Reflection And Expression


Teachers as mirrors, from whom to learn
To rest from function, to function from rest

Bereft in sunlight’s brightness as a candle
Of use only in the consuming
And the being brought to nought
All is dust and rust
As birds beyond the glass escape from view
Into futures where all maybes are while I
Remain in now where only maybe is

Reflecting, refracting back through darker days
Pitting the dim forgetfulness of memory
Against the dusk, the dawn, the falling leaves
It’s not the words at any time
(Especially in recall)
That count along the rosary of reverie
But what goes on behind, within the words

Shorestander, confusing the sea’s innocence
With some unbidden guilt of his own
From pure self-interest does not steal
From self-protection does no harm
The tides run thick and dirty whiles
Reflecting a legion sky whose night
Has lost the tenure of the day

Dust on mirrors, teachers unheeded
Oscillating from intensity to extremity
Possessed of a prehensile tongue
Crying wordless hymns to the living rain
Speaking wildly waiting for an answer
From whom is hidden nothing
But his very blindness

In a rolling and colourful world of waves
Where two become three (or seem) that never were but one
To embrace each his differentness – the alien in others, in oneself
… That never were but one, who loves us all (forever)
That none can deny, who are his flesh
The body as landscape, an artwork of defiance
Leaving a trail in the otherwise untrodden

A line dictates and bounds a form
To be without a form then take no line
In silence lose all forms as ripples fade
All expression relative reiteration of the absolute
The centre of whom we may not speak
For how then shall I tell of thee
Who am to me as I?

Whose rule is endless
Whose pencil is revolving
Whose lists are incomplete
Who has not come to a conclusion
Who is researching his autobiography
Still silence has been dissected by better lines
And who am I?

Separation not for waste, for duplication; still less duplicity
But trust in the unknown, though the watch
Replace the spire bell, the car the cycle
Mystery of beauty undeserving still observed
Till lover, love and beloved are unravelled
And a traveller may be one with his cycle and free
From the view of things surrounding through some already window

About Ben Naga

The Spirit that graces me with its passing has no name and stems not from thoughts and words, though it gathers them up as it flows, but from feeling.

Posted on October 10, 2012, in Poetry, Writing and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink. 16 Comments.

  1. Lovely lilt, lovely rhythm, nice solid piece of musical wordsmithing….!

    Liked by 1 person

  2. I don’t know where you have been but I was glad to find this in my reader today…wonderfully done.

    Liked by 1 person

  3. Well written Ben. Teachers of all kinds should take delight in reading this post.

    Liked by 1 person

  4. Ben, I was here yesterday and printed this out so have had time to read and savor. What a great poem – so rich and full of meaning in every line! I was especially attracted to the thoughts contained in: “From whom is hidden nothing / But his very blindness” and “For how then shall I tell of thee / Who am to me as I?”…. and “Till lover, love and beloved are unravelled”…. (which reminded me of “the knower, the knowing and the known”….)

    Excellent writing – I love it!

    Liked by 1 person

  5. This was both powerful and amazing – I almost feel privileged to read it! Seriously, if you could strike gold on the internet, I’d have a chunk of pure diamond right here.

    Liked by 1 person

  6. I particularly like the shorestander line referring to the perception of an innocent sea. Lovely word pictures, Ben!

    Liked by 1 person

  7. There is no rudeness to excuse. As writers our thoughts come and go. Who am I is a question I think we all will ask over and over. Beautiful poem. Reflective.

    Liked by 1 person

  8. Thank you for your long and beefy poem.

    Liked by 1 person

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