The Tuft of Flowers
Robert Frost

I went to turn the grass once after one
Who mowed it in the dew before the sun.

The dew was gone that made his blade so keen
Before I came to view the levelled scene.

I looked for him behind an isle of trees;
I listened for his whetstone on the breeze.

But he had gone his way, the grass all mown,
And I must be, as he had been,--alone,

`As all must be,' I said within my heart,
`Whether they work together or apart.'

But as I said it, swift there passed me by
On noiseless wing a 'wildered butterfly,

Seeking with memories grown dim o'er night
Some resting flower of yesterday's delight.

And once I marked his flight go round and round,
As where some flower lay withering on the ground.

And then he flew as far as eye could see,
And then on tremulous wing came back to me.

I thought of questions that have no reply,
And would have turned to toss the grass to dry;

But he turned first, and led my eye to look
At a tall tuft of flowers beside a brook,

A leaping tongue of bloom the scythe had spared
Beside a reedy brook the scythe had bared.

I left my place to know them by their name,
Finding them butterfly weed when I came.

The mower in the dew had loved them thus,
By leaving them to flourish, not for us,

Nor yet to draw one thought of ours to him.
But from sheer morning gladness at the brim.

The butterfly and I had lit upon,
Nevertheless, a message from the dawn,

That made me hear the wakening birds around,
And hear his long scythe whispering to the ground,

And feel a spirit kindred to my own;
So that henceforth I worked no more alone;

But glad with him, I worked as with his aid,
And weary, sought at noon with him the shade;

And dreaming, as it were, held brotherly speech
With one whose thought I had not hoped to reach.

`Men work together,' I told him from the heart,
`Whether they work together or apart.'

yesterday was sensual. i had both the butterfly + yoni piercings done. it was weeee! so sensual and personal. i was albeit surprised. i had earlier armed myself with the company of my recent befriended bujo who is covered with alot of ink and drawings on his body.however, i woke up in the morning. fidgeting like a nonesence. and got in the bus and rode it to some inconspicious location where there is a shop that specialises in body art. i got lost instead. it was hot. i was thirsty and beginning to doubt whether i'd pull it off. i got back into another bus. surveyed the faces around me. a white policewoman. her friend. older. white talking with her. the bus driver. heavy kinda overweight.black.with a bottle of juice right next to her. another woman. hispanic/latina (?) looking with her child. a girl. a teenage girl wearing jean dungarees and looking as cute as a button. and i remembered how i so badly wanted to get this done. so i stopped at this shop. small.quaint looking. and had the nicest conversations with a guy called jason. who light an incense as i listened to aphex twins while floating away and feeling rather orgasmic.

the hood piercing was such a deep archiac need. after reading this several years back. i often struggled on how i saw my yoni + the perceptions of society and mainly the women in my family. both my paternal and maternal grandmothers have had their labia interfered with one way or another. it's shrouded in secrecy.this sadens me greatly. in some twisted jungian way, i'm celebrating the vulvas that have gone before me.

abba abba. father. father

so sunday was fathers day. and i thought of my father. the men i have known. loved others. despised others.missed others. desired others.

coming from a society where holidays such as these are considered a trivality and waste of time. the passing of my father, while on the brink of the flowering of womanhood directly released a fresh breath of light and love. in his passing, i become alive. there was of course, the sadness and grieve, that death only brings. but in it, a nugget of love and truthfulness and embracing complexities.

"The way peacock feathers are made is from peacocks eating thorns. What a beautiful image, that the harsh things we have to digest can contribute to our beauty."
-- Marianne Williamson

is just recently, i have consciously embarked on wanting to know what exactly makes a man tick. what is his morophology besides the glistering phallus (literally and metaphorically). where are the dreams laid. fashioned with. where causes the tears and sadness. the laughter. what shapes are the fears cast on. do they have legs and arms. its illuminating what i have unearthed. i have met men who are worshippers of gaia (sigh). contemplators of the goddess. men who are tired of the imposed masculinity. men who are conscious of the priviledges of patriarchy. men who are sensual. and sexual. honors of the divine. fatherhood is more than the rearing of children. it is the parenting of others and ultimately of oneself.

thank you daddy.

