introversion – fifty six

Tricks of the self,
wanting unwantedness,
to the point that if you don’t get it, you starve.

Lying to your heart,
that you’ve made the decision all by yourself,
knowing deeper past that pump,
(that conspires with whatever random thought passes by),
that society doesn’t think much of your strangeness,
your aversion to conformity other than for civil discourse,
uncomfortable with the reality,
you’re unimportant unless you can sing and dance,
unless you can show and prance.

You prattle, we prattle, I prattle,
over and over and over again,
a religion if I have ever seen one,
of worshipping ones self to no avail.

Fruitless, pointless self worship.

W.E.

Homoeostasis is not an option

It daunted on me,
we’re all seeking reconciliation,
this thing of balance,
that has fascinated me since I first learned the word;
homoeostasis!

The state of perfect balance,
what else is it,
than stars aligning,
breath,
syncopation,
harmony,
hormones,
things that just work,
everything making sense.

We slip in and out of chaos,
attempting to find meaning,
perhaps in extremes,
testing waters unknown,

But all I want to do is write poetry with a piano,
paint happiness with my fingers,
caress loneliness with branches of an olive tree,
I know I can make things work,
vital things,
I have an uneasy truth in my lungs burning,
and it billows with rage and crackle.

I have waves of jealousy,
watching others throw things off,
it’s the imbalance that hurts so much,
people wallowing in it,
people reluctant to un-smear the mud off their face.

I just want to give my eyes to one person,
and if that’s not enough,
my mind,
and even then,
my heart.

Then they can feel this engulfing,
and incessant need for balance,
and why I strive so hard,
why at three a.m. I’m just beginning,
and they’re deep in waters,
drowning in mediocrity,
I don’t need their normalcy,
because that is anomaly from brilliance,
and brilliance is a stretch of possibilities,
a promise to the universe to make it work.

I have given my oath to truth,
to musk in the air of the forest,
to the oft return of spume dancing,
and to grace in the pegs of a mountain.

I’ve given my oath, means I’ve given my oath,
and I’m the most persistent subordinate you’ve ever seen,
you’ll soon wear yourself down,
in disheartened vain before I conjure a pause,
I’ve yet to see commitment like mine to homoeostasis,
a warrior,
a poet,
a healer,
a man uncaring for the discomfort of others,
if it means they’re happy being mundane,
so be it!

So be their offence and disbelief,
their pursuit of an apology for relief.
I’ll give them ten,
and they’ll still find a scapegoat of victim-hood.

I’m uninterested in it all.
I just want truth,
I just want homoeostasis of fine, fine things,
intimacy with the marrow of me,
until it’s my marrow that manifests on my tongue.

Because in the end,
that’s what it’s about,
this oneness,
this wholeness,
this balance,
pursuit to one.

The more you love,
the slower things move towards you,
and that’s not bad.

You want to be able to scrutinise,
synthesise,
accept with maturity everything it is and isn’t.

Slow things are observable,
fast things are tunnel visioned,
and I want them both.

So that with the speed or surety,
I will accept all I observe.

I love the world,
all that is in it and the One who created it,
He knows balance,
and I just want it all to equalise,
under the purity of its primordial nature.
ITS NATURE,
not ours.

I can handle a truth,
that manifests on the tongue of my challenger,
I can’t handle a lie,
in the heart of my loved ones.

Slay me with truth,
and I’ll give you my neck,
comfort me in lies,
and you’ll feel no end to my wrath.

I welcome rain just as much as I do drought,
nature knows what to do,
but we,
ever so ungrateful,
do not.

How then do you return,
to this delicate scale of equilibrium,
but to let go of the measures you assume,
the metrics of your comprehension are limited,
to preconceived rituals,
to blind worship,
your mind an altar,
your soul the sacrificial lamb,
your heart,
the one that pays the price,
for seeking anything other than balance.

W.E.

Teach your children how to be alone

I owe everything I am to loneliness,
and thus, my children will know,

I’ve buried in the comfort of the fields inside,
so that all the seeds of antiquity will grow,

if you want advice on acquiring a kingdom,
and riches beyond of which you can show,

plant a seed, a deed and cover all your secrets,
learn patience, and from your garden, reap what you sew.

There’s method to the madness,
but it’s only madness in the eyes of the mad,
the clinically insane,
the pathologically mundane,
conformist, sheep-like,
and in pain.

It hurts them to step outside the normality of triviality,
of inability,
mediocrity,
so if I teach and nurture my children,
train them well in the science of the self,
teach them peace and comfort and inner wealth,
to be comfortable in their own shells,
I’m apparently abnormal,
a radical of sorts,
reduced to label of this or that,
because I choose not to sell their souls,
or trust them to anyone but themselves.

It becomes very apparent,
it’s not that they disagree with me,
nor find my reasoning outrageous,
it’s envy, jealousy and laziness,
that they, don’t have the fibre, nor zeal,
to do the same.

W.E.

Stumbling into myself

I seem to struggle handshaking my soul,
when I need to return to the place I know I can reconcile,
it seems, it figures out a way to remain distant,
or maybe I’m not so appealing to myself,
I scare or repulse myself,
perhaps my self has nothing in common with my soul,
and here I am, thinking I can retreat to a cocoon whenever I like,
when the reality is both my soul and my self are troubadours,
unsettled, unhappy, homeless and trying to find a way.

But the hope of acquaintance is alluring,
until then, I’ll search for the perfect line.

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.