# The Purpose of Poetry

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> Source: Bahá'í Library Online (bahai-library.com), curated by Jonah Winters. Used by permission of the curator. Original citation: Shirin Sabri, The Purpose of Poetry, bahai-library.com.
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> 
> Published in the Journal of Bahá’í Studies Vol. 1, number 1 (1988)
> © Association for Bahá’í ™ Studies 1988
> 
> The Purpose of Poetry
> Shirin Sabri
> 
> Abstract
> This paper seeks out justifications for the work of Bahá’í artists of our time. It argues that now is the time for Bahá’í
> artists to begin working towards the flowering of our civilization. It argues for art as a unifying force which can create
> links of understanding between the believers. It suggests that art, and poetry in particular, provides a means of
> approaching the spiritual or intellectual reality which underlies material existence. It is intended as an appeal to
> Bahá’í poets and to artists of all disciplines.
> 
> Résumé
> Cet article cherche á justifier le travail des artistes bahá’ís de notre temps en affirmant que le moment est maintenant
> venu pour les artistes bahá’ís de commencer á travailler pour l’ épanouissement de notre civilisation. Dans une telle
> perspective, l’art est envisagé comme une force unificatrice qui a le pouvoir de créer des liens de compréhension
> mutuelle entre les croyants. L’art, et en particulier la poésie, constituerait en effet une médiation entre la réalité
> spirituelle ou intellectuelle et l’existence matérielle. Il s’agit en fait d’une exhortation qui s’adresse á tous les poètes
> bahá’ís et aux artistes, quel que soit leur mode d’expression.
> 
> Resúmen
> Este artículo se esfuerza por justificar el trabajo de los artistas Bahá’ís contemporáneos. Argumenta que ahoara es el
> tiempo para que los artistas Bahá’ís empiecen a trabajar hacia el florecimiento de nuestra civilización. Argumenta por
> el arte como una fuerza unificante que puede crear enlaces de entendimiento entre los creyentes. Sugiere que el arte, y
> la poesía en particular, provee unaforma de acercarse a la realidad espiritual o intelectual que es fundamental a la
> existencia materialística. Su intento es de apelar a los poetas Bahá’ís y a los artistas de todas las disciplinas.
> 
> The individual should, prior to engaging in the study of any subject, ask himself what its uses are and what
> fruit and result will derive from it. If it is a useful branch of knowledge, that is, if society will gain important
> benefits from it, then he should certainly pursue it with all his heart.
> ‘Abdu’l-Bahá, Secret of Divine Civilization
> 
> We are all familiar with Shoghi Effendi’s statement:
> ... your understanding that there is no cultural expression which could be called Bahá’í at this time (distinctive
> music, literature, art, architecture, etc. being the flower of the civilization and not coming at the beginning of a
> new Revelation), is correct. (Qtd. in Extracts from Bahá’í Writings on Music 7)
> 
> This understanding has been the cause of some unease to Bahá’í artists in this time, leading them to a
> suspicion that their own work may be, at best, crude and unworthy, at worst, inappropriate and without purpose in this
> age. This unease, however, stems from an unfortunate interpretation of the Guardian’s words, unfortunate in that it is
> not useful to the Bahá’í artist. The intent of this essay is to put forward a justification for the efforts of Bahá’í artists
> of this time, in the midst of the Formative Age, who are endeavoring to use their artistic talents as Bahá’ís in a Bahá’í
> context. It is also an effort to discover, by studying the Writings, a place or position for an artist in this Revelation.
> That is, what, as artists and Bahá’ís living in this time, may we regard as our proper function?
> As a beginning, it is worthwhile to remember that the above quotation from a letter written on behalf of Shoghi
> Effendi by his secretary does not end on an unhappy note, but goes on to point out:
> 
> ...that does not mean that we haven’t Bahá’í songs, in other words, songs written by Bahá’ís on Bahá’í
> subjects. (Extracts 7)
> 
> From these closing words, it does not seem that the implications of this statement by the Guardian need be
> seen as being negative for the artist of this time. In fact, it is made clear to us that, though we may not yet have an
> encompassing Bahá’í civilization, this is no reason for Bahá’ís not to produce artistic work on Bahá’í subjects in the
> early stages of the Dispensation. The Guardian does not state that the works of this age must of necessity be of a
> lower standard, of a cruder nature, or less worthy of attention.
> Bahá’í poets in this age have a unique chance to perform solo, before their civilization’s cast of thousands has
> appeared. If the poet’s voice is small, he will not be noticed, it is true. But if his voice is loud enough to be heard,
> compelling enough to command attention, then he stands on a bare stage and speaks to his people. This requires the
> Bahá’í poet to make a great effort, to throw off the assumptions and expectations of the old world order, and to
> stretch to meet the standard of the new.
> 
> The stage is set, the hour is propitious. The signal is sounded. Bahá’u’lláh’s spiritual battalions are moving
> into position. The initial clash between the forces of darkness and the army of light is being registered by the
> denizens of the Abhá kingdom. (Shoghi Effendi, Citadel of Faith 26)
> 
> As artists, we should not imagine that we are in any way isolated from, or unconcerned by, the battle of dark
> and light that rages about us. We cannot place ourselves at a distance, belong to both worlds, or think that we may
> serve two masters.
> As poets, as artists of all types, Bahá’ís are breaking open new territories, are taking part in the struggle
> against the pull of the old world order, are trying to create a new standard in the world. In the future, perhaps our time
> will be seen as the most inspiring and wonderful time for a Bahá’í artist to live, this time when we are so few in
> number and are presented with so great a task. For in this time, it will take all our courage and effort to express
> something of the spirit of Bahá in our artistic work, to demonstrate to the outside world that the Faith has a spirit
> which permeates every part of life, a spirit capable of initiating art of the same, and of a higher standard as was born
> of the religions of the past.
> There may be a distinct danger to the Bahá’í poet outside of the Bahá’í con text. One of the difficulties in the
> old world order is the fragmentation of belief that has taken place. For:
> 
> As the Protestant movement splintered into hundreds of denominations, as the credibility of Christian
> cosmology diminished with every bout it had with science, as its values were swept aside by a burgeoning
> industrial age in pursuit of higher standards of living, the nineteenth-century individual was left with no
> direction in which to turn for the source of his cosmology and values-no direction, that is, except inward.
> (Tuman, World Order 12)
> 
> That is, instead of there being one coherent world structure, which people were able to understand and
> essentially agree upon (at least in the Western world), there came to be, in a short space of time, more and more
> numerous separate and distinct “worlds.” This process has been further accelerated by the breakdown of physical
> barriers between the peoples of different cultures. The Western world has not been able to maintain its insularity and
> cultural chauvinism with any degree of success.
