Prose Poem: Spring

The green spring haze is ready to birth all living things
as soon as the word sounds.
I am the word.

Just yesterday I was laughing with happiness,
flying up on a swing over a spring pond.
I am spring.

I learned to walk on water —
the way to go, neither by foot nor on horseback,
neither by land nor air.

To exceed yourself
and be above your own expectations,
that’s what it takes to be yourself.

Green haze shrouds trees and sprouts leaves,
dissolves in the sky and opens mountains.
Fields flash with colours, birds soar into the sky.

To be happiness in the patchwork of life.
To be bright joy that transcends everything.
To live in a world beyond control
where miracles are possible.


The Night When Spring Comes

I look into the sky,
changeable and immutable, like the Spirit himself.
Eternal castles shine high in the air
over my soul’s frozen pond
where clouds were shivering in summer,
and on Christmas townspeople skated so merrily.
But now its thawing ice is unsafe, deserted.
A sole bird screams on the shore announcing
the night when spring comes.

The boy who became a man
and lost all his secrets
but found true love.
The wanderer who went around the whole world over centuries
and found nothing better than home.
The shaman who moved to the city
and cooks breakfasts in his magic cauldron,
but did not abandon his craft —
to give shape to words.
The warrior who stood the fight and came out with a victory
and a wound he never forgets.
The lesser your strength, the higher your spirit, —
the riddle worth solving.

I wait, and the tears dry,
and the ice melts in the pond,
and stars illuminate
the night when spring comes.


Prose Poem: Blue Writing

All shades of blue stretched over my head, from azure to ultramarine. A silver-blue hoarfrost covered faded meadows. Roadside trees are tinted blue, and the running train’s trembling shadow gleams blue sapphire. My day, what will you be about?

I wish I put my thoughts in order, but they are all about freedom, about the triumph of the sublime over our plans and expectations.

Wet asphalt shines blue at railroad crossings, and frost-powdered fields are framed by distant blue mountains.

All things are good the way they are while I’m chasing my train’s shadow, trying to catch that only mood worth to live with today.

The azure sky shines brighter through gloomy trees, anticipating the celebration of the horizon framed with distant bronze-illuminated mountains and a belltower standing in a sunbeam among morning mist. The sky opens, the truth hides.

Blue is the color of ancient truth, the sign of possessing a faraway, rare, celestial knowledge immutable amidst changes.

My writing is a form of divination by an arcane book the world was created with, the book whose only law revealed says:

«There are no laws, no plans, no rules besides the secret power in your glance. The truth is what you’re writing now: become yourself, face the rising sun, make all things new today.»


Good and evil in the history of the soul

In the archaic, pre-civilization man, the separation of good and evil didn’t yet happen. In such a soul, sin is impossible, there is only a journey to the other world, which can be successful or unfavorable. It is represented as a trip to a foreign country, whose inhabitants do not really favor the newcomers, but if you show ingenuity, you can return рome with fabulous treasures. There are no angels and demons in this other world, only spirits, benevolent or otherwise. This world is negative in regard to the ordinary world—it isn’t evil, but compensating. Therefore, success in the other world is often related to problems in everyday life, and vice versa—that’s why losers in everyday life (like Ivan the Fool) exit the other world enriched.

In the ancient civilized man, good and evil are divided and the victory of Good over Evil already happened. Chthonic gods are expelled from Olympus, however bright Olympians may be supportive or hostile depending on the observance of taboos, because good and evil do not yet dwell in the soul—they are still externalized the same way as in the archaic man. One’s fate also depends on his prowess, skill, trained spirit (the ancient understanding of virtue and its opposite, vice). Evil, although defeated in principle, is an integral part of the universe, is inseparable from good and has its recognized rights.

In the man belonging to the epoch of the triumph of Christianity, good and evil are maximally divided and personified. And although good is endowed with unconditional priority, evil has remarkable strength and constantly tempts humans, even if these temptations can lead to greater good. Good and evil permeate the polarized universe and are constantly present both in the soul and in the outer world.

In the post-Christian, Baroque-to Enlightenment-to-Progress man, who belongs to the era of the triumph of science and reason, the defeated evil gradually turns into an invisible state, is repressed and internalized. On the surface, in the mind, only good in its various manifestations remains. Evil breaks out spontaneously, in accidents, illnesses, disasters, revolutions, and wars, being accidental, unexplained, not recognized.

And finally, the modern version, the man socialized, that is, repressed by society. Here, not only evil, but also good disappears as their understanding becomes relative, and their separation purely mechanical. Evil is repressed as much as possible, while good becomes imperceptible, like everything familiar, and all this against the background of an increasingly explicable and explanatory material reality, which becomes the only legitimate nature of things. The main thing that occupies the mind of the modern man is the reward or punishment expected for performing a certain social role. Such a man is always ready to sacrifice himself, but the reasons are that, first, he is trained to altruistically neglect his needs for the sake of a social role, and second, he does not value himself, because he is lost in the ubiquity of good.


