Poetry: 2011
The Mystery skips stones
across the surface
of my stasis.
Each rebound
an invitation
from beyond the nightmare
of the motionlessness
of my self-dissonance.
Each place of rebound
epicenter of disjunction.
I let go of that fancy. That love.
I let go of predilection, proclivity, preference.
I submit to the Mystery’s Design.
Grace moves – Love heals.
©2011 Stephen Victor
How does one speak of the
intimacy and regal
elegance of Being
– present –
in the eloquent flight of these,
Grace privileges me to witness.
Gliding in singular unity
– rapture in repose.
Now,
nuanced aerobatics
of equanimity
and sudden stalls,
then,
urgent high altitude plunges
into gymnasiums
of fishes.
In the presence of this majesty
the biologist’s dissociative quip
“They follow the fish.” forgotten.
Raising charged flutes
they toss back
silhouetted aesthetic head
and swallow their ambrosia.
Something else remembered.
©2011 Stephen Victor
I
Attentions shift at Heathrow’s
Terminal 5 Tel Aviv-bound gate
as palpably potent femininity approaches.
A syncopating shock of blond curls
….and…
oscillating hips
backbeat to the rhythm of pretty legs
under a chorus of pink flared skirt.
(Postulating in Hebrew:)
“Watch my things!?
“What!?”
(Seeing my face.)
“You’re NOT Jewish!”
(She exclaims in classic deniable feminine nuance.)
“Do you know where I can get a calling card?”
I proffer possibilities.
Pointing to four seats
straining with “carry-on.”
She pronounces: “I’ll be back in twenty-minutes.”
I concede with a nod.
Two boarding announcements later,
she returns.
“I lived in LA six months!” She boasts.
“I LOVE LA!!
“My grandmother is now alone.
My heart said:
‘Go to my grandmother:’
So I go!
This is the kind of woman I am.”
II
This woman – as all women –
are
Divine Wisdom incarnate!
This Woman
– poetry in pink –
only now crossing the
diaphanous divide between
child to adult – girl to woman…
Endowed…christened…ordained.
Her nature Her character Her birthright
She has been entrusted.
Her fiduciary charge?
to boldly, confidently embody
her Femininity…
Face, hair, breasts, waist, hips, bum, legs – illumined.
Radiant essence of gender feminine.
No coquettishness. No come-on.
Rather,
she faithfully personifies the Mystery’s vital and
formidable feminine force.
It is this energy’s presence that captivates.
It is this energy that shamelessly causes
males to forget!
The feminine eschews domestication!
Her sovereign nature is her own!
Though, too, the feminine occupies
– in modest degree – boys and men…
Her first home:
the bodies of girls and women.
Yet too, the terror and tyranny of
society’s patriarchal and ideological enmity
has rendered the feminine
an enemy of the State!
All girls and women shrug
and toil
– burdened –
under the weight
of millenniums of social indictment.
Nearly none
are held
in the requisite
and sufficient strength
of a clean
and undemanding masculine attention.
Such deprivation undermines
the coalescing of her confidence
thus rendering
the embodiment
of her charge
improbable.
So too, humanity’s emancipation.
For femininity’s wildly wildly nuanced motion
providentially
and forever changes
positively
all who embrace Her wonders.
Profound? Yes!
Staggeringly wondrous? Yes!
And wildly, wildly alive? Yes!
Untamed! and Untamable? Yes!
III
Yes to her sovereign autonomy!
to her dignity, innocence and beauty!
Yes to her voice, expression, contribution, participation!
to her place in the grander scheme of things.
Yes to her inclusion!
Acknowledging – recognizing and seeing her!
Yes to her belonging!
to loving her!
Yes to her ruthless undomesticated fierce and gentle
potent feminine robust Wild Nature!
Yes to girls and women!
to her safety with and from all others!
Yes to poetry in pink!
©2011 Stephen Victor
I
I love the Afghan physician – here now – driving taxi:
With equanimity informing:
“Took eight years to get my wife here.”
With autonomous character and humility he added:
“Life can be like this.”
What forces coalesced
– reconciled –
– centering, grounding this man!
II
The young Polish woman serving breakfast
who brashly retorted:
“Poland not good, so I am here.”
