The men and women in my family

 

The men in my family are rugged men,
with hands callused from the poetry they write for the softer women they love.
With hearts that pound like door knocks of the police,
they dance to the beat of their own drums.
We care not for the fragile women who pose with square jaws,
with toxic feminist rhetoric,
ad-nauseum, unoriginal dogma,
that looks down on the tradition of their ancestors.
I’d love to see them with their bright red lipstick,
walk mountain plains,
to fetch a pale of water,
to wring clothes by hand,
knurled knuckles to pomegranate blood red,
in rivers where streams would take you and never surface you again.
I’d like to see how they’d hold the fort as their husbands left with no guarantee of return,
to fight invaders for months on end,
and not make a single complaint.
I can’t wait to see the army of perfectly functional children they raise into men and women of integrity and honour,
and do it with grace after losing just as many in still births or death.
I know one woman, well into her late eighties,
a matriarch of sorts, who’s buried more children than she’s raised and never has an ode belonging to feminists passed her lips, but raise your brow to her if you dare and wait for her palm to remind you of who you really are as it jolts your jaw into place.
If our men are anything, it’s because the women were just as much.
The men in my family are rugged men, real men,
men with unbreakable spirits who bow only to God,
but with hearts of lambs,
they settle easily into their wives caress, because they  are soft like that.
The men in my family all die young,
because their hearts beat  beyond the capacity of normal hearts,
but they leave real women behind.
Women who don’t need false ideologies to show them how to stand up on their own two feet because their men have already embraced them with tenderness of olive branches.
The men in my family, rugged and harsh as they may be,
write poetry with their actions and their women never give them an excuse not to.
W.E.

#stigma

I can blue with the best of them,
or I can be blue with the worst of them,
the former, armour to cover the later.

But what of the man that can’t string his pain together in anything more poetic than a bottle or a fist?
What of the man that tries to get it out but tongue always ends up in a twist?
Does he beat his heart more furiously, hoping the world hears his silence or illiteracy, muteness or simplicity or is he denied the right to exist?
Because of social stigmas, ignorance of manhood, and checking him off all our conditioned lists?

W.E.

forging men


If we have any hope of survival into the generations that come,
a man’s body must be hardened through physical culture,
ironclad and reinforced through gruelling bellows,
he must commit to forging it.

Through the physical,
he taps into his mental and spiritual energies.

The body is the gateway for a man,
there is no other way into the portal of being,
except through these rigours.

Once admitted into the realm of himself,
he can make peace with his mind and soul,
his spirit can be calmed and nurtured.

It is incumbent on him to gain mastery over his mind,
which is in essence attached to his ego.
Knowledge if gained with arrogance is destructive,
and will deny him the fruits of completion.
Knowledge if not fortified with spiritual works,
will only lead to one’s detriment.

Spiritual works are the marks of sincerity and comprehension in a man.
They allow him to know their role,
know their place, know themselves,
and how they relate to the rest of humanity,
most importantly how they stand in front of God.

Spiritual works done with pride in the sense of self respect is admirable.
Spiritual works done with pride in the sense of arrogance or looking down on others is less fruitful than doing no spiritual works at all.

Humility and understanding that even though it is your choice to perform a work sincerely,
the source of your choice is still God given,
and had He willed, you would have chosen something else or nothing at all.

This brings the man to his knees and to the station of gratitude and contentment.

Ultimate gratitude is being grateful for being grateful perpetually,
as if spinning in the same concentric manner over and over,
a moth to a flame,
a dancer lost in the arms of her lover,
a man circumambulating around the holiest building,
Rumi spinning and lost in his love for Shams.

It continues to gather momentum and grow larger,
like gyrations out of our control.

That is what gratitude does to a man,
and to think it all started with forging yourself,
by being a blacksmith of your soul,
by dedicating your energies to the refinement of your body,
your mind,
your soul.

W.E.

-masculine

masculine

there are two things which break a man
being taught how to be one
by his son
or by his wife
both are necessary
if he struggles on his own

W.E.

Pray you have a good one of each or either.
As heartbreaking  as it is,
To be shown how to be something,
You assumed you already are,
It leaves a tranquil etch in you,
Unpronounced,
Too proud,
You still wear the achievement,
Despite the bereavement.

Pangs for alphahood,
Missing manhood,
Courage, chivalry,
Wayward gentlemanly,
Finding galantry,
Sitting on your sons shoulders,
Sitting in your wife’s breast.

It’s ok,
Taste it on your lips,
Swirl it on your palate,
Let it dance at the back of your throat,
And fill your belly,
There’s nothing that can sweeten the blow,
It’s something you just have to swallow slow.

-W.E.

Scholars and Warriors

scholars and warriors

“The society that separates its scholars
from its warriors will have its thinking
done by cowards and its fighting by fools.”
– Thucydides,
History of the Peloponnesian War (ca 410 BCE)

And what has become of todays society?

