Tag Archives: writing

Religion as a Quest for Truth

If the doors of perception were cleansed every thing would appear to man as it is, Infinite. For man has closed himself up, till he sees all things thro’ narrow chinks of his cavern.” – William Blake

“It seems that nothing exists for modern men beyond what can be seen and touched; or at least, even if they admit theoretically that something more may exist, they immediately declare it not merely unknown but “unknowable”, which absolves them from having to think about it.” – René Guénon


Religion is far too personal of a thing to be reduced to a precise academic definition. And yet, this ineffability is exactly what separates religion from everything else in the world. Religion works to externalize the innermost personal feelings of the religious. In a way, it represents an attempt to codify all things that one does not understand, that one does not know, and that one can never find out. Thus, religious belief and practice is a quest for truth that somewhat paradoxically supposes that an objective, ultimate truth exists, but that such truth is beyond human understanding, and thus, is obscured by human limitations. In this sense religion deals not only with a search for truth, but also has an understanding that such truth will never be satisfactorily revealed in the mundane world. If the truth is revealed, according to religious tradition, it will manifest in either a revelationary act that brings about the end of human misunderstanding, or it will manifest in a personal revelation that takes the human beyond the mundane world. In any case, religion supposes that man in and of himself is not fit to understand all things, and this is where religion can help him. It reveals truth beyond the scope of the human intellect, it reveals what cannot be expressed in language, and it reveals those things within every man that he cannot externalize otherwise.

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Even more poems

untitled
 
white noise blankets the silence;
blackness shadows the times.
and out from the center,
in the stillness of solitude,
the soul resounds.
 
vermin
 
I live like a city rat:
I come out at night,
I ignore the stoplights,
and I’m not trying to be trite,
but sometimes I may bite.
 
Friday
 
Admiring the dead trees who, like me, aren’t old
Smoking like a chimney to beat the cold
Buildings conquer the nighttime,
Their light makes one bold.

Poetry

I said like a year ago I’d post some creative writing, so here it is:

Untitled:

a still gray mass
a light gray mist
enshrouds a corpse
the body of a tree
fallen wayside
that will not be mourned

though many pass
and many leaves
descend to the ground
the burial procession
like a cold gust
enlivens the walking dead

Morning:

the songbirds praise the new day
on the graveyard shift

as the birds twitter and wassail
the sun creeps uninvited

intruders and interrupters
of the dreamer’s mind

he knows not their goodwill
only the incessant cacophony

the chill of morn
the blanket pulled tighter
the pillow pulled higher
the body stretched further
the mind dulled

gradually
made sharper

by the shrill noise
only matched
by the ultimatum:
the clock beeps

at least the birds
stay outside

Wadi Rum:

red sand and yellow sun
and the deceptively cool breeze
up a dune
down another

up a dune
down another
the heat hides
the sweat steals away
yet the mind
feels betrayed

you slip
away
utterly

in the red
of the sand

up a dune
down another