In his eyes you can see it, a wound reaching deep down into an abysmal place that opens to an infinite sky.
I was invisible until she saw me, the woman I erected with words and shadows, the woman whose eyes are a luminescent ink, woman, my double, with a sly smile caressing my ache only to ignite my longing for her – her – an imaginary being blessed by a suffering she sweetly calls – poetry.
Like salt crystals in your hair
Breathing the vastness of the ocean,
Like snowflakes upon your cheeks
Melting to a teary, pure passion,
Like eyes of jasmine in your eyes
Bathing in scent divine all colours,
Like the moon upon your lips
Weaving a wall of light in eyes,
Like autumn’s red rivers from your palms
Streaming fire leaves in evening skies,
Like spirals of smoke from your mouth
Censing to silence a world unbound —
Your love, madness weaved within madness,
Your love, poetry’s red sun reciting from heights,
Your love, a listening eye piercing hearts to life,
Your love, an unequivocal desire to drown, to rise,
Your love, a deep forest where a single leaf falls,
Your love, a lake reflecting the deep face of heart.
Je suis un flâneur dans le corps de la femme unique. S’il y a de l’herbe, des déserts, des îles, des montagnes, des forêts, des cités, des histoires, des galaxies, et des immensités, c’est toujours dans son corps, et voilà la passion secrète qui est l’élan vitale de mon esprit, ma vie, et mon humble poème.
Ma conscience du monde c’est monde en tant que femme, corps et cœur de femme, l’infini et l’éternel de ses entrailles, de son essence, l’océan qu’elle est, et qui est le défi pour l’homme et le marin en moi. La femme ne peut jamais être conquis, acquis, elle effleure seulement dans l’acte de danser avec elle, lui écrire des poèmes, voyageant ses horizons océanique avec ma virile conscience et passion. Une femme n’a pas de fin. Sa présence brûle comme l’encens dans le cœur de Dieu. Et alors, je la poursuis, je l’aime jusqu’à la mort, au-delà de toute mort.
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.
I feel the press of your breasts and soft skin around me, everywhere, coaxing me to flower into you the erection of my body, the life of my poetry. Your light comes in flashes of intuition, falling upon my face as through the sunlit openings of an orchard, and I heed with the attentiveness of my whole body, the animal soul in me. Your dew falls like an erotic enchantment and a buoyancy comes like a fountain rising from the depth of my soul; suddenly I find myself harnessed in shafts of wheat upon the altar of your body, ready to burn, ready to become dough and bread, ready to feed upon the milk of your breasts and the honey of your skin. Your body is the world, the element I am living in, moving through, and this eros, this tension between us mercilessly opens me and challenges me to become in the thrust the man that I am. So I take you, as I give myself to you, as through you I slingshot myself into the sky of eternity.
Woman of silk and fire, woman of milk and honey suckling my wildest desire.
She went out today
radiant in the light of the sun
his hands labored to plant
inside of her,
her body a forest
burning with the desire
that gave the stars their light,
a spring heaving
in countless red moans,
on her lips and skin
the indelible wine of his kisses
seethed like a velvet cloud of incense
permeating with its fervent aroma
the inside of her bones.
The ocean of his poetry was within her
and the ocean could not be contained,
it flowed and overflowed
as she moved like a fountain,
a cup flooding with the primal source,
the liquid that gave love its reputation,
the blessed light
upon which time in vain
would try his teeth and moan,
a rain of jasmines
falling from her hair
and calling the world
to come and drink
and again be whole.