A Guest Post by Poet & Author Manizha Sepas

I first reached out to Manizha Sepas to invite her to share more of her writing here right after she submitted her captivating poem A DIME IS WHAT I NEED to the Relating to Humans Poetry feature under the nom de plume of tamednomad. Well, my patience – and persistence – has finally been rewarded as she has shared with us two wonderful pieces: a poem and a travel essay, which, itself, is as poetic as any poem could be. Needless to say, I strongly encourage you to visit Manizha’s site to enjoy more of her work.


Manizha Sepas
Poet & Author Manizha Sepas


Idle dreams

The pretty little house upon a hill
In flowers and myriad greens adorn
A symphony of bird songs
While muses dance above
A silent cat stretched out in the shade
Sun rays upon our faces as we laze
Radiating on sunny afternoons.

These are treasured times.
And of more we dream.
Alas! Few will be content
In this age of men of doings.
A sense of purpose of Gods we’ve made,
To be watched over and orders kept.
Of idleness we dream; In idleness condemned,
To slave away the youth.
At the nearness of death time abundant to be found
For nostalgic contemplations:
The rewards of the dogma of the era of the self.
Fear and ambition are our masters
And we the dancing fools –
Malcontent marionettes.
Dreams left in wastelands of our teens
Forgotten tomorrows and lost days,
“What is it you want to be?”
Cuts the knife of purpose.
Broken reveries; harsh realities.
To be! For existing is mere.
Childish. Primitive. Senseless.
It is the age of categorisation,
The hierarchy of ants,
Times past in wretched standardisation.
Thoughtlessly enslaved.
A need to be. To do. To better.
Insanely labelling the sane,
A return to what is true
The naked man is caged
For the good of man
Bodies enshrouded in shame and sin
Gloriously protected.
In gowns we tread along the aisle
Piously fearful facing beneath the ground
Wonderfully meaningless.

Manizha Sepas' website

Helios conquers Hermes

To love not bound but much to give. Like the faithful addict I am besotted. Excitedly impassioned and from withdrawals I suffer; yet no relapse. I am afflicted by this glorious disease. The tempestuous serpentine with smiles and gentle caresses like a breeze passes, communicating a love that is greedily and without prejudice struck. Among Olympians I have come to wander. By the window I sat gazing onto the hills. The nomadic mind for a body tormented by restlessness. A painful existence defined by rage it was; but itchy feet and the vagabond mind is here united. Ataraxis at long last. I sought meaning and found an occupation but I was discontent. It is a failure to be accepted and an acceptance to fail. What are wrongs when solipsistic truths subsist? I turn to look inside and you sit before me, the very embodiment of serenity. I am thirsting. To share in your calm. To feel your soft whispers in my ear and your lips against mine. Sweet intoxicant, I am drunk. A selfish desire you have inspired in me to make mine your every essence but for now, I am a novice. Gems along the road await me and with grateful curiosity I follow.

A brief moment spent in dreams and another reality. Under the cloak of the night we set upon the trail of effervescent chatter. Songs heard and laughter echoed. Drinks pass lips and the herb circulates. The cold is the cherub that draws us together. At the foot of the cross we sit sharing in the joys of your youth. The stage is set and another play ensues. Such are the highs of the opiate seeker. You lead the way to a rocky garden of unquestioned welcome. Upon uneven ground the bodies exchange secrets. Locks of onyx beau, new heights, new desires and the vagrant is once more intoxicated. Stories of troubles told, of loss, suffering and a futile search for happiness where none was to be found. Discourse of fears and pains, and praises made – smiles so readily present and a heart so big. Boundless is this heart and without limit it loves. What is the one when love is abundant and abundantly I love?

Restless days and long nights spent in waiting. The gem is here found distant from my touch. Your desire I have sensed but questionable is mine as I am in character. Perceptions can be deceptive and here, my dears, you have been deceived. The contemplative eye, for Nietzsche, is “like a smooth and irresponsive lake, which is no longer moved by rapture or sympathy;” for far too long I have been lost in the turbulent, perpetually dark world of the phantoms of my mind and at times these eyes betray a challenge to cope with reality. I lust for the chance to share in all the wanders of your dream-like existence here in the Middle Earth of our age. Had Tolkien experienced such a place himself to have imagined this meridian of magnificence? I digress. It is the thoughts that flutter like excited butterflies, offering only glimpses of its promised pleasures. You have been a recurrent attraction like a source of light. An aching lust. To be ventured dangerously close. It is the eyes that I could not look into. A journey’s beginning so abounding in passion but I am of the road. Love is a disease that is bewitching. I am once more consumed. My ailments are concerns of the self; yet despite knowing this I cannot be helped – I must see you again. It is the lips I did not kiss. I fear that the drumming of my heart might be echoed aloud. I am the excited adolescent.

On the move again and true as the addict idéal, the spark is once more set. Perfervid love in which I am immersed. All that happens, happens for a reason. The reason may be doubted but the passions are engulfing and I am the invariant, variedly loving and ardently loved.

I speak of my addiction to love and to lust – to dive into the glory of this most beautiful of human experiences. I love passionately, tenderly and erotically. Always my love is erotic but not necessarily sexual. All my relationships defined by intimacy but not necessarily of the body. I love honesty. I love the flawed and seek not the perfect. I love the best for the best are honest with themselves and thereby deserving of love. To accept one’s own mortality and stupidity is to be the best. To seek not to prove. The best loves as the self dwindles. She is her own subject and her own critic. The best is drunk on life for in sobriety she understands the joke played upon us.

I could not know. My position was one of perpetual torment. Life played its joke and I was the laughing matter. I could only lust passionately to bring to an end the tragicomedy of my pitiable existence. To close the curtains and to have the final laugh. In suicidal contemplations I passed my days not from a selfish desire but from a deep selflessness to free the world of my disease of the soul. It was on the brink of absolute loss that I made a final grasp at happiness only to be found among the children of the sun. Like Tolstoy, I too had a dream in which I saw our sun but I knew it could not be my sun which had begotten my earth full of terrors. Yet, somehow I recognised that it was the same sun, a “dear power of light,” which revived me and from the outstretched arms of death inspired me. Tolstoy dreamt but here I live.




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