Ecstasy. Orgasm. There are moments in a woman’s body that defy logic and language. That tremble at the edge of naming. Those moments are where the body forgets that it is skin and remembers itself as earth; when it quakes not from fear but ecstatic pleasure.
My poem, “A Gust of Ecstasy,” is a cartography of that moment— a poetic invocation of feminine climax rendered through the language of earth, fault lines, and trembling territories. It is an attempt to tie two monumental forces together: orgasm and apocalypse.
In Sufi mysticism, union with the beloved—whether human or divine—is known as ecstatic annihilation. The self dissolves, just as the body dissolves in climax. There’s a cosmic parallel here: between the trembling of skin and the trembling of stars.
This poem is an earthquake of elegance and elemental force. It is compact yet cosmic, brimming with tectonic sensuality. I tend to explore orgasm not as a fleeting sensation, but as an elemental force—akin to an apocalypse. It is, however, a humble attempt to capture the sacred climax, the undoing, the rapture of desire, onto earth itself, like Gaia in ecstasy.
This poem is not just erotic— it is reverent. It is the bow at the end of becoming.
Let the land shake. Let the cave roar. Let the bow be blessed.
So read slowly. Let the Earth move through you.
The Gust Of Ecstasy
A gust of ecstasy,
visible from the rising of domes.
The seismic waves on Isthmus.
Terra Firma,
trimmed with territories.
Alive and Breathing.
A heat wave hits the land.
A parched canyon,
caressed till it rumbles,
guiding the cave to life,
gushing a warm elixir fore.
Concurrent with a whirl of thunder.
The land shakes into a final bow.
From Tremor to Text: How This Poem Was Born
This poem is a love letter to the feminine body, not as a passive receiver of pleasure, but as a sovereign land, wild and sacred. Each line draws from the earth’s own language: isthmus, canyon, tremors, thunder.
Inspired in the evening of a day that was quiet and bordered on rumination, I penned it down as a sheer force of inspiration descended from its abode and into me. This is the baby of a sensual and orgasmic evening.
These lines are not just metaphors; they are portals. I wanted to evoke orgasm not as a private act, but as a cosmic opening. A moment of bliss where the body aligns perfectly with the earth’s ancient memory of rupture, creation, and dissolution.
There is a reason why, in Tantric thought, we call climax la petite mort—the little death. Something in us dies and is reborn in that instant.
The final line, “The land shakes into a final bow,” is an image of surrender. Not in defeat, but sacred remembrance. The kind that follows ecstatic release.
The sigh after a sought-after breath, the tear that you let slip past your eye…finally. It is a bow that cannot be controlled, only felt.
In a world that often tames and sanitizes pleasure, I wished to write something raw. Elemental. Devotional. This poem is both an invocation and an aftermath.
Let the Earth touch you: Journal Prompts & Practice
What do you experience as sacred in your body? Have you ever felt an emotion so powerfully it echoed through your bones like a storm through a canyon?
Follow this 2-minute ritual to feel the poem in your body. Something simple yet intentional.
Say aloud: “I am land. I quake. I bow.”
Lie down on the floor.
Place one hand on your womb and one on your heart.
Breathe as if the earth beneath you is rising to meet you.