John Melhuish Strudwick

It was the time
of crocuses and primroses
when she laid her small white hand
lightly on his heart
her prayers for him were like
pale pink blossoms floating
on a river of light
to higher planes
she had found her voice to sing
and with her voice
she was calling his soul
imbuing strength
into his heart, hands, deeds

Around them in the twilight
a cool fragrant breeze arose
and a nightingale began to sing.

Eleanor Fortescue-Brickdale

My hand meets yours
gently in the dark
like a sigh of relief, as if
our secret sorrows didn't matter now
that you have my hand.

With my other hand I hold
onto the blood-red skirt
of Divine Mother
red like
the rose of her cheeks
at dawn on mountain tops
or the fiery golden purple
veil of dusk;
the blood-red of
her evil-destroying fire.

The night shimmers
with the invisible pearly light
of a hope not far away but
just out of reach,
casting a luminous glow
on the pure white spring blossoms
growing in the dark,
and in the moment where
the only truth seems to be
to succumb and to suffer,
that hope is like a dream vision
brightening the dense darkness,
a duty that is a friend.

Golden sunset.
Church bells ringing
in the valley.
The distant song
of the first spring bird.
A cold breeze rises up
from the lake.

My essence, like a piece of
expensive fabric,
billowing in just such a wind
- the inner tempest of thoughts
and emotions.

That fabric has gold
embroidered on the edges.

I stand still in the wind
and sing. 

How Did I Know?

A cold, dark night of January
I sit by your dreaming and
you awake, you sit up and you weep.
I hold you, stunned,
What has he seen?

"I'm not ready"
Your only words.
For what?
I knew it then, but
it couldn't be. It must be something else.

How did I know?

A dark night of August
you told me
the words so small,
narrow, inconspicuous
but within them a vast, destroying reality.
You held me
in your pain,

John Everett Millais

in my stunned speechlessness,
feeling its impact inside me
everything shattering,
imploding
silently,
desperately

How did I know?

Hand in hand we approach
the imposing building
to plead for mercy, for time.

Around us
the velvety spring green
gives the air a golden hue
a fresh healing love surround us
but do I dare allow its comfort
to reach the immovable winter within?

What was the verdict?
What was the answer?

It's the heaviest day
when even the most hidden veils
between us fall away.
I walk with you and you
take my hand and your
understanding touches the thoughts
and questions in my heart
there is no space between us
only an interpenetrating compassion

My heart so heavy
I'd rather not breathe or move
but do anyway
to honour your presence
that is like a field of spring flowers,
a golden healing light in my life.

I'd rather not move but do anyway
to let my strength, even if pretended,
be a gift to you,
like my believing and heeding your words,
to let it be an insufficient offering
for the divine hand that constantly
touches, moves our lives.

More Love Than You Could Imagine

There is a voice
crying on the mountaintop.
It is your voice
seeking for me,
calling my name,
traveling vast distances
hoping only to see me again.

Hearing it

Art by Frank Godwin

is when
I truly began
to believe
in your love for me

but that agonised, urgent voice
is like a primal force
unraveling the foundations of me,
like an unforgiving hand
shaking and destroying.

Death is not an unhoped for,
sad event
happening where you can always
turn your eyes away from;
it is an ever present force and truth
infusing our lives every second,
living in our every inhale and exhale.

Turn to face
mortality,
unflinching
and you will find more love
than you could imagine.

I felt I could not write, so I wrote this.

***

The words won't come,
they are not right
they hide and won't let their grip go
when I try to pull them out.
So the inner space seems empty
with flames burning at the edges
but when I look it's gone again,

Art by William Adolphe Bouguereau

in the time I pick up my pen
the glimpse is gone.

The pain, the sadness, the sacred
prayer and effort
the puffs of red flame and
waves of love
the crushing not knowing what to do
trembling, burning in the inner space
clamouring to be let out
threatening to destroy the whole heart
unless I find the right words.

The golden vapours, the indigo sky,
the stars and the snow
dyed with the blue of night.
The tears that won't come, the words
that won't come
the days that are altogether wrong...

The fir trees have stood in the forest
since the beginning of summer.
They look at me and they know
their silence is the same as this
only more peaceful, filled with grace,
patience, acceptance.

The east wind brought snow
at nightfall.
I awake in the hour

before dawn and the stars
are as serene and radiant
as the trees bowing their heads

Sulamith Wulfing

and the yet untainted cover of snow
over the earth.

At first light
your tears, unshrinking, wash my face.
Suddenly, I remember
and turn my head
and the love is like green buds
on spring branches
that grew when I had forgotten
to look.

The love where there is only trust
I let my eyes rest in yours and you
gently hold my gaze
I come to you
and your understanding covers me like wings,
this love that is like a strength,
protecting us,
holding us together.

