A Harvest Calls

When the winter stole my song, all the lovely bits of me blew away
and the night chained the dirt of my soul to the earth,
a forest of dead leaves and berries cloaked my blood.
So I wailed into the mire, a sort of siren sob for ice and snow, but no.
The season remained anchored to an epoch, bored by all my ire
and, instead of relenting, carved notches in my throat,
binding my voice to memories of long ago, whispering secrets stored in lifetimes past.
And so I listened.
And the notches cut deep, freeing waters dank and tired.
They ran in rivulets down my neck and into the valley hardened by hope’s abortions,
flooded all the flotsam jamming up my flow and washed old corpses out to sea.
And I listened more
as the ice and snow melted down into my core, warmed by embers unseen.
Then a new song gripped the heart of every screenplay refusing tRuth,
wringing out the lies, peeling back the armor ancient,
fucking the mindlessness out of every habitual, knee-jerk bullshit
reactionary presentation.
Stripped, disintegrating but the truest hum emanating.
Out past the dirt and mire, through the cracks in my grave…
a harvest calls,
a song is freed,
and these feet remember the dance.

j. ruth kelly, 2017, all rights reserved

Heart – A Lyre

Heat hold held here so
fully filling every jive alive,
reaching,
singing,
humming,
overflowing this precious,
pulsing power-yielding.

Every ounce receptive,
receptive,
receptive…
shine me down the up afire,
flow me through the heart – a lyre,

life so sweet.

Photo by Kate Stetler Holgate, Used by Permission

The Door…

Shared with me from a friend’s beautiful feast of a blog, Trail of Leaves: “If I were to be asked what we are, I should answer: ‘We are the door to everything that can be, we are the expectation that no material response can satisfy, no trick with words can deceive. We seek the heights. Each one of us can ignore this search if he has a mind to, but mankind as a whole aspires to these heights; they are the only definition of his nature, his only justification and significance.’

[…]

The supreme questioning is that to which the answer is the supreme moment of eroticism—that of eroticism’s silence.”

George Bataille – Death and Sensuality

“Love’s Liquid Lava”

“I look forward to the day when the only thing that ignites relationship is two souls calling out to one another, two soul-hearts beating in the same direction, a whisper of longing that bridges one essence to another. I want to want you not because it gratifies my ego, not because you are outwardly beautiful, but because your very presence invites my Godself out of hiding. I want to touch you with my heart on my sleeve, to know chemistry between us that is not gender identified, but that is essence sourced, loves liquid lava flowing from the heart to the genitals to the great beyond. In this love-struck world, relationship will always be experienced as spiritual practice, a devotional expression of our God-self.”

Jeff Brown – Soul Shaping

January 2011

 

All I can say is amen…

So Something Soul

Wish Jesus could’ve come in a flash
of flesh melding flesh for flesh for all we’re here for
and nothing more
but they so scared say
he came through the neatest arrangement of dry
no muss no fuss conception
shedding true believers of their best jiving stuff
and cursing us all to a damning salvation
bathed in a glory dimming
the harlot’s perpetual virginity in love.
Wish Jesus’ immaculation could’ve been
the most blessed jiving ‘jaculation
wresting us all from fear.
But no…it isn’t so something soul…
no sweet rolling liquid fullness
or bang bam zoom us all
into something more truly respectful
of the sacred soulful wonder fusing one with other
and making yet another
and then some, maybe even a nation
of lovers begetting lovers
ending war in a sometimes martial dance
refusing anything but final fusion.
Wish Jesus’ conception hadn’t been bound
to a story divorced from the wildness of the dance,
immaculately fretting us all into any song but the one,
the whimsical fierce guitar strumming us into wholeness,
singing us, us the song of surrender resisting the futility of shame, shame, shame.
Wish it were so something soul and then we’d all be free.

====

But it can be, can’t it? Immaculate conception is ancient. It is now. It is then and there when man or woman is penetrated by the creator spirit and a gestation supreme begins. The shame mentioned in this outpouring comes not from the work of an ancient alchemical process but from the distortion of sexuality by minds afraid of their own bodies, their own strumming potential…

Split The Sky

Split the sky, flesh out
flickering tongue of union.
Earth and sky conspire…

revel reach

 …fullness for the heart.
But first storming shaking awe
tearing out the loss.

Life is striking and splitting the sky of my roiling world here. I’m hoping to still have a home by the end of the year. But am not sure if that hope is simply the knee-jerk survival instinct ignoring the exultation of liberating lightning flashing across the mire of endurance my world has been at times. In short, it feels somewhat, to my chagrin, glorious to feel the winds ripping away the moorings of my refuge.

We’ll see what life unfolds…

Stirring It Up – Pure Lust

“Dionysian surrender to life includes an ego-relaxed receptivity to sexuality, a willingness to let life be shaped by desire and by sexual inclination. Yet when this Dionysian spirit is linked to the compassionate eros of Jesus, it takes an unusual form, becoming an emotional oxymoron – carnal chastity, promiscuous compassion, or, in the perfect phrase of Mary Daly, pure lust.

The Dionysian spirit is usually seen as a sexually expansive force, and so it is not obvious in some portraits of Jesus…Ruether concludes that ‘Jesus appears to be a person unperturbed by sexuality because he relates to both men and women first of all as friends.’ …

The image of Jesus suggests a way of placing limits that derives from joy and pleasure rather than fear and anxiety, limits determined by a positive choice in life. Jesus seems to suggest joyful celibacy and then to tolerate the struggles of others to establish their ways of being sexual and their ways of finding limits. …

The sexuality of Jesus consists in his openness to strangers and friends, the physicality of his healing, the sacramentality in his approach to food, the tolerance he displays in the face of sexual transgression, and his espousal of a philosophy based on love. Only a worldview mired in materialism could fail to see the sexuality in this expansive and inclusive erotic philosophy. The sexual teachings of Jesus, told best through his example, present a soul-centered eroticism in which friendship and a compassionate heart are not only included but placed at the center.

We have a strong tendency to think of sex as emanating from the sex organs or from the purely physical body, but Jesus demonstrates a quite different notion – sexuality rooted in compassion and in the capacity for friendship. It is a more broadly defined but no less sensuous sexuality, in which love and pleasure are joined integrally. There is no need to import affection to what is thought to be a plain physical expression or to justify sex with love. In the sexuality of Jesus physical lifea nd compassion are two sides of a coin. In him we find that the heart is an organ of sex, as surely and effectively as any other private part.” – Thomas Moore, The Soul of Sex

Some could consider this “sacreligious” but it resonates for me, deeply, since I’ve been examining the impact of fear-filled religious dogma on my own concept of myself as a sexual being. Marriage. Divorce. Dating. Sex. Motherhood. Academia. Writing. Art. What breathes life into any of these realities? Love. But going deeper into love, what “type” of love? Can I identify one that feeds all relationships with innocence and grace? What infuses everything? I keep landing on one: Eros. When fear melts away, when shame fizzles out in the light of the sun, when power struggles are stripped of their inferior control-frenzied gropings, eros is given the room to express and infuse itself into every layer of living as that pure lifeforce, erupting in poetic spill or artistic flow, feeding the motions of care-taking in all its forms, impassioning the goals for fitness or achievement of any form. Erotic love is not about fitting into a role as a married person or a saint or a sex symbol or a captured image of acceptable (or taboo oo oo) sexual functions. It is the infusion, the flow, the glow of surrendering to being alive with pleasure no matter your status.

Right now my status is boiling over a cauldron of change and growth and and and. I just might be late for class if I don’t kick it in. But I’m going to do it making love to life every step of the way. Jump and jive…