all that glitters is not gold

all-that-glitters-is-not-gold
all that glitters is not gold

whilst the idea of me is alluring
the reality of me is frightening
lucky for me
my pen is prettier than my face

W.E.

 
don’t get carried away,
with the way my words settle into your soul,
carve a nest into your heart,
and send a quiver through your lungs.

gasp, gasp,
there it is,
that skip of a beat,
as if I were talking to you,
fret not,
nor flatter yourself,
I am long gone,
in love with a being that doesn’t exist,
so your intrepid arrow,
will always miss.

W.E.

-let go

let-go
-let go

you cannot have
what’s been claimed before you
i’ll always be second hand goods
W.E.

There is not a single part of me that would wistfully say, ‘here, take me’.
Why when I never was, to begin with.
The idea of taking something, means that thing exists.
But do excuse my over-philosophising,
really, I don’t exist.

Oh but those who never saw me before,
would rise with the scientists fervour,
argue with rhetoric,
debate with logic,
take to my neck with evidence and war.

Ironically, in proving my existence,
would slay me even more.

Nay, I don’t exist,
but if you must, please persist,
show me how,
only now,
have I come into your view
and in your vision subsist?

It’s much too late,
I’ve bitten my fate,
you couldn’t dig me out,
of self harms grout,
I’m smitten with vanishing,
and in this vapour, articulate.

W.E.

those who want too much

those-who-want-too-much
to those who want too much,

the most tender, intimate and loving thing
i can say to you is,

i’m listening

W.E.

whilst the rage in you calls for utter devotion,
worship of you,
until I sacrifice myself at your altar,
know that is all empty,
and void.

to offer you my attention,
doesn’t mean I have to stop being,
there is something greater than you or I,
there’s hearing the magnetic silence between us,
to know we are given not ears, but souls to hear things.

W.E.

the seed that hides in the shadows

david-uzochukwu-surreal-portraits-photography-865963
We’re seeds waiting to burst,
to impregnate you with poetry,
and fill your womb with our vulnerabilities,
because we know our origin,
are familiar with it’s perfume.

Naturally, the poetry of a woman’s body,
will only be understood by poets,
because we understand lines,
we curve words,
we cursive around vernacular,
until it tingles the hairs on your clavicles.

And why, we ask?
Why do you seek those who have no vernacular,
only then to look down on us,
when we write you more poetry,
write you, more you.

We don’t see you in disjointed pieces,
of fleshen lust,
body parts of Frankenstein making,
we see you as the sharer of the apple,
we ate, as you ate, tempted by words,
and only then,
was our nakedness made apparent,
but still we write,
of losing the innocence in silken verse.

Come eat, if but a morsel,
and become immortal,
forever seen through ripe pomegranate blood of heaven,
if it weren’t a sin,  we’d worship you,
and God would certainly understand the heart of poet,
we’re not blasphemous, we but love his gift to us,
and yet still, you long for the tongue tied,
the glittering fodder of men,
we pale into shadows,
writing and writing, and writing, and writing and waiting…..

This affair with words has us mad,
as we long to carve out the perfect prose,
with the precision of a zelij craftsman,
geometry to perfection, balance and scale and rhyme and rose,
and hope to plant it in you,
a seed that grows….
waiting still in shadows.

W.E.

Art by David Uzochukwu – he is quickly becoming one of my favourites.

-Soof (wool)

tasbih

-soof (wool)

am I the caller or are you?
am I seeking light,
or are you illuminating my path?

I wish my fingers were worn
from this rosary I carry
but my hands are hard and callused
tis the heart that beats wear down

there is no more it can take of this glow
where the river of remembering you flows
where every lover and seeker goes
where they grow
where the knower, knows
and everything slows

and taken by the throes, of prose
of healing aloes
all comes to a close
where in desperate hope
we yearn to be one that He chose

where suddenly awash are woes
and secrets are disclosed
off to the market we go
to sell our adornments
and don the beggars clothes

so hand me those well worn
damp with fever
scent of a lover
patches of woollen throws
it is only a shell
for this piece of flesh
and of my other shell
in molten fire dispose

now take me Lord…
and of our vicinity
keep it ours
not a person of it to disclose

-W.E.

