An Observation

It's not a popular view, I suppose - a bummer for conversation.

It's been my studied, gut-level observation since years, that the secret titilating interest found in watching nubile young women being slaughtered – as in for example, the slasher-film genre (which has never appealed to me for just this reason), or in certain literature for that matter – is based on a very ancient, deep-seated gratification, a sadistic strain of satisfaction out of not every male's but out of a part of the collective memory in our psyche, actually too horrible to look at for what it is. But only in looking at it – not the said material, but the recognition of this – can one fully distance oneself from it. I'm not for copping to the notion of "embracing this in oneself" as some false counsel would have it, but fully holding oneself clear of any identification with it. I know its name: it is the slaughter of Beauty, it's intended destruction. Every time a woman is violated, it is that. It is the only explanation I really "got" as to why this could appeal and why it has taken ages for us to overcome our detachment about it – if we even have.

The exact same studied, gut-level observation applies with an even fiercer intensity, by my reckoning, to the unspeakable crimes against children: it is the slaughter of Innocence, its intended destruction. That is why the immensity of pedophilia has never been seriously dealt with – or never with a determination to match its immensity, and to look it in the eye and loathe it enough to wipe it out decisively, consequently, and forever from our presence.

But of course, that's all nothing more than my studied, gut-level observation. Anyone can take it or leave it.

 

Singing Her, Seeing Her

Singing the Sri Mahalaksmyastakam

or singing the Kundalini Stavah . . .

I am absorbed in seeing Her in every Woman's form and potential

whom I encounter - on whatever basis, to whatever degree,

and without exception.

Regarding Her, acknowledging and addressing Her,

perhaps I may even awaken Her in those very forms,

by my mere glance or touch

awaken in them as well to that consciousness of Her,

or perhaps not.

It doesn't matter.

The Hymn to Mahalaksmi, the Hymn to the Kundalini,

is a declaration of love from Him to Her,

nothing else, and nothing less.

Deep in my ajna-brow,

deep in my hridaya-heart,

deep in my very belly and in my loins,

there I hold Her fast in my arms' embrace,

there I behold Her face.

On my breath I feel the scent of Her -

when I am training or performing prayers,

I feel the warmth of Her smile on my skin -

when I am singing She is making love with me.

Shall I ever deny this?

All Women Are Created Equal

I long for a bygone Feminism without the ism which all morphed into the creature we have today

- which does not even bear addressing here -

I long for a Voice among Women and the Men who stand with them,

to expose and confront the mentality

in the still perpetrator-friendly and victim-hostile public mind

that when school girls, teenagers and young women

are being stalked, accosted, baited, lured, groomed

for a thoroughly primitive and brutal sex industry,

mistreated and beaten, repeatedly raped and forced into a hostage-slavery,

whether by networking pedophiles anywhere

or gangs of Pakistani Muslims in Rotherham or Boko Haram in Nigeria

- anywhere, everywhere: that when these are being spoken of, reported in the press, tsk-tsk'd as being unfairly "treated like whores or sluts"

(for their appearance or because they're often "poor white trash" etc.)

- I want it to go on record, if only this once, right here and on my board,

because I am really fed up over this central point and feel ready

to go out and take no prisoners:

NO "WHORE" AND NO "SLUT" (BY WHATEVER REASON SO REFERRED TO AND WITHOUT EXCEPTION ) "DESERVES" AS IT WERE, ON THIS BASIS, TO EVER EVER EVER BE VICTIM TO PREDATORS AND LOATHED AND LEFT OUT TO HANG BY AN EITHER INDIFFERENT PUBLIC AND ITS INSTITUTIONS OR BY A VERY OLD AND DEEPLY EMBEDDED CONTEMPT TOWARD THE FEMALE GENDER OR TOWARD CHILDREN AS FAIR GAME.
Moreover: whores are human beings, sluts are human beings,
and the one thing I view which decides for me between
human and sub-human (not dissing the animal kingdom!)
is empathy or the absence of it, in whatever sphere we are speaking of.

I wish to see an end to a twisted old prudery toward sexuality,

and to a predator industry so way out of bounds
as counterweight to the latter,

I wish to see every single female from infancy to ripe old maturity,

honored as the Embodiment of Woman, regardless or rather inclusive of,

however she fits into that embodiment;

I wish to see all women as women treated first of all and foremost,

with the dignity of Being Woman.

I know wherof I speak, and it is a fierce love for that Woman.

