Poetry – Page 3 – Feminism and Religion

Regeneration by Annelinde Metzner

This time one year ago, our world here in Appalachia seemed like it hadn’t changed in a thousand years. The giant, churning, awesome power of Hurricane Helene had not yet whipped our waters into a frenzy, and caused the mountains to slide downhill, carrying our lives away. And yet, from just below the earth’s surface, Spring reappears with all Her perseverance, Her steadfastness, Her fertile abundance. The slow, steady regeneration of our Mother inspires me to keep going, day by day, hour by hour.

Primavera

The newness of Spring, Primavera, ”first green,”
soft petals that banish Winter’s icy grip,
the return of the Galax, the trillium,
the return!
Full-blown rebirth,
bright, brilliant green shining in the sun,
Spring!
Rebirth decked out like a debutante
with a roomful of courtiers,
flipping the world from darkness to light.
Ferns unfurl,
fiddleheads play on the forest floor,
insects awaken and buzz
in a hundred keys of life.
Humans awaken too, reminded once more
of the richness of the return.
A breeze blows over the galax,
the Mayapples spread their elegant leaves
The promise of the Great Mother:
we will begin again.

Showing Up, by Molly M. Remer

When we return home, I see a meme on social media that says: “Ten minutes online will show you everything that is wrong with the world. Ten minutes outside will show you everything that is right.” I think about the students and professors, each one alight with enthusiasm, with passion, for their work, their projects, their art, the contributions they are making. This is what we need. We need to see, spend time with, and BE people who are involved, connected, committed, and passionate. People who are creating instead of destroying. People who are connecting instead of controlling. People who are reaching out to offer what they can, who create and care, and who show up.

We may let connections thin
and interests slide,
forgetting that it takes work
to nurture and tend
to what we love,
that following what is easy
can be the wrong direction,
one that eventually leads
to the withering of what we value
and to the shrinking of our worlds.
We must evaluate the balance
between effort and ease,
yes,
but let us remember
that both are essential to thriving.
Let us lean into effort sometimes,
when there is meaning on the line,
put our backs into it,
feel sweat on our brows
and the satisfaction that comes
from choosing to immerse ourselves
in wholehearted living,
in presence,
in the work of reaching out
and holding on.

This past weekend, I went to my oldest son’s next college campus. The green spaces were filled with students working on art. The halls of the buildings were lined with art by high school students there for a visiting show. The art gallery was filled with diverse works of many mediums. The speakers for the day were filled with enthusiasm for their subjects, talking about study abroad trips to Paris and being part of the chorus or the band. We pass the student theater, abuzz with activity, and listen to a young man playing rippling tunes on the piano in the atrium of the library. This school is in a rural Missouri farming community, where we passed tractors laden with hay on the potholed road. Their mascot is a mule (“the only college with live mascot in Missouri!” they proudly report. The mule’s name is Molly, so I like her right away). Missouri is a “red state” and yet the students handed me the school paper with a front page story about protests at the capitol and a large color photo of someone holding an “Impeach Elon” sign. I happily picked up a library button proclaiming “libraries are for everyone” and another saying “what’s more punk than a library?” as well as snagging a “plant queer” sticker from the LGTBQ+ alliance table for my sister. The History table gives me a bookmark reading: “Don’t make me repeat myself.” –History

Changing Woman’s Light, part 1 by Sara Wright

Born of Stone and Trees
Birthing a People
from a Mountain
of Light
I hold slivers of her body
touch numinous fragments
worked by Peoples
who honor and
live the Great Round
Pungent scent of
red pine and
spruce,
luminescent
lemony cottonwood
cobalt sky
steep gorges, sand
flakes of pink, rust
a splash of bittersweet
translucent charcoal
flint
spiny cactus
juniper serpents
twisted into
fantastic shapes
a peak that pierces sky
flat topped
on one side
I belong to Her
and She to me
Mother of all
Creation.

I have written before about Changing Woman’s Mountain located near Abiquiu New Mexico. Most call this mountain Cerro Pedernales and an image of the flat side of this mountain, her mesa, was made famous by artist Georgia O’Keefe.

Astonished by my first glimpse I climbed a long serpentine road that wound around steep gorges, rivulets of water, open meadows and unbroken stretches of lush fragrant green forests to reach the backside of this mountain. I couldn’t get over the fact that one side was a mesa and other was a peak that pierced the sky like a sword.

The John Howard Society: Poetic Justness & Hope by Margot Van Sluytman

COMMUNITY

Unexpected comfort
Permeated raw, cold ache.
Warmth melted sorrow.
Embraced we are.
Once again
Knowing we are loved.
And loving too.
©Margot Van Sluytman

~~~
“Supporting neighbours. Protecting communities. Providing supports. Rebuilding lives.”
Donna De Jong, Executive Director of The John Howard Society, Hamilton-Burlington, Ontario, Canada.
~~~

I think often about why and how community matters. About joy and justice and hope and healing. And indeed, the importance of spaces such as our own here on FAR, this community of poets, writers, artists, activists, advocates, allies, academics. Each whose choice to put pen to page, affords light and life to throb and to thrive.

