Like the wings of dawn lapping over you
My body of light melts into your skin
And my lips, shaped of birdsongs and warm dew,
Trace my heart over your brow, cheeks, and chin
Wet verses rushing, raising from your core
Ecstatic white moans, your lips churn and pour
Freckles like stars, now shining from your face,
A garden of light, the fountain of grace.
The heat of a thousand suns
I weaved into a flower
burning on my lips.
suckle its nectar into honey,
extinguish its breath,
In many a mystic I found a powerlessness so great that its resolution was in drowning the self in some absolute. The mystic’s powerlessness is felt more deeply than the normal man and that is why its resolution must come in more drastic and extreme forms. What is sought is losing the self since it is too great a burden to maintain. This mysticism is hung up on ecstasy and the ecstatic experience; it seeks ecstasy the way a drug is sought — for it wants the feeling of unity that ecstasy provides. And ecstasy comes under many headlines — the sexual, the ritualistic, the poetic, etc. Nothing bothers this mysticism more than its antipode — the rational mind that insists on its definitions and classifications and that approaches the world as if with armour and gloves. But these are two different reactions emanating from the same need. The fact that they hate each other so much gives them away easily.
There is, of course, another kind of mysticism — a mysticism that comes from the abundance of the spirit, one that is well set up on two feet and that realizes unity and completeness through excess of power. But this is to say that mysticism, as is everything in life, is not itself a given experience. In other words — it is a reflection of the man, his weakness and strength.
At bottom, it is about embracing the world as a unity without forfeiting the self and one’s individuality.
For years not a poem I wrote,
For thought could not my soul devote.
Churning restless, constantly drawn
Down below where abysses yawn.
What enables or allows the mystical experience is not exactly an access into some higher reality, a revelation of the world’s unity, a penetration into the ground of Being or what is. What I mean to say, the mystical experience is not the affect of something that takes place on the outside, our perception of that outside: when one is happy the world becomes bright, and when sad gloomy, and thus with the mystical experience. Life and its fecundity arrive to such an excess within us that, completely self-oblivious and no longer struggling to maintain ourselves, we are carried with the tide and blend with everything around us. The experience itself is an amalgamation of drunkenness and clarity where the world becomes transfigured through and through. We hear the volcano rumbling within us and erupting, and at the same time envision the clarity and peacefulness of a sky in an autumn lake.
But let us beware of turning that into some ultimate truth — for truth is never a question here—, let us beware of submitting our reason and with it our personal will and individuality with our want to hem ourselves there once and for all. Let us not make the mistake of disvaluing our difference in the favour of some sameness that comes under the headline of oneness. Let us not dismantle the hierarchy of values, the inevitability of rule and obedience. Let us not paint our world colourless and pale by wanting to forfeit that which is peculiarly human — our taste.
Our every word, breath, and gesture reflects our internal state. To become more sensitive means to use these as mirrors that enable us to gaze back into ourselves, understanding where they rose from and why — nothing is harder. This, in turn, makes us more versatile giving us the ability to alter our internal economy, its scope, depth, and intensity, becoming richer and capable of a hitherto inconceivable variety of words, breaths, and gestures. Our “doing” qualitatively changes, and life is nothing but “doing.”
Like a dawn blanketing the earth
you cast your lips over my face,
and my heart beats, and rises
to meet your warm wetness
in that blossoming garden, our face,
smiling white flowers,
fountains purling, grace.