Self-Realized Santa

(San Francisco, Dec. '85 – prior to leaving for Army Basic, having failed to snag a job as Jumbo Jolly in any dept. store in The City – but also prior to “The Suit,“

where I did – and one better)

Amid the flashing, multi-colored chaos, the hustling and bargain-grabbing, the floor-walker bells popping off and the humming buzzing tide of parents and children drawn into this jungle of commercial mayhem, Tuesday afternoon's Santa Claus composes himself . . . and waits it out.

He is not bored or disgruntled with his job, pressed as he is by sticky-fingered, runny-nosed, often howling toddlers, not to mention the ones that are getting a little bit big for this. He is actually not watching the clock, in fact he is waiting for something else, he is sniffing out the crowd, this department store package-promiser, the brat-appeaser, stuffed elf. Ho Ho Ho . . .

One whining child gets to popone to the Wiz and receive a striped cane; then a quiet shy one, who mouths a big Thank You (for Mommy); then a ram-bunctious one who tinkles a little and hops off before he remembers his token candy (so he can drive his frazzled mother over the brink, since she'd agreed to drive him to see Santa). And on it goes, and the queue grows and diminishes, and then . . .

A girl of about five years, perhaps six and small, edges forward with her mother, a few yards down yet. He takes note. What is unusual about her, this girl, is not the precocity which movies are about, nor any visible confidence, poise, grace, ésprit which set her so adorably apart from the rest. What is unusual in her only he knows, what is rare in her only he will see.

He patiently takes each child on, he does his gig, he relishes the spontaneity when it's there, reassures nervous mothers with a gesture of his hand, waves each family on, then looks at the next bundle of 1980s mess squirming on his lap; he looks down into its face with a benign, casual indifference, reserved and pleasant, and sees hundreds of voices, all desiring for its future . . .

They are clutching the tiny hands rather more snugly this year, these mothers; they are aware, grotesquely aware of the growing number of posted facials reminding them to sharpen their radar against thsoe who covet small children. They are chilled, this bunch, as they give themselves cautiously over to this warm ritual of handing the tots to the old man in the red suit.

His eyes are moist and twinkling, occasionally he has a private word or two with the mother or guardian, as the case may be, listening like some country family doctor to the fractured twittering of trivial concerns. The photographer stands ever ready for those who need the souvenir. She does not look particularly nervous, this girl's mother, and the child is reasonably well-behaved. Yet even at this distance the clutch she holds her in is evident. The line is dwindling, he takes his own time, he is not rushed by all this nonsense, theirs or the store's. The photographer is having a cigarette.

He shifts his position while the next customer is coaxed to the jelly-bellied counter to place her order, brushing off cellophane candy-cane wrappers to make a fresh place for her. Her forehead is wrinkled with the weight of the responsibility she is entrusting to his care, as she'd put a lot of time into this beforehand. He nods and shares her seriousness for a minute and then lightly raises her off his lap to hear the confession of He-Man, or whatever this kid is. Power of the Universe. That's it, that's what he wants. OK, kid – you got it. … Then: she arrives.

There is a pause, a fraction of a pause, not a delay in proceedings but that pause which occurs when you open the door and there stands the guest you'd been expecting anyway, but you have that little pause, because that brief second is frankly timeless, and it is to be savored.

In one fleeting glance his earlier recognition of her is confirmed; not from her,

you see, not consciously by any means – but she is natural, guileless, and their eyes lock as his gaze penetrates into her skull and sets atoms into motion creating new orbits . . .

He leans forward ignoring the girl now, but rather motioning her mother over with a friendly but sober flick of his fingers. She checks the position of her daughter, and the Santa shrugs away her awkwardness with a simple gesture – no one's walking off with the child, who now sits at the step where Santa's great boots are planted. Santa motions the mother closer, still closer, and looks into her face. He says nothing.

Though his breathing is nearly undetected underneath that pasted beard, she is somehow aware that she stands within his breath, engulfed in a most sovereign atmosphere quite independent of the whole department store. And she is oddly comfortable standing with her face so close to that of this calm, sober-looking stranger – Santa or not – who has mesmerized her while taking no possession of her. Something, something now – gently opens in her and Santa speaks . . .

"I want you to listen carefully to each word I use, each thing I say, because it is going to matter to you greatly. As I share this with you, you must drop every untoward reference from your mind, suspend in other words, every innuendo and conditioned impulse to react, so that you can just get what I am telling you. Can you do that?" She nods and poises herself to listen; his voice is kind and it projects gently, his cadence is natural, steady, and his manner direct. He continues without breaking the rhythm of this brief interlude . . .