Ice Above and Below and the Coming of the Light by Sara Wright

January’s twilight
hours draw me
into her pale embrace
stalactites and frozen
streams whisper
that winter’s skin
is thin even with
months to go
flowing water
is muted
under seeded snow
underground roots
pulse
with light
sleeping
forest boughs
wake in wild winds
crack and moan
rest in peace
at dawn
bears sleep
fox and weasel
seek slivers of
open water
I walk in slow
motion to
stay upright
at the edge
of a meandering
serpentine stream
listening for
the scent
of just one
hemlock singing
feeling the tangles
of gray and green
Indoors
standing at the window
I ask
how many
forested eyes
are meeting my own?

Two Poems by Alice Bullard, PhD

Dear FAR Community, These poems arise from feminist spiritual practice with syncretic dimensions. The Irish-American Catholicism of my family mixes with the popular American confessional-style that charts and embodies emerging spirit, yet this very American path of self-styling and narrative self-creation has been refined via the influence of Zen practices, originally via the influence of the Soto practictioners of Green Gulch in Marin and then later via the teachings of Vietnamese refugee and Zen Buddhist monk, Thich Nhat Hanh. The feminism here is deeply personal, political, and spiritual.

This post was inspired by one written my Janet Maika’i Rudolph about Alice Munro which you can read here.

About Alice Munro: I experienced the revelations of her daughter very personally … I’ve read Alice Munro since I was very young and used to read my parent’s copy of the New Yorker. Because we shared the name Alice and also shared the cold Midwestern prairie though she was further north and across the border, I had always felt some affinity for her but also I felt something I really didn’t get. To me her stories took inexplicable turns and now we know why. Her daughter’s experience is dreadful and probably much more common than anyone would care to admit. That Alice Munro was famous doesn’t make that type of negligent mothering something rare.

Standing Under the Stars by Sara Wright

one winter night
a velvet cloak
wrapped herself
around me
starry cosmos
poured down
points of light.

kindled a planetary fire
casting a circle
inviting Spirit to hover
recovering
abandoned Body…

once embraced
Winged Animal
Presence
Guided me Home.

A little Story about How Nature Heals

Oran Mor, The Great Song of Creation, Part 2 by Iona Jenkins

Part 1 was posted yesterday. You can read it here.

After moving to Wales, I had more slow listening time, where I could even create personal rituals to tune into the Great Song. I became aware of the voices of birds, the rustling of daffodils, the washing of waves upon the shore below the cliff outside my window. Internally it is reflected as a beautiful chorale under a dreaming full moon, mystical merging with a starlit sky, or wakeful in the golden call of sunrise. The Universe puts on an inspiring sound and light show whether we listen or not. Sometimes when I write poetry it feels like Creation is singing through me.

Oran Mor, The Great Song of Creation, Part 1 by Iona Jenkins

Celtic myth tells of the Oran Mor, the Great Song of Creation that upholds life itself.

I remember my sense of wonder and excitement when I first stumbled across this concept in The Mist Filled Path, written by Scottish/Irish/American shaman Frank MacEowen. I began an immediate quest to discover more, but internet searches produced very little information, and as there were no books available relating only to the Great Song, I concluded that perhaps information had been passed down verbally by Bards, slowly receding into the mist as Christianity became more established in the British Isles. Each time I mention the Oran Mor to someone else, they too become energised and enthusiastic, as if they sense the magic reawakening. MacEowen, who certainly encountered it on his own Mist filled Path, wrote:

“The reason we find no evidence of this Celtic Creation story, is because it is a living story – A story that waits for us to remember. In other words, no matter how hard we look, we will not find the story outside ourselves. We have all been woven into the story, it is our story, and it continues to unfold.”
p.113, The Mist-Filled Path, Frank MacEowen, 2002 New World Library

Heart Drum by Sara Wright

I listened to
my heart
murmuring
softly
her voice
a viscous fluid
slow moving river
changing course
from right
to left
pumping molten minerals
over bones
tunneling around limbs
amazement
overcomes me
Whole Earth
holds heart songs
my dogs and me
whistling turkeys
scolding nuthatch
twittering titmouse
cheeping chickadee
browsing deer
astonishment lingers
I am treasuring the
sweet sounds
of this heart
thrumming through
heartbreak
submerged
in a flow
of wonder…
the kind of
awe that moves
mountains of stone
a raging body
waterlogged
by grief
– how can it be
this heart
continues
to pulse
drumming
to Nature’s rhythm
while a
crimson soul
breaks open
over and over
keens
drowning
in losses
too deep?
Twin chambers
pulse in my breast
expanding contracting
as they continue
thrumming
Life’s Drum.
Trees, birds
dear friend
(you know who you are)
My Beloved
Healer
Thank You
All
With every heartbeat
my gift to you is
the promise of
Embodied Love.