"primeval" poems
The Feminine Core
Without it, Earth is no Earth.
I, Fathima—the primeval woman—have no doubt:
the circle of prophets is my witness—
I touched the bottom of her waters.
Zeroed into her zero-neigh,
circled it with my hair,
and laid down her foundation,
hardwired with my circle.
Sep 7, 2017
Sep 7, 2017 at 10:59 PM UTC
A sea of foliage girds our garden round,
But not a sea of dull unvaried green,
Sharp contrasts of all colors here are seen;
The light-green graceful tamarinds abound
Amid the mango clumps of green profound,
And palms arise, like pillars gray, between;
And o'er the quiet pools the seemuls lean,
Red—red, and startling like a trumpet's sound.
But nothing can be lovelier than the ranges
Of bamboos to the eastward, when the moon
Looks through their gaps, and the white lotus changes
Into a cup of silver. One might swoon
Drunken with beauty then, or gaze and gaze
On a primeval Eden, in amaze.
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Alexander of Macedonia this time
won’t U-turn from the might Gangaridai.
At the bubbling edge in the Indian subcontinent,
one would dare, taking his last plunge,
believing it here the proverbial Well of Life!
Yet Al Khwarizmi will discover the algebra,
drawing from ‘nothing,’ purely untouchable:
The Zero from the Indian pole.
Not a digit, not a number on its own, yet it’s all.
Every number jumps up in the zero loophole!
Then the whole number bows down into decimals,
escalating the hunts of the 1.618 golden ratios.
Plough through at your own pace
for the uncharted water, for ab-e-hayath.
Sip in a drop of elixir in this secured zone.
Sylhet is in the core, is written in stone.
What do these mean? I too wonder
down the line, I was intrigued by the Arab
and Indian tectonic plates’ slow dance.
Both rolled out, hugging each other
Then the Makkan soil lying at the heart of earth
gets exposed, with Sylhet’s soil it pairs up!
360 Sufi dynamos, mathematically a perfect circle,
find the match giving a perfect heads up
laid on the nine yard show the whole box of wax,
simply inking the vivo jump on the storylines.
What’s under the tectonic-rug at the bottom of the earth?
Shush softly, whisper—the heavens might hear it out!
Hold on to the least bit, it could be all one wants.
The earth, the ocean, all started with a drop of water!
Let alone any well, which way did this original matter,
the first, primeval drop of water stream down
Has this alleyway been exposed here, or in Paradise?
Then how can we say we don't have a secret for Paradise?
Aug 7, 2018
Aug 7, 2018 at 11:26 AM UTC
An ancient saga tells us how
In the beginning the First Cow
(For nothing living yet had birth
But Elemental Cow on earth)
Began to lick cold stones and mud:
Under her warm tongue flesh and blood
Blossomed, a miracle to believe:
And so was Adam born, and Eve.
Here now is chaos once again,
Primeval mud, cold stones and rain.
Here flesh decays and blood drips red,
And the Cow’s dead, the old Cow’s dead.
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in the secluded shell
of night
crimson lips unseal
cosmic stillness stirred
flower ripples tinted
with touches tender
on quivering skin
in moon’s breast
burns a fire tonight
the primeval fire of passion
in it melt
crystals of our emotions
pristine
a night-sky
bliss-soaked
bejeweled
stars hanging complicit
Aug 23, 2017
Aug 23, 2017 at 11:49 AM UTC
Red,the colour of danger, a warning, to stop.
Red, stalks my memories, my dreams, my now.
Red, the colour of blood, of becoming a woman.
Red, the colour we are born into, the blood of mothers.
Red, vibrant, primary, primeval, purgatorial.
Red, a more frightening colour than black,
Red, the colour of life and death
Red, the colour coursing our veins.
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 9:40 AM UTC
A desolate shore,
The sinister seduction of the Moon,
The menace of the irreclaimable Sea.
Flaunting, ****** and grim,
From cloud to cloud along her beat,
Leering her battered and inveterate leer,
She signals where he prowls in the dark alone,
Her horrible old man,
Mumbling old oaths and warming
His villainous old bones with villainous talk--
The secrets of their grisly housekeeping
Since they went out upon the pad
In the first twilight of self-conscious Time:
Growling, hideous and hoarse,
Tales of unnumbered Ships,
Goodly and strong, Companions of the Advance,
In some vile alley of the night
Waylaid and bludgeoned--
Dead.
