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Posted by christina on Jun 21, 2013
An unconventional offering of ascendant Tantric poetry inspired by Rumi. Enjoy.
If civilization exists by geologic sanction then I am the bubbling hot springs of alchemy, anything but civilized. I will gurgle and ooze, like a baby’s coo or a weeping wound, the stunning snail-shine of a lover’s wet kiss on a barren bosom. I will scream. I will whisper. But my totem is standing – still.
I comply to the winds of nature; to her I yield these fiery limbs, to be soothed and smoothed like petrified wood, then burned in the ashes of renewal, but I will not yield to this world we have made. It is one I don’t recognize. These arbitrary rules made to ignore earth and sun, precipitation and cumulus, I cannot make my master.
I am the worshiper of sparrow’s wings and spider webs, the ebb and flow of ocean tides, and the glowing light of bioluminescent algae like the synapses of a brain aglow with music and love, its own elixer-like candies and DJ mix. I hear the thump-thump in silence, but also when you touch me.
The beat of the earth is in my womb. I felt it in my mother. I offer it to my own children. It pulsates when my gut is yearning to mix with the salt of your ocean, the sticky sweet milk of a flower blossoming from its root. But I cannot sit silent here, waiting for you to spring from your seed.
My dear humans, you must wake from this tired dream. It has weakened your synapses. Made you a standing frieze instead of a moving, changing, flowing performance art piece. You are not the marbelized caves of Chile, but the rip current of a fire dancer spinning light shows of compassion into shadow.
Do not let the alarmist tactics of the snake-like poison people seep into your crevices. You are older than the red-wood forests and wiser than a dolphin dancing on Pacific waves. You too, have a heart beat that resounds like Kodo through ancient temples and unearthed shrines. You too, are the sun’s light emanating from the diamond in your mind. Let the heat of a 9000-mile neighbor cleanse your jewel. Let the warmth of the breeze soothe your weariness. Let the wind suckle your kiss, and the grass beneath your feet tell you stories of what was before this mayhem. Lie down on the earth and smell her womanly perfume. Let her caress you, undo you, sink into your bones and ruffle your hair. Let her make love to the parts of you that you save for some other. Let igneous rock burn your karma, and the sediment of your mind float to the very bottom of her rivers. She is yours. You are hers. A universal solvent has been there all this time to turn a lone tear to one pearly drop, licked form the tongue of immortal innocence.
Let the water of your fear, the tears and sweat of your anguish, your confusion, simply melt. Make love to the mud of her. The messy, birthing ooze that makes flowers grow from excrement and minds become free from gazing at the sun.
Christina Sarich is a musician, yogi, humanitarian and freelance writer who channels many hours of studying Lao Tzu, Paramahansa Yogananda, Rob Brezny, Miles Davis, and Tom Robbins into interesting tidbits to help you Wake up Your Sleepy Little Head, and See the Big Picture. Her blog is Yoga for the New World. Her latest book is Pharma Sutra: Healing the Body And Mind Through the Art of Yoga.
This article is offered under Creative Commons license. It’s okay to republish it anywhere as long as attribution bio is included and all links remain intact.
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