Welcome to a poetic and philosophic blog about the struggles of life and relationship.

“The ambiguity of life exists in every creative process. In every creative process of life, a destructive trend is implied; in every integrating process of life, a disintegrating trend; in every process toward the sublime, a profanizing trend.”(Paul Tillich, Ph.D., from The Meaning of Health, 1981)

Life cannot exist without the essential possibility and existential reality of death. Life is impossible without the daily, chaotic struggle against death... against the unremitting threat of entropy and nothingness. As Tillich again informs us, “Life must risk itself daily in order to win itself, but in the risking it may lose itself. A life which does not risk death--even in the highest forms of the life of the spirit--is a life poorly lived." This willingness to risk ourselves for greater life is the key that opens the door to the wellspring of creativity deep inside of us... that wellspring of transformative vitality that propels us through the struggle of death into the richness and renewal of new life.

"Creativity is 'the elixir of life' that heals and transforms life. Through the creative process we enter that 'sacred place,' that zone of evolution where the world lights up to itself as we light up to the world. It is here, in that 'holiest of holy' places that we are reunited with the waters of the wellspring of creativity, The Source of the 'River of Life' from which all creative energy and vitality issue forth to be manifested as new life. Through every creative act, life fulfills itself. Through every creative act, we transcend the mortality of our separate ego-self of I and enter into the realm of immortality to become one with our contextual self as Thou, as a self-realized collaborator in creation. Through creativity, we are delivered from the chaos of illness into the dynamic order of new life."
(P. Donovan & Herb Joiner Bey from The Face of Consciousness, 2006)

Please join me on this courageous venture of life and "enter into the realm of immortality," the realm of dialogue and relationship by poetically sharing with this community, your struggles to live... to "nullify the unremitting recurrences of death" through the continuous recurrence of birth. Through dialogue and relationship, the Face of consciousness is seen, recognized and witnessed. It is your Face, my Face, the Face of all life, the Face of our God. Thank you, Patrick.

Tuesday, November 29, 2011

Segments of Antiquity

Segments of antiquity,
relics of antiquated memories,
like hand-carved figurines
on crumbled alters
of weathered stone,
pose motionless,
by the
paganistic, pantheistic, hedonistic hands
of analytical divinity
and the blood-borne sacrifice
of loves lost
only to be discovered again
in the metamorphic ruins
of tomorrow
by the virgin hands
of an archeological dream.

© p. donovan

Thursday, November 24, 2011

I’ve Known Love

I’ve known love
when it was cold,
when it was warm
and when it was sharp enough
to amputate my limbs
when I needed to be whole.

I’ve known flesh
when it was warm,
when it was cold
and when it was soft enough
to capture me in pain
when I needed to be free.

And I’ve known you
when you were sharp,
when you were soft
and when you were mine enough
to teach my limbs
their pain would never be free.

© p. donovan
Where Is The Open Door?

Where is the open door
I used to know so well
who’s latch was never closed to me
who’s path was always known?

Where are the satin sheets
that tasted of our sweat
on those nights of reckless passion
when our bodies heaved and flowed with love?

Where are the eyes of fire
that begged me to come in
and gazed into my soul
the moment we became as one?

The door is locked.
The sheets are put away.
Your eyes no longer see me now.

Love is such a strange agreement.

© p. donovan

Tuesday, November 22, 2011

The Circle

In western mystical tradition the point contained at the center of the circle is “aleph,” the first letter of the Hebrew alphabet and the I AM of self-awareness… the seed of life and self-aware consciousness that is defined by the circle to eventually expand to fulfill itself within the womb of the circle. The circle is “beth.” Beth is the second letter of the Hebrew alphabet and according to Western mystical tradition, is the letter from which creation began in the original Hebrew biblical text, because it is the first letter of the first word (“B’rashit”) of Biblical Genesis. It represents the container or maternal womb within which creation takes place.

The circle presents the maximal contrast of inside and outside, finite and infinite. It intimates the ultimate paradox: It is simultaneously limiting in its ability to contain and define, yet unlimiting and endless in its dimensions (π = 3.1415926…) and its expansive, recursive nature. Perceived as the uroboros (the ancient symbol of the serpent swallowing its tail), the circle is the symbol of unity and eternity, the union of masculine and feminine opposites as the mythological “World Parents” joined in perpetual embrace. As Michael Schneider states, “… a circle implies the mysterious generation from nothing to everything.” While the circle accommodates all of the fundamental two-dimensional shapes within itself and the sphere accommodates all of the fundamental three-dimensional forms (Platonic solids) within itself, the spiral accommodates the primary creative process from which all the fundamental shapes and forms evolve.