> An attitude has developed, perhaps born more of insecurity than tolerance, that any system must have its
> merits, and any interpretation of any system may be right for any individual. This to the extent that, within our own
> culture, there is very nearly a one-to-one relationship between individuals and cosmologies. These are not merely
> different permutations of a basically similar understanding of reality, but actually worldviews so different that many
> people outside of the Bahá’í context find that they have no common ground whatsoever. For example, people from
> work environments as different as a computer programmer and a laborer may be simply unable to make contact on
> any level. People who have adopted very different value systems may be less able to communicate, and that split can
> develop even between the two generations of one family.
> As Bahá’ís, this is very familiar to us. We are aware that the major problem of this age is disunity and that our task is
> to create one world. As poets, the problem of disunity in the conceptual reality of our audience can attack the very
> centre of our ability to function as poets. If we cannot call on a common understanding of reality, we can scarcely use
> our poetic devices with any degree of success, for the tools and methods of the poet rely on the poet and the audience
> having an agreement about reality. Metaphor, for example, by its nature requires that poet and audience connect the
> same tenor and vehicle, or hopeless obscurity will be the result. For irony to function, audience and poet must agree
> on fundamental issues of right and wrong. Otherwise, how can the audience recognize those occasions when the poet
> is deliberately skewing his picture of moral reality to make a point?
> We can easily find examples in contemporary sources of profound differences in values that make the use of
> irony something of a problem. A case in point is found in an editorial titled, “The Case for Torture: A Rebuttal,” in
> which the author makes this interesting remark:
> 
> As I began to read Levin’s case for torture, I was first convinced that his “modest proposal” was a satire,
> written in deadpan Swiftian style. Signed by a respectable man, published by a reputable magazine, it could
> surely not mean what it was saying. I was expecting the punch line that would, for sure, explode with one deft
> blow this monument of twisted reasoning.... The punch line never came. Professor Levin meant it all....
> (Newsweek)
> 
> Plainly, Professor Levin and the author of the editorial quoted above have wholly different moral views of torture—
> views that are in total opposition. Yet, each author has been able to publish his view, in the same magazine, with the
> public left to choose with which man it will agree. It is clear that such divergence in socially acceptable value systems
> renders irony powerless. For satire, perhaps more than any other tool of art, depends upon a moral consensus in its
> audience; and moral consensus is one thing that our society, at this time, is without.
> The Bahá’í poet possesses great strength in his belief in one world, and his Bahá’í vision of history and
> mankind. For the Faith is in itself a cosmology that supersedes, encompasses, and reconciles the multiplying
> worldviews extant today. The Bahá’í poet, therefore, is not voicing only another view from amid the morass of
> differing opinions. We can imagine the growth of Bahá’í art as being similar to the development of a embryonic chick
> within an egg. The fluids of the egg have begun the process of breaking down, disintegrating in order to provide food
> for the chick. At first the embryo may appear to be only another particle in the egg, but it is undergoing a wholly
> different process. While the fluids around it break down and are absorbed by it, the embryo is growing and
> developing into a vital organism. In the same way, we can see Bahá’í art begin ning to grow out of the old world
> order.
> It is only by realizing this that we, as Bahá’ís and artists, will find the con fidence to avoid the extraordinary
> difficulties that arise from the present society’s pluralization of systems of meaning. As has been stated above, the
> poet relies on common understanding. Symbols are no longer useful if everyone is in doubt as to what they
> symbolize. It is religion, which in the past and for Bahá’ís in, the present, can provide this unified understanding so
> essential to the work of the poet. Religion may be defined as the
> 
> cognitive and normative structure that makes it possible for man to feel “at home” in the universe. (Berger,
> Berger, and Kellner, Homeless Mind 75)
> 
> Religion provides the “overarching canopy of symbols” ( Homeless 75) which are the shelter of mankind and
> without which the poet finds himself in the midst of a storm, trying to construct a highly individual umbrella. Since
> this shelter is created essentially for his own use, put together from whatever pieces of cloth that were available, a
> bedraggled humanity will probably not be able to interpret the poet’s work with any ease. The most successful will
> achieve an inspired misinterpretation, constructing a small, equally individual shelter of their own. However, we, as
> Bahá’í poets, must be confident enough of the reality of the Bahá’í canopy to enter wholeheartedly. That is, confident
> that this structure will never collapse around us, and, armed with that knowledge, confident enough to throwaway
> whichever style of umbrella we have been carrying.
> There is a certain element of romance in the isolation enjoyed by the poet of the old world order. These poets
> need not be concerned with the exigencies of pleasing their audience, nor are they encouraged to exercise restraint.
> They may be seen as free spirits, concerned only with self-expression. This connection with society need be no closer
> than the relationship of a barometer with the outside weather, the observer and mirror of the state of their fellow-man.
> Apart from the unpleasantly cold relationship between a poet and society which this description implies, such a role is
> simply not appropriate to the Bahá’í poet working within a Bahá’í context. Not only does the Faith provide a unifying
> worldview and a structure of symbols for the poet to work with, it also provides the surrounding community, a
> community in which the artist may find a role. For Bahá’ís, both poet and audience, are reading from the same
> scriptures daily, have begun to learn a new language, and share a common understanding of the world. A Bahá’í
> writing on Bahá’í themes for a Bahá’í audience has no proper reason to feel isolated or removed from his community.
> He is an integrated part of the community, one of those who may claim to be “at home” in the universe. For the
> Bahá’í poet to take on an attitude of introversion is perhaps imitative of the dominant old world order attitude or is in
> some sense an item of cultural baggage. If we, as poets, though under the shelter of religion, still cling to our personal
> umbrellas, we have not made a necessary act of faith. We must be prepared to admit that the shelter provided by this
> religion is sufficient, and then beneath its canopy we shall be able to speak freely to our people.
> Without this acceptance of ourselves as Bahá’ís and artists, it is hard to see how we shall produce work of
> excellence. A poet must write from the heart, that is, from the ideals most central to his being and so most profoundly
> felt. Poems that do not spring from this source, but from the shallower soil of imitation or habitual attitude, cannot
> have the same impact, nor the same strength, nor will they have the driving force that makes for excellence. This is
> not to say that a poem should be judged on the sincerity of its writer, but merely that this sincerity is a necessary fuel
> for the poem’s creation. A poet, as a Bahá’í endeavoring to perfect his art, must be able to call on the core of his
> belief and write, as a Bahá’í, from that source. For
> 
> although ye are speaking, yet in this age the speech of the believers of God must be the soul-entrancing
> melody of the Kingdom of Abhá and the harmony of the Supreme Concourse! Therefore ‘Abdu’l-Bahá is not
> satisfied with a meek voice and depressing lamentation! (‘Abdu’l-Bahá qtd. in Bahá’í News)
> 
> Fragmentation is not, however, the only danger inherent in accepting the old world order’s assumptions of
> what a poet is and does. The Guardian has told us that this age witnesses “the degeneracy of art and music, the
> infection of literature” (Shoghi Effendi, Call to the Nations 10). It is clear that the very basis of the current artistic
> environment must be wildly incorrect to have produced such a result.