Tears quickening as I reply:
“Perhaps Poland good,
its politicians acting badly.”
More tearfully: “Yes, Poland good! I miss it!”
What youthful promise
is concealed as consequence
to political conceit?
Will she yet avow her gifts their proper prominence?
III
The forty year old Somali
– a refugee – former businessman –
who crossed the border on foot.
He too providing others transport:
“Artillery fire came too close…
I left everything behind.”
Worrying.
Fearing for his children
here born and safe: How will they fare
without lessons punctuated by the struggles
he has known? Do they not
see the folly in their plenitude and ease?
Return again to Somali?
Yes, he would go – were he to believe
his family would fare well.
Such courage in this fate’s embrace!
IV
The vigilant young Filipino –
seven years illegal here: cleaning houses
for Pounds Sterling. Cash only.
He is fond of saying
“My wife turned up to keep me from straying.”
This man misses his not-yet adolescent daughter
half the world away:
She lives with her grandmother.
V
The Scot living out his adulthood here:
Successful professional – reveling in his love for London’s
mosaic of music and culture.
Morning yoga before raising black fedora, then off via the Underground.
He antes his love daily,
for he honestly loves his wife…and life!
Such freedom arising from his discipline!
VI
I love the scandalously sexy sixty-plus Pole
whose irrepressible beauty and vitality
– in constant nuanced feminine articulation –
hips askew
whether under the red fabric of her flowing skirts
or the very close denim of her jeans.
This business woman unabashedly embodies astute prowess,
grand self confidence
and a plethora of playfulness.
VII
The former cookery teacher,
then baker,
and now long time successful business solicitor!
It is she whose fastidious prowess
renders boon upon boon to her client’s successes.
Whilst too
providing for her Alzheimer’s inflicted mother
in the flat affixed to her home.
What capacity!
What compassionately intelligent generosity.
VIII
The youthfully elder Irish woman
pandering to her affair with Drink
as she inhabits this particular stoop on Islington Green:
all the while seeking a pound or two from passersby:
The odor of Drink close to her breath.
I love how she regales me of those who ignore her
and those who come to her aid.
I love how she serves me bits of her circumstance:
the neighborhood’s high rents
and her long and painful absence from her beloved Ireland.
IX
The well appointed Knightsbridge-bound guy
in the carriage across from me
on this late night Tube ride from Heathrow:
Rolex gleaming
as he reorganizes credit cards and foreign currencies
in his two wallets.
So oblivious is he
to my own
and the others’ attentions!
X
I love the British Airways crew
propelling her way through passport control:
So knackered
– laddered stockings –
urging herself on…
almost home…
©2011 Stephen Victor
I
I love the young Polish woman serving breakfast
who brashly retorted:
“Poland not good, so I am here.”
Tears quickening as I reply:
“Perhaps Poland good,
its politicians acting badly.”
More tearfully: “Yes, Poland good! I miss it!”
What youthful promise
is concealed as consequence
to political conceit?
Will she yet avow her gifts their proper prominence?
II
I love the scandalously sexy sixty-plus Pole
whose irrepressible beauty and vitality
– in constant nuanced feminine articulation –
hips askew
whether under the red fabric of her flowing skirts
or the very close denim of her jeans.
This business woman unabashedly embodies astute prowess,
grand self confidence
and a plethora of playfulness.
III
I love the former cookery teacher,
then baker,
and now long time successful business solicitor!
It is she whose fastidious prowess
renders boon upon boon to her client’s successes.
Whilst too
providing for her Alzheimer’s inflicted mother
in the flat affixed to her home.
What capacity!
What compassionately intelligent generosity.
IV
The youthfully elder Irish woman
pandering to her affair with Drink
as she inhabits this particular stoop on Islington Green:
all the while seeking a pound or two from passersby:
The odor of Drink close to her breath.
I love how she regales me of those who ignore her
and those who come to her aid.
I love how she serves me bits of her circumstance:
the neighborhood’s high rents
and her long and painful absence from her beloved Ireland.
V
I love the British Airways crew
propelling her way through passport control:
So knackered
– laddered stockings –
urging herself on…
almost home…
©2011 Stephen Victor