All forms and organizing patterns of life arise from the circle. Within it lies the identity of the Creator. Understanding it allows one to understand one’s self because it is from the circle one was born. As the great mythologist and psychologist Eric Neumann states:

“So long as man shall exist, perfection will continue to appear as the circle, the sphere, and the round; and the Primal Deity who is sufficient unto Itself, and the self who has gone beyond the opposites, will reappear in the image of the round, the mandala.”

© p. donovan

Saturday, November 19, 2011

The War, In Twelve Words

"It is with great remorse
that we inform you
of your loss."

© p. donovan

Copulating With The Scalpel Blade Of Desire

I have copulated with

the scalpel blade

of desire

as it caressed

the warm, hot flesh

of my safety and security


the calcified umbilicus

of my arrogant despair

and the intimate possibilities

that border

this threshold of love.

I spilled upon

the septic sheets

of my sibylline surrender

singly, wholly,



with unending pulsations

of emptiness

until there was nothing left

but the stillborn vestige

of my freedom

and the silent cry

of my


© p. donovan

Your Eyes, My Gaze

I'd stare into your eyes forever;

deep, endless pits

of beauty and despair,

of passion and sorrow,

of life and death,

of gray and green.

I'd get lost forever

as my gaze meets yours,

even when I look away

my gaze will stay lost

in your eyes forever.

Slowly we will move closer.

Mentally our souls will meet.

Using our eyes as a passage,

I will stay lost

in your eyes forever.

© Connor Donovan
So Far From Doe Bay

So far from Doe Bay we’ve come
since that dusky, July evening
when I first stared transfixed
into your fiery green eyes
while your slender, naked, nubile body
slipped seductively into the hot tub of my anticipation
on that secluded Northwest Island.

Within minutes, all else melted away
except those green eyes
and a familiar conversation
begun so long ago;
(absent of word and voice)
interrupted only by the splashing of your son
as he played periodically with your attention.

Even before our introduction,
I knew why
I had come to this place.

So far from Doe Bay we’ve come;
through nights of fiery passion
entangled as one
(the taste of your body, the sent of your heat)
to Sunday night dinners of garlic and wine
and olive oil kisses with basil and thyme.

So far from Doe Bay we’ve gone
since that dusky, July evening
when I first stared transfixed
into your fiery green eyes.

So far from Doe Bay we’ve gone.
We’ve gone so far away.
On two separate ferries.
In two separate cars.
As two separate lives.
Forever entwined in the moment of
one unforgettable hello

© p. donovan

The Man Massacres The Concept Of Time

The man massacres the concept of time
as he sees it slowly
creeping through his lover's veins.

He cries out angrily
at the feeling of hate.
He sings out joyfully
at the knowledge of love.

He reaps and sows
the fact of evolution.
But drowns the myth
of revolution.

© Connor Donovan

A squatter squats inside my house,

I give him shelter, bread, and wine,

I give him everything that is mine.

He spends the night and that's just fine.

I let him stay because he shows

that he is safe, and that I know.

I give him everything I sow

all my sheets and all my clothes.

And then the next morning comes.

He awakes, and then he's gone.

Just as he leaves another comes.

This one's family, a close friend.

No, I know it's not the end,

so I let him come in.

No, the bell doesn't toll for him.

As I greet this friend with hi,

he says "hello" and then he sighs.

What's wrong my friend, I must ask.

He says he's done and gone to die.

I say I am surprised, although I'm not,

it's in his eyes.

He says "farewell" and "I must go."

I say "goodbye, I loved you so."

The last time I see him go.

A stranger comes to my door,

not a squatter, not a whore.

This man, I know him well,

yet he is a stranger still.

I shut the door in his face.

He says, "That won't do, your a disgrace."

I open up the door to see,

the man has become me.

I shut the door and run away.

Things collapse and fadeaway.

I've run into another day.

© Connor Donovan, 9/11
Solstice Supplication

In the dark,
the night,
of late December,
as the sun hid his countenance from human view,
I sat with my father beneath the scented boughs
cracking the shells of walnuts, almonds, and their kin.

His hands,
rough, muscled, and calloused,
held the precious seeds within their firm and gentle grasp
“nothing so strong as gentleness”
and released the life enhancing substance that formed my
young and forming soul.

Oh, Light of light; Oh, Seed of seeds!
Wherein lies my path?
Let Janus show his faces forward,
set me down, let your book be known to me,
let your word be spoken and mine ears be worthy.

Show me his face again.

© Dan Cicora