Deep cellared in primeval ooze,
Ruined, dishonoured, spoiled,
They lie where the lean water-worm
Crawls free of their secrets, and their broken sides
Bulge with the slime of life. Thus they abide,
Thus fouled and desecrate,
The summons of the Trumpet, and the while
These Twain, their murderers,
Unravined, imperturbable, unsubdued,
Hang at the heels of their children--She aloft
As in the shining streets,
He as in ambush at some accomplice door.
The stalwart Ships,
The beautiful and bold adventurers!
Stationed out yonder in the isle,
The tall Policeman,
Flashing his bull's-eye, as he peers
About him in the ancient vacancy,
Tells them this way is safety--this way home.
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There is a Mouse in this House.
Insatiable,
He keeps me up at night,
thin fine claws on metal stove tops,
whispering to the birds what a fool he's made of me,
because I couldn't make the fibers of my home work with me.
There is a Mouse in this House,
Immortal,
I've fished him drowned out of drains,
fed him bleach on silver trays,
listened to him choke in air vents,
his chestnut jacket perpetually in the corners of my eye,
leaving reminders in my cereal,
this rodent he refuses to die.
There is a Mouse in this House,
Intangible,
he is not slipping through my fingers he's dancing on them,
quick petite feet tapping on my counters,
fleet and fast like smoke,
I've seen him seep through a clenched fist and still escape with wedding bands,
There is a Mouse in this House.
Impish,
he waits 'till I'm alone to play his music,
the crack and chew,
too early with the morning dew,
he will not play his song for you, it'd be too easy to be seen.
There is a Mouse in this House,
primeval,
he's been waiting,
mapped the walls and painted my flaws,
tactician skilled and iron willed,
this beast knows war far more than my militia mind was ready for,
plotting out insurgencies for restless and anxieties,
There is a Mouse in this House,
emaciated,
what's his is his,
what's mine is his,
there is no sacred to things with tails.
clearing out my pantry,
his jaws now tasting for my sanity,
finished with the:
Rye,
White,
and Sourdough,
he's fixed his tongue on sweat breads,
scuttling with unnatural flow,
There is a Mouse in this House.
Charming,
too handsome a creature to ever be singed,
he peddles on the burners simply too strut,
scampering through flames to test his luck,
There is a Mouse in this House,
Insomniac,
from now until each evening hour,
his paws touch turns time sour.
Ivory teeth clanging out a new ink-printed deed,
he owns the tenant and never even had to rent it,
There is a Mouse in this House,
arrogant,
too self-assured and clever,
cunning, devilish a creature he may be,
but he has yet to get a load of me,
holed away within his den,
his first mistake was not letting me win,
setting aria's on fly's wings to declare his victory,
this furry phantasm is all too aware of what he did to me.
There is a Mouse in This House,
sleeper,
I'm plotting my comeback,
sure-footed,
slow breathes,
and savage hands,
I'm ready,
silent and steady;
this beautiful monstrous mouse had best prepare for battle.
There is a Mouse in this House.
But it's my House.
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 3:10 PM UTC
Endless icy expanse, inspires a wordless wisdom,
Himalayan peaks, silent echoes of deep meditation.
**A cold wind incessantly hums primeval "Om"
Inside, a formless flower blooms, nectar overflows!**
Sep 2, 2012
Sep 2, 2012 at 3:06 PM UTC
Space and dread and the dark--
Over a livid stretch of sky
Cloud-monsters crawling, like a funeral train
Of huge, primeval presences
Stooping beneath the weight
Of some enormous, rudimentary grief;
While in the haunting loneliness
The far sea waits and wanders with a sound
As of the trailing skirts of Destiny,
Passing unseen
To some immitigable end
With her grey henchman, Death.
What larve, what spectre is this
Thrilling the wilderness to life
As with the ****** shape of Fear?
What but a desperate sense,
A strong foreboding of those dim
Interminable continents, forlorn
And many-silenced, in a dusk
Inviolable utterly, and dead
As the poor dead it huddles and swarms and styes
In hugger-mugger through eternity?
Life--life--let there be life!
Better a thousand times the roaring hours
When wave and wind,
Like the Arch-Murderer in flight
From the Avenger at his heel,
Storm through the desolate fastnesses
And wild waste places of the world!
Life--give me life until the end,
That at the very top of being,
The battle-spirit shouting in my blood,
Out of the reddest hell of the fight
I may be snatched and flung
Into the everlasting lull,
The immortal, incommunicable dream.
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1371
How fits his Umber Coat
The Tailor of the Nut?
Combined without a seam
Like Raiment of a Dream—
Who spun the Auburn Cloth?
