Free Verse # 74

Like the great aster of light
rejuvenates its heart
while passing through the nether,
so must we all replenish our light
in the dark womb of the Mother.

~

What am I?
I am a swaying branch
in the Beloved’s body,
my lush and ripe fruits
stroking the lustful lips
of hungry lovers.

~

You are the flower and the flower-face,
and I am a hungry butterfly
folding you under my wings and taking you
– home.

~

Even if you will dodge all the arrows love throws at your heart while you live, you cannot dodge the last, that ultimate opener – death.

~

Your kiss snuggles through my ribs
like a burning sea of stars.

~

I am a moth
in love with the Beloved’s flame.

To myself I vanished
to live on Her swaying tongue,
forever singing brilliant praise.

~

The Beloved is the body
nursing the endless sea of stars.

~

In the stillness of the night
her heartbeats fall to my soul’s pond
like gentle drops of dew.

Concentric ripples,
hushed whispers of love.

~

I am the ocean of wine
gathering itself into a single drop
set on the Beloved’s burning tongue.

Crave me,
suckle on me with your lustful lips,
and be flame-eaten,
consumed to dust.

~

We wander the world with parched lips
though a spring of living water flows through our heart.

~

With poetry’s froth
I wash your hair and delicate curves,
then, like petals of warm wine,
each poem I place on your tongue
to melt in your mouth,
soak into the wells
deep behind your eyes.

~

All my poems I shall one day spread like petals at your feet.

~

Some poems are best read with eyes closed.

4 thoughts on “Free Verse # 74

    1. The last thought was a pun, a metaphor of sorts.

      I don’t how a poem, or anything else for that matter, can be left uninterpreted. Our very emotions and feelings and thoughts that surge up spontaneously are themselves the interpretation of a poem or an act, and our interpretation and understanding change and grow overtime. A poem might mean something else for me now from what it meant when I first read it years ago. Not all interpretations are the same, and the differences are qualitative. I cannot, for example, imagine a poem being interpreted by someone who merely gropes it with his thought from the outside only — dissecting it critically.

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        1. It is not analyzing and dissecting that are themselves in question. For example, love can manifest itself as thinking and philosophy, but not all thinking and philosophizing are expressions of love. One can philosophize simply out of refusal or inability to open up, and thus his philosophy would be a monument of his closure, constipation. To reject all analyzing and dissecting in toto is, I think, unwise. To over-analyze, in the way you mention, hints at someone who is doing so without being in accord with his heart.

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