"I have already plugged in to this child. As your daughter sits with me I am going to open her subtle bodies up and enter her most sacred core, and I will place a seed within her; I am going to stimulate and activate her inner growth. And this seed will blossom in her at a later time, and she will experience her true and sacred Womanhood in a very beautiful and natural way, you may mark my words. And then at some future time, she will find her way to me and I will guide her through an intensity of training which will prepare her for the role she is to play on this planet, for the very hope and salvation of Humankind..." He pauses to let it sink in, scanning the aisle quickly to scope the growing new line, never turning his head from the woman, whose eyes are becoming moist with awe. "Are you getting this?" he asks, gently bringing her into the present.

She brushes a tear with her ring finger, draws back into place a blonde strand of hair. His eyes are incredible, but not threatening or vulgar. They are auspicious to her, and she nods with the movement of a young intelligent woman who doesn't require speech to cut through the confusion and the flood of chatter and claptrap she feels during this new pause, to say Yes, yes I do, strangely, painfully, poignantly, somehow definitely know you. "This is her destiny . . ." he concludes, and the contact breaks and dissipates back into the crowd, all subtly reabsorbed into the commercial onslaught.

He sits, Santa-like, playfully unconcerned, as this young mother thoughtfully raises her yawning daughter and with unpretentious reverence places her squarely into the hands of the Master.

http://samuelinayatchisti.blogspot.de/2011/12/suit-or-truth-about-santa.html

http://samuelinayatchisti.blogspot.de/2011/05/cinderallah-dervish-folktale.html

Even Then, Even Then

"So – where do you live?" I was asked.
"In the Heart of every living Woman," I replied.
"And … what's when they're entirely occupied with Smart-phone texting?"
"Even then, even then."
"Waait – but aren't you really in Berlin, last I'd heard?"
"That's only for appearances."

http://samuelinayatchisti.blogspot.de/2014/02/light-comes.html

Q & A

 The best way to answer a question is to
first ascertain the intention behind it.
A question sincere and direct – 
or trying to be –
gets a direct answer, a guidance.
A question full of ignorance, 
or half-knowledge or ulterior motives,
gets an answer which uproots the question
and holds a mirror to the questioner.

Compare Jesus' conversation with the Samaritan woman at the well,
and with his encounter with Nicodemus,
and then that with the Pharisees in general.

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.

Sonnet, of sorts

(ca. 1986/7) 

She stands before the glass contemplative,
critiques her face and faults all relative;
and studies where her form symmetric falls,
familiarly discerns pounds possible –
Ridiculous in naked truth are we;

"too much or not enough" decidedly
of profile, flows of lines, of hip or bust –
She sees it all, as so have I, but just
let her perceive what I beyond form see:
From scar of cheek down through her wrists my eye
traverses fragrant joy yet unreveal'd –
sound glance of love does penetrate and heal
when drawn in love to 'waken inner being:
for what's being look'd for is what's looking.

But A Whisper

There is not a moment without you,
there is no absence. I keep you with me,
I keep you with me. Your breath
is in my own very breath, your subtle body
courses through mine. I will ever tremble for love of you,

I am not ashamed to admit it.
Even standing hand in hand before the Altar
of This Love, as witness with you
to This Love which is ours –
I will have perhaps mastered this awe
in body, but my heart
will always fall prostrate to it.
Though it rocks me to the very foundations
this is not to be shouted from the rooftops,
it is told in but a whisper.

Krishna's Boon

ODE TO LAKSHMI (REDDY) RADHE - 26 Jan 93

I have seen Maha-Lakshmi
in the soft brown form of a young woman.
Her dark generous eyes hold a wild glowing beauty,
sparkling with moist effervescence,
catching the glint of her dangling earrings
and diamond-studded gold chain which graces her neck.
Straight and even and white the teeth which line
the coyly benevolent, gracious smile;
Her lovely face is the picture of India's womanhood.
Long and elegant her fingers, slight and nimble her body.

I encountered her for a brief hour.
Could this be that Lakshmi of ecstatic wealth to whom I've sung,
holder of the keys to fulfillment in all the three worlds,
the lotus-bearing spouse of Rudra
(Lord Shiva's own spontaneously liberating persona)?

