A Woman Unto Herself

You are all-goddess – in your very Humanness,

your own form, I see only goddess and nought else.

I see myself offering puja to her, this very goddess,

thereupon she is receiving me into her –

homage paid in the kiss,

in the armpits, the nipples, the belly,

then my face deep in this Yoni – long and slow,

controlled, disciplined, concentrated,

till she gives the signal to be entered.

You are still you, to be admired and appreciated,

ideosyncrasies synchronized mutually

in serendipitous symphony.

Not a personal fixation, and yet,

not the least bit indifferent to your person,

every hidden and open fibre of your unique embodiment

of what is drunkenly divine and manifestly set

in the eternal ecstasy of each moment's expression

of Union.

Not sharing a need but joining in mutual worship,

a statement of fulfilled desire.

WTF?!

Is not Boko Haram the real face of Islam?

Or are there Muslims intervening,

when mosques fill up five times from

mornings till noon, and on into evening?

Do they ever collect for their purses,

or exercise such faith-muscled intention

to exorcise themselves of these four
                                                    curses:

self-pity, supremacy, misogyny and
                                                   aggression?

I can joke about Jews, I can criticize Christians,

irritate Evangelists, satirize Sikhs, polemicize

Pentecostals, pun on names of every nation,

but it's "offend not the Muslims" for they're on the rise!

These peace-loving Muslims I keep hearing about –

are they there, do they care? Tolerant are they indeed, but of whom?

God knows their hearts, our politicians clearly not –

confront Boko Haram or just distance themselves, conceding room?

Sunni and Shi'ite compete in loathing and murder, in scheming

bound hands and feet since the origin of their species; no love

is lost where none there was, "There is no room for God!"

                                                    is what I hear them screaming

from minaret to minaret, region to region, age to age.

Sufism, being of no traceable age

in embodying light, quite conscious'

took on the mantle of Islam, minus the rage –

in order to clean it of its darkness.

I do not have the means, I'm afraid, to deliver, or bring

succor to all who've suffered by this "Islam" – do not

wonder that I sleep with the weight of all their killing

and barbarism, Damascus or Baghdad, in war and prior to it.

How odd, that ISIS carries the name of a goddess they'd abhor,

ask any one of these Jihadis or their wives, they don't know themselves;

puerile hatred of the modern which they use, rejecting all and wanting more –

perhaps reading right to left they see 21^st century as 12^th.

How odd, that there, among whom Compassionate and Merciful

are repeated in millions of mouths a thousand times daily, one is told;

there, among whom it is said "In Islam there is no compulsion,"

are women whipped, gays hanged, boys raped, children sold;

Christians ousted, churches mocked, no discusssion, bibles burned;

woe to you should you convert to something else, your loathesome

daring will be repaid by those who keep their women interred –

yes, go be Christian and die a martyr by the blood-soaked knife

                                                              of your own family's bosom.

Come let us be tolerant, though, let's all be politically correct now;

let churches in all Muslim lands disappear, and Christians as well;

leave them their patriarchy and let them have a Caliphate, allow

for ever more mosques to be built here, everyone else go to hell.

Let Shari'a come, and see how you like it, it's making inroads –

try on a burqa, ladies, a hijab – you'll love it, there's no compulsion,

so long as there's compliance, your life decided for you by wiser heads;

outwardly chaste, now everyone chaste: no holding hands, dears,
                                                                              that's only for men.

In light of Nigeria, Sudan and Mali, Somalia, Iraq, Iran and Syria –

I have but my craft to put down some lines, and what conclusion
                                                                            can I draw this hour:

only this, let everyone worship as they wish, formulate their faith
                                                                               without hysteria –

let Muslims have Islam in their own Muslim lands; and never
                                                                   give Islam political power!

 (Sunni vs. Shari'a: "My 'God is greater' than your God!")

http://samuelinayatchisti.blogspot.de/2013/03/show-me-islam.html
http://samuelinayatchisti.blogspot.de/2011/05/cornerstoneof-your-faith.html
http://samuelinayatchisti.blogspot.de/2013/07/that-this-beauty-shall-prevail.html

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jv-kSbjr8EY

When A Man Makes Love

(July 1987, Monterey)

My lips parted   and I asked the Woman:  Woman,
       how does a man make love?  And she replied
       with such direct simplicity:  O - and
               are you a man?
My ears blushed and my breast flushed full
         I said Yes. I am.         Listen, she said,

For a man first makes love with his ears.
   He listens intently for the silent rustle
      of love's whisper, of skin wishing to yield itself
            to the hand's good touch.
From the fingertips to the soles of his feet
does a man make love   his tongue
    quivers at the mere thought of his beloved's form
                                     his ears
   carry the beloved's name whether it is known or not.
 

The lover is always erect,   never asleep,
                                     his attention steady.
His body is clean but washed with abandon,
     not primped as some self-adulator.  Every hair
       on his body responds to the scent of his beloved
         and his nostrils are always flexed for it.
   What of her absence, I asked, How
           does a man stand the loneliness?
                   She drew so close

 
I lost my breath in the sweetness of her kiss
   and therein was imparted - as the vital sap of my loins
      rose from root to trunk to branch - that
             Woman is never absent.
A man can never love enough.  To love as a man makes love
   is to come out his top    because
   while he loves the Woman he worships the Goddess that she is.