Computed how the girth?
The Chestnut aged grows
In those primeval Clothes—
We know that we are wise—
Accomplished in Surprise—
Yet by this Countryman—
This nature—how undone!
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Take me to kneel
At mountain monuments
Towers to the heavens
Casting their shadows
On the sinners below
Take me to rest
In forests pristine
Reliquaries for souls
Who wander dreaming
Through many bountiful arms
Take me to purify
In oceans tumultuous
Let me cleanse myself
In the deepest wells
Primeval founts of life
©FaerieFoxPoetry
Jun 20, 2021
Jun 20, 2021 at 12:40 AM UTC
in this
pocketful
of limbo
the distance rises
in curls of smoke
a prairie fire
siphoning into
crisp edge
of forest
Inside my
uncloaked ventricle
primeval forces
turn my blood into
dusted gold
as they pump
sacred texts
into my oxygen
They roll your quintessence
upon my fingers,
playing inside
my psyche's
wild ache
a spread of orifice
in spellbound mantra,
as I spit out
the
hairy thorns,
a holy purge of
internal
engravings
Somehow ---
like a miracle,
I grow ripe seedlings
from deep within
my womb
as I trip into
a universe rising
I take wisps
of your grace
as it brushes
the jut of my
astral collarbone
You are always
grounding me
like this,
my tongue
tripping
over velvet
stance of warrior
assuaged into silk
Without you,
I might be
whisked off into
the periphery
of chaos
but instead
I am simply
tied to
the urgency
of the little novas
about to
explode
While I wait
I tend to
the wildfires.
to make sure they
are still burning
I keep my honey
wet and fresh
upon your
lips,
let my pores
drip moonpools
into your glistening
wet of mouth
and only when
it is time
I let the whole of
me burst
into the
fire -wrapped
tips of
stars
Oct 21, 2017
Oct 21, 2017 at 12:56 AM UTC
Mouths meeting rushing to be fed and feed
Tongues mingling and exploring
Hunger and thirst crushing need
Passion’s fire roaring
Bodies and hearts entwined
Soul and mind thriving
On all they find
On a journey bereft of depriving
Passion’s fire consuming
A life unto its own in their head
Exhuming
What lay buried, lost, undiscovered, forgotten or dead
Born anew or resurrected
Nerves, thoughts, and emotions it imbibes and revives
By passion’s fire new life injected
Brings new purpose and experiences to their lives
Passions kindled now burning so hot
It sears, mind, body, heart and soul
Delivers everything they sought
Two lost, now one tempered and made whole
Passion’s fire, burning growing as they explored
***** freaky, and debauchery with revel
With passion's fire they soared
FInding the primeval
In the chasing
In the wooing
In the embracing
In the doing
In the B, in many ways
In the D, defining each other’s roles
In the S, setting new trails ablaze
In the M, reaching dark corners of each other’s souls
~Wes Noneya
Feb 10, 2017
Feb 10, 2017 at 5:52 PM UTC
I want to ask you what you know about yourself?
is it true that God doesn't know how he came about?
he claims he was always here
having no memory prior to his own existence
just like me
perhaps he has no memory at all
a Buddhist or Hindu
will tell you God only lives
in the ever-present now
a self-effulgent light that emanates from a great darkness
from a black mother,
she a vast formless womb
that takes up no space
who we westerners dare never speak of
the patriarchs may tell us
a truth that is a violation of the sacred
is a god a spoke of light deep within her?
archetypes,
**** and **** in love and war
like you and me
a perpetual delicious copulation casting the third eye
during an argument
In the beginning, there was primeval darkness
and she gave birth to light
and he is always everywhere within her
in ecstatic ******
like cherries in flames
their juices boiling oceans
all hot licks and *** soaked *****
a black sulfurous wave and a floating white swan
a howling crime and the remedy
a never-ending paradox
hissing snakes in love
a marriage of heaven and hell
a burdened breath
like a golden city under attack
in tuleries
of blood and glittering fruit
so i ask you what do you know about yourself?