Nice Guy Syndrome: Part 2

Many nice guys imitate someone from their surroundings — either some idols, or an internalized image of the right guy. In their life they take a role of a good-hearted guy, pretty boy, idol, buddha, which is however built on the wishes of their surroundings and has nothing to do with their true selves, with who they really are. So a big gap opens up between the role they play, the life that unfolds around that role, and their true self hidden somewhere in a deep forest they have no access to, even if they sometimes hear its voices and sounds.

Roles belong to life, they have their power and wisdom, but, as probably all teachings of wisdom and psychological schools say, these roles need to be built on a firm, authentic inner structure of a true self which is however more than often collectively suppressed, ignored and shadowed by demand, masquerade, supermarket.

Social roles would have to be rather marginal in the ideal case, but for a nice guy they are dominant. His true self is buried somewhere, it isn’t present or is very limited. For a nice guy, these roles are strongly related to fulfilling the needs of others. The nice guy himself has the only need in performing these roles: to be seen, heard, and accepted as a good one, a right one.

The real fact is that in the end, a nice guy isn’t nice at all, because, while somewhere in the deep he wants to return back home to his true self, true feelings, emotions, thoughts, he doesn’t because it would mean that he would occasionally conflict with the wishes of the surroundings to make everyone adapt, everyone in agreement, everyone coexisting, and everyone safe.

On the other hand, I found out that if you tell this to a nice guy, he starts disagreeing, compulsively criticising, forcibly opposing authority for every price, swinging in doing so from the utter conformity to the utter unconformity. (Seeking the golden middle way requires everyday, every moment’s self-reflection instead of assuming another mask and role.)

So another nice guy’s strategy might be that he finds out right to be critical, violent, negative, bitter, defamatory, intriguing, manipulative (that’s always the case), and he doesn’t realize he’s again serving the demand of his subconscious authority and so he’s back in a role based on demand.

A nice guy naively fulfils whatever his surroundings want in order to please and make it happy, and this drive is completely unconscious. Finally, he ends up with burnout.

To be continued.

This is second part of my translation of a text about the nice guy syndrome written by Zdenek Weber, a Czech mentor, speaker, and entrepreneur.

Nice Guy Syndrome: Part 1


Prose Poem: Writing in Jardin du Luxembourg

A feeling of incredible happiness, peace, joy, serenity, confidence. By the end of the evening the sun peeped out from behind the fog, illuminating by its dim, warm light the palace’s pale yellow limestone, colourful figures of people walking, white paths, pink, purple, yellow flowers bordering lush green lawns.

Something is subtly changing in me, it just happens without any effort. It’s amazing how could I not remember who I am all this time. The light grows brighter and brighter. A white dove lit by the evening sun paints a semicircle along the row of statues; the shadows of the trees, becoming longer, lie down on the green lawn; golden sunbeams are slowly creeping along the palace’s roofs and walls. A moment comes when it seems that the colors cannot become any brighter—crimson scarlet, fiery yellow, sparkling green … and at this very moment they fade out.

The coming evening breathes cool and brings magic. A stone bowl and marble statues nearby start glowing at dusk, as well as the very paper on which I am writing—I see a faint shadow from my pen’s tip on its pinkish-white surface. The light moves inside things, fading on the surface but flaring up in their depths.

Suddenly it flashes again with a bright bouquet of colors. The blackness of a crow’s wing, the pink of some petunias, the blue of a monastic habit, the pale green of a sunset sky that looks like antique glass, the thick blue of the clouds on the horizon…

The evening lasts, and the joy lasts, and the waiting for night is easy and pure like the waiting for a miracle. A miracle is being born from within, it’s just happening, like a forgotten language coming alive in memory. The light turns pink and fades out, my paper becomes brighter again. And when it seems that night is irreversible, the windows of the building opposite me suddenly flare up in the twilight with a dazzling, unbearable brilliance—the sun sends its rays into the garden for the last time, a promise of tomorrow.


Nice Guy Syndrome: Part 1

The nice guy syndrome is a relatively new psychological condition many modern men struggle with. First described by Dr. Robert Glover, it has soon got a worldwide recognition as a very common phenomenon of men’s psychology. In this new series of posts, I will translate a very clear and concise text about the basics of the nice guy syndrome written by Zdenek Weber, a Czech mentor, speaker, and entrepreneur, the founder of Czech Men’s Circle movement. I believe that the ideas and insights contained in this text could be very helpful to many of my readers. As the text is quite long, I will break it down into a few chunks.

Part 1

Working with the nice guy syndrome is mainly about incorporating into your life self-reflection of being truthful about your needs and the needs of others. This skill requires a long-term practice.

Start with reflecting when you act on the basis of a subconsciously perceived social demand, out of a habit to be socially available, help and make others happy.

Making others happy and being at their disposal is a completely natural behavior, but if you are available at 99% and your needs are met only at 1%, then something is out of balance, and that’s a nice guy’s reality.

His task is to build up his own individuality, his own ways of life and self-realization, and if nobody ever helped him and he was instead motivated to fulfill the wishes and needs of others, then he starts from zero in 30 or 45 years, and it just takes time, because his whole life is riddled with all possible strategies of getting satisfaction through being liked and praised for that the others have enough and are happy, while he does not have anything.

