On Beauty

By

George O. Obikoya

The heavens split for seraphic songs to fondle my mind;

to savor the moving melodies of saintly grace,

as a full, snowy moon floats in a clear sunset sky;

and deities, inspiringly magical, rumba

in a solemn, concordant, ritual of sublime delight.

Yet as the divine beauty in mythical hearts galls

tastes that pervade minds besieged by relentless fear,

my eyes that no longer cry visible tears pray for 

the grief, shame and pride sire in worldly planes to fade;

that, my tithes the purgation of lust, may reborn my soul.

That my spirit rouses with the subtle warmth of a new sun,

that clears the mist of dawn lingering in the horizon;

the other side of the sky where the fading moon dotted blue,

marks the passage of an amazing celestial glee;

that blends into the flight of sparrows in playful euphory

as they serenade tunefully with the cock’s crow at dawn;

lambs on the hill’s breast grazing lazily in the sky;

the shine as the sun glances off grain bins on canola fields;

to herald the sublime splendor of a pretty morn;

fills me with inestimable pleasure and nurtures my being.

So does the effusion of artistry that my mind sees,

that cries for me to shear the facade that hides my shame;

suffer the guilt of dashed hopes and innocence betrayed;

of the undying love professed with deceiving breath;

and the mercurial face that leaves me netted in disgrace,

in psychic pain that not even my pride dares ignore;

nor will my soul lost in the vastness of space unpurified:

Fuel for the good my mind matted in toil renounced;

that it prays for courage to manifest in word and deed;

the salvation truth in beauty my eyes and mind bestow.

The corruption of my mind blinds my eyes to its air;

the joy of the image of perfection the canvas bares;

of hot, grilled marinated chicken in peanut sauce

dressed with oriental spices in ageless chinaware;

the royal topaz plumage of the old lady on a couch,

with a warm smile as her eyes dandle a tot she laps;

Beauty that treats my eyes to heal my ailing mind,

to satiate my desire to know, understand, and value;

muse, love and adore; with joy, tears; my core; my all;

to be ever closer to the divine truth my mind craves.

For the bareness that cages my being offers my mind,

in every image my senses behold even beset;

each detail crafted, its mosaic divine or inspired;

an inviting peep into the riches behind a veil;

the sacred sentry with which my being must negotiate

or stay lost in vacuum, mystified by the self; myself;

denied apprehension of perfection; of self-awareness;

that promise of the revelation of the beau ideal;

to take me closer to the truth my mind seeks to liberate

my being; for me to be surely, finally free of void.

Free as the clouds that roam the skies in saltating hues,

garnished with a spectacular display of fulminous blaze;

a paragon the gods anoint with thunderous applause,

and showers that chorus sacred ballads on earthly realms:

tunes of untold value; tempo, where mystic verses dwell;

gorgeous beauty filled with secrets of the void;

that ordains my eyes with blossoms of the tiger lily;

the veritable fountain of life; of the doves, elves, and me;

in whose mysterious veins the promise of perfection flows;

the heavenly gift; on which my mind begs, to meditate.

Open to mull the transience of prime that time reveals,

that my face in time creases belies the beauty within

tells the rigor my mind asks of my senses, confounds;

copies, being copies; closest to perfection as they may,

willed by varied tastes that time, with arrant hubris molds;

censored to tame beauty into a beast, fanged yet benign;

a domesticated brute; a likeness of an ideal;

minion of the vain and brazen fancy my mind shapes;

that makes my senses more chameleonic than quixotic;

beauty’s sacred goodness buried in frenzied cacophony.

My eyes bleed to see beauty scorned in the void of shame;

they pray that it offers my mind virtues my soul craves;

that my mind needs to be free from eternal blazing crypts,

shackled, chasing shadows, so blinded by lust and greed;

that beauty no longer fades; even as my days die away;

or its aura falsified, exchanged by many for gain; 

that it cleanses me in its pristine timeless spring; it’s

not borne of lust, but of true pleasure in the perfection

offered by divine grace, an image of immense value;

as is all in which it manifests; image of truth, revealed.

So, fear not beauty my eyes assure: truth never dies.

But my mind must wash itself of the cruel game it plays

to relish the beauty of varied beings lost in the void;

minds that also crave the holy pleasure of perfection

the images of the ideal that, tantalize my soul;

lure me to desire more of the rapture of realness; that

a veil of mystic plumes in the void hides from my soul; 

to deform the images my mind sees, feels, or hears; and

which my mind contemplates in an endless search for truth:

to turn, the eternal shimmer of truth into darkness.

My mind will see the worldly plane that mystifies it

with, lies to revel on its whim, with jaded eyes.

It will strive to tell the truth from my infinite dream;

to, replace my lingering weariness with hope, and faith.

My eyes need not be the perfection that my mind seeks;

for it counts not, that beauty riles, or rouses my soul;

aptness in inspired or given beauty, vain: truth, veiled.

So, in penance my mind resigns with abiding faith;                      

certain of the truth in beauty that my faith reveals;

and the hope faith inspires in truth; truth faith alone bears.