1/23/99

This is a project I was permitted to begin with an anonymous Master, a correspondent whose poetry I have long admired. In response to the beginning cycle, the Master writes his verses in reply. Thanks to my Master, and the nameless, graceful one as well.

The slave:

She opens
sweet and lush
like the Roman pomegranate
and her mythmaking is spun from common things:
Her bleeding sex, and hidden by her hand
Her delicate smile. And thus the angry teeth of time 
Tear the new leaf from its petiole.

She is born, is born to be devoured:
Scatter pollen from the orange blossom
onto water, and the gesture and the grace
is soon forgotten.

To the slave, to her belong
arcane and mute things,
the terror of the everyday,
the bee, the squash blossom, spirals of
intimate secrecy. To the man,
the master, goes the judgmental
silence of a line of trees
standing against dusk. He is a bear, 
an eagle, the ox with its crescent, vernal moon-horns.
An onyx monolith, impenetrable, unknowable.

We slit our own throats with these comparisons.

Her woman's needs both weaken and charm him,
her words, an oracle of his self-denial
words, which in their sincerity, only seem profound:
Maybe she brings the collar
in her mouth.
Maybe she offers
her body as a sacrifice.
Maybe she is nothing.
 

The Master

He stands and watches the horizon,
Surveying His world and planning His conquests.
His fists clenched, His jaw set
Not knowing what might come against Him.
For guidance, He seeks
The strength of the mountains... the height of the oak
And stone-like vows to place the world within His yoke.

He seldom glances down, His eyes engaged by distant vistas
Of the sight and sound of all that He must conquer
To prove His worth; to carve His name upon
The lives of others.

A creature sleeps at His feet. No threat;
It is soft and warm, it yields beneath His touch,
Compliant.

He dares a glance, turning His eyes to
Behold the soft thing which lays before Him,
Awaiting His command. His word. His tiniest attention.

He cocks His head and looks again. So soft!
He does not understand such things; they are not
Part of Him. Softness He must kill... so say His Codes.
And yet...
Surely it would do no harm to let this creature,
She who dwells in love for Him, and those like He,
To rest awhile beneath His gaze, to share her
Warmth with one who might
Protect her from the stings of foes and teeth of beasts.

A beast is He; and teeth He has, as well.
Yet... this creature, this vixen, pliant paragon 
Of her sex, seems not to fear. Or is it that
She fears, yet fears more what she cannot see?
The glittering eyes of other beasts which dwell
beyond the circle of His fire?

She is alien to Him. Her thoughts, her dreams,
The swirling kalideoscope of her emotions
Whine about Him like stinging flies.
He quells them with a word or gesture;
He cannot turn his gaze away from
All that stands against Him, and might yet
Do them harm.

With that half-formed thought
He makes the first transition effortlessly,
Unknowing that He is no longer one, but they are two
. He is content to watch the darkness for danger
And plan His wars. Until she falls beneath His stride
He shall not tread upon her. Until she rises up against Him
He shall not do her harm, nor cast her from His presence.

She sleeps within the circle of His fire,
As all around, the sounds of enemies
Filter through the shadowed night.
He feeds the fire on twigs and branches,
Stoking it. It sizzles and pops,
And animal howls rend the night;
But they are far away,
And He spares a glance at she, His girl,
And marvels at her beauty,
And listens to her breathe.

The slave:

The circle of fire at His hand leaps
and angry sparks mock the stars.
Does the Master remember Persephone
and her passion?
Six bleeding seeds
committed her to womanhood.
Six seeds
swallowed, hidden except for her honesty and
her sorrow.

Now he stands before her,
demanding the final
fibers of her soul, a handful of hair
in his fist. He understands
death well, having waded in it for so long.
It too speaks to her, and measures her life
against the feather of truth.
Silence presses like a hand around her throat.
What does she know?

The meaning of pleasure, its marriage
with bone and flesh:
bringing him her life, arranged carefully as six polished stones
thrown in a gamble. One is for
battle, his wounded body
seeking her gentle touch in the cool shadow-stripes
of barred windows at night.
One for her kiss, torn from her lips.
One is for her animal spirit, its sharpened hunger.
One for love and its bitter opium.
One, of course, for surrender,
of turning her hands up,
empty except for His gaze.
The last, for life and death,
the dove and its shadow,
slave, Master, and the endless pebbles of time.

He is my heart,
and my soul.
He is my life,
and my death.
His will is my will,
his desires I must obey.
From him I have freedom
yet I am in chains.
For him I live
and for him I will die.
His gaze,
his words, his touch,
all guide my step.
My heart beats for him,
my every drawn breath
feeds the hunger in my soul.
At his feet in iron I may be,
but it is the bonds of my heart
that are the strongest.
For him I am female,
I am slave for it is as he commands.
He is my owner,
my Master.
I am only a slave,
but I am his slave
for which my heart is eternally thankful.

eve{Bj} (17th December 1999)

The Living Sea
On yonder breaking shore she rushes to kiss the sand,
no matter if it be white or black or brown,
the lapping waves frothy and bright gleam in the moonlight.

Her moods remind us just how insignificant we really are
and what she will allow,
whether it be bright and calm on the beach
or the raging torrents of a squall,
we are really nothing to her at all.

To stand in such unparralelled splendor,
the azure sea resiliant in its width and depth
teaming with the multitudes of life, hers to give,
hers to take without a moments notice of strife.

To count her swells is as if to count the stars,
to feel her breath,
to feel her move is to know that she the sea is alive,
asking nothing
demanding all,
I respect the mistress
of the cold and dark abyss of death.

Facinerous

Nov 1992