EL CULTO QUE AME`

 

I always wondered at a man who had utter contempt of his mortality,

Until I met him that preached by the river.

He was ever in the company of his little goblins,

Kind creatures and slaves to his whim.

When I met him, he looked at me as if I was a burst of air,

Nothing more than a passing wind.

His eyes scraped at my skin,

Made me feel like unrefined Kapok straight from the rainforest.

He welcomed me into his arms,

I ran to him seeking meaning and a cause to be remembered by.

Long did I serve him, for a long time I fell in love with him;

He was everything a girl could want and everything a man could ever be.

I persisted in my obsession and took him like a drug every other time I felt sick.

I have seen on the telly many like me, mad, obsessed, in love and unaware,

I loathed them.

Soon I forgot about them,

Soon I felt no pity for them for they were the enemy.

With their foreign gods and foreign cultures and foreign filth.

The preacher assured me that they were all very necessary

He told me that I should not think of ways of getting rid of them.

Singularity is not natural, complacency is degeneration.

Focus on not being like them, focus on hating them, he urged.

I fought their spirit and out of my spirit became the spirit of hate.

Not to kill the ideal but to kill the poor souls attached to it.

To make them afraid.

To make them suffer and whimper at my sight with dread.

To make them die and wish for death more than the starved wish for food.

One day he had a meeting to attend that he said would change everything.

He left me in charge of the river and the goblins.

‘What is this meeting?’ I asked.

‘A conclave.’

‘Are they making you Pope?’

‘Sweet Child, no…not that kind of conclave, but do stay here. Things will be much different afterwards.’

I took care of the goblins and the lukewarm worshippers of the Preacher as they came in trickles.

Soon, they started coming in floods that I had to stand on a rock to address them.

‘Mend your ways,’ I pleaded with them

‘Can’t you see that you have been misled.’

Some listened and came back week after week. I parried on, spewing hate

At times I was overcome with emotion and,

Out of my little mouth came outbursts of affection for the damned souls not there with us.

At night I would roll back in my cave and wait for the Preacher.

I would pray to him for a miracle,

That he would be there in the morning when I woke up.

He was never there, ever, but I did not feel the slightest loss of faith in him.

I waited,

I grew up.

I wrote books and,

I made love to a few people.

I was getting used to be Lord and Master of my surrounding.

I was stepping into the shoes I once worshipped and kissed,

When one cloudy morning during the rainy season,

When the river banks had burst and,

The Goblins and I were sheltering in a cave together with a few of my followers,

The Preacher, fatter than before came back.

‘It has been too long.’ I cried when I ran to embrace him.

GOBLIN NAMED GOBE:

The Preacher stood there motionless as our Mother embraced him.

He looked around coldly that you could feel the warmth run out of your body.

He sighed loudly and wrapped his arms around Mother.

Mother feeling relieved, held him even tighter and we all sighed loudly.

The Preacher in return squeezed even harder,

But nothing could prepare us for the symphony of bones cracking and the escape of the soul.

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THE MEN OF PARADOX

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Oh thou, mortal man of few words and many skins,
Thou lark upon the heart of the gods.
I conceived the first days of lore and saw the world in duplicity
When the light washed over and the darkness fled.
Love and fear, we called it.

The skins, mortal man, we were given by your gods,
Each of us, a hundred skins.
We still wear them everyday like cloaks of infinity,
Yes, thought hidden by deed.
Love and fear, we call it.

An Easter Ode

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The serpent came out of the abyss
For a little while to keep track of his infirmities on the most unholy of lands. Oh Providence!
That we have to suffer the glare of his hatred,
That we like children abandoned have to cower from his presence.

But the serpent still is.
Save us dear Heaven.
Our time is finite and,
we are afraid of the hydra.
Save us from treachery.
And from this gloomiest of terrors, escape us.

The ecstasy of St. Theresa

bernini2the ecstasy st. Theresa

This is one of my favourite pieces on religious matters. As a practicing Christian and a self-proclaimed renaissance woman, i think Gian Lorenzo Bernini perfectly captured the romanticism of Christianity and combined it well with the hedonism and movement of the Renaissance during the time of Counter Reformation (history and stuff). It evokes the sensuality of true worship and does not ignore the impulses of Theresa of Avila, she’s only human, neither does it stress on it. Let us all look for the hymn Veni Creator Spiritus and experience the rapture she did here.
The sculpture is the central sculptural group in white marble set in an elevated aedicule in the Cornaro Chapel, Santa Maria della Vittoria, Rome.

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