When I remember
your heart
mine is filled with peace.

Sunlight falls on black branches
in complete silence.
Crystals on snow revealed by the light
do not move or tremble.
Blue shadows fall on snow
in perfect order, intensifying
the brilliance.
Puffs of smoke rush along, then disappear.
Everything in its place
the trees' joyful standing still
content in patience.
Only my heart moves restlessly
the firm grip of anxiety immovable
its roots buried deep and solid.

I try to hold onto purity,
steady but not crushing, like thin glass
in awe that here is the space to do it,
in awe at the love and mercy,
falling on my knees
to be deserving of this
to remember to shoulder the responsibility
- in the disaster that is our life,
it is them extending a divine hand.
In our despair, in our inability
to hold back the destruction, awful fate
wrought by us, in our blindness, weakness
terrible wrong decisions,
it is them bringing knowledge and guidance
us that have to receive it,
not close our eyes and say, it is too much.
It is us who brought the death,
them who brought the hope.

Let me be solid,

inhabiting this body,

anchoring the delicate strands

of spiritual perception

fluttering in the wind,

forlorn.

My mind always flying away

like it is too light,

too much drawn to worlds of

illusion, regret, abstract regions

while in the body is the memory

of a neglected child,

writhing with pain.

Who are you?

Who has hurt you?

Why are you crying, fretting, 

burning with shame and anguish?

The pain covers

the inner layer of my body

like a veil,

fire burning on the surface of water,

thick ice that you would not imagine

could ever melt,

mist hiding a forest, where you would not

imagine a mountain could be.

There is something beneath.

The only way to reach it

is inhabiting the house,

bringing my being into the burning rooms,

and watch, wait, alert.

In the pain

I will start seeing threads of meaning

and I do not allow it

to push me into the airy,

blind worlds.

Looking with the intention

of understanding

I have the discipline

not to escape
or disappear.

Seeds of the Sun

Ferdinand Knab

Our eyes,
gazing into each other,
are stern, calm, but loving.
The air around us is lit
in an invisible fire
I can hear its roar as I
take your hand
our hands are lit and we
hold those flames on our palms
with infinite concentration.

In this dark night room
slender trees grow around us,
the virgins, silvery birches
covered in the purest snow of chastity.
Suddenly, and yet so slowly,
the light in the dark, in our dark bodies
begins to increase.
I can feel snowdrops growing
in that dark earth,
gently brushing my cheek and hair.

You are a pearl of the Sun
the solar rays shine on your forehead
the sublimated energy of love
transforming the blackness of your being
into gold in your heart.

In this house of transformations,
of inner knowledge,
every word could be sacred
every touch kind
every footstep conscious.

Love is not the intensity,
selfish desire of the animal
- it is the peaceful, pure
prayer that lives between us,
that flutters in the blood red garments
of the warrior goddess,
who gains holy power from each kiss
of adoration.

Here, all that is base and violent
is revealed
contempt, arrogance, greed, desire
adoration only growing from two hearts
willing to surrender to each other,
able to sacrifice the darkness,
never allowing it to pollute
the heavenly house.

Solar Man,
I walk in step with you.
Not looking back or to the right or left.
In our footprints
the snow melts
and bluebells and crocuses start to grow.

Learnt at the Brink of Losing Everything

You are not guaranteed Time.
Not the one you believe
you will have,
not necessarily even the one
you hope you will have.

So love
every second.

There is no time and no space
for negativity
with the one you love.
Not for resentment,
anger, or pride.
Even misunderstandings
or little hurts
must be nipped in the bud,
quickly.

So pray

Sulamith Wulfing

every second.

For what you have been given,
give back everything you have.
Every day.
All the time.
There is no space for sleep
or forgetfulness.
For the one you love,
give your mind and your heart,
your actions and your words.
Let it all be a voluntary gift,
a joyful sacrifice.

Let his good and his benefit
be your priority.

Let all your words be kind and beautiful,
stemming from pure thoughts
and noble intents,
hard efforts at keeping your evil contained.

Let go of self-centredness.
Find your strength
so that your benevolent, graceful,
sincere, compassionate presence
will make his hurts, his failings in faith,
mistakes, regrets, the impact of the selfish world
bearable, undoable.
Let your heart in being with him
call forth his power
to achieve victory.

Day and night
inwardly and outwardly
continuously,
watch,
pray,
love.

1

Delivered to the hands

of the Goddess

my body lit

in the red fire of purification,

lit by her, overseen by her,

the veil of mysterious fever

drawing me away from him,

setting us apart.

To take this, sighing solemnly,

as all the other sacred mysteries 

I do not comprehend,

and lean on Her, in complete trust,

she who lives in this body, in its

bones, its blood, its heart

and say, calmly 

like a wise woman,

I truly am alone

but for you.