and then there is the sex. this sounds rather odepidal. speaking of my father and sex in one breath. i'm almost thirty and it was until eh.. let me see.three years ago that i experienced the stirrings of 1812 overture in the hands (literally) of a turkish slash indian woman. ever since i can clearly now the correlation of pleasure, sensuality and levels of comfort. there was always the struggle of being woman loving and the mens. what to choose.

and years later, i feel im getting onto another page. its like been there done that. i desire something higher.

the poetic companionship that i sometimes almost obsessively crave for doesn't have to be male or female. rather one who gets it. whatever it may be. i have caught myself in numerous occassions wanting relationships to bear certain forms and colours. and directly, miss the lesson. and miss myself in the process. which sucks don't you think.

i no longer want to choose what sex. or gender. or even the desire for validation from the community.

and in celebration of all things pleasurabe. desirable. sensual. the divinty that comes with the intercourse ( intercursus, from Latin, act of running between. 2 : exchange especially of thoughts or feelings. communion. Latin communion. mutual participation. an act or instance of sharing of body and spirit).

i'll be getting one of those yoni piercings. + a butterfly tatoo.

its all in the cards

i finally bought a tarot deck today and im excited. i smell change and freshness in the air. i'm not sure as to where this path is directing me. although, i feel a certain leaning towards introspection and silence. i have been contemplating on the face and nature of the godess and i've been wondering whatever happened to the rivers of passion. it feels wonderful to feel it stir again.

driving miss nehanda

did i tell you, i'm learning how to drive. it is such a hilarious sight. imagine, i seated at the drivers seat. hands tightly holding the steering wheel with my dear life. upper lip quivering with riverlets of sweat and anxiety. my eyes fixed on the sea of gravel and asphat. i am armed to the teeth with the possibilities of flight yet, i can barely cast my eyes elsewhere.

nowadays, i am deeply comforted by the dewdrop of early morning wonder and his words. as a child of barely nine years, i awoke to the clarion call of justice, liberty and pursuit of happiness. this was a time of deep turmoil in my country. and now, over a decade later, the reassurance to press on, the desire to pursue love irrespective of the wars, poverty, hunger and perils all around the world. yes, i dare to dream that everyone should have three meals a day. shelter and clothing. an education that glorifies the achievement of man-kind. the divinity of love.

the last couple of months have cast a heaviness of the heart. with the war in afghanistan and iraq. it has seemed that every place was tinkering with oblivious despair america has always servered as an epitome of life. liberty. pursuit of happiness. ask any immigrant erking a living in the streets of this country. what dreams cast a web of enchantment as he lay literally sold the belongs to come here. america offers the palate of freedom, yet, at the same strike such sadness.

with the same twist, i've been reflecting on the nature of love in romantic liasons. reading through cassandra's post i thought of how fickle i can get. and oh, so bored sometimes. granted i roll my eyes with the mere idea of long courtships. whats the point of prolonging the inevitable. the realization that one never really knows someone unless both are open to the possibility of this unfolding. but then that would explain my eh..(cough cough ) longevity in relationships.

a recent email entry


About five years ago, after searching, hydrated, worn

out. infuriated. hurt. scathed. burnt. jadded.

silenced on the notion of what love is.

i was seated at the foot of this love child. a man-child

really.not yet a man. not yet hardened by arrows of

masculinity. tender. with the softness of gentle

beating heart. kind. considerate.

as a child would be.

it was a brief seating.

and i agonized when it was no more.

and i made a committment then to engage in passion.

(passion noun: a : ardent affection)

to be dipped into the well.

this caldron of massive and deep colours.

to lay satiated.

satisfied with the knowledge i am love.

to explore divinity in its fashions.

if this was love, i whispered to myself in the dark

laying on a pillow drenched in tears.

i desired it.

i have been tested on this choice i took.

in ways, that are painful. unbelievable. incredible

and beautiful.

i have layed in corners of sadness.

been intimate with violence in despicable and

agonizing ways.

i have tasted the elixir of love.

fashioned by glanzing at the eyes of my twin flame

and seeing god in him.

i have sighed in post coital bliss.

perfumed in ways that only two bodies

two souls can come together.

i have loved a woman.

and i have cried.

i become intimate with the fumes of purgatory.

strength?

we become stronger as we become more committed to love

(strength noun : degree of potency of effect or of

concentration b : intensity of light, color, sound,

or odor c : vigor of expression )

i too celebrate your life.