Kindness and the Fool

The Fool is eternal,
Always there to greet you,
Under any circumstances,
With a cold grin,
That spreads from ear to ear.

The Fool comes to You,
Without a finger lifted,
The way you wish Kindness did,
But Kindness is no one’s weakness,
The exact opposite,
Of what the Fool consoles you:

“You’ve been hurt,”
The Fool cups your heart,
With a comforting hand,
Wicked with long sharp talons,
“Sharpen your words with my whetstone,
Brandish your daggers,
Red-hot your brand,
So as to leave them with a mark,
They shall soon not forget!
Ready your fiery whip,
If they show you kindness,
They are showing weakness,
An opportune instant,
To lash them across the cheek,
Leave them with a kiss,
A reminder of what is to come,
When they move against you.”

You look at Kindness,
Their back turned to you,
And so you lash your whip,
No obstacle to distract your aim,
A smile plays on your lips,
You’re winning,
You feel protected,
Righteous and with dignity.
You’ve been hurt.
Doesn’t Kindness understand?
That complete and utter fool,
Full of weakness!

You are legion,
Kindness has their back turned,
Not on You,
But on the Fool’s army.
What else would you call an army,
Of recruits who whip,
Lash and stab each other?
Unaware of the cause,
Of the mission?

Every now and then,
When there comes,
A synchronous lull,
Within their ranks,
Kindness sends some words,
For those who might know,
How to listen:

“I am Kindness,
I am a difficult choice,
As eternal as your Fool.

In my care,
Are a legion,
Which moves in unison,
They do not gain dignity,
By taking it from another,
Their worth immeasurable.

Your whips, brands, daggers, and words,
Leave only marks quickly healed,
My followers are survivors,
Humanity’s caretakers and builders,
Veterans of Fools’ armies.

My followers choose to be kind,
In spite of and despite,
The deepest of gashes in their hearts,
Now covered in scar tissue,
While yours continue to bleed,
Comforting talons digging ever deeper,
Every time you look to the Fool.”

Freedom

This beautiful bird,
Settling on a perch,
Colourfully bright,
With beak and bite,
And full of pride,
What a sight!

Here in this locked cage,
Again prepares her rage,
The fight of at least an age,
Well-worn this page.

She readies her stance,
For this next dance,
Her beak a sharp lance,
Eyes in a keen trance.

Moving swiftly into action,
Reduces her obstacle to a fraction!

This winged warrior,
Victorious in this skirmish,
Exits her prison with belief,
And with a sigh of relief,
Moves closer to freedom.

Finding comfort in larger bounds,
She claims the next perch,
And with keen eyes starts to search,
For the target of her next lurch.

A Man’s Diary, Entry #1: On self-acceptance and self-respect

What a journey it has been and continues to be. My first poems posted here shine a little light on some of my own transformations over the years, themes such as burn-out, losing faith in myself, and giving up, and trying to understand who I was at the time.

Then came along a beautiful soul who has an ability to untangle my giant knots of thoughts and provide me with a different yet accessible perspective. To grow, I learned, I really needed to address, with myself, my tendency for self-resentment, self-punishment, not accepting myself for who I am, not giving myself the respect and love I deserved. I’ve reached only the first step (i.e. the realization) and only after a lifetime.

Writing poetry

Creating art, for me, is almost always an act of catharsis. Poetry is an interesting form of expression: when I am writing it, I am usually in a heightened state of lucidity.

A first step feels like all of my mental faculties are working simultaneously on extracting a lived experience.

A second step is more challenging: translation. Taking the language of memories, emotions, thoughts, sensations, et cetera, and finding words and phrases that validate them.

In that way, art (in this case, poetry), is like a vessel that contains more than just its author’s creativity, time, and literacy. It is like a vessel that contains a microcosmic view of the author’s particular experience of their world.

Unfortunately, poetry is not as readily accessible to an audience as, for example, a song, especially in the way that the author intended it to be received.

Insomuch as that may be the case, is it not a beauty of poetry that it elicits different interpretations from different people? All of whom are reading the same work, but each of whom connects with the poem as per their own lived experiences?

A Masculine Perspection

Your feminine enthralls me,
Draws me;
My masculine sees you as beauty pure,
Incapable of seeing anything else,
And why would it try?

What does it want, you ask?
And quite right,
For trouble often follows it closely,

I will tell you what this accursed says to me:

Liberate your eyes,
Let them caress her every dimension,
Envelope her in your arms,
Warmth, worldly and deep;

Ignite a fire so powerful,
She will want to fight for her world,
With a fierceness that slows time,
A light that can and will shine,
Brighter, hotter, and longer than yours.

Let her be the architect and you the builder,
And so the designs would be so grand.

It says to me:

With every glance,
You will understand better why it is,
You’re drawn and fixated,
Incapable of seeing anything less than a goddess;

Cursed nonetheless,
A curse that the masculine seeks,
To unravel,
To turn from chains and thorns,
Into sustenance and warmth,
Continuity and life,
Tenderness and sensuality.

Why, failed?

Look at me,
My dear friend,
Before you ask,
Make careful your observation,
Of what presents itself so obviously;

And obliviously,
My unriddling has its limits.
What do you call,
Someone who is doomed from the start?

A poet whose pen beats?
With ink bright red?
Who can only share his lived esotericities,
In phrase-twists and wordly ideas?
Language already half-cloaked,
Experiences always slightly out of reach?

But most outrageously laughable,
He still wants to share his broken prose,
A worldly venture.

My dear friend,
I am the failed poet.

Working Peace

Breathe,
slow and deep,
It is this that soothes.
Compose,
your self,
It is this that readies.
Endure and accommodate,
You must,
It is this that allows its existence.
Focus,
a warning if you don’t;
if you dare an act of self-relevance
it may disturb your focus,
Focus
Indeed and well,
but you will be weary
if not wary,
It is this that takes away what can’t be returned.