Elisabeth Sonrel

2

The vast space of the inevitable -

Death

and forgetfulness, 

drowning in one's own sorrow,

mind's illusions veiling one

in deadly mist

separates me and him, even in Life.

Is it, 'I love you'

or, 'I am deathly attached to you'?

I crave you, you are my world,

I cannot exist without you,

not breathe, think or move

without you?

Or is it,

May you go in peace

May the birds of eternity

fly behind you and before you

May the mercy 

and forgiveness of the Gods

free you and protect you

May the angels pray a fervent

prayer for you day and night, 

continuously

May the Light shine on all your days

May strength move your soul

in all your decisions and aspirations

May there be a divine fragrance

to wake you from your dreams,

to guide your efforts 

in solitude and in company,

to allow your heart to feel Love and Happiness 

- Be it that I am there 

or not.

On Being a Wife

1.

Elisabeth Sonrel

You have found my spirit self,
in dreams she appears to you -
beautiful, mature, keeper of
profound wisdom.

Yet I love that you do not
become trapped by appearances
even in the material world,
that you love me because
you have heard my Venus laugh,
seen the rare joyful spark
in my un-made-up eyes.

You truly make me feel like
a delicate flower,
living fragrance and grace.
So you hear me singing,
whispering, melting into a space
where I know I am loved,
deeply.

2.
The wife's strength is in persuasion
instead of violent tears, cruel words,
in a gentle concern and an earnest
yearning to understand
what exactly is the magic spell
that breaks the hypnotism
of his dark side, penetrates
through the gloom and into
the imprisoned light.
You are not here to change him -
you are here to awaken
his courage, his honour, his faith in life
by your soft, vulnerable trust in him.

Max Nonnenbruch

No one can be closer to him
than his wife
no one else can be allowed
to see his depths, heartbreak, pain.
Wives, listen:
This must not go beyond you.
You are the sacred keeper of his
difficult life, of his tears
that the world can never know even exist.

In some marriages,
the woman, the feminine
has lost her sacredness
in masculine toil, gossip, bitterness,
smoldering resentment, an abyss between
where two hearts should meet.

Wives, listen:
Do not air his dirty laundry.

That is where you
perhaps unintentionally but so tragically
throw into the wind his strength,
compassion, trust, faith, love in you and his life.
In one little moment, you put in motion
a destruction of what
was built with such labour.
Do not destroy the heart of the one you love.
Be a muse, a kind sacred spirit of hope,
a whisperer of better things to come,
an endless space of understanding,
perfuming the once so bleak a path of his
with forgiveness, joy.

Meltdowns

I surrender.
I fall into myself,
diminish, lose my ugly colours,
let all vain thoughts and plans
evaporate.
I inhabit this body,
solid, heavy with grief.
I have not the strength to pray
for all the things I want and think
I should get;
I can only whisper,
'Let it not be.
Tell me what to do.
Please carry this burden.'
What false loves there are
for people, things, doings and goings,
it doesn't matter.
I don't want it.
My only love
is for him.

That a new love and light could
still spark from
the agonising disaster of the
foolishness of years of sleep,
irresponsibility, indifference
is a miracle
or a terrible, crushing irony.
Whatever I try so desperately
to grasp, it doesn't matter.
I can only love him,
hold space for him,
try to be strong, hoping
it will saturate him,
give away all the suffering,
saying, whatever you're going to
take away from me, it doesn't matter.
It was you who gave it to me, it is you
who have the power to take it from me.

The Disappearing Girl

I am invisible.
My breathing is soundless,
my steps silent,
my feet small.
I clutch my things close to me,
trying not to take up space.
I don't speak, or if I do,
my voice is quiet, controlled, melodious.
I feel comfortable finding my way
in the dark, oh no, no need to turn on
the lights for me, I'm good like this thanks.

John Bauer

I don't leave messes or stains behind,
I clean up any evidence of my presence.
Everything in its place, I haven't
moved a thing, haven't been here.
I cannot be surprised, always alert,
I've lost my ability to scream.
No need for food or sleep,
(I'm too restless to sleep anyway)
people like me don't require that.

Don't think about me, just preferably
forget all about me.
That way I am comfortable,
as if I did not exist.

But even an invisible girl like me
cannot forever hide from the fire within.
Suppress it, pretend, run away
but when someone blows on the flames,
there we are, everything burns -
mind, heart and body.

Then you appear,
and there's a bonfire.
Now what do I do?
Whatever you give me,
will be consumed in the fire,
it cannot be satisfied,
and I burn with it,
my whole life of trying to be ice,
gone in an instant,
all the years thinking I was in control,
gone.