living in this micro dream machine
like god
a creation that creates
by deeds
as trees that weave
and
rot to grieve
Jul 23, 2018
Jul 23, 2018 at 1:39 PM UTC
Where jungles stood
Great cities rise
On desert wasteland
New farmland lies
Where man aspired
To rearrange
He dreamed a dream
And made a change
His mind is such
A shaping force
You wonder why
Man treds a course
Indulging pride
Enslaved to greed
For inexorably
They lead
To mercenary depths
So deep
His God must sit alone
And weep
As man improves
Each varied part
Except for his
Primeval heart
Nov 13, 2010
Nov 13, 2010 at 8:14 AM UTC
Reincarnation
We all die
And that’s a must
Eventually we turn to atomic dust
The atoms have been
And always will be
From before we stepped out of
The primeval sea
They cannot die
Or multiply
They just are
And that’s no lie
So when people say
We have not lived before
Just turn the key
And point to the door
As we are all made
From stuff of the past
And scientists pin their claim
To that mast
So reincarnation
It is a fact
And in this life
We have to act
So sceptics you can argue all night
But of the above there is no fight
The soul and the spirit on the other hand
May be discovered if it is planned
Like the higg’s boson particle
Which is hypothetical
You have the right
To think
Soul is theoretical
Feb 22, 2011
Feb 22, 2011 at 11:32 AM UTC
As you lay next to me I can’t help but think of you.
You lay sleeping, and I close my eyes and envision you taking me.
To the place that only the weight of your body on mine can bring.
Your hands moving across mine, light as feathers
Your breath on my neck, slowly become more rapid.
The look of love in your eyes,
A look you couldn’t hide with all the will power of your being.
I want to spin with you, lose control, devour the moment.
I crave to make you writhe, twitch, grasp the sheets,
To arc your head back and gasp for air.
Have you lose all barriers and be truly free.
As you lay sleeping, I envision reckless motion
Feelings words can not personify.
Anytime I look in the mirror I see the reality of myself
A reality once only could manifest, yet now is actuality.
My own image brings up feelings of imperfection,
A figure that I am not comfortable with,
Self-esteem that I can not seem to find with out you.
You are my world, my sun, my universe.
My every thought orbits around you
My mind races at the thought of you
Despite all the time that has elapsed
I long for you, I beg of you to wake up
To say balderdash to rest, REM, and energy
And expel it all unto me.
I want you to take all that I am; consume me.
Fore when we connect I am completed
As you lay sleeping, you toss and turn
Growing ever closer too me
Were your eyes open I could tell you
Tell you to take me in any way imaginable.
Not out of primeval hormones,
But for a cluster of fireworks in a darkened sky.
A lustrous swaying of beings that few experience in a lifetime,
But with you it is constant, predictable in a joyous sense.
I am broken, though the patches I’ve created hold to me well,
My mind can not help but regress to old patterns and vices.
At times I wonder if the feeling is mutual
If when we intertwine my experience is the same as yours.
Are there fireworks, or just the "great value" ****** any girl could give you.
Your love is undeniable, however, your anatomy has a satisfaction guaranteed
Though still I wonder about the fireworks
When your inside me do you feel flesh or do you feel alive - the most alive you’ve ever felt.
Does your mind forget, just for that moment, that anything else in the world exists
Just for that moment, are their fireworks?
Because my world changes in those heated moments
It is the only time I feel beautiful.
I worry that because I have changed I can not satisfy you.
Your former mates eclipse me,
You’ve been with those who are beautiful by textbook standards.
You’ve been intertwined with those who I feel I do not compare.
I want to make you feel the way you make me feel
I don’t want you to just *** I want you to have an ******
To feel that explosion of love and satisfaction.
I want to know that the fireworks are not duds.
Because, I would do anything to make you feel beautiful.
Mar 3, 2013
Mar 3, 2013 at 5:47 AM UTC
Dylan is dead.
no, not Bob, you Philistine,
Dylan Thomas who implored us
to rage against the night;
so are a passel of poets
and penners, but not I
Emily heard her fly buzz,
well before her eyes shut; she
was a wee bit obsessed
with the reaper
Hemingway's also a goner;
guts enough to shove a shotgun
in his mouth--mostly I wonder if
he tasted blue gunmetal like I did,
and who cleaned his brains
off the wall?
nobody had to clean a red dollop
of mine, for the firing pin was askew
and all I got was a click, and a sense of shame,
and impotence more flaccid than
the one which put the barrel
in my mouth
hell, how hard is it
to **** yourself--I guess harder
than I thought, since I never bought
another rifle
so Dylan is dead
Em and Hem too, but you
are reading these lines without
contemplating your own demise
I suspect
after all, it's early spring
and a time of new things
clawing their way into the light
thinking nothing of the terminal
night -- but it's just a sun dip away:
ask Dylan or Hemingway, or even JFK
but I wouldn't bother the Belle
of Amherst
she would make parting
sweeter than sorrow, and she
never tasted the cold lead, or spoke
with fear or dread of the dumb
and the dead
she never murdered
men in black pajamas
in a forest primeval...
