We mine the mind,
– philosophize.
What we find
we think is gold.
We plunge the depth
of intellect,
but neglect the soul.
Negligence
//Collette Kristevski, 3/8/2019
“Men are often called intelligent wrongly. Intelligent men are not those who are erudite in the sayings and books of the wise men of old, but those who have an intelligent soul and can discriminate between good and evil. …These men alone should truly be called intelligent.”
St. Anthony
Only slowly
do we cease to stir up our own hells
and grasp for our own heavens.
//Theosis
//Collette Kristevski, 10/2019
I.
In infancy
we did not attempt to utter unutterable things.
We knew without knowing how we knew,
and we let ourselves dwell there,
in that sort of meaningful magic.
We knew to doubt the doubts.
So we lived fierce and free,
suckling the bosom of that odd Truth.
II.
It was not until
they ripped us from those arms of peace
and sat us under the tree of knowledge
that the magic became monotony,
that we forgot how to rest.
Our unsettled minds
now living in invisible chains,
but knowing not why it is hard to be free.
III.
In fear,
now we only love meekly,
when we mean it violently.
Our minds becoming dull day by day,
straining for knowledge,
but resisting Wisdom;
desiring rebirth,
yet resisting the Spirit.
IV.
We have grown old by sinning.
//We have grown old by sinning
//Collette Kristevski, 2015
*art and words are my own*
I once dwelled there, wittingly –
the forest of myself.
Built a garden
behind a dusty wall of brick.
Threw myself at the mercy of the flowers.
Tended their thoughtful soil.
Watered their pensive roots.
A thinking that begins,
not with reason,
that ends,
not with clarity.
I,
a garden of unintelligibility.
A being alone,
and yet, with.
The brick, I now dust.
The wall, an old friend.
//These flowers may be weeds
//Collette Kristevski, 10/2018
*art and words are my own*
There at the table
set with tolerance
You pour peace into my glass,
but I refuse to drink.
You offer me a place at Your table,
but I refuse to sit.
My pride will keep me blinded
to the places set for the entire world.
Hospitality
//Collette Kristevski, 2017
*all art and words are my own*
Beyond the limits of language,
knowledge and sense,
there is the poem.
A secular priest,
drawing ardor from the prosaic
and palpability from the imperceptible.
And in this scrawled confession,
the poet takes penance
from the poem.
//Penance
//Collette Kristevski, 2/24/2019
Love is never wasted,
never buried.
Have you made peace
with that perennial ache?
When she orbits again,
give her your blessing.
Tell her you consent to her desire
and her sorrow,
but only for a moment.
//Nostalgia, 2/23/2019
//Collette Kristevski
The One who ordained
such a dubious marriage
between the dependable tree
and the wily bird,
also found it profitable
to intertwine
the trustworthy branches of you
with the anxious wings of me.
I, the bird;
you, the tree –
an inseperable we.
//You Are My Home
//Collette Kristevski, Jan 2019
My head is bowed down,
but not in prayer;
it’s heavy with sanctimony.
Speedily I enter thought –
that untamed forest of brooding, –
where I dwell like a recluse;
an anchoress of devotion,
not to a god,
but to the self;
detached,
not from sin,
but from salvation.
//Hypocrite
//Collette Kristevski, Oct 2018
*art and words are my own*
The monsters we once were
still come out to play.
Sometimes we fail
to keep them caged.
These passions still need healing
in all of us.
//Monsters
//Collette Kristevski, 2018
*All words and art are my own*
Ortho-paradox-ia 