DO NOT GO GENTLE INTO THAT GOOD NIGHT
The harshness of winter has not tamed my animal spirit for I am The Black Orchid, immortal and Bitch Extraordinaire. Cherish the memory of a red bird perched on a snowy branch of a tree or the quality of light filtering through icicles, or the brutal cold which makes you eyes tear. Worship all life brings you for you are impermanent.
Comes the rain, comes the thunder, comes the snow or hell and high waters, I shall survive, and so shall you. One does not always solve problems: sometimes one perseveres. Be stout of heart and no graceless, wilting flower, you. “Do not go gentle into that good night” said the poet, Dylan Thomas. “Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”
I can never die and so many lives have flashed across my mind’s eye. Caligula, all drunk and sweating like a hog, drinking the gushing blood of a baby lamb. I so hated that man and was a slave girl, anonymous and forlorn, forced to satisfy his morbid lusts. Sometimes, I imagine I still have his vulgar stench on my flesh. I was not as powerful then as I am now. I loved the boy king of ancient Egypt, Tut Than Kamen, so creative and a lover of beauty. Neferititi rivaled me in beauty yet it was doomed to fade like dew on a rose Carpe Diem, Darlings, Seize the Moment. And I knew the greatest man of all, Jesus Christ. His limpid brown eyes radiated a power and goodness I had never seen before then or now. I gave Him water as he hung on the cross and proffered food which he refused. The blood was sluicing down his face in the hot summer air and I felt a sense of loss so profound I thought my heart would leap out of my chest.
Time flies and that is the only constant in living. I remember the ancient Sphinx, the pyramids, Stone Hinge, all the marvels of the ancient world as if it were yesterday. Carpe Diem, time flies like a gentle, moon drenched maiden tip toeing across a clover laden meadow. It is not the destination, Darlings: it’s the journey. Thousands of sunsets have I basked in like a happy lioness. Yet it is not only the quality of light: It is the secrets lurking in the soft, misty darkness that matter.
I am genetically related to the cat family, as my mother, a tribal shaman, mated with a male lion and begat me, dying in child birth. My early years were spent with the pride of lions and I still have the taste for a fresh kill. Thus I emerged from her womb in rage and beauty, glutinous for life. In my eleventh year, Ibrahim, a wise old man, and a wizard, enticed me away from the pride of lions, and he taught me, Sanskrit, Greek, and Latin and all the ancient languages, and the wisdom of the ages.
I so enjoy the things of this world. The taste of a fresh banana to me is a form of happiness and I love the grapes burst forth in such sweetness on my tongue. I no longer eat meat though I do crave it. But I never eat to the full for I cherish the raw feeling of hunger. I cherish my lustfulness and engage often in sexual congress. I relish my acolytes in the act a of love, their jutting cocks, honeyed kisses and their tears after coming. I take about five a night. It’s not that they are deficient: strong, muscular and able bodied are they all. It’s just that my orgasm is like Krakatoa, too hot for mortals, like a wash of lava and ash. And I growl when I come and this sometimes frightens them. So, I disengage as I climax so as not to injure them with the violence of my sainted loins.
I am here to tell you to worship the gift of life. Sadness is merely an unrhymed cadence: free verse if you will. Drain not your friends with tears and woe for unhappiness is contagious. Keep a stout, heart, Ye Mortals, and relish every moment for the grave awaits, an old man with a sickle, and yellow eyes. Cheat him with your happiness. Life is Lush, my friends.
CAROL ANN author of Poems of Thunder @ Amazon.com &BN.com