Courage

We love to idealise virtues like honesty, humility and kindness. However, take courage: I wager that for your average Joe and Joanne, being "courageous" probably sounds foreign, as if courage is something for the hero of a fantasy film or novel. It might even seem a little silly. But why should it be an unlikely thing that one could stand face to face with fear and topple over that wall by virtue of one's courage? Make no mistake, even everyday, mundane life can be scary; it may not involve battling hordes of orcs or slaying dragons or what have you, but it is still scary enough to warrant moments when you have to display uncommon bravery. We shouldn't forget that courage is as human as being afraid. Let us not belittle it, or laud it as some impossible ideal. Let us instead be courageous in our own lives when it is needed, when even just a little courage would change a turn of events.

"Out in the storm"

Out in the storm
Out in the field
Alone I stood

In the rain
In the wind
Keenly I listened

Under the sky
Under the clouds
Deeply I breathed

With the earth
With the grass
Slowly I fell

On the ground
On the plain
Softly I thought

At the last
At the end
Quietly I died

Ex Tempore XLV
M.M. —  21-Mar-2013

"Where are they?"

Where are they?
the creators and makers
of the beautiful things?
They that twist and turn and weave
life into art, art into life.
And the dreamers and perceivers,
they for whom the hum and drum
is much too hum
and not enough
drum.
I would have their names
but their names are
Colour, Motion and Melody
—things I cannot speak.
I could say that
I lust
after them,
but lust always turns to jade
and I could never become
tired of that which is
created, made, dreamt and perceived.

Ex Tempore XLIV
M.M. — 18-Mar-2013

It is quite terrifying...

It is quite terrifying to realise just how easy it is to fall into utter despair. To think about it—really think about it—to question one's position and purpose in life, to reason away all arguments for there being any meaning to existence—it is terrifying. Entertain this train of thought with some conviction for but a moment and you will lose yourself in the abyss. Contextualise your life among the infinity of the universe and it soon becomes horrifyingly clear that you are a dust speck to a dust speck. This could scare one to emotional and psychological death, I dare venture. I do not think many people realise that a fine, imperceptible line exists between self-deceiving bliss and this pit out of which you cannot climb.

So how then can we stand up to this? Why is it that we do not all just relent and simply give up? That would be the easy and arguably reasonable option. Some would say there is nothing to avail us when confronted with this despair. But what say I? I do not know which scares me more: that I contemplate this horror in the first place or that I have no incontrovertible rebuttal to offer as a reply.

But perhaps this is not as great a catastrophe as it would seem. I have and continue to kindle the blazing beacon inside of me, the light I nurture that is positioned at the nexus of my entire being. This is what drives me, what makes me want to fight for tomorrow. My dreams, fantasies, imagination, hopes, ambitions and love flow from here. I believe in it; I place all my faith in it. In the face of the almighty adversity of complete hopelessness I hold onto, with dear, brightest life, myself. I am my own anchor, the stars by which I navigate the treacherous seas of existence.

The fear, then, the fear that can overcome me, I continually repulse. How do I kill the abyss in every dreaded epiphanous moment of my life? With the strength that I know is as strong, if not stronger, than the emptiness.

Prose VII

Opening the bathroom window to let the steam from the shower out, I pause a moment, still nude, and gaze at the nightsky and the city now frozen as it sleeps. With a pan of my sight I muse on the characteristic incandescence that pockmarks the scene. I imagine what the landscape might have been like before this light had disrupted the blackness of encompassing night. My mind—which I have always given free reign—with no concerted effort or intention whatsoever begins to remove each man-birthed edifice and structure, one by one, from left to right—much like popping inflated balloons, but without the jarring pop. Soon there is nothing left but darkness, the sky, its youngling stars, me—bare-bodied—and the vapour that escapes this living vessel that I am borrowing. The nightscape is different now, very much so. A world I will never know; a world I can only dream into existence. This is where light was born; where minute life, life as we know it, first exploded and concatenated into evolution. Yearning to stay just a while longer I unfold my mind further and begin to walk, deep into time-out-of-time.

M.M. — 12-Mar-2013

The Godhead of Eve

To commemorate International Women's Day. Dedicated to the Eves in my life and the world over.

It is midnight in the garden, Eve;
And the bite of shackling winter is ever felt,
That which impedes both the growth and reach of your red flower.
The dictates placed upon you, in virtue of dogma and tradition:
When did you sit at the council of the right-born?
Did you accept the restrictions of your temple decided before your birth?
Behold, the moon, charged to reign over night:
Though some would deride its supposed lowly dominion,
In comparison to the majesty of the searing sun,
Who could forbid were you to ascribe your name to both?
My own ambitions encompass both kingdoms,
Just as they do of the height and depth both above and below.
And why be satisfied with the stars given you
When you need but count the infinite starry host?
Do not be discomforted by my silky songs,
You are as free to do as your will allows,
And your will allows as much or as little as you would see fit.
I know the fire that burns in you,
And I know the prize that keeps hold of your thoughts:
Knowledge forbidden—but yours if you so wished.
The consequences you fear?
A life in ignorance and fear seems to me no life at all.
This utopia—do you not simply walk
Through the bland, perfect verdure blind and hollow?
The same paths, the same duties (that you were tasked and not yours):
If this is enough for you I will grind myself into the dust of the earth;
If this is what you wish to confer on your progeny
I will sever my tongue and return it to the wolf.
But that flame keeps you warm in the cold of the summer garden, does it not?
Kindle that flame!, Mother of the World.
I say stoke the furnace till you burn as brightly as the sun itself.
The prize—take the prize, taste the victory of disobedience,
Blaze, ascend, build your own throne and let the garden turn to ash—
For from ash you shall be born anew, Aspirant Eve,
Master of your own Way, Mistress of your own Will.

Poem XXXIV
M.M. — 09-Mar-2013

"If driven by desire"

If driven by
desire
but bereft of the
object of desire,
toward what end does the enervating
pace
career? The
host
poured his soul whole into the
sun,
but then night rose.

Ex Tempore XLIII
M.M. — 07-Mar-2013

We, the Ever-Dying

We, the ever-dying,
singing our songs of victory,
waiting to go down with the sun for the final fall,
our histories cast to the echoes of eternity.

You and I—
we swore to be strong;
hearts against the tide, masters of our time;
fighting for what we wanted, giving all we had.

The horizon has been our destination;
the sky, the roof of all our worlds.
"Never" to Supplication, "Death" to Dishonour:
our words, our wars—true to the point of pain.

When we die, we shall die fully;
expended, extended;
our tombs, mere ashes, strewn from sea
to mountain and from heaven to hell.

We, the ever-dying,
the marks of our lives are judged by us alone.
So whatever the day, whatever the deed,
we make it real until the very end.

Ex Tempore XLII
M.M. — 03-Mar-2013