Posted in Jamie Dedes, Poems/Poetry

RELIQUARY

RELIQUARY

by

Jamie Dedes

We flew along the freeway yesterday under

a cold coastal expanse of cerulean ceiling.

·

It reminded me of you and how we dusted

the vaults of your mind to rid them of fear

and the old lexicons of grief and guilt, the

whalebone girdles of unfounded faith and

everyday conventions, sticky and saccharine.

I thought of that one sea-green day we spent

·

under just such a sky in a land far away and

how we changed your name then and rewrote

your story to tell of oak trees instead of old times.

You sketched flowers blossoming in the dust

of a spring that promised but never delivered.

Now we don’t speak of men, but of cats with

·

their manner of keeping heart and claws intact.

We tell ourselves stories in music that resounds

in deep sleep. After all the ancient calls to

feral festivals will still and time coming when

we no longer play in margins, memories hung

on our skeletons like Spanish moss on cypress.

·

It pleases me that fissures spin into poemed reliquary

and the pink poeu de soie I wore to our prom that June.

Photo credit: Stupa (reliquary) With Pillars, Gandhara 2nd Century courtesy of PHGCOM under the terms of the GNU Free Documentation License

Posted in Essay, Jamie Dedes

MYSTIC POET-PHILOSOPHER

Kahlil Gibran Memorial, Washington, D.C., U.S.A.

Excerpt from

THE PROPHET

by

Khalil Gibran

If you are viewing this poem on the home page, you will need to click with your mouse on the subject line of the post to see the poem laid out properly.

And a man said, Speak to us of Self-Knowledge.
And he answered saying:
Your hearts know in silence the secrets of the days and the nights.
But your ears thirst for the sound of your heart’s knowledge.
You would know in words that which you have always known in thought.
You would touch with your fingers the naked body of your dreams.

And it is well you should.
The hidden well-spring of your soul must needs rise and run murmuring to the sea;
And the treasure of your infinite depths would be revealed to your eyes.
But let there be no scales to weigh your unknown treasure;
And seek not the depths of your knowledge with staff or sounding line.
For self is a sea boundless and measureless.

Say not, “I have found the truth,” but rather, “I have found a truth.”
Say not, “I have found the path of the soul.” Say rather, “I have met the soul walking upon my path.”
For the soul walks upon all paths.
The soul walks not upon a line, neither does it grow like a reed.
The soul unfolds itself, like a lotus of countless petals.

♥ ♥ ♥

The Lebanese-American artist and poet-philospher, Gibran Khalil Gibran, died on this day in 1931. He was born in 1883. He wrote in the Arabic and in English and was from the northern Lebanon town of Bsharri (the ancient name meaning “the house of Ishtar,” after the goddess Ishtar worshiped by the ancient Phoenicians). Bsharri is in the Kadisha Valley below the famed cedar forests of Lebanon. In modern times Bsharri was enclave for Maronite Christians escaping from the Ottoman Turks. Until the late 19th Century/20th Century, Aramaic* was the language of Bsharri. Its influence is still evident in the verbal inflection of its people.

Initially, The Prophet (1923, U.S.), was not well-received by critics, though it met with some success with the public. By the sixties and the counter-culture** it – and all his work – gained greater acceptance and a wider audience. As with other like spirits, Gibran is considered a mystic by some and a charlatan by others. Gibran found wisdom in the transcendent elements of all spiritual traditions he encountered, but was born into a Maronite family.

The Maronites are Eastern Catholics in communion with the Apostolic See (the seat of authority for the Catholic Church based in Rome, Italy), and followers of St. Maron, a Syrian priest of the fifth century. Also from the Aramaic speaking peoples, St Marion was a friend and contemporary of St. John Chrysostom (Turkish) and Anthony the Great (Egyptian) and led a monastic life. Before the rise of the Ottoman Empire and the subsequent Lebanese diaspora, this was the majority population in the Lebanon. 3,500,000 people practice this religion world-wide. In the United States some 200,000 are Maronite.

Maronites building a church on Mt. Lebanon, circa 1920s. Public domain photo via Wikipedia.

Video posted to YouTube by . This is a short documentary of about ten minutes.

Gibran Museum in Lebanon courtesy of Xtcrider via Wikipedia. Public domain photo.


Gibran Memorial at Copley Square in Boston, Massachusetts, U.S.A. via Wikipedia. Public domain photo.

1904 – 1930, written in Boston, New York and Paris, where Gibran studied art under Rodin.

