Some days, one wakes to a poem on one's lips, one's heart.
Like today. I woke to the comforting presence of my love in my hands. I wrapped my hands around his full nakedness, blended into him, breathed in his warm presence, softness of his skin, curled and moulded my body into his.
It was a heavenly experience.
He moaned when I tried to let go, and, for some wonderful, peerless moments, we shared that intimacy of mind, body and soul which only lovers can share. I love him. He loves me.
In such moments, the world seems to dissolve and scatter in its concerns.
It is like sacrilege to share it with all and sundry. Of course, there are some that will take it to be untraditional, un-African, uncouth, to share these lovely moments of a couple with the world. Because reticence on things personal is taught to us. And, being open about what we do in bed is something that is just not done. Especially with someone as close as a lover. My lover.
But, I do feel strong enough to share this. I feel like, like Walt Whitman, that a poem is in my heart, brimming, on my lips, at my fingertips, and I want to share the close intimacy of my love with the rest of the world.
My world protests. It is a love that does not dare speak its name. But, I cannot but share something of the emotion that brims from my heart.
"But the day that I rose at dawn from the bed of perfect health, refresh'd, singing, inhaling the ripe breath of autumn,...' (Walt Whitman, 'from Calamus')
The poem is a song, a chorus, an invitation to share with the world what is beautiful in ones own very private world- to sing on together, to share in the happiness, to know the contentment that I as a human being know to be in love.
My world's pressing concerns dissolve and disappear. The objections, the cries, the fierce condemnations. They all seem to be like nothing. My whole world seems to sing to me, to rejoice in my love and my love with me.
"I heard the hissing rustle of the liquid and the sands as directed to me whispering to congratulate me,
For the one I love most lay sleeping by me under the same cover in the cool night,'... (Whitman)
Yeah. It is a small bit of heaven that one feels like sharing, with the rest of the world, even when the world protests and will seek to hurt us.
I feel foolish. I feel.... so out there. But then, love is allowed its own little intimacies of foolishness, isnt it?
Its a beautiful, lovely day.
It rained in the night, and the grass is wet with the dew, and some of the water from the heavens. The birds are singing their chorus. I didnt want the harsh brightness of the bulb to interfere, to intrude on my meditation.
But, I had to write this. And now that I have, the world is a singing chorus of the praise of morning.
Have a very wonderful day.
Be good, and share a smile and laughter with the person closest to you. Remember to tell them those three words. I love you.
They are very precious.
Have a great day.
PS. Proffessor Makau Mutua's Baraza is this morning.