These days more and more symbolist poets are stepping out and showing their true colors. Some of you may have had a loved one step into the world of symbolist poetry and feel as though you have lost touch. Some of you might have found a symbolist poet you’re interested in on your timeline. I’m here to let you know, there’s a sliver of hope when it comes to connecting with the symbolist poet of your dreams.
When you’re outside of the symbolist community, it can feel overwhelming. You might even feel like you have to compete with other symbolists who seem to know exactly what to say to your symbolist poet. Those damn poets, they are good with both words and emotions, but let me tell you, there is hope. There is a way to connect with your poet. There is more than one way to cultivate a strong connection with your poet and I’m here to share these ways with you.
First things first, since I am a female poet, this will be advice on how to connect with a female poet. I’m not a man, so I’m not sure I could write an honest piece on how to connect with a male symbolist poet.
Let’s get started, shall we?
Know that you are worthy enough for her.
Symbolist poets study humans down to the nitty gritty. They learn to feel everything because if they didn’t, they would not grow as poets. So, the first way to cultivate a strong connection with your poet, is to know that you are valuable and you are enough. Yes, poets like beautiful things, but what they appreciate more is honest things. If you’re trying to connect with your poet while having a false sense of self, she will know. Your best bet is to know you’re worthy with or without her so she doesn’t feel you’re being fraudulent right off the bat.
Be Honest.
Charles Bukowski isn’t popular among writers because he’s an asshole who slept around. Ok that might have something to do with it, but mostly he’s popular among writers because he told the truth. As a writer, he was open and honest about all of his feelings. He wrote about how bad he felt for the shitty things he did. He wrote about how empty he felt at times. As a writer, Bukowski was an open book. He was open even about something as small as the shame he felt after road rage. Don’t confuse a poet’s love for Buk’s honesty, with the idea of craving a rockstar boyfriend. This can be applied to any poet really. So the point is, just be honest about everything. Poets crave to hear you be honest about what you’re feeling.
Learn how to use your honesty.
Ok, so this is where honesty can get tricky. Some people think you should always be honest. Some people think you should not tell your wife when she looks fat. I’m here to say, you’ve got to learn how to use your honesty. Chances are, this symbolist poet already knows the truth. Chances are she values your opinion. So how can you learn to use your honesty? If you feel like you’re telling her the truth just to prove that you will, that’s not honesty. Being honest with your poet takes a lot of being honest with yourself. Self-acceptance is required in order to learn how to be honest with your poet.
Accept Yourself.
If your poet is into you or has already committed to you, it is vital that you learn to accept yourself for who you are. Even if you are courting a poet, when you don’t accept yourself, your lack of acceptance can come out toward her in underhanded remarks. You may not even notice that you’re doing it. Be aware of the parts of you that you’re ashamed of and then love those parts. Do this over and over again, so you don’t unintentionally hurt your poet.
Give snacks as gifts.
Don’t ever underestimate the power of snacks. Learn her snacks. Know her snacks. Gift her with her most loved snacks. Trust me on this one.
Show consistency.
Show up. Keep doing it for her. Do it when she’s sad. Do it when she’s happy and everything is going great for her. Show up when she doesn’t need you at all. Just show up. This will cultivate a sense of trust. Symbolist poets have an interesting understanding of the human condition. They understand the strong desires inbred in our DNA. The chance of you abandoning them are always high in a symbolist poet’s mind because that’s reality. I’m not saying they have abandonment issues but they are always prepared to be abandoned. Prove them wrong.
Listen to her.
They have thoughts running through their minds on vast levels on a regular basis. They are recalling and connecting poetry, poets, images, movies, history, occult knowledge, mysteries of the universe, serial killers, astrology, what time they should post, a lecture they heard ten years ago, last time they showered, ok you get it. So let them get a few things off their chest by listening to them ramble, so they can move on with their lives.
Let her love you.
This one is not easy. It sounds really easy. Who doesn’t want to be loved, right? Symbolist poets love entirely. They have and are always learning to accept all parts of themselves. They are constantly learning and relearning themselves so, the way they love you is going to be some of the most pure love you’ll ever receive. They aren’t perfect by any means. But chances are, they’ve already taken notes on your body language, on your choice of words, on your interests and dreams and can pretty much love you exactly where you are. It’s going to feel real weird. It’s going to feel almost unreal, like when people just give away good quality free shit. With free shit there’s always a catch, but with symbolist poets, this isn’t the case. Self acceptance is required in order to grow as a symbolist poet and self acceptance is the root of unconditional love. They are always working on self acceptance. So, if you’re questioning whether your symbolist poet will always love you, you can stop questioning, because she will always love you. Soak up her love while following the guidelines above, and you’re golden.
Respect her.
Now chances are, you could do all of these things right to a T, but if she’s not interested, and voices that to you, your best option is to respect her and let her be. Letting a symbolist poet go when she asks is one of the most divine acts of love and she will respect you far more for it.
If all else fails,
become a symbolist poet yourself. You know what they say, “If you can’t beat em, join em.”
Thanks for reading, Your humble symbolist poet, Saschia Johnson
Her hair weaved with precious flowers, her skin glowing from bathing in the hidden waters. Her eyes set upon her woodsman. Her heart as pure as a heart could be; she walks toward the town.
Some of the enemies who survived the war were on their way by foot to return to their king. They, with bitter and tired hearts, noticed her emerge from the woods.
