Naked
He wonders
how many grasping, clutching, hungry bodies, seeking solace,
seeking connection to life in the immensity of the warm night
have ever truly been together naked.
How many have spoken these words, which she says now to him?
More than just a fuck tonight, sweet love.
Open yourself, and I will lie open for you.
How easy it would be
to send the most vulnerable part of his soul,
that which feels the most,
into hiding; to send out his avatar,
well trained by him in the motions of tenderness and passion,
but with the core of aching light held back.
Men do it all the time.
He supposes that many women
believe that core does not even exist in men.
Her fingers deftly undo buttons, and her mouth opens,
gesture of anticipation,
tongue appearing for the briefest moment between her lips.
How many men have spoken these words, as he speaks them now?
When I touch you tonight,
that touch will be everything that I am.
The motions of pleasure, crafted by men and women
since water first sought the earth,
change only a little;
he wonders how often they become a pantomime,
feasting, without fullness achieved?
His tongue will enter her sex, soft circles inscribed
upon a flower seeking to unfold at the touch of true light offered.
He will harden it to let its tip pass into her, and he will listen
for her small cries that speak of an equal door
cracking open in her soul.
In the moment when she looks into his eyes
a tremor of fear appears within him, and passes.
He does not wonder any more
what it is like to stand in a sacred place.
He is naked.
8 comments:
Another beautiful poem, R Paul, and a deep question you ask. One I'm almost afraid to try and answer. I don't think it's just men who hold back, but women too.
When I first read the title of your post on facebook it struck me that being naked is so much more than just the removal of clothes. We can be naked with them on as well.
Our souls are the very essence of who we are, and until that is bared and we open up to each other, we never fully know our partners or love interests. But only scratch the surface of who they are.
You can live a lifetime with someone and never experience that connection. It comes from complete trust, and few of us ever nurture the relationship long enough to find that special bond.
I've always said, "We never truly know anyone." Almost all of us build barriers that no one else can reach, and that's sad.
It's a subject that I think almost everyone has felt fear in exploring, Lisa. And that's natural. Of course we build barriers within ourselves around our deepest, most vulnerable emotions and thoughts, and the concept of opening those places to a partner or mate is perhaps the most important (and daunting) aspect of sharing possible in the lives of partners. When we get hurt there, we get hurt in ways that may never truly heal.
And yet, relationships where the trust to remove those barriers -- with care, with mutual respect -- can be nurtured, the depth of passion and joy that can be shared goes beyond measure. Can all couples achieve that? Well, I'm optimist enough to believe it's possible, but realist enough to see that it rarely happens. And you are right, that's sad.
But I can't think of a more fulfilling goal to seek for. Our souls need to be caressed, cherished and respected as much or more than our bodies. Or rather, those things should never be considered as separate.
Thanks as always Lisa, for your thoughtful and caring comment.
And yet it's in my nature to try and find answers, Eve...even if they are only thoughts that prompt more questions.
The dream you describe (with poignant eloquence)...where does that come from? There's a part of me that believes, wonder of wonders, that ecstasy/grief/vulnerability/gratefulness/anquish/joy is going on all the time inside, in all of us. That in a way it is as frightening as it is fulfilling, and that we may indeed make a decision, consciously or unconsciously, to hide it. Certainly from friends and lovers, and sometimes even from ourselves. It is a place where joy can be transcendent, and pain can be unbearable.
And yes, a trauma survivor knows the techniques of protecting that Naked place better than anyone. Survival depended on it, in the moments when the world or the people threatening and attacking had all the power.
I've known survivors who have made conscious choices like yours, Eve, and others who have simply wandered lost in an unconscious place, armored and hungering for simple peace.
To invite someone beneath the armor is unspeakably dangerous. It may not be possible to manifest it in the world outside of the spirit and mind. And there is indeed a kind of peace without bitterness, a dignity and strength, in caring for that core of joy and pain in solitary grace.
Yet, there is the dream. Can the sense of being truly known be stitched together from the tatters of times when Naked was synonymous with Ravaged? If it can, even for a single patchwork moment, then we are something more than miracle workers or spinners of fantasy. We are alive.
Thanks for coming here to talk, Eve. No answers are required here. But the presence of caring questions is as wonderful as it is rare.
Hey R.
I love this poem, I love them all. Pondering about nakedness because of this poem has led me to some odd realizations about myself. The least of being naked to me is the physical act but more the fear that someone is too close and could be setting me up is where I get tangled, you know that already.
Many times the more someone understands where I am coming from the more I want to flee into the sunset, whether I am bare assed or not really matters very little.
Being as some of my most intimate friends are those I have never been in physical contact with I know there is so much more than physical nudity involved.
My dear friend Eve knows of these "Godly" encounters and expressed them beautifully above.
star to star you amazing poet.
Kristaline
R. Paul - methinks you're getting a reputation as a searing soul-searcher but, knowing you, I know that's who you are. You touch many people with your poetry and manner. No one asks the questions like you do, R. Paul. Don't ever stop. btw, This is another beautiful poem from your collection.
Hey there Kristaline,
The fear of being set up through the act of taking down your barriers (as a prelude to a betrayal of trust, or an outright manipulation by someone who want to use or hurt you for their own purposes)is, sadly, more than justified in this world, as you and I well know. When it is not safe, there is no one who is more of an advocate of barriers than I am. They can be the walls of your inner fortress when the situation outside of you is malevolent. You build them out of your inherent strength, and they can be barriers of light, to push back the dark.
A subtle and sometimes seemingly impossible puzzle arises later, when you have taken back your life -- used your strength to kick those who hurt and ravage as far out of it as possible. Then, how does one learn to embrace the company of those who are truly benevolent, and worthy of trust? (Because those are the only people worth being Naked with).
I think the answer is different for everyone. You can be hurt even by people deserving of trust. Good-hearted people will screw up, but then will deeply, with heartfelt yearning, work to make amends. They will think before acting, ask before taking, honor the small doors and windows that open in the barriers when they have earned the right to look in.
As you say, sometimes that happens with friends that you have never met physically. How beautiful is that? And how much of a statement that the truest intimacy is of the mind and soul.
You will always be a lightbringer to me, Kristaline. Even the walls that keep out the dark are shining.
Don't worry, Ivy...I won't ever stop soul searching. Couldn't if I wanted to. As Eve said above, sometimes answers aren't possible or even necessary. But to me, seeking for them makes the world change in sometimes completely unexpected, and often marvelous ways. Thanks for the good words about the poem and about the collection "Touch in the Bed of Light". Just about everything in that book, the light and the dark, comes out of a desire to lay bare some facet of the human heart that I desperately want to understand, even if the poem I wrote about it only takes me a fraction of the way there.
You know Eve, I am amazed, and really moved, by the relentless honesty of your visionary mind. There have been days when I've been lying there in the coffin too, not at all sure that the next person to arrive on the scene would offer a hand to lift me out, or nail down the cover.
But if we don't look at those things, if we don't balance life and death within ourselves and come to something like peace, how could we ever put death and betrayal and pain into some form of layered and aware structure for living, that we have made ourselves, that works for us, no matter how it looks to anyone else? Perhaps one with the coffin in there right next to the image of a truly trusted lover reaching out to offer a pain-free embrace.
In my hardest, darkest times, I have reached for Charles Baudelaire's obsessively passionate death poetry as readily as I've reached for Rumi's paeons to life. And I know you've read my work, where I often layer intense visions of dying alongside the dignity and joy of living.
Both will always be necessary for me.
And as for George Bailey, you've got me pegged. From me to you, Eve, accept one of Zuzu's petals as a token of how much your living soul is cherished.
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