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January 22, 1998
home A Poetry of Senses, par excellance
Charlie Samuya Veric
Unlike the gods, we fornicate in ways primeval & worldly/ Meantime, we forget about the heaving sea, the floating moon, & the wandering fish as we busy ourselves contemplating the law of gravity/ For everything which goes up must come down, like our libido/

We wonder why our carnal desire no longer mingles with eternity when we celebrate our enslavement in this cataclysm of love/ We have been shattered -- bones, toes, cleavages, navels, & all/

Beloved, what remains of our passion is nothing but a crashing guilt & a broken esteem/ Our souls are burning with ennui/ Is it because we have grown tired of mapping the mounds that bloom on our flesh/ & weary of exploring the orifices that erupt on our bodies? Maybe, it is the humid weather & the El Niņo that make our skin smell like a jarful of rancid bagoong/

Verily, verily, you are gifted with a wonderful sense of remembrance, an elephant memory you call it/ & how you embarrass me when you tell me where exactly on my back your nails have painted wounds the last time we sealed our loins together/ I remember how unmindful we were of the gaze of house lizards on the ceiling/ & how we sweat as we bathed ourselves in the lustful cascade of tangy fluids/

& you must remember/ So that we do not yield to fatigue/

So now you summon everything about the ancient rules of the sacred Tantra -- the Hindu scripture on sexual rituals & meditations/ & you, gingerly, tell me: This, in Tantric sex, is how we do it/

First, we begin with our bodies/ A Tantric law reveals, The one who realizes the truth of the body can then come to know the truth of the universe/

Thus we discern the human body as a universe of passion where only the sublime can dwell/ & we, budding disciples of Tantra, learn that such universe is a source of wonder/ Undressing slowly, we discover our human form in all its glorious nudity/ Naked, I touch the shaft of my lingam, the archaic Tantric term for male genitalia/ You, meanwhile, slither your finger all over your breast, circling; exquisitely fondling the purplish tips that swell on your luscious chest/ Then down your finger snakes to the triangle of desire in between your thighs/

We must stroke our own body with tenderness and respect/ Afterward, we grope for each other's arm to connect our forces/

Facing each other in reverse, we ardently arch ourselves to form like a bridge/ This is called The Crow, an imaginative term for what we know simply as 69/

In performing Tantric union, we can be both animalistic & divine/ I can recall what we saw when we visited an exhibition of sacred Hindu bas-relief with a text inscribed on it/ It said, Man mounting a woman like a bull/ Well, the sacral Tantra allows one of us to mount another like a bull/

& as the rule of Kama Sutra relates, On top of a lover, the other paramour shows love & desire/ Apparently, whoever is on top is irrelevant/ With both reaching the top, however, is another story altogether/

On the contrary, a rebellion of the lower senses is unacceptable/ Instead we must unlearn pure bestiality by reinventing innocence/ A sense of naivety which elementals embody/ & so we must surround ourselves with these: a hibiscus that signifies consummation in Tantric configuration; fruits to be supped & nibbled; & lastly, fragrant essenses of jasmine, sunflower, sandalwood, & almond/

Understand that the way of the Tantric lover is the way of self & selflessness/ Because the ecstasy of one is the nirvana of the other/ Reciprocal, that is how things must be: to unite the demands of the flesh by responding to the needs of the spirit/

As one Tantric teacher reminds us, By concentrating the ecstatic forces within, a wonderful vision dawns in the mind's eye -- this is the special secret which shortens the journey to liberation/

Indeed, our sexuality is our ultimate gateway to ecstasy/ & in the end, it is in ecstasy -- not in orgasm -- where we shall find our fulfillment -- & liberation/

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