In their bitterness they raped and beat the divine woman to death. Her glow dimmed. Her hair cut short with flowers scattered about. The fathers grieved the loss of their daughter. They begged Hades to do something.
Hades, who felt for the girl once again, sent the soldier who found her body.
He was immediately stricken with grief and wailed at the sight of her battered body The birds gathered and mourned the loss of their dear friend.
He buried her in the king’s garden. The birds of the forest moved their nests to be once again in her presence. The flowers she picked and weaved into her hair were dropped as seedlings from the birds wings. And in her honor, Hades turned the waters to flow toward her.
The knight vowed from that day on never to leave such an innocent being’s side again A day of celebration was organized by the knight a memorial to the divine woman of the woods
Because of him, the kingdoms to come would celebrate a day in the garden forever more.
One day, a king’s knight entered the woods. He fell upon the divine beauty who had invested herself in the woodsman.
“What are you doing living in these woods? Where are your clothes?” He asked.
Now, the fathers below heard the knight’s words fall upon her and they begged Hades to blind her from his questioning.
But Hades felt she had been hidden long enough and refused their pleas.
“Naked?” She asked; “If there was something I needed my skilled woodsman would have brought it to me.”
He replied, “Your woodsman hasn’t warned you what could come if you lived out here naked with no protection? Do you know our enemy is coming? They will be charging these woods soon.”
“Enemy? I know no such thing. My woodsman will bring me what I need.” She returned to her birds and flowers and wines and chocolates.
He stayed with her, remaining hidden.
While they were in the woods the enemy fell upon the woodsman’s town. He, his wife, and family were slaughtered. After the massacre of that town the army took stance and defeated them.
The divine woman awaits her woodsman, unaware of his slaughter.
“It has been three days, your woodsman has not returned. What will you do?”
The fathers below cried out to Hades “Please Hades send him away. Don’t arouse her curiosity anymore. Allow her to remain in the woods till she rests in peace.”
Hades with the view of history behind his eyes concedes to their wishes. The knight is summoned by honored servants to return to the dying king’s bedside.
The divine woman, who the woodsman never named in order to keep her secret, knew that her woodsman was safe. In her bliss, she assumed her woodsman was awaiting her to join him. So she began her journey out of the woods.
The fathers below watched on in horror as their daughter, ignorant and naked, wandered toward the massacred town. They begged Hades once again, “Please keep her in the woods, please send the soldier back to her.”
Hades said “It is you who have kept your daughter in darkness. It is you who begged me to rid her protection. Now, you will see the weight of your desires.
The divine woman with no name stepped out of the woods.
~Saschia Johnson~
This is part two of a three part series. Thanks for reading.
The divine woman rose from the dust of her fallen father and grandfathers.
Her naked body warm and beating with life; Her hair so long it brushed the ground she walked on.
She was gifted with bliss from her fathers who begged Hades for her happiness.
She wandered the woods and fell upon a man a woodsman.
He was skilled in his craft; she admired him so much. She wrapped her sunkissed arms around him and expressed her love for him.
He, a married man, could not tell such a divine beauty the word no. So he promised to love her till the end of days; but that she had to remain in the woods and he’d return to her everyday.
She, in her bliss, obliged.
She spent her days singing with the birds gathering flowers and wading in the hidden waters.
Her fathers looked up with content to see their daughter so happy and healthy
It didn’t matter that the woodsman was married so long as their daughter was happy and thriving in her own true nature.
The woodsman was consistent with his visits and brought her great chairs and built her a shelter. He brought chocolates and wines, and loved her more than he loved his own wife and children.
One day, a king’s soldier entered the woods ….
The blankets, slept in. The air thick with smoke from the magical stuff that turns your mind inward, too inward if you let it. I wouldn’t know, I’m more of a bore. The stale sweat rubs me in every wrong way while I tell myself I’m there for some divine reason. A few drops of blood drip from the crown of his head. Flashes of sex. Flashes of nude bones and rolling hills course through me like biblical visions from above. I don’t dare ask. And here he comes with all the magic and an entire universe behind his eyes that a few of us are lucky enough to see. I respect you, is what I wish to say. I like you- like you, is what I wish to say, but instead I talk about Chipotle. I want him and he wants me but I want more. The stink of stale sex and that feeling of whether he’ll be there tomorrow plagues me enough without it. “Not tonight, okay?” And that was ok. And it was ok. Like it should be. But it’s not the sex that connect us. The sadness that sits inside him reaches the depths of hell and the arms he wraps me in feel like the sun and the moon. He is an entire universe I’ll only ever leave in body because my mind wanders towards him in the most sacred ways. So sacred, it doesn’t feel right.
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I wanted to share a poem of mine that was published on Genius in a Bottle a publication on Medium that I really admire.
I’ve been going through a literary theory course through open courseware. (You can find it here) And I’ve learned so much and in such an in depth way. The last few articles I’ve read that were required for the lectures gave me some clarity on how I can incorporate the strong arms in my life and use them to propel my art rather than allow it to stifle me in any way. Please click the link the link to enjoy the full poem and to support our art.
Ecclesiastes
Am I but once Am I left for dead strapped head to a bed chasing after the wind’s howls? strapped to a life unplanned but a life always wanted it’s a yellow wood-left goes right right goes left As above so below so they say I zippered, then tore, now I’m here
