95 Words: Resigned and submissive as the earth

Where does a writer derive inspiration? Some are fueled to record the events of their own lives, others feel compelled to write down the worlds within their imagination. Some novels are the product of heartbreak, and some poems are a tribute to hope.

In Paris Talks, Abdu’l-Baha says, “By the power of the Holy Spirit, working through his soul, man is able to perceive the Divine reality of things. All great works of art and science are witnesses to this power of the Spirit.”

With that in mind, we’re sharing short works inspired by a reading of the Baha’i writings. Each writer has used this inspiration to create an entirely different piece. Each poem or story is written in a different style. Each one covers different emotional terrain. Each one is 95 words.

But first, the quotation that fueled the process:

 

“O My servants! Be as resigned and submissive as the earth, that from the soil of your being there may blossom the fragrant, the holy and multicolored hyacinths of My knowledge. Be ablaze as the fire, that ye may burn away the veils of heedlessness and set aglow, through the quickening energies of the love of God, the chilled and wayward heart. Be light and untrammeled as the breeze, that ye may obtain admittance into the precincts of My court, My inviolable Sanctuary.”  (Baha’u’llah, Gleanings from the Writings of Baha’u’llah, p 322-3)

 

Read on to see the 95 word pieces inspired by this reading.

 

Generations
(a memory)
…

My mother and grandmother
are planting roses.

They dig holes in the Florida soil
deep enough for a child to sit in.

And I do.

I lower myself
into the damp earth,

crouching with my knees
against my heart.

I am not afraid of the shimmering
worms and beetles,

enriching the dirt
through their digestive tracts.

I am at home in this place
where the flowers’ roots will go.

Even the sky is not far away,
brushing my crown

like the cool wing of a blackbird.

Lightning sings.

Arms lift me,
as rain angles down.

– Andréana Lefton, 95 words + title

 

Poetry Class in Prison

The inmates fished crinkled verses from jumpsuit pockets, and their teacher asked for volunteers. One man recited with blazing authority: I am not the person I was raised to be. Another read until his face hollowed. Twelve years of her life, I spent locked up. What have I done? The final flushed-cheek poet, too, uttered words that ignited the room with applause.

After class, the teacher, escorted past guards with Tasers and barbed wire spools, whispered to herself that last radiant verse:

In this hell, the Word has set us free.

– Aleah Douglas Khavari, 95 words

 

A day without rain

Heavy with water for hydrangeas,
I step among the ivy and catmint.
If we are patient
they’ll bloom next year
but yellow-green leaves tell me
that the soil is sick
and the plant, weak.

Under one foot, rats
fluff their nest with branches
and straw wrappers.
Under the other,
bulbs sleep in their beds
to bloom next spring
and the spring after
until they grow too tired,
or the soil tires,
or the rats, hungry
for something beautiful,
dig them out and dine
on what hopes we’ve buried out of sight.

– Caitlin Castelaz, 95 words

 

(un)trammeled

I heard it, and my heart sunk.
Those heavy words and stinging accusations.
Wondering where it came from, how it all changed.
I’d realize later that it was all made of sand and fog.
At the time I thought:
All you have to do is let go, not even entirely, but
Just a little bit.
Things were said that can’t be unsaid.
There may still be time to say new things,
But maybe, just maybe,
It was all for the best.
The ground was razed and cleared
For something even better,
Even brighter.

– Lindsay McComb, 95 words + title