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.

Wandering Thought # 39

It takes more to giving than giving in to the initial impulse of pity. If a man is hungry, instead of giving him food, teach him how to farm, or how to fend for himself. That will be more difficult to achieve than the easy gesture of giving him something of which you have in excess, and which aim is ultimately your own self-indulgence, indulging your own pity. And the opposite to this is true as well: instead of going the hard way, of learning how to fend for himself and controlling his future, a hungry or poor man is wont to stir the imagination and conscience of another into giving him what he needs.

Wandering Thought # 38

Man is good not because of a primordial quality, something which in him exists in a natural state apart from society, but because the possibility of being good exists for him in his future, because, molded the right way, he can become so in his future. So it is a future seed with a retroactive force that acquires of him the full weight of his soul to actually become, and not something lurking in his past which requires of him to passively submit and surrender. So it is with love; love, which demands of him not to unlearn everything as the modern nihilists would like us believe, unlearn everything and revert back to a pure and unsoiled state, but to learn and educate himself so much as to become able to love. Goodness and love are romanticized by those who lack them most, and those who, pierce a little into their soul, you’d find them to be infested with maliciousness and hate.

Wandering Thought # 37

A friend is someone who brings us back to ourselves whenever we drift, sometimes through a kind word, at times with a hard gesture. A friend remains close to us even when we think they’re far, that our pain and ache are incommunicable, even when we think we are abandoned by the world, left to meet the weight of everything on our own. A friend is someone who knows how to wait, when and how to administer the shot.