> For the poet, one result of increasing isolation from society is that “the indi vidual’s experience of himself
> becomes more real to him than his experience of the objective social world. Therefore, the individual seeks to find his
> ‘foothold’ in reality in himself rather than outside himself” (Berger, Berger, and Kellner, Homeless Mind 74). The
> cardinal value, the one certainty in the world becomes the self. Deprived of the protection of religion, the poet retreats
> back into self and begins to draw on highly personalized symbols, for example, Robert Bly’s matriarchal
> reinterpretation of history and tooth mother mythology. Such symbols have meaning only for the initiated or perhaps
> only for the poet himself. This is the doctrine of self-expression taken to its farthest extreme. The poet is forced to
> cannibalize himself for the materials of his art.
> We see some of the results of this with the Romantic artist, who “felt himself to be an isolated entity, ... even
> the most popular and successful among them seemed possessed by ‘boundless longing’, and ‘unrequited desire’”
> (World Order 14). We see the results of it in the disillusioned words of Oscar Wilde, who said that “the only excuse
> for making a useless thing is that one admires it intensely. All art is quite useless” ( Stories). Art has reached a low
> point indeed when even the artist considers it useless. In more recent times, we have seen Dylan Thomas destroy
> himself with alcohol, Ezra Pound embrace Nazism, Ann Sexton and Stevie Smith commit suicide, Sylvia Plath die of
> a fascination with death, and homosexuality become commonplace among twentieth century male poets. The response
> of the poet to the artistic environment of the twentieth century has not been a happy one. The most admirable work of
> this age seems to have achieved a kind of discipline out of the containment of despair.
> 
> Because these wings are no longer wings to fly
> But merely vans to beat the air
> The air which is now thoroughly small and dry
> Smaller and dryer than the will....
> (Eliot, The Waste Land & Other Short Poems 56)
> 
> Indeed, it is the air itself that has grown small and dry, the surrounding conceptual structure which has grown too
> thin, which has not enough substance to support the poet’s efforts toward flight. If poets lose their place in their
> society, lose religion, and turn in on themselves, they are destroyed. Their “learning is barren—indeed, it bringeth on
> madness” (‘Abdu’l-Bahá, Selections 181).
> Not only the artist but also the work itself must suffer from being cut off from the source of the love of God.
> As J. S. Bach advised one of his students:
> 
> Like all music, its finis and final cause should never be anything else but the glory of God and the recreation
> of the mind. When this is not heeded, there really is no music, but a hellish howl and clatter. (Qtd. in
> Schweitzer, J. S. Bach 53)
> 
> With the self as the cardinal value, the work of art loses its importance in the objective sense. It has become
> subjective, a vehicle for the artist’s self. Art without the devotional aspect becomes merely a servant of the lower or
> animal side of man, a debased and corrupt condition. It is only by turning toward God that man can rise above his
> animal nature, and this is likewise true of man’s art.
> It is interesting to note that strong criticism of the idea of self-expression as a suitable motive force for art
> should appear in the writings of such thinkers of our century as Sir Karl Popper. Within the old world order itself,
> figures such as Popper are looking critically at currently accepted ideas on art and finding them lacking.
> Perhaps it will be worthwhile at this point to digress somewhat by outlining certain of Popper’s ideas to
> provide a background to his criticism of self-expression in art. In Popper’s philosophy, we find the concept of three
> “worlds.” In this structure, World 1 is the world of our physical surroundings; World 2 is the world of the self and its
> responses; but World 3 is itself produced by the rational soul. That is, our day-to-day experience takes place in World
> 1; the experience itself is in World 2; and the account of this experience written in our diary exists in World 3. To
> quote Popper’s own words, reality is divided into World 1, “the world of ‘things’ —of physical objects” ( The
> Unended Quest 181), World 2, “the world of subjective experiences (such as thought processes)” (181), and World 3,
> “the world of statements in themselves” (181). Of the three worlds, only World 3 is the true concern of the rational
> soul. Popper goes as far as to propose that “we regard the human mind first of all as an organ that produces objects of
> the human World 3...and interacts with them” (189). In World 3, then, we find a collection of “theories, of critical
> arguments, and many other things such as mistakes, myths, stories, witticisms, tools, and works of art” (189).
> In other words, those things a Bahá’í would understand to be matters of the spirit. This explanation of human
> existence assumes that the overriding concern of humanity must lie in World 3. It even seems to imply that our very
> humanness is due to our having the dimension of World 3 available to us. Given this aspect of Popper’s philosophy, it
> is not surprising to find that he attacks the doctrine of self-expression in art, since this doctrine, in fact, attempts to
> limit art to Worlds 1 and 2, a wholly unnatural state of affairs.
> According to Popper, World 2 (the world of the self or human consciousness) is the intermediary between
> Worlds 1 and 3. The world of our surroundings, as for example the physical paper and ink of a book, cannot be
> translated into the World 3 of critical appreciation, except by going through the World 2 of a conscious human mind
> (185). However, the self is performing this function most adequately when we have detached ourselves from self. For,
> in a state of intense concentration, “we may forget where we are—always an indication that we have forgotten
> ourselves. What our mind is engaged in, with utmost concentration, is the attempt to grasp a World 3 object, or to
> produce it” (191).
> Popper’s criticism of the expressionist theory of art is deceptively simple. He states that it is “empty.” He
> goes on to point out that
> 
> everything a man or an animal can do is (among other things) an expression of an internal state, of emotions,
> and of a personality. This is trivially true for all kinds of human and animal languages. It holds for the way a
> man coughs or blows his nose, the way a man or a lion may look at you, or ignore you.... In other words it is
> not a characteristic of art. (62)
> 
> It is only by being aware of the deeper reasons behind Popper’s summary dismissal of expressionism that we
> begin to see an alternative theory emerging. For, if the human self exists primarily as a medium for gaining entrance
> to World 3, and if it is performing that function most effectively when attention is not focussed on it, it follows that
> we must ignore our selves in order to function as artists. We must turn away from our own selves, and turn towards
> God—close one eye and open th e other. As ‘Abdu’l-Bahá tells us:
> 
> With reference to what is meant by an individual becoming entirely forgetful of self: the intent is that he
> should rise up and sacrifice himself in the true sense, that is, he should obliterate the promptings of the human
> condition,.... (Selections 180)
> 
> Thus far, this essay has focussed on criticizing both the apparent lack of a sense of purpose in the
> contemporary artistic environment and on arguing the inadequacy of self-expression as a proper use for art. The
> intention of beginning in this way was to establish a basis from which to present an alternative view of the purpose
> and aim of writing poetry. As a Bahá’í, the only place to start in an effort to discover the use of poetry is the Bahá’í
> writings themselves. These scriptures are our unfailing guide in any matter of perplexity. As John Hatcher points out:
> “ ... within the Bahá’í Writings are found the solutions to the major questions about existence in the temporal world”
> (Bahá’í Studies 2).
