The Mad Goddess

23 March 2026

https://poems.culturing.net/2026/03/23/the-mad-goddess/

He was not sure anymore that he understood anything.
He wandered night and day asking always one question:
was she a mirage? This one that had shown him the way,
that had lit the path to a deeper knowledge of himself,
this one that for once had seemed plausible as a lover
had drawn a knife to wound him, and there could be no
explaining away the wound as clumsy or careless. She served it
with too much skill. But might the wound have a purpose,
to shatter illusions? Was this wound a gift?
And had he been slow to receive it? It told him
that he must let love be itself, that he must not dictate
the terms of female experience or dare to interpret a world
in which he can only babble. He must put down his pen
before he can open his heart, and the part of him that loves women
will not be silenced, no matter what women turn out to be.
But how could he keep for himself those other parts,
the ones that have nothing to do with women, alive and functioning,
if living in fear of another thrust of the knife? He would keep
one foot grounded in each world, but how to escape the pull
of the gravity of the earth? His anima rose from the soil,
possessing him, but he blamed another, who did play a role
in the summoning. But this was his story. How could he silence
the mad goddess, without destroying her or doing violence
to the power she represents?