Love, mirrored.

He who lives in knowledge – and who has forgone his ivory tower of belief, and gleaned from deliberate steps in philosophy that all he sees is a reflection of his internal world – knows his lover as his closet and dearest reflection. Through her, sees himself.

Never does he get caught pointing the finger, for that finger will be pointed straight back. Through correction of self he elevates his reflection, in love.

He is a reflective soul who knows, that his world is his creation. That ‘the world’ is an illusion. That the agitation he sees is his own, that the reaction he sees is his own, that the love he desires is his own: cultivated and then purified and reflected back to him by his woman.

His woman is beautiful. Because he loves himself.
His woman is powerful. Because he is unafraid of self-correction, and her.
His woman is loyal. Because he is honorable.

Anything the Gentle Man does not wish to see in his woman he must rid of in himself. This is life’s lesson to him in accountability. The Gentle Man is an example. He lives in a world, beyond time, perfecting his technique with repeated strokes in discipline. His craft is his love. His woman is a reflection of his love for his craft. She, too, loves her craft. And through and with each other they move slowly, in a spiral pattern, towards the perfection of their craft and the mastery of other through self.

He knows he. He knows all.
She knows she. She knows all.
Love, mirrored.

alex dram.jpg
Photogaph by Alex Dram

 

Advertisements

Ex-lovers.

In days of old, through self-hate and confusion, I found women of beauty, made them mine, and conscripted them into hating me, too. I did not see that I hated myself so they came to me as a mirror, to show me what I lacked internally. What a beautiful service they provided to me, by pushing the knife deep to wake me up, and sending me in the right direction towards my ultimate healing.

 

Instead I called them ex-lovers and thought of them negatively – blaming them for my hatred of myself.

 

Now, as a man of power, my reflection in feminine is before me whispering that I rob her of the full force of my godly love until I can say I love all women, as she is all women – the goddess in full.

 

So I accept her correction and return these ex-lovers from the floor to the shelf where I will once again honour them as all women and thank them for the service they lovingly provided. All as beautiful as the next, they were the loving signs along the way saying “go this way, your woman awaits you.”

 

For this, I thank each of you. I love you. I love you. I love you.

 

I love all.

 

alex dram3.jpg
Photography by Alex Dram

Save

Save

Goddess pt. II

When, from the morass of obscurity, she makes herself known – and you will know: apple-plump with beauty, soft and radiant – greet her in masculine presence, invite her in and return to business.

If then she remains, when all is let go of, she is yours and you may take her. Take in first, her femininity, absorb it in the crucible of your presence, foster it in the crucible of your strength.

Do not be afraid to meet your end at her hand if she offers to you this most precious of gifts. Therein is a new beginning. Your meeting is a dance of energetic polarity and an alchemy of two lovers to the ultimate benefit of you both.

Love first yourself, then fill her with that love.

With loyalty in your heart, know fruitful abundance in the love of your woman. Nothing else will have your cauldron be so overflowing.

Return, at times, to solitude. Attending to the business that men must at times attend to. Let her always know you will be returning. Forever returning to the beginning with her. Knowing her anew each time. Seeing her afresh each day. See her with your eye and not your mind. For only the eye can understand the depth of the reservoir she drinks her power from. She is the goddess come to kill you.

Die gracefully.

shae-detar.jpg
Photography by Shae Detar

 

Preparations (Ophelia).

You shuffle about your life, wistfully, absently filling once empty spaces with your vision – yet never deliberately, or with the toothpick of intent. As I do, you comment here and there to people who have no ears to receive you, realize the fruitlessness of this endeavor and return to silence. Subtlety with regards to the delivery of truth is not a fineness either of us can attest to.

From afar I can feel you, too… Going about your business as I go about mine, gloriously ignorant to the crossing of roads ahead. I know not what form you’ll take or what gifts you’ll bring, only that I am for you and that there is work to do in preparation.

A daughter. Ophelia. Bright. A spark. More powerful than is good for her in her formative years, although we will be well equipped to make the appropriate preparations for a child of such energy.

Yet upon close observation the future escapes through cracks between the fingers of the present, returning my attention to the hand I’m given. So I file these thoughts away to a cabinet at the back of my mind marked “return to” with my other uncashed cheques and await that prosperous seed to take fruit in your appearing before me complete with curls and chocolate-dark irises.

… I hope you drive fear into the hearts of men greater than I. I hope you come ready to humiliate me with your feminine glory. You will find me unafraid for under the bright light of philosophy I have corrected my fear.

Back to my silence. Back to watching it turn.

I surrender myself to timing.

 

shae-detar5.jpg
Artwork by Shae Detar

 

 

Tall.

Winter mist on misty windows.
Trees poking out of the ground,
numerously surround us.
They stand tall,
like adults do.
Swaying too,
like emotions or the opinions of the men,
that plant and cut them.

Should I stand taller?
Deep in my roots,
solid in foundation,
yet pliable above ground?

In a silent field we sat.
Leaves singing our names,
and foliage crunching under us as we lay,
while we use each other as cushions.
This is ground, I think, we must tread carefully,
lest things end precariously.
Yet still you stare at me,
– you are not one for being careful.
And so I, too,
stare back at you,
– the warrior is never fearful.

I saw rock pools in your eyes,
in a wooden bathing house,
standing nude before you,
physically and otherwise.

I caught, too,
a failed disguise
for something rare these days.
Something real.
And I have known women in my life,
in more than a hundred ways,
but this is my favorite.
This.

What gifts,
have you come to bring to me, angel?
Just peels of laughter
and prettiness?
Or something you apportion less regularly?
Something special, just for me?
In exchange for something special,
just for you?

You have come to me to be at home.
This, I know.
Relax my love.
I will die,
willingly.
You have come to kill me,
finally.
So let us walk home together,
fearlessly,
and find the truth in each other,
beautifully.
For we will live forever.
Let’s walk this path together.
The God and Goddess await us.

vivmaier6.jpg
Photograph by Vivian Maier