> In the Writings, we find a strong emphasis on deeds over words. We are taught to avoid those studies that
> begin with words and end with words. As ‘Abdu’l-Bahá put it, those branches of knowledge that consist in “empty,
> profitless debates and in a vain concatenation of imaginings that lead to no result except acrimony…” ( Divine
> Civilization 106). If writing poetry does not fall into that category, we must be able to find in the Writings some clue
> as to what its use may be and what results it may be expected to show.
> We are told that, “Arts, crafts and sciences uplift the world of being and are conducive to its exaltation”
> (Bahá’u’lláh, Epistle 26). It is possible to accept such a teaching at face value, uncritically considering it to be
> correct. Here, apparently, is the solution: art is meant to uplift and exalt us, therefore it isn’t vain and worthless, and
> that is that. Unfortunately, it is left to the artist to discover the mechanism that will transport us from here to there, or,
> how to uplift and exalt the world of being through our art. It is one thing to read such a statement on the printed page,
> and quite another to begin to consider ways and means of putting it into practice.
> Previous to this Revelation, it is easier to see how artists could be the cause of exaltation, for they were,
> consciously or not, foreshadowing the glory of this Day. Nabíl reports the Báb as saying, after quoting a verse from
> Háfiz which foretold the Báb’s coming:
> 
> It is the immediate influence of the Holy Spirit that causes words such as these to stream from the tongues of
> poets, the significance of which they themselves are oftentimes unable to apprehend. (Dawn-Breakers 258)
> 
> In the West, we have Blake’s “All Religions Are One,” and such works as Handel’s “Messiah,” as well as the
> less literal hints and glimpses which art has afforded to mankind of the future golden age. For, as the Báb said on the
> same occasion, quoting a well-known tradition:
> 
> Treasures lie hidden beneath the throne of God; the key to those treasures is the tongue of poets. (258–59)
> 
> In this Day of God, it is more difficult to see the purpose of art. It would be tempting to think that perhaps in
> this Day we must work towards the realization of the Kingdom of God on earth and leave behind us those hints and
> allusions art has given us. “What would it profit any man to strive after learning when he hath already found and
> recognized Him Who is the Object of all knowledge?” ( Gleanings 177).
> It is plain from the extraordinary encouragement given to the development of arts and sciences in the writings
> of the Bahá’í Faith that such a conclusion must be wholly incorrect. The arts, crafts, and sciences of humanity are
> even raised to the level of worship, and we are told that “knowledge is as wings to man’s life,.... Its acquisition is
> incumbent upon everyone” (Bahá’u’lláh, Tablets 51-52). Yet, in “former times it was believed that such skills were
> tantamount to ignorance, if not a misfortune, hindering man from drawing nigh unto God” (‘Abdu’l-Bahá, Selections
> 145). It is worth considering this remarkable change in the fortunes of artists. Why should so great a change in the
> station of arts, crafts, and sciences have taken place? How can it be imagined that art could be arbitrarily elevated to
> the station of worship in the scheme of things if it were a thing without any use? Surely, it is more likely that in this
> day knowledge has become useful to man’s spiritual development; perhaps we are only now at a level of maturity that
> enables us to discover a purpose for acquiring knowledge.
> In beginning to answer this question (that is, what is the purpose, or motive force for art within the structure of
> the Bahá’í Revelation), it is necessary to return to the ideas explained by Popper. For, implied in the philosophy that
> rejects self-expression out of hand, is, I believe, a solution to this problem.
> As stated earlier, Popper chooses to divide reality into three worlds: World 1, the world of physical existence;
> World 2, the world of human consciousness; and World 3, the world of intellectual reality. This last, the world of the
> mind, being the real or most important existence of man. In Book VII, Socrates uses the image of a cave, where
> people are shackled so that they can only see shadows cast by flickering firelight. Even those shadows are the
> shadows cast by a puppet show performed for the prisoners’ benefit, so that they are twice distanced from reality.
> Then Socrates pictures the philosopher as being one who has escaped from this world of shadows, into the upper
> world. This is the world of the mind, the “real” world, where Beauty itself, as an ideal, exists, as opposed to things
> which reflect the quality of beauty. For
> 
> the world of our sight is like the habitation in prison, the firelight there to the sunlight here, the ascent and the
> view of the upper world is the rising of the soul into the world of mind. (Plato, Dialogues 315)
> Later in Book VII, Socrates observes to Glaucon:
> I cannot but believe that no study makes the soul look on high except that which is concerned with real being
> and the unseen. (Dialogues 328)
> 
> So, we find in Plato, as well as in Popper, the conviction that the world of the senses is not the chief concern
> of man and the suggestion that man’s most important reality is the reality which contains ideal concepts. This world
> of the mind is very similar to the intellectual reality explained by ‘Abdu’l-Bahá when he spoke of the different types
> of human knowledge, saying that
> 
> human knowledge is of two kinds. One is the knowledge of things perceptible to the senses.... The other kind
> of human knowledge is intellectual-that is to say, it is a reality of the intellect; it has no outward form and no
> place and is not perceptible to the senses. (Some Answered Questions 83)
> 
> ‘Abdu’l-Bahá went on to observe that “ether” existed as an intellectual reality, that is, as a theory, a reality in World
> 3. “Even ethereal matter, the forces of which are said in physics to be heat, light, electricity and magnetism, is an
> intellectual reality, and is not sensible” (83-84).
> Plainly, works of art must exist as intellectual realities, as do theories like ether. Certainly, works of art may
> exist in the physical world as well, but this is a temporary and less important side of their existence. What of a poem,
> never written down, which exists for generations in the memories of a nonliterate people? It is a work of art, and yet,
> except in the moments of its recital, has no physical reality. What of the recording of a violinist performing, when
> both the violin and its player have left this physical existence? The performance still exists as a work of art, but where
> is the violin we hear? The violin itself, the performance, has become an intellectual reality.
> These two examples are extreme, as they show that a work of art may exist independently, accessible to human
> knowledge, without the benefit of physical existence. However, all art has its essential existence as an intellectual
> reality. Indeed, if a work of art was not an intellectual reality, a concept created by a human mind, it would not be art
> at all but merely a natural phenomenon. Having established that art is an intellectual reality, created, interpreted, and
> given existence by human minds, we can proceed a step further with the argument.
