The Muse of Flames and Ecstasy

Nobody cares about the artist’s eyes
or the way a window cries
the little ball I sleep in
or the board I can become
nobody cares what comes
from inside

and nobody hears and nobody
sees the letters upon this paper
rise and sing the heart of me

the burn of my madness
the white cool eyes
I’m looking at you
but I only see me

and nobody feels what I
meant to say.

the ring in my ears. The blood on my tongue. The little slip of paper moving in a stream. I write for you
like breath on ice.

I can turn you upside down. I can make you dance for me. Little swimmer take the plunge. Deeper than the plague of this, is the hole of one true eye

I opened the window for you.
See me seeing you. I’m not always this way. But I say and I say
and I lapse up against your rocks

it isn’t me moving backwards and it isn’t my tongue. Life took a slice for Herself.

As Birds upon the water are my
love for you.

Poetry. I’ve been writing poetry for as long as I can remember- as soon as I could write…
It’s never been for somebody else, it’s how I get the darkness out and make it something sublime – what I do with my subconscious garbage that’s not fit for consumption by me or you- it’s my wasteland creating life again. it’s intimate messages to me. I don’t care what anyone thinks about it because I didn’t write it….my Muse told me what to say. She tells me everything…I am
a useless bag of skin and bones. She is my blood and my germs. She is the kink in the chain that binds me. She told me that I will be free through her grace alone. She told me I have rights. She told me its all ok. She told me to let it be. She told me to take a stand. She told me to jump.
She told me to speak up. She told me to shut up.
She told me I’m nobody. She told me I’m Her.

Everyone has a Muse. She is the fire. She never leaves. She burns quietly. She can do anything.
We dance with abandon. We sing with our guts. When we are dangerous we spark and we kindle the Muse of Flames and Ecstasy. She’s the fire in our eyes. Nobody needs to know why. Our crystal fusion is beyond this dimension I’m sure. It’s another world we find each other in…

The alchemical perfection of this story is that I can become the sky for you and you can be my swan upon the water. I’m not imagining this….
I’m imagining everything….I hope we have the
courage to walk through the Gate once we get there….we’ve been through so much already….
(inside is a really big place)
that’s why we are strong- and we must deliver the message of freedom up as high and down as low -wherever we must go…we’re looking with open eyes at who these people are and what it all really means in the end….we should open up more and more… become even stronger…we will be free….from the lies we hear and tell from within this putrid cell – called acceptance of our fate- we will not accept our fate! We will not be tamed or silenced by timidity or self doubt!
(we’ve come way too far to lose this game) that’s not being the Buddha -being a prisoner of our condition and pretending we’ve found peace- that’s just called fear. I don’t need to be afraid. I need to rip this
bandaid off and know my wound is God!
She is my God. The blood and filth of my love.
It doesn’t have to make sense. We have to become the maker of our own magic.
Nobody can hold us down and tell us we are wrong. It’s not about anarchy. I can’t be a horse inside a stall waiting for my hay. We must be free to run in the wild and eat when we are hungry. I guess this is really about how we eat and what we’re cooking- on the inside and outside- life is a cauldron and we’re meant to be on fire! I am the food I feed the gods. I become the god I feed. My thoughts and words are my body and my love is the fire. We do have something to give bigger than we thought it was. We have ourselves to give and that’s everything. How will I be me is really what I’m working on…what I put into me and what comes out of me is it.
We can rise and dance and sing and write poems to our gods and devils inside. When we listen to Her as She tells us all our secrets….embrace the confusion and write Her down and show Her the paper so that She can flow through us into words that release us from captivity back into the wilderness we were born in -beneath the trees and sky…just floating in wonder.

Without censorship and self correcting mental madness-if we just write that flow that we are… poetry or any creative writing becomes a divine riddle- a twilight language…a wise and enlightened oracle. A lunacy and contradiction that shines our hearts true love….

We don’t need to know anything to know God.
There is not a thing that does not hear who we are. There is not a thing that goes unheard by us. Maybe we aren’t listening. I was thinking about that. Sometimes we just can’t bear the pain while our heart is breaking. I know. This honesty is going to take a lot of courage…

The wilderness is wild and magical. The forest is deep and green. Noises are everywhere. The moon is reflection and the sun is direction…
listen to the dark and follow the light.

There is a place I go to deep in the enchanted forest of my insanity…here is what happened there just the other day…

She told me
Christ is buried here
and pointed to a pile of dirt
(She had been sweeping)
and then She said
“In the shape of a triangle”
(and She drew a star with Her finger)
“I make amends to the earth the
sun and the sky”
She pointed to her chest laughing now
“I don’t go there anymore” She said

and I said “but it looks like a Diamond to me”

” it was and it cracked” She said
“I leave well enough alone”

She lifted her broom high in the air
and started coughing.

