Red Sulfur
Intro: Ibn Tufayl, the 12th-century Andalusian philosopher and physician, wrote Hayy Ibn Yaqzan as an allegory of human reason and spiritual awakening.
I wrote this poem because the image of red sulfur spoke to me as a symbol of rare transformation. It reflects Hayy’s search for ultimate truth, and my own search for meaning through words:
Forget all you’ve heard and clutch what you see. At sunrise, what use is Saturn to thee?
How can it be that life’s so small? Two sciences we have, that’s all?
One truth is beyond attaining. The other is vain and not worth gaining.
Do not declare too sweet fruits you have not tasted, Some things are utterly wasted.
Once comes a man whose glance is always piercing. In no need for searching.
Clothed in letters and sound bites. What he seeks in the world cannot remain.
He runs in vain, Chases shadows and lights thinking he might! Have a clearer view and greater delight.
He’s like a blind man, Wrapped in a foil of wants…
Call him right now, call him might. What does he want?
The pursuit of everything, but! The pursuit of wonders, Everything: minus healing.
He’s like a wicked, Living in forever infinite torments.
He asks why, And he continues to ask.
Some guide him to despair, Others to a broken chair.
He glances over half a broken fence, His day to day too intense.
Digs in the soil, And weeps from within. Refusing to be shaken from the core.
Finally he finds a letter in the soil, A call from previous generations? Lest he find a clue to the soul!
The words are vague, opaque. A distorted map, a treasure?
One direction leads him to the ocean, Another to the sun.
He blinks and oh but life is passing him by, A wife, a son…
The sun turns to moon, And the moon skected by crayons.
He matured, Forgot to color, To paint, to be still.
Looks at the map, thinks he found a clue. Something mystical, A miracle. The red sulfur? Metaphysical!
Might the chemicals transform his body and spirit? Might it enrich his mind? Might he find glory?
The journey is too short. So unworth it to contemplate. The red sulfur might be the answer.
The map shrinks, Melts in his hand like candle light. Blends with the sunrise and sky.
He thinks: is it a new day? Will I breathe the air and smile?
In between his bare fingers, a sky plotted with gunpowder and fire! And tornados made by human design and error!
Explosions!
None can read them, those signs! Written in common language that all must understand.
Even he, forgot to read. Even his big house morphed into needle threads.
He became a man again, then a boy, Then clay.
He blinks, his mouth now zipped. The thoughts make crazy,
The train of life has left the station, The locomotives have collided!
He digs in the sand again with his hands and teeth. Hoping to find: what?
He looks at a rainbow, At the sky. At the day restarting.
A tear rolling and turns into puddles of bitter-sweet beauty.
The red sulfur has always been in his hand.
He thought he knew, Oh how he wished, He knew before!