> According to Popper, World 3 is the most important thing in human life, even postulating that “we regard the
> human mind first of all as an organ that produces objects of the human World 3... and interacts with them.” That is,
> he regards World 3, the world of intellectual reality, as the reason for man’s existence. This may sound odd to us,
> until we consider that it is within World 3 that man’s understanding of God exists. This is not to say that God Himself
> exists as an intellectual reality or as a theory, but only that the closest man may approach to God is into the world of
> concepts, where man’s concepts of God exist. This, we may put forward as the first justification for art. If art can
> propel us into the world of intellectual reality (the abode of the rational soul, which is the reality nearest to God) and
> make us forgetful of our own selves, then it has served as worship in some sense and been the cause of exaltation.
> This, however, is only the first level of justification, dealing with individuals. For the artist creating and the audience
> interpreting, it is an individual and wholly private matter as to whether art has or has not affected them one way or the
> other. But the world of intellectual reality has another, perhaps even more interesting side to its nature. It is the one
> reality that all humanity, regardless of physical surroundings, may properly be said to share.
> We see this most plainly in the spread of the Bahá’í scriptures. For, if a child in England has learned a prayer
> in English, and a child in India has learned the same prayer in Hindi, these two children, regardless of their own
> nature, their surroundings, and even their languages, are sharing an intellectual reality. The scripture itself is the
> backbone of unity. The knowledge of the Bahá’í writings must be laid down first, the skeletal strength around which
> the flesh of human invention may grow and be supported. For our human unity is a concept; that is, it exists as an
> intellectual reality. So, it seems reasonable to turn to the reality of the intellect to find a means to nurture our growing
> unity. As the knowledge of Bahá’í scripture becomes more widespread, we shall see this unity of hearts and minds,
> born of a shared mindset, also become stronger and more widespread.
> Art also has a part to play. For, if our shared knowledge of scripture is the bone and support of our unity, then
> our shared art is the flesh on those bones. We see this even now, on a simple level, when Bahá’ís all over the world
> sing and know by heart the Swahili song, “Toko Zani,” in both its original language and the second verse of
> translation. This sharing of a song has a more profound effect than we might realize from so simple a cause. For in
> human history, only people who shared a house, a tribe, a village, or a country would know the same songs or the
> same stories. In our time, art is enabled to go where it pleases, and, among Bahá’ís, it does. In our age of
> communication, arts and sciences, shared crafts and ideas have become perhaps the most important assistance to
> human unity that we have. When we consider that, in this age, art has the purpose of unifying mankind, we may better
> understand why it has been so much encouraged in our Faith.
> Given that art has this practical purpose, it may be of interest to return to an exploration of its spiritual purpose
> as regards the individual. For, if a shared intellectual reality is a cause of unity for humanity, art is still only a portion
> of the entire intellectual reality of humanity. Therefore, there must be some more particular function that art performs,
> peculiar only to itself, which could not be performed by science or any more down-to-earth craft.
> To discuss this, it is first necessary to return to our point that, as our nearest approach to God is our own
> concept of God, we most nearly approach God in this mortal world when we are most involved in the reality of the
> intellect, detached from the world of the senses and from our own selves. For then we are dealing with concepts, and
> our most important concepts, such as truth, love, or beauty, are simply, at their deepest level, attributes of God. In
> other words, a poet, or any artist, struggling to come to terms with beauty or truth, or who considers the meaning of
> love is endeavoring only to know God and to worship Him. That, as the Short Obligatory Prayer tells us, is the reason
> for man’s existence. If a work of art, created by such an artist, succeeds in inspiring a similar movement towards
> knowing and worshipping God in the hearts of its audience, then surely art may be said to have a particular use,
> which cannot be usurped by any other invention of man. In terms of the individual then, art has the purpose of
> inspiring and assisting our mortal and endless search for God.
> But how may art be able to do this? What quality of art enables it to perform so difficult a task? For, in fact, to
> a careless observer, much of art might well seem needlessly obscure. Poetry, for instance, does not speak in a direct
> way. It wraps everything it has to say in metaphor and imagery; it indulges in wordplay and is highly referential, even
> when the poet is intending to be understood. It would seem that most poets would feel a pang of fellow-feeling with
> Emily Dickinson, who said, “... my ideal cat has always a huge rat in its mouth, just going out of sight—though going
> out of sight in itself has a peculiar charm. It is true that the unknown is the largest need of the intellect, though for it,
> no one thinks to thank God...” ( Selected Poems 307). Poems, like cats, are best when just going out of sight. It is the
> poet’s task to tempt men toward the unattainable and to approach, with both audacity and tact, the unapproachable,
> since the reality of the intellect is, by its nature, not directly approachable. If we talk directly of beauty, beauty has
> eluded us; if we try to measure love, love has fled away; and if we wish to hold the absolute truth, truth itself is
> already dancing out of reach. For each of these is “an intellectual or spiritual state, to explain which you are obliged
> to have recourse to sensible figures” (‘Abdu’l-Bahá, Some Answered Questions 84). Which is to say, the realities of
> the intellect must be approached via imagery and metaphor, or not approached at all. Any art or craft or science, is, in
> a sense, a metaphor that allows humanity to deal with intellectual realities. But it is the poet who must deal with the
> actual process of making up sensible figures for the particular purpose of speaking about those things too serious to
> be spoken of in plain speech. These are the things so deeply rooted in our hearts that, without the indirectness of
> poetry, they would be beyond articulation.
> But the poem has another purpose, more important than this. The poem is made to lead us toward God. Since
> we may not see God, the poem is nearest to guiding us to his presence when it is just vanishing, and that is the
> attraction of things just going out of sight-they teach us how to yearn. As Bahá’u’lláh explains in the Kitáb-i-Íqán, in
> a passage about symbolic language:
> 
> Divers and manifold are the interpretations of the words “behind the Throne.” In one sense, they indicate that
> no true Shí’ihs exist. Even as he hath said in another passage: “A true believer is likened unto the
> philosopher’s stone.” Addressing subsequently his listener, he saith: “Hast thou ever seen the philosopher’s
> stone?” Reflect, how this symbolic language, more eloquent than any speech, however direct, testifieth to the
> non-existence of a true believer. (79)
> The poet, also, may achieve much through indirectness and the use of symbolic language like that of the example
> above. But art, in order to be entertaining, needs more than this. If a poet becomes only an imitation of scripture, he
> becomes boring, and, in comparison to the scripture itself, very second-rate. The element which can make art
> interesting to its audience is conflict. We should not imagine that conflict is inappropriate to the art of Bahá’ís, for the
> conflict within man, between beast and spirit, is the essence of the human condition. Being Bahá’ís does not separate
> us from that conflict, that continuing struggle within man, as we can see from the poetry of Roger White. According
> to Geoffrey Nash, this conflict between the two sides of man is a seminal theme in White’s work. Nash even takes the
> title of his review from this theme, “The Heroic Soul and the Ordinary Self.” Nash says:
> 
> It is clear how important an element the dualism of the heroic soul and ordinary self, and the resultant distance
> between them, is for the vision of White’s poetry....Internalized within the individual believer—for whom the
> poet himself stands—it is seen to be the cause of the tension behind spiritual growth. ( Bahá’í Studies 30–31)
> 
> Indeed, in this age, when the standard for the heroic soul has been so dramatically raised, and the resulting
> battle between soul and self rages with more ferocity and bitterness than ever before, the conflict within humanity is
> nearer to us than it ever was. Such a battle can never be entirely won, and the devil in this millennium is only chained
> up, not destroyed. In our time, as we see in a poem by Bruce Dawe, “Affinity,” the self has the upper hand. Dawe
> uses the image of Cain and Abel in this poem. He speaks in the voice of Abel, who lives within his brother, using his
> shadow, “riding in the flesh. Under the vaulted breast... “ and can only
> 
> play strange jokes
> On that old blubber mask
> With tangled crown,
> Twiddle the gristly yo-yos of your eyes,
> Well might the soul complain:
> You only touch the rim of friends,
> Rattle on strangers,
> While I have loved them all
> In hopelessness,
> Yet, even if the self does heed the cry of Abel,
> O remember who your brother is,
> Pale crumbling Cain,
> And turn to me
> And find yourself again.
