~ Across The Far Horizon ~
(To the uncertain expectations of Time and Personal consideration)
I see you sailing
Across the far horizon –
You put water to Oar.
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As the last Volume of Poems of Love and Light: Of Magick, Masks, and Masquerades started out, the progressive relationship, filled with its aspects of the Magickal, of awareness, the metaphysical and the mundane, marked a water-shed for the Muse and I. All we had been through, all we were still facing, was slowly, ever so slowly, developing into a more or less even and understood intention. This was made easier to bear, as the Muse, Herself, was, ineluctably, being drawn into the understanding, from her own sense, and realization of, what the circumstances and decisions that She had made – or had let Life make for her, was bringing to bear.
During this time, getting on into Winter, the fluctuation between ‘knowing her way’, and ‘not knowing her way’, was that push-and-pull energy, that energy, which never seems to find an even keel. There was little time for any real, calm, and deliberate intentions that would either solve, or resolve, the issues that the Muse was facing in Her life; this made my ability to aid, direct, or support her, in any substantial way.
The Muse needed to do this, all on Her own.
Of course, in the real world, that mundane environment, where magick can only exist if both individuals are aligned, as one cannot, no matter how gifted with this energy and intention, can sustain this effort, alone, without the other. So, as the world crept in around the both of us, the Muse did what she felt she had to do, and I took the lesser path, the do-nothing path, as She wanted, and I knew, from this point on, that the onus and criticism would be directed at me. This did not take long to happen.
As I was, from the start, almost an invisible character to those around me, the Muse needing to maintain a certain modicum of public privacy, kept close too, and with me in those moments of passion and partnership, but when exposed, would not communicate with others, close friends and family, of the intentions and relationship between us. I was prepared to take what criticism was warranted in certain cases, but the Muse on only a few occasions, actually spoke up, to correct and explain her intentions, thereby giving me a little support and foundation to fall back on.
This was all a part of this path, and I was not overly worried or susceptible, to these slings and arrows of life’s making.
The process that the Muse maintained, that which would steady her, and see her through, was working, but affected a much larger area than I thought right; but things tend to work out or no.
In-between all this, there were moments of intense conversation about how things were going, and in this process, which I am more familiar, the Muse would retreat, afraid, and instead of facing what I was bringing, or even better, taking my suggestions or observations, as appropriate, would consider these moments as a ‘confrontation’, as ‘rude’, or not listening to ‘her’. This was exasperating, and there where many times that I just did not care about the way She wanted to be balanced, to not hurt the feelings of others, and to balanced -this was a point that, in certain situations, just sent me away.
The missive below, was one delivered by the Muse to me, in relation to my departure, and the way in which there was a void created between us, was terrible to the both of us.
It was a tender reach of Her hand. It was warm and passionate, with just a touch of Grey.
It was to begin the Fire and Flood.
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Poems of Love and Light: Fire and Flood, continues to bring the ongoing epic between two people, the Muse and I.
The path and process, that which brings two lovers together, is myriad in its personalities, and in its machinations. For this reason, this ongoing Work is more than simply poetry or prose. The possibilities in any relationship are unique, as each personality brings a whole life (no matter the age) with them, and this includes, as the previous Work presented, many masks by which to hide behind, to protect oneself, from many things, as varied as the mind can, and does, bring with it.
Personality, by definition, is the center of oneself. It is the harbinger of all the darkness, and the light, which makes up that individual. Strange, is it not, that no matter how well we think we know ourselves, in those quiet moments, or those moments of fire, we give a little more of ourselves away; and if that special person in one’s life is aware, or is gifted with such talents to see deeper, or should I say differently, than the other, then a better understanding of oneself, may be realized.
Observation can, then, be seen as criticism, and as the Muse is wont to say, “it is in the delivery,” that makes this type of inter-personal relationship so delicate, and so important, in matters of Love.
This is all part of a process.
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What harkens in the night
Amidst that murky twilight
Waiting to be seen –
Is it night or is it Light?
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(To the celebration of Birth and Life)
The time between us so slow
The messages we deliver not always
What they seem.
Early morning rendezvous
The mist upon the ground –
In a field you stand alone.
The tender morning embraces
The early morning twilight
A split between the veil.
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Though I am Man – a god abides
My spear a token of my pride
My laughter and tears – like mortal men
Shall in my soul abide.
To the poet shall I return
In tears shall I embrace
For love and splendor – that rite of passage
Shall forever teach the wisdom of life and death.
(To the dance of Romance)
A glowing peace you bring
The trail in sunlit dance
Ah! An afternoon romance.
The Sun he shines
Upon your face sublime
In timeless fashion, in rhythm kind.
The waves of tempest tossed
Brings a pattern of sensitivity
Each passing day –
The tempest now serene
After the ceremonial initiation, She was taken away, Matilda leading the way, back into the darkness, and Gwion had, once again, taken the lead, and escorted Him into the ante-chamber, the Chamber of The Chalice, as it was called.
He was full of questions, but Gwion was reticent, and said nothing until they were all outside. “You have many answers,” he said, “but even more questions; you are impatient, driven by your fire, learn to relax, hang on to a thing, but keep your grip ever-so loosely upon what you desire. If it is a woman, let her come to you, after the fire has been revealed, for if that spirit truly desires, respects, and is aware of you, their intentions will be known – if not, all too many shadows remain, so their mind is not truly their own – fire and water must, at the outset, understand each others properties. You, my son, are open, and a open soul, must you abide. If the darkness makes the other withhold the sun, then the machinations are many, and the truth of intentions are cloudy and irresolute; the path is to open the door to mutual understanding and communication.”
Gwion, had been badgered by Him, for the last thirty minutes, and what had started the introspection and questions, was the fact that She had not informed Him of her actual depth and reasoning behind the lack of information regarding the initiation, as well as many other aspects of her life; true it was, that they had admitted their intentions and interest in each other, and He had spoken, in truth, of his love for this ofttimes complicated – not complicated, but compartmentalized life, holding each aspect of her life in a distinct and unrelated fashion, one from the other – this, no doubt, stemmed from her present domestic relationship, and since her heart had been cloistered in so many ways, had moved into her everyday life, and the appearance of disinterest (but this was only confusion and overabundance of thought) was palpable at times.
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He woke to a terrible noise – a weeping and gnashing of teeth, of pain and conflict and, certainly, a sundering of a spirit, was taking place. He was quickly on his feet, looking and listening for the direction of the agony and, moving quickly through the trees and low-lying bushes, found his way closer to the origins of the sound, and it was Her.
Her mien was dark, and great tears ran from her eyes, swollen and red, a rainbow coloured blanket cast about her, her hair askew, and He was upon Her, arms embracing, and looking into Her eyes, said, “I stand with you, do not fear, let us sit and let me listen to your tale.” She ruefully followed Him, her eyes downcast, and her small hands, weakness having replaced Her natural strength, looked older somehow, and they continued apace to a small clearing, two large stones offering a warm space in the early morning mist, which was moving slowly away, down into the valley behind them. He sat her down gently, and looked into Her deep emerald soul, searching for a rhyme or reason for the deep melancholy, which hovered around her like bees to honey.