* Aramaic, a Semitic language, was the language of Jesus and the Apostles, the literary language and the vernacular of ancient Asia Minor, Syria, Mesopotamia, and Palestine. The Peshitta texts (Old and New Testaments) were written in Aramaic and some claim they are the original New Testament documents.

**counter-culture – a cultural movement initiated mainly in the U.K. and the U.S. It spread though most of the western world between 1958  and 1974 with its peak after 1964. The counter-culture movement of the ’60s created a cultural divide mainly along age lines with youth forming a subculture questioning the social norms of the day and changing many regarding wars (especially Vietnam), sexuality, religion and spirituality, music, drugs, abortion, women’s rights, racial rights, gay/lesbian rights, free speech, environmentalism, dress codes, and so forth. It started in ’58 in London with an act of civil disobedience when students marched to ban the bomb (i.e. nuclear weapons).

Photo credit for Washington, D. C. Memorial – Gyrofrog licensed under Creative Commons ShareAlike 1.0 License.


Posted in Jamie Dedes, Poems/Poetry

SACRED CYCLE

SACRED CYCLE

by

Jamie Dedes

I wrote the first version of this a year ago. I was sitting in a Buddhist center were the children had designed a large mandala in collage to celebrate the Buddha’s birthday, which is April 8. The mandala was filled with pictures and drawings of nature scenes, the Buddha, stupas, and children at play. I was totally engaged by it with its color, movement, and imagination. The children’s mandala came together for me with the Tibetan Buddhist custom of creating mandala of colored sands, which are then blown away to remind us of the impermanence of the material world. This poem is the result. Although it has elements that are consistent with the Buddhist system, I didn’t write it as a Buddhist statement, just an imaginative one.


Is there – could it be – that there’s

more than one god, one eternity,

more than one universe, and Time

at their service, really nothing more

than a simple saffron-robed monk; a

being meditating, mediating realms

of Chaos, pulling colors and lights

and energies into lively mandala,

galaxies of air, fire, earth, blood.

·

And could it be that the blood are

uneasy souls, passing drowsy days

and nights in deep sleep, believing

dark, dank demons whispering …

“The moon never dies.”

But demons do as demons do: they lie.

·

So unready and fearful, poor souls,

when one day wind and fire stormily

march in, tramping on and through

coherence with feet deft and dusty

and in Chaos whirling and roiling,

souls passing into a renewed spin

on fate, singing desperate canticles

to nothingness, to light, to love

·

Time dons its saffron robes

sits in quiet meditation

births lively mandala

another sacred cycle begins …

Photograph of temporary sand-mandala, Drongtse Monastery, Tibet, 1993 via Wikipedia and originally posted to Flickr asamazing sand mandala by Mai Le from San Francisco, CA, USA under GNU Free Documentation License.

Posted in Jamie Dedes, Poems/Poetry

SUNDAY MORNING MIND

MY MIND ON SUNDAY MORNING

by

Jamie Dedes

So Sunday morning I’m in bed with Cleo

She wants to sleep & I get up naked at the table

Writing

And it all snaps into focus

The World inside my head & the cat outside the window

A one-to-one relationship

While I image whatever I imagine …

The Same Old Jazz by Philip Whalen from The Collected Poems of Philip Whalen.


the poet wrote and

in writing awoke

He fell one day into an

iris and drowned in the

color purple. Freedom

rose like a geyser

raining down poems,

engraving each on the

leaf of an old oak.

Photograph of Gypsy (The Cat’s Meow) courtesy of the Cityson Philosopher.

Posted in Jamie Dedes, Poems/Poetry

DONE

DONE

by

Jamie Dedes

I watched it all over my friend’s dear shoulder,

that day of living and dying and celebrating

like a garden snake the shedding of the skin,

the detritus of material man with its hunger and

wild, woody creative soul, sketching ruby-jeweled

memories in sand to be blown like a Tibetan mandala

across Timelessness while he, lone monk, gripped

by systems on systems of hospital wiring, billing,

approvals, and laws around funerals and burials,

estates, plans, and proposals for headstones and

the where, when, and how of a memorial service,

the left-overs of his life to be sorted, stashed, stored

or sent  to the right people in the right places. Done!

… as though there had been nothing. No one.

♥♥♥♥

NOT DONE YET

* Dedicated to Group *

A Chinese advertisement based on a true story.

Inspiring. Give it a chance. I don’t think you’ll regret the time.

Thanks Laurel! 🙂

Posted to YouTube by .