Archetypally it sounds like a heroic act, a lot of nice guys are great heroes, but in the end they stay abandoned, robbed, disappointed. «I sacrificed all for others, why do they behave with me like that?»

A nice guy can have many faces and it’s a very individual role, but there are some similarities, or, say, an archetypal track. It’s all about suppressing your needs and individuality and putting in the first place the needs and wishes of others around you.

The healthy way is to adequately evaluate your own needs and the needs coming from your surroundings, to decide what is really necessary or fair to do in a prevailing harmony with yourself, and from this position of harmony with yourself to deal fairly with your surroundings.

But a nice guy needs to train this skill, because in interacting with the others he unconsciously shows them that he will meet their needs, will help them whenever and wherever possible, thereby completely killing his own self-realization, his sovereignty that is the DNA of masculine power, and thus losing the true respect of his partner, children, neighbors, workmates.

People see him as a good person, but in reality, in their depth, they don’t respect him and his needs, because he doesn’t respect his needs himself. He just wants people to love him, wants to be their favorite, and this is the source of his life paths, behavior, thinking, decision-making, priorities, relationships. A nice guy ignores his needs himself and doesn’t live in predominant harmony with his needs, because he has no natural contact with them.

To be continued.




Free Verse Poem: Manliness

When you search for manliness,
you search for force of a special kind.
As a water spring born deep in the earth
that calm force begins with peace within.

As calm as forests, teeming with life,
as silent as rocks, amplifying your voice,
as quiet as trees, whispering your name
with a gentle voice of Spirit, full of knowledge.

As still as age-old ponds
holding the heavenly abyss.
As silent as thunderclouds
eager to become light.

When you search for manliness,
you search for the truth, to stand for.
Be yourself and transcend yourself,
bowing before the sacred.

Sing, dance, laugh, cry, jump for joy, be savage.
Breathe the wind, hug trees, listen to roots grow, name stones.
Watch sunbeams dance when the wind shakes the forest.
Wander with the clouds, gazing in the sky lying under an oak tree.
Walk with the sun, stay awake with the moon.

Nurture and protect life.
Go for your dream further than anybody ever has…
and return home.

Dedicated to Czechia Men’s Circle


Free Verse: The Art of Writing

The word is born out of the silence, so the beginning of writing is to master the pause.

I write, as if stretching my limbs, numb after a long sleep.

The awakening of the word is like the action of light, which effortlessly manifests the hidden.

I write, as if climbing a steep rock wall where the foot of man has never dug in.

The land of the word is an anti-labyrinth: the paths are scattered, yet each of them leads to the goal.

I write, as if speaking a forgotten language that only the mouth remembers.

Controlling the word doesn’t bring the abundance that comes from a miracle.

I write, as if recalling an old melody dissolved in the bustle, remaining only as a longing for eternity.


Prose Poem: The New Beginning

Thoughts sweep through my head, but I’m waiting, looking out of my train window. A spark is about to ignite, a miracle to happen, as the forest suddenly ends and a vastness opens up—plowed fields, the white circle of the sun above the mirror of the waters, a city in a milk haze and blue mountains on the horizon.

Find, inside yourself, in your darkness, the path, so obscured from the outside. Abandon the habitable to make room for the Spirit. Become the black of plowed land, the emptiness of a spring sky, the inconstancy of a mountain river, the quietude of the roots of age-old trees.

The new comes imperceptibly, quietly, as grass grows under the melting snow. The old is no more, and the sun continues to rise above you, the sunlit air is still fresh, and the winged shadows of the clouds, your castles in the air, still float along the land despite they were being blown into tatters on yesterday’s wind. The fields are wider, the mountains higher, and cleaner is your sight washed by the spring. What was genuine in the soul did not die, it was only waiting for its hour, like a grain buried in the dirt.

A child in an azure coat is clutching a lollipop in his chubby fingers; a herd of sheep is grazing on a hillock; an old man with a dog, motionless, looks at my train passing by.

Everything hidden, unspoken, unknown inside my soul settles into the images that the road offers so generously. They form the unbreakable alloy from which time casts the dream bell with its unique note. At some point, it seems that I’m about to catch it, but suddenly the space between us opens up, filling fast with endless fields, and only the spirit, soaring up like a bird high in the sky, is able to briefly see its horizons.

To rise above the world—and stay in it, in the very thick of things, in tightness and tension, struggling for every inch on the way to the goal, where sweat and blood, pain and thirst meet. It’s our body that proves the truth.

A vast space opens up before my eyes again, with plowed fields, a city on a hill, and blue mountains behind. The meaning of all things could fit in one spot now, like the white circle of the sun caught in a pond’s mirror.

The world acquires its true dimensions—those of my childhood when I didn’t try to master it.

The eternal child in an azure coat is still blissfully clutching a lollipop in his chubby fingers, and still rampant is the despair of the mortal man who has crossed the midlife threshold.

The moment lasts forever. Generations come and go before my astonished gaze, and the first people, laughing, still stand in the city gates, meeting the spring sun.

The exiled gods return to their homes.