Through the Wooded Door

I walked a path toward a wood,
A forest black in truth and name,
For on its edge, I had long stood,
And something new I yearned to claim.

I left the places light perceives
And journeyed through the wooded door
Beneath the whisper of the leaves,
Through shadows cast across the floor.

A watchful owl sat perched ahead,
With feathers white, and eyes that glow,
She spoke a sound to wake the dead
Who might be napping just below.

Fear demanded, “reverse course!”
But I continued on instead
More quickly, but with no remorse,
For the route that I had tread

Forward, forward, into blackness
Armed with nothing but a light
Onward, onward, with no slackness
Of my steps into the night.

Along a twisting, winding trail,
I walked ’til I lost track of time,
Then through a clearing, on a hill,
I spied a house with steps to climb.

There seemed to be no need to knock,
I pressed my hand upon the door,
Unimpeded by a lock,
And through the wooded door once more.

The creaking boards beneath my feet
Spoke loudly as I looked about,
As did the woman in a seat,
Who at my presence gave a shout.

My heart stopped first, then so did I,
Though my thoughts raced to the door,
She demanded I say why
I stood there thus upon her floor.

She was pale and silver, stooped and old,
Her eyes alight with fear and fury,
I mumbled an apology and told
Her that she had no need to worry.

As I explained my wooded walk
Her eyes relaxed but not her scowl
Then when I paused for her to talk
She asked why I ignored the owl.

I told her that I could not heed
The warnings of the watchful bird
For greater still had been my need
Than calls for caution that I’d heard.

She broke the silence with a cackle
And asked about my great desire
I heard a sound, a burning crackle,
And smelled the burning of a fire.

Scents of smoke soon filled my nose,
With unease, my voice froze swiftly
Then I watched her as she rose
And to my astonishment she kissed me.

The old woman, old no longer,
Transformed before me to her prime,
Her cheeks were flushed, her body stronger,
“I give to you abundant time.”

I looked down next and saw my body
Lifeless on the ancient floor,
And a thought came to me oddly,
As though I’d seen this scene before.

Forward, forward, out of blackness
I ran toward home without a light
Onward, onward, with no slackness
Of my steps out from the night.

I emerged out of the trees,
Sometime later – days or weeks –
And with a gift no man could seize
Though he diligently seeks.

____________________________

Sometimes you write a thing, and it all comes pretty quickly, and you have to puzzle out what you meant in the same way that other people have to puzzle it out. This one was like that for me.

Consuming Fire

Passion is consuming fire,
He reaches inside to remove
All that you don’t need, for the pyre,
So that what’s left just might improve.

As your flames reach to the sky
Most will see and stay away
Lest sparks jump off as they pass by
And scorch them with your light display

But those not burnt are chilled and dead,
So do not embrace jealousy,
Your burning may mean pain and dread,
But a stone cold corpse is worse to be.

____________________________

If you’ve ever been uncomfortably passionate about something, to the point that you have to avoid monologuing about it when you’re around new people, then I think this poem is something to which you might relate. I’m probably writing to an audience of these people considering the nature of blogging. Eventually you are left with the choice to “burn” publicly, or to smother the fire for social reasons. If you’ve chosen the former, you have almost certainly experienced the awkwardness and discomfort that comes with that.

At some point, in at least the last several decades, “passion” kind of became weird and socially unacceptable. To be “cool” was to be above it all and to not care. The world largely embraced nihilism and absurdism, both of which sort of make the case that everything is meaningless. You can die somberly like a bleak character from a Russian novel, or while laughing, like a madman from a Russian novel, but none of it matters. If everything is meaningless, caring about anything is both pointless and weird.

But where does that lead? Definitely not to any great works of art, difficult but necessary moral corrections, or new pro-human discoveries. I think this isn’t an overtly political thing to say, but would a society of passionate people be okay with the fact nobody on Jeffrey Epstein’s client list has been named or investigated, let alone arrested and prosecuted? The lukewarm indifference of the population is how that is allowed to happen. Would a passionate society be okay with our architecture growing steadily more oppressive and ugly? Every period of civilized history prior to the 20th century left behind beautiful art and architecture worth preserving. Our descendants will be tearing down and replacing a lot of what has been built since World War 2. Would a passionate society be okay with not visiting the moon in over 50 years? That’s such an absurdly long span of time, in the face of technological advancement, that it has spurred the widespread belief that we never went to the moon in the first place. Most technological advancement over the last century has been driven by military expediency, not passion or yearning for flourishing.

It’s a good thing to care. Do more of it.

A thousand waves sparkle
With lights not their own
The sea’s golden beauty
Is a trick and a loan.

When the water undresses
And cold darkness remains
The ocean is ugly
And its cruelty reigns.

The hearts of men sparkle
With lights not their own
Man’s goodness and beauty
Is a trick and a loan.

__________________________

When I wrote this, I’d recently been staying at a place with a good view of the ocean and some time to be contemplative. #Blessed Is there something inherently beautiful about the ocean, or is the source of the beauty the sunlight that is reflecting haphazardly from its surface?

To be honest, I’m not entirely certain I believe my own writing here, but the goal was to consider. It’s certainly true that the ocean in the dark, and in its midst, is a much different experience than during daylight and from a beach. Perhaps though it is a disservice to the waves to discount their role in scattering the light that touches them.

The comparison with mankind is a philosophical or a theological one. Does love and beauty originate from within, or is it a thing that is given or learned? Do we reflect the love we receive from our parents, or from the divine, or from the Mangani great ape who raised us after our parents died as a the result of being marooned on the African coast by mutineers?