> (Condolences)
> 
> They shall still be brothers. The affinity between soul and self cannot be broken, even if the soul is allowed to play its
> proper and dominant part in the life of man, it will have the continuing problem of governing the rebellious self.
> From this, the lifegiving struggle within man, we can begin to see a possible relationship that could exist
> between our poetry and the Writings. The poet’s role may be that of questioner, lover, repentant child, but always
> mortal, addressing the divine Voice of scripture. Perhaps the poem would be an argument with the scripture about the
> ways of God, perhaps an intimate colloquy, a plea for forgiveness, or a song of pure praise, but whichever of these it
> is, it has a conversational relationship with the Word of God. As in our own lives, where our actions could be seen as
> questions directed at our God, and his replies, by implication, in the doors that either open or shut before our faces, so
> in this conversation within a poem. The answer of the scriptures appears by implication, is called out of the minds of
> the audience by the poet. We can see this in the work of the Christian poet, George Herbert. An example of his
> technique is the poem, “The Collar.” The poem appears to be nothing but a cry of rebel lion throughout. From the
> defiant opening:
> 
> I struck the board, and cry’d, No more.
> I will abroad.
> Through the poet’s fierce complaints:
> Have I no harvest but a thorn
> To let me bloud,
> To his resolve for overt rebellion:
> Away; take heed:
> I will abroad.
> Call in thy death’s head there: tie up thy fears.
> He that forbears
> To suit and serve his need,
> Deserves his load.
> 
> The self is allowed to make its vehement case. And yet, it is answered wholly without vehemence, as we discover,
> for:
> 
> As I rav’d and grew more fierce and wilde
> At every word,
> Me thought I heard one calling, Childe!
> And I reply’d, My Lord.
> 
> Perhaps this would seem an inadequate answer to an entire poem of complaint, unless we reread those complaints
> with an eye to Herbert’s word-play. It is well to take note when the poet tells us that, during his ravings, “At every
> word,” he heard the Voice of God. The first line contains a serious pun of this nature, for we are told that the poet, a
> priest, “struck the board.” The board in question, it would seem, is the altar, where the ceremony representing that
> other board, of Christ’s last supper, takes place. So, in his opening line, the poet has reminded his Christian audience
> of Christ’s meekness, of his last supper, during which He, the One most wronged, made no complains. Again, such a
> reminder is given to the reader when the poet asks if he must be content with the harvest of a thorn—for so was Christ
> crowned with thorns. And later in the poem, this suggestion is emphasized when the poet asks:
> 
> Is the year onley lost to me?
> Have I no bayes to crown it?
> 
> The poet has, in effect, led us into comparing a crown with the Crown, even though he appears to be only continuing
> his angry tirade. Another serious pun is used to similar effect in the lines:
> 
> He that forbears
> To suit and serve his need,
> Deserves his load.
> 
> This hinges on the use of the word suit. Earlier in the poem it has been used in the sense of being in suit to one’s
> master for favor. Though it is now used, apparently, in the sense of suiting oneself, the first usage could also work.
> That is, the line could be read to mean that he who does not wait in suit upon his Lord, deserves his load—when the
> word load itself has immediately recalled the Christian image of sin as a burden. So, we discover, the Voice of God
> calling through every word has a very concrete existence within the structure of the poem itself. This indirectness on
> the part of the poet is not without purpose. It serves to imitate a very human response to tests: the rebellion and rage
> of the self, undercut by the faithful soul, which must recall the Voice of God.
> We have seen how a poet’s craft permits him to approach spiritual matters, but this does not tell us what the
> place of a poet may be in the community; the part the poet may play in our time, previous to the Lesser Peace; and the
> poet’s developing role in the future, within the Bahá’í community. Obviously, there are many possibilities open to
> Bahá’í poets, and the following suggestions will be only speculation. But it may be of interest to explore some of the
> implications in the Writings about the role of the artist.
> From a statement made by the Guardian, it seems that the indirect methods employed by art can be useful in
> the teaching work:
> 
> That day will the Cause spread like wildfire when its spirit and teachings are presented on the stage or in art
> and literature as a whole. Art can better awaken such noble sentiments than cold rationalizing, especially
> among the mass of the people. (Bahá’í News 7)
> 
> In this letter, the Guardian went on to say that we would “have to wait only a few years to see how the spirit breathed
> by Bahá’u’lláh will find expression in the work of artists.” Now, almost fifty years after this observation was made, is
> surely not too early for us to start producing such works of art.
> But in what particular way can Bahá’í writers use their work to teach? On looking further into the writings of
> the Guardian on this subject, we find some more specific advice:
> 
> For in the world today much can be achieved through the power of [the] pen. All you need is to try to deepen
> your knowledge of the history and the teachings of the Faith, and thus well-equipped you will assuredly win a
> glorious success....
> It would seem from this that we need not seek more detailed instructions. We need only the broad base of
> knowledge of our teachings and history, and then, no doubt, if we compose as our talents guide us, we will find that
> our work cannot help but act as a teacher of nonbelievers. However, in art:
> The direct presentation of the Teachings is surely highly important and even indispensable nowadays…it
> should be done with utmost care and tact, and in a manner that would appeal to the non-believers. (On Writers
> and Writing)
> 
> It would seem that poetry is ideally suited to such a task. Its methods are indirect, certainly, but through these
> indirect methods, poetry approaches the deepest matters of the spirit more directly than any other form. Poetry, by its
> nature, is able to talk about religion, about terror and despair, and the state of men’s hearts more openly, and yet with
> more “care and tact” than the other arts. Poetry’s method is metaphor, the using of sensible figures to express intel-
> lectual realities. But if, as ‘Abdu’l-Bahá pointed out, metaphor is the only way of approaching the spiritual realm,
> then poetry is actually the most direct route to the world of the spirit, since it openly declares itself to be the craft of
> making metaphors, which are intended to express intellectual realities.
