Wandering Thought # 50

The invention of aviation was not a utilitarian invention. Reading through its history one realizes that its root and outgrowth came the human imagination, from an irrational fixation on the reveries where man saw himself flying, felt himself in flight, and so ached to achieve flying that from the profundity of a love that persisted through millennia he was finally able to materialize his dream.

 

In the end, much of our modern inventions with which we pride ourselves owe themselves to this — poetry and witchcraft, the ability to imagine new things, impossible things. For all his rationality, man, more than he knows, will always be close to the poet’s heart — his passions, which are inescapable, will make sure of this.

Wandering Thought # 49

Is the tree less surrendered to love for rising towards the sky and asserting itself, its own height and elevation? Is it less in unity and oneness for affirming itself, its own identity and uniqueness? For wanting to rise higher than its surroundings? For wanting to look down on its surroundings, and high towards the sky? Is it not a betrayal of its duty to its oneness if it refuses to assert its own difference, its own necessarily partial view of the sky towards which it rises? — Replace the tree with man and you will find much of modern spirituality vanishing with a whiff of bad breath, vanishing to reveal itself as a sewer, and one giving discharge to…

Tanka # 103

Desire stirs
and I am writing again,
pen dipped in the dew
of the pond
in her womb.

~

In life’s wax and wane
my poem is a fire moon
blossoming steady
in the sea
of her eyes

Wandering Thought # 47

Whatever men insisted women should be or are feminism insisted that women should be its opposite, or that the power relation should be inverted so as women gain the upper hand — this reactive stance as much as it is lauded and needed (we’ve been waiting for it for millennia) will not take us beyond the dynamics of the power relation, the dreadful either/or so entrenched in the breast of culture and the shaping of men and women. This reaction should, instead, grasp itself differently, channel its energy differently — rather than being a reaction it should affirm itself, it should be an affirmation and an affirmative act — women are women irrespective of men and the will and desires of men; woman is woman not as an act that is directed against men, but as an affirmative act of herself and her own being, her own life, aspirations, and embodiment in the world — a creative act and a first act. That is essential, since only this will suspend the opposition struggle of men and women and allow each to find itself entrenched in the other — the woman in man, and the man in woman, and their struggle together in the creation of a new culture that goes beyond the limitations of the old. This will truly be the blow that dismantles the gender dynamics that have governed culture since millennia, giving men and women the space needed to discover themselves and each other anew and in a new light. The relation no longer power-centered, its destructive edge will be replaced by a more supportive and mutually understanding spirit that refuses to slide back into the old modes of relating even when conflicts and tensions arise. What will it look like, this culture? What will its men and women be? — it and they are flourishing right under our eyes, they are coming and will come at a quicker pace in the coming decades. The love-flower that daring spirits dreamed a thousand years ago — we are the witnesses of its coming of age.

Wandering Thought # 46

Though it often hides itself behind a veil of humanism, it is the mark of a tortured soul, this need to identify with every suffering and struggling cause. Through this identification it prolongs its own torture, finding new means to discharge its weariness; and where new causes cannot be found new causes must be invented, lashes of evil imagined here and there, imagined villains that must be vanquished. The suffering soul only betrays itself with the vehemency with which it wishes to expunge all suffering.

Wandering Thought # 42

The power play in sex is one of the most difficult things I had to come to term with. This being said, to make a fetish of the power play, to make it the focal point of the relationship is to miss out on the spiritually interpenetrating aspects that truly form the throbbing core of why two people are together, and what makes them expand and grow together into that which is held above them. The power play is a form of expression, this character or that being suited to this spectrum or that, this essence or that. On its own it does not supersede or form the essence and budding center of the connectivity.

Free Verse # 377 (gypsy way, rooted in love)

At the entrance
of the poem
I wait for you,
in my hand a vow
weaved
with the light of the moon.

~

O heart
what do I do with you?
I cast you
you come back,
I hold you
you turn away,
I wait for you
you fail to come,
O heart
always on the run.

~

In the morning
your voice comes to me
and I shake like a leaf
caught in the wind

~

A dash of salt and honey; a handful of poetry.

~

Always
a little ink in my blood
to paint the shadows
of the burning flowers

~

Woman brave enough to meet me
In the throbbing heart of poetry

~

This poetry,
a chalice we raise
and pour
over the world…
the moon at dawn.

~

Without a word uttered
our poems
conversed all night
in the light
of the stars and moon

~

The swift step
of your shadow
moving across my poem
blooming at dawn

~

I gaze into her face
and my eyes drift,
a bird flying
through a sea of fog,
and this flight
becomes my journey,
this journey becomes home.

~

What does it take
to make the poem dance?
A smile from her lips,
A gaze from her eyes.

~

Even after I die
some things will never change,
stars will shine,
waves will roll,
and my breath will seek yours
in the infinity of the sky.

~

Take me with you
on a gypsy kind of road,
from poem to poem
a life of wandering,
in our bag
the moon and stars,
and a kiss shared
like bread like wine,
a kiss shared
for the rest of our days.

~

Will you come? –
I am no longer sure;
like a poem standing
in its own grave,
all around me grows
the silence of the sky.

~

Softly softly
sway inside of me,
this gentle rub
the sigh of poetry.