I didn't see their spirits
ascending, in ribbons of light,
only rivers of their red blood
soaking the green ground,
yet today ravenous
for more it seems
why would she rage
against the good night, when
her carriage waited patiently for her,
and immortality, her vessel bound
for a light Dylan and I
will never see
May 4, 2017
May 4, 2017 at 6:42 PM UTC
I knew true love once
In a past life
As something else
I felt another beating heart
Recognized a scent
A voice
In some primeval darkness
A million years ago
And was safe
Now I am here and alone
Something separated us
Something as meaningless
As not coming back
to the tree that night
A hungry, bigger animal
A hunter and a knife
A rushing river and a last drowning scream
And a thought of me
The memory of abandonment
Must have followed me here
To this world of technology
Ringing phones and
blinking messages
I am afraid of being left
Alone in the dark
At the top of some windy tree
Clinging to a branch
With desperate fingers
Waiting ...
Jan 11, 2015
Jan 11, 2015 at 3:19 AM UTC
Through the pregnant universe rumbles life's terrific thunder,
And Earth's bowels quake with terror; strange and terrible storms break,
Lightning-torches flame the heavens, kindling souls of men, thereunder:
Africa! long ages sleeping, O my motherland, awake!
In the East the clouds glow crimson with the new dawn that is breaking,
And its golden glory fills the western skies.
O my brothers and my sisters, wake! arise!
For the new birth rends the old earth and the very dead are waking,
Ghosts are turned flesh, throwing off the grave's disguise,
And the foolish, even children, are made wise;
For the big earth groans in travail for the strong, new world in making--
O my brothers, dreaming for dim centuries,
Wake from sleeping; to the East turn, turn your eyes!
Oh the night is sweet for sleeping, but the shining day's for working;
Sons of the seductive night, for your children's children's sake,
From the deep primeval forests where the crouching leopard's lurking,
Lift your heavy-lidded eyes, Ethiopia! awake!
In the East the clouds glow crimson with the new dawn that is breaking,
And its golden glory fills the western skies.
O my brothers and my sisters, wake! arise!
For the new birth rends the old earth and the very dead are waking,
Ghosts have turned flesh, throwing off the grave's disguise,
And the foolish, even children, are made wise;
For the big earth groans in travail for the strong, new world in making--
O my brothers, dreaming for long centuries,
Wake from sleeping; to the East turn, turn your eyes!
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Time and time again
I have raised a hand
or a fist, or a blade,
to destroy this thing I love
and all the things I've made.
Perhaps it is this skin,
that encompasses me
like an unwanted lover,
that makes me see these flaws
in one thing or another.
It is most likely me,
not you or they,
who created this unholy rage
that has made me hate this art
and set fire, not pen, to the page.
The foolish churls
and putrid youths
who plague and prowl these hallways
who abuse this sacred art and leave it
lost among the daily craze.
While I may applaud your work
and hand out digital hearts,
there are others amongst the crowd
who pervert the most basic concept
in any way that they are allowed.
I swear to the eternal void,
to the primeval seas of blackness,
to all that will ever last
that if this kind of beauty can be ruined,
then we all should die, quick and fast.
Jan 11, 2015
Jan 11, 2015 at 9:25 PM UTC
On the first night
of the full moon,
the primeval sack of ocean
broke,
& I gave birth to you
little woman,
little carrot top,
little turned-up nose,
pushing you out of myself
as my mother
pushed
me out of herself,
as her mother did,
& her mother's mother before her,
all of us born
of woman.
I am the second daughter
of a second daughter
of a second daughter,
but you shall be the first.
You shall see the phrase
"second ***
only in puzzlement,
wondering how anyone,
except a madman,
could call you "second"
when you are so splendidly
first,
conferring even on your mother
firstness, vastness, fullness
as the moon at its fullest
lights up the sky.
Now the moon is full again
& you are four weeks old.
Little lion, lioness,
yowling for my *******
rowling at the moon,
how I love your lustiness,
your red face demanding,
your hungry mouth howling,
your screams, your cries
which all spell life
in large letters
the color of blood.
You are born a woman
for the sheer glory of it,
little redhead, beautiful screamer.
You are no second ***
but the first of the first;
& when the moon's phases
fill out the cycle
of your life,
you will crow
for the joy
of being a woman,
telling the pallid moon
to go drown herself
in the blue ocean,
& glorying, glorying, glorying
in the rosy wonder
of your sunshining wondrous
self.
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