> Teaching nonbelievers is not the only function available to the poet of our time. In the Writings, the devotional
> aspect of the poet’s work is also pointed out. In The Chosen Highway, ‘Abdu’l-Bahá is reported to have said that
> 
> all Art is the gift of the Holy Spirit. When this light shines through the mind of a musician, it manifests itself in
> beautiful harmonies. Again, shining through the mind of a poet, it is seen in fine poetry and poetic prose....
> These gifts are fulfilling their highest purpose, when showing forth the praise of God. (167)
> 
> We have already explored the abstract interpretation of the poet or artist praising God through his art, that is,
> by considering, in art, the attributes of God. There is, however, a more literal way of interpreting the artist’s function
> of praising God, as we find in a letter of the Guardian:
> 
> ...with regard to your question concerning the use of music in the Nineteen Day Feasts, he wishes to assure all
> the friends that not only he approves of such a practice, but thinks it even advisable that the believers should
> make use, in their meetings, of hymns composed by Bahá’ís themselves and also of such hymns, poems and
> chants as are based on the Holy Words. (Extracts 10)
> 
> That is to say, the poet is allowed to present, at the Nineteen Day Feast, those of his poems which are
> appropriate to the solemnity of the occasion. The implications in this for the role of the poet in the community are far
> reaching. Certainly it does not suggest that the poet need be isolated in any way. In fact, it almost seems to suggest a
> central role for the poet in the Bahá’í community. It is possible to imagine a future when each local community would
> have its own poets, able to vie with one another to produce works of fitting excellence to be presented at the Feast;
> when each poet would have a role to play, a community, and a comprehending audience.
> In our own time, we must sow the seeds of this future and lift our hearts “above the present,” and look into the
> future. Today the seed is sown ... but behold the day will come when it shall rise a glorious tree (‘Abdu’l-Bahá qtd. in
> Australian Bulletin 5).
> We are aware that the flower of world civilization will appear, but in our own time we must set about putting
> out roots, seeking nourishment, providing the necessary basis of individual effort that will let the flower of the future
> grow and flourish. Our art will inevitably be different from the art of the Golden Age, as the root of the plant is
> different from the bloom. Our art must grow in the rotting material of the old world order, whereas the art of the
> future will grow in clean air. But we are no less important, no less necessary! Our art is at the core of the future, it
> will grow beyond our imagining, from this beginning.
> As individual artists we may well feel dispirited at our lack of a supporting civilization. It is true that in the
> “twentieth century, it is, sometimes, difficult to find true religious verse because this age is not an age of faith;.... The
> voices of religious poets are therefore, voices of people ‘crying in the wilderness’” (Jennings, ed., Religious Verse 9).
> In spite of this loneliness, it is the task of Bahá’í poets to do exactly that, to write the true religious poetry which is so
> thin on the ground in our age.
> As to the standard we can reach in our time, we can find some encouragement in looking at our own nascent
> administrative system. For “the world of politics is like the world of man” (‘Abdu’l-Bahá, Divine Civilization 107)
> and by comparing one to the other, we may be able to find our perspective. The administration of the Faith is now,
> like our world civilization, at its very beginning. This is the Formative Age, and our administration is only just
> starting to take shape. But this does not mean that within this newly born divine administration there are no
> outstanding individuals. Far from it, in this time, on some occasions, the work of the administration depends largely
> on the work of some outstanding and self-effacing believer. It may be the same with the art of Bahá’ís . The Golden
> Age we long for is only just forming, and the art of Bahá’ís depends on the emergence of outstanding Bahá’í artists to
> lay the foundations needed for the future development of art.
> Developing this theme, when the Guardian tells us that we do not yet have a cultural expression which could
> be called Bahá’í, it is helpful to interpret this in the light of his own achievements. It is clear and evident that we do
> not have anything which could be called a Bahá’í architecture as yet, that is, we do not design and live in a particular
> type (or types) of house, in a Bahá’í village circled round its House of Worship; we do not have the Bahá’í schools
> and hospitals, their design extrapolated from Bahá’í teachings on education and healing. These things belong to the
> future. We do, however, have some of the most beautiful buildings in the world, as for instance those in the Holy
> Land; the shrine of the Báb, the
> 
> ...Queen of Carmel enthroned
> on God’s Mountain, crowned
> in glowing gold, robed
> in shimmering white, girdled in
> emerald green, enchanting every
> eye from air, sea, plain and hill.
> (Shoghi Effendi qtd. in Giachery, Shoghi Effendi 107)
> 
> whose design the Guardian approved and whose construction he worked with consuming energy to complete. We
> have the Archives Building, whose situation and decoration deeply involved Shoghi Effendi. We have the Mansion of
> Bahji, which he restored, and the gardens of the holy shrines, which he designed. When we look at the writing of the
> Guardian, we might well concur with the Hand of the Cause of God, Ugo Giachery, when he says that
> had we a thousand lives to live, we could never fully repay Shoghi Effendi with enough love and gratitude for
> the beauty, inspiration and perfection of his literary work. (Shoghi Effendi 42)
> If ‘Abdu’l-Bahá is the perfect exemplar for humanity, Shoghi Effendi sets a standard for the Bahá’í artist to
> emulate. No matter what the obstacle in his path, no matter what difficulties had to be overcome, he put his whole
> being into creating, in his translations, his writing, his beautification of the Bahá’í holy places, a treasury of beauty
> that Bahá’ís will still be drawing on in a thousand years to come. Aware as we may be that we have no surrounding
> culture in this time, we can also remember that the Guardian had far less cultural support than we do now and yet was
> not prevented from creating beauty.
> In our Guardian, we see the self in its proper place, utilized and not utilizing, the self, the servant to the high
> aims of the Guardian. Yet, in spite of his self-abnegation, when we look at his writing, we cannot say that it lacks
> originality, that it fails to carry the stamp of an individual style. The difference, perhaps, could lie in the fact that
> Shoghi Effendi does not seek originality for its own sake, nor to express himself as an individual in his work. His
> distinctive writing style simply occurs as a side-effect of his efforts to perfect his work.
