A Breath and a Vision

         Beyond objectification and sexualization lies the sublime beauty, form and purpose of the female body. I admire the man who is cultured enough to appreciate this; I appreciate the man who, upon looking at the female form, sees it not merely for the exoteric but also for the esoteric nature of what it is; the man who gazes upon the female and sees her for her sublimity and purpose, in her state of godhood. I appreciate the man who looks upon a woman and sees a companion, a better half. 
       
Istvan Kerekes photography (click photo to redirect)
 In this world that we live in, the "appreciation of the female form" is maligned in the minds of too many men to mean something which it is not. To "appreciate woman" means pornography, means objectification, means the more women the better. The godhood in man has been lost and along with it, the reign of woman is also now long gone! Empty shells see nothing else but empty shells and appreciate nothing else but the reflection of emptiness projected from their own nature.

         In this world that we live in, the woman sees herself as something which must be satisfactory to man; not something which must be satisfactory to herself and to her own standards. The woman today has no standards; her standards are whatever he wants! The once goddess has become now merely mortal, slave to her mortal counterpart. 
         I see a world wherein goodhood reflects upon godhood and sublimity radiates upon sublimity. I see a world where man is not rat, is not donkey, is not pig. I see a world where woman is not subdued, is not sex toy, is not a mere thing. This world that I see is one we do not live in, is air we do not breathe, is vision we do not have. How can we breathe to life from a breath that is not there, create reality from vision that does not exist? But, alas, you now have the breath, you now have the vision! Go forth! 

2 comments:

  1. My wife Ann forwarded this to me from her Twitter page, which I appreciate Its wisdom is needed.: Young people are in the midst of a profound change in personal relationships. For young women, feminism is an accomplished fact, and young men must learn to treat them as equals, and with gallantry at once.
    For the male writer- particularly the poet-- the challenge is more complex: how to be sensuous, but not exploitive? To value female beings in one's work, without sacrificing one's masculine identity?
    Ultimately, for the serious poet, the difference fades away, as men and women who live upon the page in the deep of a poem, explore together an intimacy never possible while one gender was socially inferior; they are free to become as organic and whole as art itself.

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  2. What you've written I have breathed, has been my state of existence, since the day I was born and every day since. (Though, from eighteen to twenty-eight, I was probably considered more rogue than anything, but I was on a mission, after my first love broke my heart, to learn and know woman before I ever gave my heart to someone again. But I’d like to think I was a rogue with heart.) It is the reason I wrote: "Man nor nature can compare to the beauty that is woman." And: "Every woman is a beautiful mystery waiting to be solved with a caress to her heart, a whisper into her soul and a gentle, loving touch to her spirit." It is the reason my favorite word, ever, is, inamorata, which means: "A woman with whom one is in love." Which means every woman that is loved by a man is this beautiful word and is beautiful to him. It is, hopefully, reflected in my poetry. This being one:

    Thunder

    When you look through me
    with your cinnamon mocha eyes,
    amidst the taut, tenuous, tingling,
    lingering moments
    of palpable possibilities,
    suspended in the brief, delicious silence
    between our words,
    and hanging there like stars between us,
    each representing a way
    I could think of to ravage
    your body and you know
    that’s what I’m thinking.
    You move and my heart follows.
    You kiss me and I fall off the earth
    into the empyrean of elations
    that are your sunset sighs,
    melting me like snow
    into oceans of moments
    where your waves wrap
    around the shores of my love
    and only thunder can match
    the way my heart beats
    when you are in my arms.


    If this were heaven
    my lips would never
    leave your body and
    even Shakespeare
    would envy the sonnets
    I write around your every curve
    with my fingertips.

    Michael Robertson@Copyright.All Rights Reserved. (Along with the two quotes above.)

    There are those who breathe and see and always have, but to your words, yes, many, the majority of men, unfortunately, haven’t a clue. If Love is my religion, and it is, woman is my God, goddess, priestess of everything that is holy to me. I love, admire, cherish and worship, in the best sense, of holding reverence in actions toward her, woman, all women. If you don’t love and respect all women, woman, how can you love one. You can’t. Though, she is separate, she is a part of all that is feminine and there is magic in her unlike any other creature of heaven or earth.

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