ces anges du grand rassemblement

C’est aujourd’hui que commence une grande conférence à Montréal, regroupant des jeunes d’à travers le Québec, le Nunavut, et les provinces maritimes du Canada, “qui aspirent à se défaire de la léthargie que la société leur impose et à travailler côte à côte dans leurs quartiers et leurs villages pour commencer un processus de transformation collective”. Rappellant mes jours de service au Québec, et inspiré par le zèle et l’enthousiasme de la génération présente, j’ai composé quelques versets en leur éloge.

photo de groupe (ti-groupe)Ces jeunes qui quittent leurs foyers,
se rassemblant, se dispersant
tout comme autant d’aigrettes au vent,
parsèment de vie les prés d’été.

Se mêlant parmi leurs compères,
ils soufflent en eux la brise de foi,
et fracassant les chaînes du moi,
s’occupent à récréer la terre.

Voyez comment leur danse est belle!
Ces âmes célestes, esprits de bien,
reserrent les nœuds, renouent les liens,
en répondant au grand appel.

“Voilà des anges,” l’on dira d’eux :
bien qu’issus de lignée mortelle,
mais bénis d’une force spirituelle
propre aux habitants des cieux.

© 2013 Daniel Jones.

autumn (untitled)

this morning, an eerie quiet invaded the tunnel, supplanting the commute’s normal din with nothing, glorious nothing. not even the noise wanted to get out of bed. after glancing about and taking stock of the reds, the yellows and oranges suddenly strewn about the cityscape, i turned back to my lap and continued typing away, tapping out messages to friends and family.

evening came early tonight. as the air chilled, the squirrels came out in little black troops to gather up seeds and acorns, bounding across the grass littered with fallen leaves. the bold and deep greens of a month ago have begun to yellow or redden, depending on where one’s glance falls, as autumn begins to rear its beautiful head.

post-pilgrimage seven

lovelywalking slowly down dusty streets
his eyes are lost in thoughts that wash over
like forty waves and swallow him up

how blessed the dust of ‘Akka
how Blessed the Beauty whose feet trod upon it
he says with a tear;
his soul cries out in its separation

like a temple-flower
his prayer falls from his lips, and a wind stirs
and scatters the words he intones;
praise God who hearkens and is ready to answer

would that these stones could speak
and recount the tales of his Beloved;
would that he could hear the voices
of the Concourse on High, singing His praise

lost in thoughts of remembrance
he steps as though scaling those hallowed steps
he walks as though treading the rocky path that leads
to that Point of Adoration, that Holy of Holies

the flutter of a breeze sweeps away the dust
and scatters the flowers falling softly at his feet
and he listens for the voice of the Promised One

post-pilgrimage six

Waft, then, unto me, O my God and my Beloved, from the right hand of Thy mercy and Thy loving-kindness, the holy breaths of Thy favors, that they may draw me away from myself and from the world unto the courts of Thy nearness and Thy presence. (Bahá’u’lláh)

shrine from upper terraceslost in a sea of subtle fragrance
and deep abounding joy i sigh

you ask me hello are you there you
need to concentrate what are you
thinking of

looking
longing
across the bay
like a magnet it draws me back

it feels like flying
like being there and curling into
a stance of prayer my forehead
touches the carpet and
as the faithful utter wordless devotions
i smell the scent of roses in the air
turning to face that sacred spot that
sea wall in akkáholy threshhold

drink deep from the cup of His presence
for in nine days you return to your previous life
to find that it can no longer be lived the same way

back at work on a grey day I hear chatter
while deep inside noiseless waves
crash and break upon my heart
and their silent roar echoes in my ears
and shakes this dusty shell that surrounds me

I turn aside and I sigh
and you look on wondering
if one day you look upon my Beloved
you might know why

hunger

hunger, like a spoiled child
kicks and screeches at my belly,
craving the bread of indulgence

although in dim reflections i recognize its folly,
the clouds ever re-envelop me,
and the hunger of the dying is debased.

© dan jones, 2001.

speak to us of friendship

And a youth said:
Speak to us of Friendship!

And he answered, saying:
Your friend is your needs answered.
He is your field which you sow with love and reap with thanksgiving.

And he is your board and your fireside.
For you come to him with your hunger, and you seek him for peace.

When your friend speaks his mind you fear not the “nay” in your own mind, nor do you withhold the “ay”.
And when he is silent your heart ceases not to listen to his heart;
For without words, in friendship, all thoughts, all desires, all expectations are born and shared, with joy that is unacclaimed.
When you part from your friend, you grieve not;
For that which you love most in him may be clearer in his absence, as the mountain to the climber is clearer from the plain.

And let there be no purpose in friendship save the deepening of the spirit.
For love that seeks aught but the disclosure of its own mystery is not love but a net cast forth: and only the unprofitable is caught.

And let your best be for your friend that you should seek him with hours to kill?
Seek him always with hours to live.
For it is his to fill your need, but not your emptiness.
And in the sweetness of friendship let there be laughter, and sharing of pleasures.
For in the dew of little things the heart finds its morning and is refreshed.

Khalil Gibran