> As Popper has pointed out in his discussion of art:
> 
> Trying seriously to be original or different, and also trying to express one’s own personality, must interfere
> with what has been called the “integrity” of the work of art. In a great work of art the artist does not try to
> impose his little personal ambitions on the work but uses them to serve his work. (Unended Quest)
> 
> The result of such self-discipline on the part of the artist is not and cannot be the crushing of the self out of existence;
> or to make the individual a bland and inoffensive simulacrum of his neighbor. In fact, by resigning originality and
> self-expression as a goal, the artist gains back, measure for measure, pressed down and running over, precisely that
> which he gave away freely. In the work that is completely dedicated to the praise of God, the purest and finest aspect
> of the individual’s nature shines forth, unobscured by the mortal dust of personality. “The Kingdom is attained by the
> one who forgets self. Everything becomes yours by Renunciation of everything” (‘Abdu’l-Bahá qtd. in Grundy, Ten
> Days 13).
> As Bahá’ís we look forward to a time when “A world script, a world liter ature...will simplify and facilitate
> intercourse and understanding among the nations and races of mankind” (Shoghi Effendi, Directives 67–68). To form
> a school of art or a style of writing now would obviously be premature, as the Guardian has pointed out. It would
> cramp and inhibit the very “Bahá’í” art it was trying to foster. Bahá’í art will grow, as Bahá’í civilization will grow,
> from individual efforts united by their source and their goal, into a widely diverse and unified culture.
> In the present, the Bahá’í Faith is an infant, and so is the art of the Bahá’ís a babe in arms compared to the
> venerable art of the period just before the manifestation of the Báb. But we can bear in mind the words of the Báb and
> take courage for, “the newly born babe of that Day excels the wisest and most venerable men of this time...” (qtd. in
> Nabíl, Dawn-Breakers 94). We have the benefit of the Revelation of Bahá’u’lláh in his Day; we have been given a
> new understanding of history, and of our own time. The work of the artist has been explicitly justified and praised by
> Bahá’u’lláh, ‘Abdu’l-Bahá, and Shoghi Effendi, and, for the writer, the entire language has been recreated by the
> influx of scripture. There are new depths, new meanings, new resonances in a language that attempts to contain the
> words of Bahá’u’lláh. The language is obliged to stretch and expand to accommodate Him; it is transmuted into a
> higher and richer thing by its contact with Him. There are new metaphors to be explored, new ideas to be worked
> with, a purpose to be fulfilled. As artists, our work is as different from our artistic environment in the old world order
> as a healthy infant is different from a senile adult. The little resemblance is fleeting and of no import. As Bahá’ís, we
> are secure in the knowledge of the source of art and of its proper use. As poets, we may remember ‘Abdu’l-Bahá
> words:
> I hope thou wilt acquire great proficiency in writing literature, composition, eloquence of tongue and f1uency
> of speech.... (Tablets 501)
> 
> Works Cited
> ‘Abdu’l-Bahá. The Secret of Divine Civilization. Trans. Marzieh Gail. Wilmette: Bahá’í Pub lishing Trust, 1975.
> ___ . Selections from the Writings of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá. Comp. Research Department. Haifa: Bahá’í World Centre, 1978.
> ___ . Some Answered Questions. Trans. Laura Clifford Barney. Wilmette: Bahá’í Publishing Trust, 1981.
> ___ . Tablets of ‘Abdu’l-Bahá Abbas. Vol. 3. New York: Bahá’í Publishing Com mittee, 1930.
> 
> Australian Bahá’í Bulletin. Mona Vale: National Spiritual Assembly of the Bahá’ís of Australia, 307 (1981).
> 
> Bahá’í News. Chicago: Bahá’í Publishing Committee, 1:5 (1910).
> ___ . West Englewood Cliffs, New Jersey: National Assembly of the Bahá’ís of the United States and Canada, 73
> (May 1933).
> 
> Bahá’u’lláh. Epistle to the Son of the Wolf. Trans. Shoghi Effendi. Wilmette: Bahá’í Publishing Trust, 1941.
> ___ . Gleanings from the Writings of Bahá’u’lláh. Trans. Shoghi Effendi. Wilmette: Bahá’í Publishing Trust, 1952.
> ___ . Kitáb-i-Íqán: The Book of Certitude. Trans. Shoghi Effendi. Wilmette: Bahá’í Publishing Trust, 1981.
> ___ . Tablets of Bahá’u’lláh, Trans. Habib Taherzadeh, Haifa: Bahá’í World Centre, 1978.
> 
> Berger, Peter L., Brigitte Berger, and Hansfried Kellner. The Homeless Mind. Great Britain: Pelican Books, 1974.
> 
> Dawe, Bruce. Condolences of the Season. Cheshire: Longman, 1977.
> 
> Dickinson, Emily. Selected Poems and Letters of Emily Dickinson. New York: Modem Library, 1924.
> 
> Extracts from the Bahá’í Writings on Music. Haifa: Bahá’í World Centre, 1973.
> 
> Giachery, Ugo. Shoghi Effendi: Recollections. Oxford: George Ronald, 1973.
> 
> Grundy, Julia M. Ten Days in the Light of ‘Akká. Wilmette: Bahá’í Publishing Trust, 1974.
> 
> Hatcher, John. “The Metaphorical Nature of Physical Reality.” Bahá’í Studies 2 (1977).
> 
> Jennings, Elizabeth, ed. The Batsford Book of Religious Verse. Batsford Publications 1981.
> 
> Lady Blomfield. The Chosen Highway. Wilmette: Bahá’í Publishing Trust, 1950.
> 
> Nabíl-i-A’zam. The Dawn-Breakers: Nabíl’s Narrative of the Early Days of the Bahá’í Revelation. Trans. Shoghi
> Effendi. Wilmette: Bahá’í Publishing Trust, 1974.
> 
> Nash, Geoffrey. “The Heroic Soul and the Ordinary Self.” Bahá’í Studies 10 (1982).
> 
> On Writers and Writing. Comp. Research Department. Haifa: Bahá’í World Centre, 1980.
> 
> Plato. Great Dialogues of Plato. Trans. H.D. Rouse. N.c.: New American Library, n.d.
> 
> Popper, Karl. The Unended Quest. Lasalle, Ill.: Open Court, 1976.
> 
> Schweitzer, Albert. J.S. Bach. London: Black, 1935.
> 
> Shoghi Effendi. Call to the Nations. Comp. Research Department. Haifa: Bahá’í World Centre, 1977.
> ___. Directives from the Guardian. Comp. Gertrude Garrida. New Delhi: Bahá’í Publishing Trust, 1973.
> 
> “The Case for Torture’: A Rebuttal.” Newsweek 28 (1982).
> 
> Tuman, Ludwig. “Toward Critical Foundations for a World Culture of the Arts.” World Order 9:4 (1975).
> 
> Wilde, Oscar. Stories by Oscar Wilde. Library of Classics (Great Britain).
>
> — *The Purpose of Poetry (Used by permission of the curator)*