The Fountain of Grace

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.

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Free Verse # 54

The heat of a thousand suns
I weaved into a flower
burning on my lips.

Come, Beloved,
suckle its nectar into honey,
extinguish its breath,
in you.

Mysticism & Unity

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.

First Light?

For years not a poem I wrote,
For thought could not my soul devote.
Churning restless, constantly drawn
Down below where abysses yawn.

Wandering Thought # 13

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.

Wandering Thought # 12

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.”

Free Verse # 53

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,
exalted birdsongs,
smiling white flowers,
fountains purling, grace.

Immemorial Kiss

We dipped our fingers
into the flower of our heart,
brushed the yellow nectar
on each other’s lips
then locked them as one,
kissing passionate our essence
into our core,
rubbing our taste and scent
into every grain of being,
planting inside the memory of a we
that breathed our souls and dreams
into our individual lives,
pouring its wine in two vessels
separated at birth
to sail the sea of life.

Each of us blown
like an autumn leaf
in the palm of life,
our immemorial kiss
now burns upon our lips,
flows like fire
from the fountain of our soul,
an all consuming longing
that can only fulfil itself
in the merging of our faces,
the touching of our hands,
and in unfolding us
from the deepest recesses
of memory,
awakening dreams carved into
the body of the earth
to bloom like flowers
amid ribs, joining, to house
one heart, one breath, one soul.

Union

Arched bridge, your body
A womb pierced by fire’s tip
Enflaming dots on belly’s pond
As words fall from poet’s eye
Moonlight penned on warm flesh
Of she and he melting love layers
While vaporous clouds reveal
In flashes through folds
A bond of breaths dying on lips,
Surrender emptying chests
And churning love’s water,
A fire in throats burning
Ah! Honeyed taste of joy,
Ecstasy melting streams in eyes
Soaking, white and deep,
— We, God’s Ocean.

Wandering Thought # 11

Most conceive us who read books and enjoy our solitude for its thought and contemplation as being clamped within our shells, unable to get out or let go. They feel that there is something inherently wrong in our reading and seclusion per se. There is certainly truth to this. That we sank into solitude and thought because we were stuck somewhere; and that this had its toll on all our being and way of life. But there is also a deeper truth — that our reaction itself against our life conditions was healthy, and that its aim (although we may not achieve it) was to go back to life and to embrace it from a higher and deeper standpoint — a much wider and stronger spirituality. We loners cast fear into the hearts of those who are seemingly very outspoken and outgoing, and why? Because they are stuck within their own shells unable to get out, and our presence brings to them a faint scent and awareness of that. We alarm them because we’re not like them, because we sank into our solitude in our fight to retain our individuality and did not forfeit it like them in order to fit and be like the many. Their shells are different from ours, certainly, in both quality and form. Their shells do not look like shells; but pierce with your thought and feeling a bit below their surface and you will find it— in their smoking and chattering and frantic actions and words and in the whole uneasy aura of their presence. And, in any case, were they truly open as they would like to think of themselves then they would instantly know and realize our fight and would compliment us and encourage us and accept us rather than detract from us in an attempt to make us like themselves. To them we neither need to explain nor justify our solitude. We give them a gift if we lead them to theirs, if we “hurt” and “weaken” them.

Free Verse # 52

The waters of life,
a spring from joined hands bursting,
open palms welling up
with a thirst quenching itself
in the lustful lips of love.

~

All night long
pecking at the face of dreams,
deep kisses planting stars
in the fields of Heart,
open, at peace,
dawn arrives and with it
their merged faces flower
to greet the morning sun –
one face, one dream, one heart.

~

Curled in dawn’s womb
patiently awaiting
his touch to open her,
breathless,
from within…

~

From her dark eyes the world seeps
a frothing song of stars.

~

The wave of silence
washed me onto the shore of dawn;
I woke, a thousand years of sleep
falling away like dew.

~

Ablaze with eternal longing, they meet,
and as their fingers and lips touch
the jar of night breaks
drowning the earth
in an ocean of stars.

~

Midnight harvest,
his full moon sinking between her thighs.
Womb-bound,
white waters well up to churn
on merged lips moaning
ecstasy of light.

~

Invading her being like an army of bees
suckling from her body of flowers
an ecstasy to burn throats and hearts.

~

Your arrow of light
has pierced through my heart
awakening my essence.
Light within light,
I glowed,
silent, at peace.

~

Entering this sun we are no longer we,
nor words are words,
nor silence, God.

Between our ribs the earth moves
like waves on an endless sea.

~

Our loveflame weeps
sowing dewdrops that roll
burning down your skin,
carving furrows of light
that I follow, grazing,
with a wet tongue
and bruised lips.

~

Every time your sun rises
I come undone,
a drop of dew
losing center
and vanishing
inside the rose.

~

Soften my edges,
Soak through to my heart;
Burn me on love’s altar,
Make me your art.

~

I guide your fingers to my chest and sigh,
cracking open my soil
and offering my heart
for your roots to sink in,
and drink.

~

I,
a quiver in your breath,
colours seeping from your eyes.

~

So deep the waters that crave you run in me
that my being alights with the fire of a thousand suns.

~

Consumed by the flames of an eternal longing
I left my house and the garden of my house,
vanished inside your eyes.

~

Deep in the wilderness
your white hand comes over me
and my eyes flower
calling out bees and butterflies
to come feast on my lust.

~

Budding at dawn
and spreading my arms open,
in prayer…

~

In you I vanish to flow,
colours from your eyes painting the world,
quivers in your breaths shivering life to life.

~

Like a cool breeze on a spring morn
her arms haunt my ribs.

~

I gathered all my broken dreams
and made of them a bonfire
to keep me warm at night.

~

I press my ear against your heart
to become and endless song of rain.

~

You come over me,
a night throwing me open
to the sea of stars.

You come over me,
arched backs,
aching ribs,
tears searing cheeks and sighs.

~

These poems wrought by the thought of you,
I press them like seeds under my skin.

~

She travels through my blood
like the endless stars in heaven’s palm,
each, a sigh and poem,
each, a forever tie…

Free Verse # 51

Like a reed submerged in riverflow,
her body becoming music
all the way to her core,
so I, in the ocean of your eyes,
burn and am no more.