Love With a Kindred Soul

……one who touches with fingers gentle,

Her kisses are sweet and moist.

She shall have her fill of me,

The beauty who titillates,

Inundates my every thought,

Whose every thought I invade.

Love with a kindred soul,

Lost in her embrace, as

she loses herself to my ecstasy:

to the world mutually forgotten,

buried in her bliss and her bosom.

Wanting and wanted,

Barely sated, feelings transcendental.

Man’s Search for Woman

The true man wants two things: danger and play. For that reason he wants woman, as the most dangerous plaything. ~ Friedrich Nietzsche.

The ultimate beauty,

Dangerously beautiful as she is beautifully dangerous.

All man dreams about, thinks about,

Even in seeming satisfaction and yearning,

And in pain,

Satisfyingly painful.

This man’s search for woman.

‘Tis both sad…

and funny,

That I need to break this chain to you

So that I can stay chained to myself.

You are the tempest, the raging sea

And for too long have I been adrift on your sensualities.

Ground myself, a prisoner of reason,

Not of your heartful caprices.

Not that I wouldn’t want to be your prisoner,

But I can’t be if you don’t jail me

.

.

.

willingly.

Why I Write

Sitting in the cool silence of heartbroken contemplation, sneezing after every other word, the pen’s vapors a constant reminder that what any writer does is dangerous: unlocking oneself to the world through flimsy paper pages, such bad keepers of secrets they are. Writing is often a terrible business: you put your work on display, your personal work that may as well be your essence, for the world, and pray that it doesn’t spit it back. Sometimes, a prayer not answered.

Falling rain is inexplicably comforting. What do cold drops from heavy heavens have to do with a man’s trudging search for peace, a hunger for and a delicate attainment of the elusive balances of life? My mind is altogether woolly and clear, and as my pen gyrates to its capricious rhythms, the words that come to float cut like broken glass on tender hands.

I am now exposed, unshed and unshod, undressed of airs and silences. If I remain clothed and quiet, these words will kill me, rot me from inside. Wouldn’t it be a pity to die with stories untold, to have never moved or touched without touching, those around you, those daring enough to stare into the darknesses of your heart, daring enough to walk with you, even?

There was a time I was obsessive about this, and I may have gently stroked a soul or two, ignited others, perhaps. I had more pain then, it seems. Looking back, I had nothing, not “the right words”, nothing to lose, therefore everything could be given. Then again, no one owns any words. They are only borrowed to do one’s bidding, although in the moment, they may be claimed: when the stories are told, when the stories are read, heard and move and enrage and enliven. In that moment, they become the storyteller’s, the audience’s.

My nothings now are the noises, the doubts in my head. Life will do that to you, tell you that you can’t. The tragedy is that most of us believe it. I did, I do, I have far too often. And I find myself here, back to these alone and mostly lonely ways. Nothing ugly was ever created in solitude. To purge the pained and painful thoughts and mend the tattered heart, the art offers a release unlike any other. This is the only sordid business that can impact, soulfully, now and for eons. So, I write.

I Interpret It Thus…

I interpret it thus, this gaping hole as you call it, or feel it:

All artists are tortured souls, and none no more than the writer, for a writer has to put in words what she feels in the marrow, the near unsayable, and translate for people only what can be best felt. Painters and sculptors, on the other hand, can hide in the abstract.

Something drew you from without, back within, from the world and its noise back to the warmth of your mind and its echoes. What? It was in the search, for meaning perhaps, that you did in your absence and in your confessed devouring of poetry, prose.

Don’t tell me, hint at it in that beautiful and pained way of your words. And all beautiful art, and words, are pained.

I find tranquility and resonance as I walk in your words, your most recent ones at least. It strikes me that you ever seem to feel like an outsider, a remove or two from ‘ordinary man’. Maybe this is what makes you such an astute observer.

New light, natural light, is what you say you need. There’s nothing like new light to liven up old windows. Perhaps you’ve been staring in the mirror too long and almost don’t recognize who you see. Looking within for far too long, you only saw a gaping hole.

Looking without, your hole was filled. It is a curse of the quiet and introverted that all problems seem one more thought away from resolution, and even the minnows of the mind become whales.

And just before the light burst forth, I glimpsed the hole, the darkness, and this is a reflection of my being drawn in. Keep drawing us in, with your words and your stories. They need to be heard, to be told. This is my interpretation.