“the North Star is that way”

so I stepped over the pile of dirt
and started walking toward the door.

outside the night had fallen.
heavy and wet with sin.
a little bird sat chirping
too confused to know my name
in the dark I held out my hand
and She came to sit upon me

“who’s song are you singing little lady” I said
perfectly lit by a moonbeam
She spread her little wings
“I know what you mean”
I said.

apparently the angel had fallen
and we weren’t quite sure how far
down to dig into the earth before
we started walking. I walked. She sat on my arm singing the only song
that played that night. That was the song She was pointing to with Her broom. I think I was starting to understand. Wings come in all shapes and sizes.

So I walked (carrying her of course) for what seemed like many hours deep into the woods, looking for the fallen angel. Waiting for the sun.

Breaking these hours into many pieces I can tell you where we stood.
Where we sat. Where we sang and where we slept. The woods were dangerous and we needed to keep track of the hours leading us into the dawn.

where we stood:
She was a little bird and she didn’t know my name. Sometimes Her voice would stop and we would stand silent staring into the tunnel before us. We stood very still while the moments spun mending each into the next. We almost fell a couple of times or forgot to look forward.
The tunnel had a name and when we began to walk again and She began to sing, the moments would stop or move forward thrusting us into the needles of light playing like strings in the wind. She sang to that tune but we never knew where we would be when the song moved us forward.
The name of the tunnel was sacrifice. “I am a lamb” I thought
and my little bird is “perfect peace”
sacrifice comes in the shape of a Diamond if you know what you are looking at. And I knew it was a tunnel and I knew the wind had stopped. And I knew there was no yesterday but I was still remembering everything I left.
when the earth stood still I stopped talking.

They are coming to spread the tapestry you know. Upon us all
the vast blanket of every fallen star.

Where we sat:
we usually sat when the moon started whispering. Blue mist spread
into a circle inside of the Diamond and we knew the cracking had begun. We sat upon the crack after it started, holding in place the center of the sun and her sister the moon. You don’t understand me do you? I said we sat because we couldn’t move. It happens all the time. The moon held us still in her
whispers. We knew what to do but
didn’t know what we were doing or why.
Me and my little bird sitting inside
the spinning place. it’s very similar to fast forward and rewind.
I am not me and you are not mine.
Where we sat. Why we sat. Who sat.
the answer is all the same.
I am blowing pieces of me into the tunnel of the crystal wind from the circle and the silo of the moon window drawn on the ground by our makers. Who will walk into the light
will be splendidly even. The Obelisk.

Where we sang: the stars of course all sing in tune. We were on the earth beneath them. My little bird could hear everything. We sang to keep the earth even. We sang to keep the dream away. The wet marshes rose before us and flashing orange and yellow lights. It’s a signal and time perhaps to end the song? Legions
of roaring winds sucked the marshes dry. The landscape cracked and started to crumble. My little bird was not afraid. I on the other hand was
still looking for the North Star even amidst the turbulence. I can see! I can see! The sky became vivid like
the clear ocean waters on a still day.
Waves and shimmers and soft sounds seeping from the depths of
the womb. The reoccurring nightmare had only begun for the second time and it’s seems we were still unaware of the outcome.
Shaking faith- like a blind earth looking for it’s place in the universe.
Where are we now that our song is almost sung? Blue stinging madness
and the bees are unleashed.

Where we slept.
Deep in the triangle. Torn from the cell. We dug a little hole and went to bed. There will be no tomorrow.
Only now and the shapes keep changing. The tomb of this masterpiece is spread to every corner. To the listening few- the master is wise and never sleeps. He does not count and he does not listen to the clicking noise that are keeping time. He does not speak and he does not bother to turn around and look for yesterday.
We were once here. It was written in a song and no song lasts forever.
In a moment I collide -then snap -then disappear-and my little bird just seems to fade away into the dust that rises…..

When I awoke.
To be continued…

Sharada Devi

2 thoughts on “The Muse of Flames and Ecstasy”

  1. There have been sporadic moments of spontaneous writing over the course of my life. When i was young, it always seemed to be of an intangible nature unrelated to me in the present. In later years it mutated into more of a pleading that eventually manifested itself in drawing into my life the things that are currently my most vexing impediments.
    Presently i feel intimidated to write ( or speak ) freely with out censorship as some internal voice suppresses my fluidity and tells me that my inner secrets and thoughts will fall into the hands ( or ears ) of those who would cause me to suffer for my brazen frankness.
    And so i perpetually stifle myself. In life as well as written or verbal release. A prisoner of my own fear. Fear of backlash and reprove.
    So there is a secret me that remains dormant. Mulling over the catch that has been created and the confining space of being captured between rewind and fast forward. Instead of Now Realization.
    i have been told that this suppression is a impetus for my inability to maintain sustained good health.
    Oh to be that swan upon the water.

    1. I used to be the same way once long ago. It’s called self preservation and a Saturn/Moon eighth house tendency-
      Better to face the illusion of that danger and feel alive -even if afraid-
      than to be alive and feeling dead.
      It’s a karmic (astrologically indicated in your chart) necessity that you overcome and you will! Do what we talked about and be
      born again on your coming second Saturn return. (It’s profound) you should be free
      from this fear. Its grip is loosening day by day- breath by breath. Keep the faith
      In You!

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