Either I give in and everything burns,
you, me, the whole house,
all disappearing in the fire,
or I deny everything.
Either way, I must not touch you, I must stay away.
But there is a third choice -
the Goddess can rescue me.
Only She has the water to quench the fire.
I must stand still, the fire tries to burn me,
but I must not believe it, must not allow it,
I must give space for the water to work,
for my Mother to work.
Be quick my Mother,
there is not much time.

The clouds are white,
the snow, the mist, the snow,
white upon white upon white.
It is mist looking back,
mist we are walking into,
the world seems intangible.
But your face -
strong, calm, almost grim.
My most familiar face,
my most beloved face,
and oh the grief that I feel
at the old age your burden has wrought on it.
This wet, heavy, unforgiving light
reveals all your pain
but oh how I love seeing your face so clearly.

My horrible folly
of contempt, resentment
for your perceived weakness
at my weakest hour.
Yet when I stop wanting, trying,
fall into myself,
am at your mercy,
you are infinite care and gentleness

like I were a rice paper flower,
a bud on a cherry tree,

Willy Pogány

a lost, scared willow bird

I am not worth
of being treated
like a delicate, soft being
knowing the cold pride and arrogance
that taint me.
Yet you do.

You seem solid now, and I can
cling onto your arm
as much as I dare
but what if after that next
bend in the road
I were alone, again?
Like you stepped off the train and I
am carried along with a tremendous,
unstoppable momentum,
hurtling to where the memory of
each other must be lost forever.

Is this the defining moment?
Or is it this? Or that?
Where is the brink and how do we
know we've stepped off it?

The pain of walking from mist to mist
where the answers are only pinpricks of light
like fireflies or almost forgotten hopeful dreams.
Here my strength cannot depend on your brilliance,
my peace cannot lean on your awakening.
Oh Eternal Mother, it is true!
I must let him go!
If I yearn to be the ocean and the tree
that support him,
I must let him
and when we are apart
and when I sing
from my austere loneliness,
it is in him that the strength grows
and me, who learns to love better.

Maxfield Parrish

Just like the new snow hides, smooths out,
beatifies the dead earth,
so do the thoughts, imaginings, days, stories,
silences, denial, more and more moments
where you feel bright and I stop crying,
make us forget our impending fate
(hopefully yet undecided)

Maybe the heart needs breaks
not to be quite crushed under the pressure,
or maybe we subtly, secretly tell ourselves
it is ok, just to escape the agony.

How does one get tired of praying?
Why does one regard one's feelings
as the highest authority?

Let not the seeds in me resist dying
because the trees and flowers of peace and beauty
will then never grow.
Let me ease into and relax into
facing the darkness,
because if I keep it away,
the light can't come close either.

The awe and honour
of my broken, shattered, crumbled presence
saving your life.
If my brokenness has lifted you up,
(in secret ways I will never know)
what may my strength do?

Marianne Stokes

If this harmony, sweetness, unity
has come about by accident, through sleep,
what may our willpower do?

Every breath, moment, intent
has to be for the sake of love
there is no alternative,
we do not speak of it,
because it is death.

The strife that is in the rest
the emptiness that is full
of doors to higher regions,
of imperceptible fragrance,
impregnated with possibilities -
yet we are so small and weak
and that space is just a blink,
a breath, a thought, an atom,
narrow and invisible
but the only way to Love.

We fight together
through the torment
we sink together into deep spaces
of compassion, forgiveness
through seeing each other's sadness, uneven fragments
we flow into that silence
soft, rushing with the melody
of our efforts to surrender,
destroy our evil
and the inner slavery and arrive
to a wilderness between us
that is as pure as the first snow.

The Fire That Does Not Taint

A golden sky of dawn

the creation breathes in

but our struggles go unseen

by all except the Goddess.

The fight for purity,

detachment but love

dying to something primitive

that by all accounts looks like love,

but is poison and bitterness in disguise.

Under the pressure, a light appears

the more overdue, the stronger

is the invisible hand, holy presence like

a silvery, comforting veil

or moonlight making the air around me

luminous in the dark night,

snow crystals glittering like

the new understanding in my heart.

Arthur Rackham,
Sangreal

The mind is powerless facing these mysteries

the mystery of the agony of repentance,

losing hope but not ceasing to look

for a stronger faith

as if the heart will not allow

my grasp of the light to loosen

just like it won't allow the breath,

the blood, the body to cease.

My mysterious Mother

Mother of Angels,

Mother of the Universe,

Mother of Creation

infusing this black, defiled body

bringing to life the ancient fire

in my atoms, the fire that leads

to immortality

in the sacred darkness and prayer

you appear, you guide me

I cannot take my mind or heart away from you

or the dangers will come too close to endure.

How easy to deny everything - evil and love,

but let me find a way of flowing

through the grip of evil

and into the pure spaces

where I may find love

that burns and consumes like the secret eternal fire

that does not taint.