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Poetry by Rachel A. Gold

Moby

Drew Hurley

.

.

Moby, why are we so misunderstood?
What is there within you,
or is it within me,
that makes you so unfathomable?
Thou sweet serpent of love
who so first beguiled Eve
with the joyous delights
of your passionate fruit
that this spontaneous affection
caused the jealous
rage of God
to demand our exile
from Eden’s blessed paradise.
And now the catechisms
of a confusing Holy Writ
drip with guilt
as we struggle
to comprehend
the machinations
of a God who would compel
us to love him,
but not each other.

.

.

Moby, sweet Moby,
thou instrument of love,
why are we so obsessed Do we recall the passions
once shared with Eve?
Are we forever doomed,
deep within or primordial souls,
to perpetually quake with anguish
at God’s jealous wrath?
Yet, how can the love for a woman
belittle the love for God?
Love cannot be a small fixed quantity
incapable of being shared.
Love to the children, and see:
their love grows daily
with their mutual concern
for life that is held so dear.
It cannot be less for you and I.
We cannot run short of care
for those whom we, too, hold dear.
Oh, wretched myth of Eden
release us from the terror
of your guilt ridden fears
and let us truly worship
at the alter of Eve,
with the passionate gentleness
that beauty and love demand.
For only when we have committed
our body and soul
to the purpose
of love’s greatest pleasure,
through the communion
of human spirits
within this profound
expression of intimacy,
will we ever understand
the gift of love.

.

.

Oh, Moby,
would that this harbinger
of guilt would release its hold
upon our souls and minds
and allow us to freely
express our love for Eve.
But, alas, many of our Brothers
have not escaped their bonds.
Their frustration would compel
them to aggressively vent
their anxieties by using you,
dear Moby, as a battering ram,
a bludgeon, a weapon of assault
with which to impale
their womanly opponent
as if the actions of love
were a sport,
an athletic contest,
or each an act of war.
‘Tis such a tragedy
that the art of love
has been debased
by the bestial insanities
of a tormented soul
caught in the emotional crossfire
of Adam’s paradox:
created by God to love woman
and condemned by God for that love.
Oh, torn Brother,
you anguish is understood.
In your melancholy plight
you have resolved your guilt
by hating your love
in the vain hope
that your cruel actions of hatred
would move you closer to God.
And here is the final insult
of this gigantic hoax:
only love can bring us close to God.

.

.

Oh, Moby!
Dear, sweet, Moby,
the fraud has been revealed.
This monstrous trick
upon all mankind is now unveiled.
Adam and Eve were not expelled
from Eden for their love.
Such would be an irresolvable conflict --
as between and immovable object
and an irresistible force.
In the magnificent order of nature
there are no such contradictions.
Nor could the God of mankind
ever be so cruel.
The myth of the expulsion of Eden
has been exposed:
it was a deliberate fabrication
of some minion of the Holy Writ
who so strongly doubted
his own ability to bespeak
the wisdom of God
that he did resort
to this chicanery
to manipulate his power
over men
by pitting us
between the loves
of God
and woman.

.

.

Moby,
dear sweet Moby,
we have been deceived
by those who profit
from our tortured anguish:
the purveyors of the Holy Writ,
who now demand our perpetual
dependence on their merciful
mediations with God on high.
Thus, forever trapped
in this impossible torment
we both love and hate our Eve --
until the ever-mounting guilt
drives us, once more, to the solace
of these divine manipulators
and the penitence of atonement
that they, alone, have offered.
And, once more our frustrated Brother
begins the process of fulfilling
this cycle of never ending futility.

.

.

Moby,
dear sweet Moby,
this tragedy is now complete.
For the reality of man
has been distorted.
We, the children of Adam,
have been deceived.
There was no expulsion
and we, too, live in Eden;
only a Hell has been created
in our tortured minds.
We have the bounty
of an abundant earth
in this planetary temple of Eden,
but the poisons of Hell
have befuddled and distorted our minds
until we no longer recognize the glory
that we constantly see around us.
Yet, salvation can be at hand.
We must go gently into love.

.

.

Moby, sweet Moby,
thou must not be the great white whale
of Melville’s fame
or the albatross song
of guilt or shame.
We shall not accept the petty
machismo of the Great Ape
who beats upon his chest
only when afraid.
The false bravado of the insecure
attracts us not,
nor do we grovel
with the weakness
of a knave or fool.
Indeed, the strength of love
needs no buffoonish puffery
to mis-represent
a self-evident shallowness.
When true love is anchored
on the bedrock of the soul
its strength can stop the sun,
and hold the universe at bay.
Gentleness is therefore
the opposite of weakness.
For gentleness is
strength restrained;
it is the benchmark
of love manifest
in the deeds of men.
Oh, Moby
let us always
resist the cowardly
temptations to strike another
and seek to find always
the strength
to offer a caress.
The offering of love
requires the greatest
strength of all.

.

.

Moby,
dear sweet Moby,
we must muster all the passion
we can summon.
Let us worship at Eve’s temple
with all the joy
that we can bring to her
from deep within her soul;
for she, too, will arouse in us
those heavenly reservoirs of ecstasy
that we have known only in our dreams
as we caress the delicate majesty
of her perfect body
with the passionate fingertips
of our mutual senses.
We shall pay homage
to her arms and legs
and share a lifetime’s pilgrimage
at her sacred breasts.
Her stomach and abdomen
will likewise receive their proper consecration.
As we pause before the oracle of creation
we shall rejoice in the baptism
of her hips and thighs.
Then, she, too,
shall worship us.
When all the litany of love
has played its Psalms
and the angelic Psalter
of ecstasy can no longer be denied
we shall enter into the most Holy
of communions
and through this blessed
gift of mutual love,
love all things,
and love God.

.

.

Moby.
Oh, sweet Moby,
the tragedy of man’s past
looms like a hideous cloud
over each tomorrow’s new dawn.
And it does not have to be thus.
The purpose of man
is not for war or greed.
We have but one simple destiny:
to be love.
And, to be love
we must give love:
“Love one another...
and the kingdom of heaven
shall be opened unto you.”

.

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Tuesday, 04-May-2010 14:47:47 EDT