And from this dear woman there pierced my heart
yet one other heady image, that of
my Lord Krishna's eternally beloved Radha.
As we spoke, her richly Indian accent striking my ears
(so long unused to receiving its timbre)
as I bent to hear her soft tones,
I recognized indeed the Gopi Radha --
and that radiant energy of the Gopinath,
that sweet laughter of Gopal,
that dance of Govinda's flute, Narayana's joy,
responded from my heart.
The world calls this petite and charming woman, Lakshmi (Reddy),
knowing nothing of the name.
I call her by Radhe, knowing both intimately.

How fitting, to meet her at the end of my Army service!
For it was Lord Krishna whose words to Arjuna at Kurukshetra
prompted me to enlist, now seven years hence.
Seven richly blessed years, since which day
I have in-joyed Krishna's boon -
and whose Ras Lila still charges and delights
my atmosphere - when it pleases him.
When last I'd departed Ft. Dix at the close of a seven-week cycle,
I'd found on a bookshelf the life-story of his famous
Bhakti servant in America.
Now leaving Ft. Dix at the close of a seven year cycle,
I have met Krishna's beloved.
That joy and delight are ever with me,
and no earthly power can ever steal it.

Lakshmi Radhe! May God go with you all ways,
and may His light ever shine within your heart
even as you shine within mine.

THE CAT WOMAN JOSIE of the Durango Quanset Huts, '81

(sort of a rambling story, every bit of it true;

intended after Em'ly Dickenson, who never rambled – but I do)

As I approached my ex-wife's hut

(For separate we were)

I chanced to meet the cat woman

– No, she hadn't any fur.

Her hair disheveled, nose drawn out –

She looked the "gypsy hag" –

I knew the children taunted her

And neighbors' tongues would wag.

A paranoic case this one –

'Twas obvious to see

She smelled – lived 'mongst a dozen cats –

And rambled, quite lonely.

So I befriended her that day,

We took her out to eat.

And later on inside the hut

I had her stay for tea.

The two of us and no one else –

(The kids were off at school –

The little one was with her mum.)

She spokeof ghostly ghouls

Who spied upon her day and night,

Left her with naught to think –

'Mid curses thrown from kitchenware,

From oven, stove and sink.

They're cursed! She wailed and rambled on

In circular degrees,

Of untrue cousins, brothers, friends –

Of voices and decrees.

A schizo! Was all I could think,

A hopeless one at that –

What could my Space provide in words

To Josie and her cats?

From her the name of Jesus! and Lord!

Kept coming up anon,

So I responded right away

The second she slowed down.

Look Josie – when the demons shout

And you are but their game –

Don't let them prey – resort to prayer

And loudly praise the Name!

She got it for a second there –

Her glimpse a moment clear –

And then she cranked right up again

– She really couldn't hear.

So to her hut I walked with her –

'Twas locked, she kept no key.

I helped her through the side window –

'Twas her reasoning, you see.

I went back to the front doorstep

To check what'd caught my eye:

A mud-bespattered Bible there –

Full open it did lie!

No further did I need to look,

I knew what it would say:

I lifted it and let the phrase

Choose me in its own way.

And there confirmed by Psalmist's hand,

It said, "When trouble's near

And trembling sets upon my bones,

My mind beset wtih fear,

I call upon teh Lord's dear Name

And once again am cheered."

I laughed aside and shook my head –

The irony was clear:

We all crawl though our side windows

Shaking our butts in the air –

When simply on our doorstep sits

The answer, opened there.

Those Eyelashes

So delicate are a woman's feelings,
as when I consider just those eyelashes,
so tenderly should the lover regard the heart of her -
yet when but one of those eyelashes enters my heart,
robbing me of speech, churning me to butter,
then I know what a power is in that very woman!
Verily, she is in all her beauty -
and all the wisdom of that:  the grace of God.

Milk and Honey

Our Lovemaking is like the mixing of honey with milk,
bodies of satin, whispers of silk:
I fall trembling into your receiving embrace,
my head in your lap, then you sit on my face -
my arms receive you, and tremors in your loins equal those in mine,
we are like sovereign lions rolling in the grasses of the Serengetti...
the rhythm of our fucking is constant and steady.
There is nothing forced, artificial, redundant, or missing -
but listening, feeling, gazing, in that depth of our kissing.

They Are From Me

Those tears on your cheek you needn't wipe -
they are from me, for I just wept
while pressing my lips there in a prolongued kiss,
my brow resting against your temple.

And I, longing to return to you and enter your Temple,

now enfolded in your arms, my face burrowing
into your neck, nestling there, as you stroke my hair -
I kiss and kiss that neck, leaving more tears
of joy for loving you and gratitude for making love with you.