Brainless soldiers

Heartless scholars

Fashionable philosophers

Rapist politicians

Dishonest doctors

Manipulative media

Sheep common man

Women who tear their wombs out

Men who sever their genitals

Suck shit, reap what you sew!

-WE

Slay them with pens, educate them with swords.

pen and sword

Some people need to be shredded with words,

Others need to be taught with a sword.

What is society willing to afford?

Has man lost his way,

Severed the umbilical cord?

The attachment to all that is good and pure,

And can nothing more say?

Ode to father carries on

unnamed

 

Continued from: Here

 

Now that I’m drained, now that he’s drained, bare, naked and stripped of our attributes. Attributes that kept us upright, but here we find ourselves fallen, ironically towards each other, two towers leaning on each other and yet holding each other up. That’s what it took. A baring of our sacredness, a stripping of our egos, no fight left in us both, guards down, ready to cop it on the chin and embrace it, embrace each other, even so, chins exposed, none have the power to knock the other out, none have the power to even throw a one, two. The array of combinations we’d let loose before, and now, nothing, both satisfied not to hurt the other.

I can see his humanity, always have, I couldn’t admit it. He never saw mine, so how could he admit to something he knew not about? I had to write the first ode, I had to let him know I saw him. I had to let him know I saw that he thought that no one saw him. How many fathers are like him, toil away and none of what they do gets noticed, gets written about, gets exalted. Oh the station mothers have enjoyed, and the deprivation the fathers have endured, this is not fairness, this is short sightedness, this is human shortcoming.

The tears that don’t stream down their cheeks burn pathways in their hearts as they hold themselves together as forts. Sixty six years is enough, eventually it burned down into his bowel. The pain of not being seen. Not only by me, my family, but his direct family.

Now illness manifest, reality cannot lay dormant and like the lion that it is, it roars and wakens the jungle of ignorance up. His family can hear, can see, can feel. They all flock to him, his illness an expiation for all. We know man is expiated for his sins even if a thorn to afflict him. My fathers illness expiated everyone as they all flocked to him, eyes in hands, catching their tears as they acknowledged him.
His illness returned their sight, his illness broadened mine.

I made sure my mother read and translated the first ode to him. When I came home that day, he had tears in his eyes, he begged and asked me how I knew, how I saw. I later found out that he and my mother wept together as they read it.

Maybe my job as a son was to document some of his accomplishments. So many men are remembered with their life’s work when they pass. Artists, writers, gnostics and so. Superficially he is none of these. Hidden and un-manifest, he is all. His craftsmanship, his prose and his art, was sacrifice. It wasn’t relegated to a material thing, something bought and sold, marvelled at on the walls of the mundanely inspired, no his life work was – passing on life. Chiselling away at himself to give to me, to my brother, to my sister and now to our children, he continues a new generation. Bits and pieces falling from him, and into our bellies. We are fortunate to see it, we are fortunate to be aware.

So here I stand, attempting to put into words but failing, how do I write about being a human? I cannot, the only way is to do as he did, sacrifice, pass on the bits of myself, chisel away, chipping until someone grabs a remnant and keeps it alive.

I have a lineal record of all my ancestry. We’re of noble blood, but noble blood means nothing without action. It cannot save me, only sacrifice will save me. Letting go of all the unsightly traits, the soil that is not presentable before God. Perhaps that is why my father preferred the company of the earth rather than of men. A reminder of what soil is beneficial and what soils us.The life giving soil and the soil that is ugly and not fit to present in front of His Majesty.

His health improved, for a week. I couldn’t believe it. Slowly but surely he digressed back and other ailments took over. My fear of exposing him to the myriad of unnecessary tests and prodding, of poking around and enticing. I know what happens to the body when you push and push. I’ve been there, self inflicted I push until something goes pop. Something always goes pop. So a few weeks later he’s back in hospital, his body drained. God’s work, God’s way of reminding us all who we are. Pray dad, pray. Nothing else matters except your devotion. Stay devoted. Stay true. It’s hard though with your body and carnal self calling the opposite way. ‘Don’t worry’, they say, ‘God is forgiving, just indulge’. Oh the oft demanding self. It clings on to every opportunity of weakness to keep you abased. Our masters have taught us to talk to it, to demand of it, to command it, to whip it into submission and servitude to us so that as a whole we can remain in servitude to our Lord.

The next saga begins, trying to make sense of it all as a scientist sifts through real data and pseudo data, as an investigator skirmishes through every last bit of observable evidence and delves deeper into his gut. There’s that line. That line I have to cross where I tap into a different unobservable realm to make a decision for him, for me, for us all. I can feel the weight on my shoulders. This is not going to be easy.