Woman is a body   and so she is every body
  and all that is beautiful in the eye
    of the Man who beholds her
             is Woman.
And in recognizing her she must be touched
   and kissed and carressed and looked at
     and fondled,    every inch of  her
    must be loved and dearly cherished first
       for her to be enabled to enter
         the body  where she belongs.

My eyes hazed in sweat      I asked How
     is a Woman's body never absent?  And her form
    burst over me and I was bathed in her
as though she were liquid air, and I saw with all my heart:
Woman is an aura, and even as you would stimulate
  all those areas of her flesh with your gentle fingers
     and tongue   so must you skillfully and generously
                                     speak to her.

A man makes love
   when he is direct and kind   firm and assuring.
  A man without sincerity never makes love  there is
       no interest there   and no balls.
A man makes love
    when his gifts are frequent and thoughtful -
    their spontaneity is what makes them original.
    Timing is everything  for the man.
Never an abusive word   never an abusive gesture,
  never even in jest hurting the Feeling of the Woman -
      That is how a man makes love.

For him she is ageless, a man does not make love
   by judging looks or counting rings on a tree.
       His eyes are fixed on the Woman timelessly.
I have wondered, I began - and she quietly
     inclined her face to hear -
           Can a Woman love too much?
She smiled and brushed my forehead
    and my temples with such affection I held her
        hand there with mine and breathed
            its touch into my pores.  She answered,

She might change her mind as to the choice of men -
   but she cannot love too much.  No one can love enough.
  When a man makes love he is knowing all the time
    that everything beautiful that he could ever set eyes on
          or give ear to   or touch and hold,
            every expression of beauty,
              every affectionate gesture    is Woman.
        That is Whom he loves.

And Woman?  She is herself the bottom line
        and the last word
           on the very Beauty of God.

 

Light Comes

If you pierce and penetrate and plumb the spheres of Being,

Light will come from the heavens.

If you pierce and penetrate and plumb the depths of Being,

Light will come forth from this very earth.

You can be in one spot and stay there,

rarely leaving town, go to work with empty pockets,

come home, put bread on the table,

and still do this.

Pierce and penetrate and plumb right where you are.

Tone for tone, syllable for syllable, Names of the Beloved, go:

Light will come.

In every Woman is Goddess.

I need the women, I need the men as well –

but I need to reach women.

In every woman is Goddess – even if buried

in each is this goddess – not a diva,

not a demanding dominatrix, not a calculating castrating bitch,

nor a “good girl“ nor “fantasy babe“ – none of these:

but a goddess, an indescribably real phenomenon,

dwelling in a normal form – and whom I reverently acknowledge

within mySelf –

and sometimes, on some level more often than not:

they get it.

If not, the failing lies with me.

But oh, when it does catch: Light comes.

The Goddess' Armpit

(to that Goddess in every Woman)

One speaks of her auspicious gaze,
the many facets of her all-embracing,
and in the same moment, penetrating glance.

In every aspect I agree, all parts of her form
are addressed in one hymn or another,
whether carved in marble, in wood or in sandstone,

whether painted, or in paean sung,
or embodied in dance, or costumed staging,
and be it Grecian or Roman or Tantra with bindu:

in all these depictions I hear
of her eyes, her lips, her arms and her thighs,
I see in the art how robust and alive

those breasts can be, and those sweeping hips,
a turn of the neck just so,
the feet with the anklets . . .

and yet . . .
And yet and yet and yet:
what is missing, but that I sometimes

may catch it – no, rather
be caught by it, yes, caught up!
Such that every fibre of my all-too male being

can barely bring my tongue to sing
to that which it longs rather to touch,
to meet most intimately there, and lose itself

in that place where hair
may also grow, and the form and the shape
of this, that Goddess' armpit, unsung, unsung!

It is not unfair, it is alone intended
for me to discover, as I had with such yearning
from earliest of memory beholding her form.

The erotic statement of it cannot be spoken,
there is nothing in the literature giving mention,
it is for me most privately, intimately, erotically winning

her approval so, for me alone to go there and to know it.
It is a world and an opener of worlds, as there are
many gates to her erotic majesty, this is only for the seeing,

bestowing its aroma – ah, yes, laugh you world,
and remain bereft of this particular blessing few of us
can appreciate, and appreciating thus

with finger strokes and tongue and eyes
full of desire and homecoming
there in the cleft of it,

spread for me, inviting, open and sovereign,
sharing, laughing, cooing, surrendering
as with no other door, there

beloved, beloved nectar of scented
perspiration, completely natural,
intoxicating beyond any words, please, no words!

This tongue is not for words here, but for surrendering,
as every male part of me is ordered to this attention
now.

The smile of her mouth is enticing indeed,
but still more so, is
the Goddess' armpit.