and clay of the earth below it, and, having been entrapped in the mesh of its desire, findeth itself impotent to resume its flight to the realms whence it came. Powerless to shake off the burden weighing on its sullied wings, that bird, hitherto an inmate of the heavens, is now forced to seek a dwelling-place upon the dust. Wherefore, O My servants, defile not your wings with the clay of waywardness and vain desires, and suffer them not to be stained with the dust of envy and hate, that ye may not be hindered from soaring in the heavens of My divine knowledge.
(Bahá’u’lláh: Gleanings from the Writings of Bahá’u’lláh, CLIII, p 327)
Perfumed and prickly, my mind marks Tthe white hawthorn bushes at the field’s edge, Crinkles with the current fingered By the willow’s dangling strands. I Mistake for a self the complex Camera of consciousness which Confuses itself with the world.
Too close a horse pounds down the field, Gallops to join the herd browsing By the hedge. Its hooves thud into My ideas scattering them. I lose Myself again. We climb. I scan. We reach the hilltop. Overhead A bird I cannot see ours out A melody. I tell you and A small dark bow flashes to ground. Seemingly my voice stopped its song, Dropped it among the gorse.
Van Gogh killed a butterfly to paint it. The dead insect lives on in us, Preserved in art, the mind’s amber. Is that enough to lift us off The land? Is it what keeps us stranded?
My brain buzzes with doubts as we clamber Down the track back to sea level. In the mind’s hive nothing is ever still: He tells me a soul in His sky knows peace. Maybe, if my mind can learn His Ways And long enough, my soul will find release.
Peter Hulme
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