Alchemy Of Anger

Anger is meat
too gamey for the mind.
Anger is for the body.
With the fierce massage
of the faintest breath,
anger bursts into blossom
through your solar plexus,
pulses in your forehead,
bubbles up your marrow,
heating your ancestors' bones,
keeping the bowels of
Winter warm.
Feel it without resistance.
No label, no brand, not
even the word, "anger."
Taste its piquant fire.
Neither right nor wrong,
anger just is.
Delicious.
Let it be a panther
who glides down to the
waterhole in your desert.
Let it be the coral snake
who squeezes
like a feral rainbow
out of old skin.
May your raven anger rise
on tawny wings altered
scarlet and gold by dawn,
never returning to that gray
nest of broken sticks,
brittle stories.
Cluster your tongues
of anger into an amethyst
of pure attention,
then slip it on the ring
finger of your
enemy beloved.
You can shape-shift
darkness into anything,
even the sun.
Anger is frozen joy.
Let it melt, let it remember
its liquid state,
too voluptuous to name,
a raw wild honey-dangerous
river of neutrinos ever
dissolving into the blackness
where galaxies
are born in your heart.
No melts into yes.
Anger thaws.
Into energy more useful
for combat, for poetry,
for seva, for dancing,
for love.


Photo by Shaaz Jung