Poetry – Page 4 – Feminism and Religion

The Wave: Poems from Hurricane Helene by Annelinde Metzner

For 37 years, I have resided with awe and delight in the Appalachian Mountains near Asheville, North Carolina. With gratitude for the palpable strength and ageless beauty of the great mountains down to the tiniest ephemeral flowers, I have poured out poetry and music in honor of Her and my life here. In one day (or three, including the days of rain leading up,) Her pristine beauty and the homes and lives of thousands were destroyed by the violent winds and rain of Hurricane Helene. I was dropped into a deep well of grief, which I still experience to this day. But something very ancient, basic and fundamental pushed me to write poems, astounded as I was by the events and human interactions around me. I hope these poems give you some sense of the experience.

Blue Raven and Murmurations by Margot Van Sluytman/Raven Speaks

Meandering
Murmurations.
Myth and mystery
Beckon. We do not
[As yet]
Resist.
© Margot Van Sluytman

I have been fighting with myself to eradicate or somehow fit in the fact that I am in the throes of a profound transition. With “the new adventure’s” approach, death, roommates we have been for decades and decades, a new conversation between us is unfolding. Me and my compelling companion, daily and diligently, engage in what can sometimes feel a relentless row. Sculpting our symbiotic connection with meaning. Aligning dull and divine evocative evocations, as we share tea, toast, temerity, tempestuous alarm, sympathy, chagrin. Intermittent joy. Explorers we are. Searching out hope. Seeking sightings of simple strength. Seated at simple repasts. Inviting courage. Encouraging surrender. Crying out for creativity. Debating and discussing if Camus is correct in writing that suicide is disavowed because the meaningless of life, is, in fact, its very meaning.

From the Archives: A Ritual for Thanksgiving, by Molly Remer

This was originally posted Nov. 22, 2022

Find some pine trees
and a wide rock in the sun.
Settle down and feel gratitude
curl around your shoulders.
Listen to the wind
sense that there is sorrow too
in this place,
deep and old,
threaded through the
lines of sun
slices of shadows.
It tells of what has been lost,
what has been stolen,
of silenced stories,
and of fracturing.
Make a vow,
silent and sacred,
to do what you can,
to rebuild the web
to reweave the fabric.
Lie on your back in the pine needles,
feel your body soften into the ground
and become still.
Allow yourself to feel held,
heavy bones and soft skin
becoming part of the land.
Wonder how many of your
ancestors kept other people
from becoming ancestors themselves.
Watch the sunlight making tiny rainbows
through your eyelashes and pines.
Find a pretty rock.
Don’t take it.
Leave it where it belongs,
on the land that gave it birth.
Go home.
Keep your promise.

Hecate’s Moon by Sara Wright

I spent hours
writing
you snaked by
underground roots
entering my story
with your
forked stick
‘witches’ are a
lie that christians
made up
to legitimize
harm done
to our kind
Artists, Writers,
Healers,
Visionaries,
Trees,
(men too)
Women whose
Difference
others defined.
Nature defiled.

An Incantation for 2024, USA by Marie Cartier

-please repeat and/or use in ritual, if needed

There was a time (there was a time)

We were waiting for something (we were waiting for something)

We were wanting something (we were wanting something)

We needed it to be different (we needed it to be different)

We were. We are. We are here: this is it.

We want something. We want something. We need something. We need something.

There was a time when we could make something happen.