– on people who think they love hard

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love bares no sword long enough
no sword tempered, forged, or hardened in fires of hell enough
to stand light.

light, is greater than love
and this is why I laugh at you with your love prattling, your juvenile regurgitation of hapless poetry.
if you had but an ounce of reflection in you, you’d know the moth is not attracted to love itself, it isn’t even aware of love. from it’s commitment to light, it devotes a path into it to be engulfed in entirety, and cowardly poets have been prattling ever since about moths and love….

instead of just devoting to light.

-W.E.

A reflection off the blade of a sword and it renders the swordsman useless.
Too much light, and we’re blind.
Too little light, and we’re blind still.
Just enough, and we exist.

Love has got nothing to do with the ultimate reality.
That is why the best of creation was not born from love, but a drop of earth penetrating light, – nurun 3ala nur – light upon light.
And God Himself describes the similitude of Him

God is the Light of the heavens and the earth. The similitude of His light is as a niche wherein is a lamp. The lamp is in a glass. The glass is as it were a glittering star, lit from a blessed olive-tree, neither of the East nor of the West, whose oil would almost glow forth (of itself) though no fire touched it. Light upon light, God guides unto His Light whom He pleases, and God sets forth similitude’s for mankind, and god is All-Aware of all things.

Begin with knowledge. Knowledge is light.
It beams bright on your darkest fears and reminds you, you have the knowledge to walk here.
It beams bright on your most depressive moments and shows you the way out to elevated places.
It gives you the tools to deal with yourself, by yourself at your most vulnerable, because knowledge is light.
You can’t flick a switch and love yourself as these soulless and spineless saps spray venomously on T.V., media and other platforms. You need knowledge on how to do that.
You can’t just accept yourself because some guru said so. You need knowledge on how to do that.
Those types of knowledge are not found in anything made this century, or last for that matter. It’s far more ancient, and that quite simply is not fancy enough and doesn’t palate well with ultra consumerists who would buy knowledge in a pill if they could.

Because all I am reading about is sappy lust.
Your love is flavourless without the honesty and purity of light

I see your love, and raise you light!

-W.E.

Rust – The ever lustful

 

rustRust on wet Iron, the appetite is lust,
Devoted Iron, undress and bare skin to moisture,
Water is selfish, observe its transmutation,
Dissipate, dissipate, osmosis of a different kind, in rewind,
Alchemy of love, annihilation of mind.
Spectacular! Majestic unison is water on bare metal,
Two hydrogen’s and one oxygen – one molecule of consumption,
Otherwise life essential, now the serpent of lust.
Utter fixation, the selfishness becomes selflessness; the hydrogen separates from the oxygen.
Water, devoting a part of it, carving out its life giving force, a sacrifice to Iron.
Separation for procreation; gives birth to love,
Fungal beautiful, you long to witness cancer take form , to cause destruction.
Slowly, eating away, and the Iron, does not resist. It too offers itself.
Into cancers sharp incisors it donates its flesh.
“Consume me whole or don’t bother”, it says, but to a hungry serpent, tis a sweet invitation, un-refuted.

And what remains?

Nothing!

The echo of orange stained crying,

Blood stains,

Of the violent nature of loves most haunting affair,

Splattered, evidence of the purity of a love,

That can exist only in nature,

In primal, unadulterated, innate nature.

-W.E.

Forensic evidence of love’s presence:

background texture

The  picture above is by Stephen Scullion.
It has been used with his permission. He is a genius at capturing oceans, seas, stills at times where it seems all liveforms have ceased to exist.
You can find him on social media Instagram handle @surfpi
The original picture unfiltered is:
surfpi