Poetry – Page 5 – Feminism and Religion

Cymidei Cymeinfoll by Diane Finkle Perazzo

Carbon and quartz; granite and marble.
Her iron bones were forged in fire.
Her heavy body was carved from stone.

She rose up through black water and rocky soil,
up to the out and around, and born into
the green and growing ground.

As she walked, the ground rumbled and shook.
Rocks rolled and tumbled from the mountains
and Roman roads crumbled where she stepped.

She brought a gift they did not ask for; a vessel
forged in fire from the womb of the earth —
a life-giving cauldron of renewal and birth.

After the Crowning by Sara Wright

Emerald and lime
chartreuse lemon
burgundy
burnt umber
leafy green
breath
transformer
palms and
needles
raining light
magic bean
spirals skyward
star gazing
ferns feather
paths
pearls
at my feet
wild lilies
woodland
valley brook
scarlet
roots
hug
weeping
fruit trees
conversing
underground
pollinated
rose petals
nourish
moist earth
each tear
slips away
bowed
deep
gratitude, a
grieving moment
a thousand
bees hum
as One.
This cycle
ends even
as
another
has begun.

Poems by Annelinde Metzner

For a number of years, I’ve been staying at the St. Helena’s Island, South Carolina home of Ifetayo White, Reiki Master, teacher of doulas, and healer in many modalities. I am always deeply healed by Ifetayo’s presence, and by the island itself. This island near Beaufort is the home of the Gullah people, who have kept their land since Reconstruction according to a legal system called “Heir’s Property.”

The spirits are strong here, and I’ve tried to capture some of the essence of the island and of Ifetayo, in these poems. In the first, I describe Ifetayo’s wonderful healing room. The second features the Grandmother Tree, one of the live oaks covered with Spanish moss, so prevalent in the Low Country. The third features the Resurrection Fern, which appears brown and almost dead on the limbs of the oaks, but springs into vivid greenness after a rain.

Margins for Magic, by Molly Remer

My ritual today
is to forgive myself
and to begin again
with what I have….

A rite of renewal:
Step out under the sky
whether it holds thunder or sun.
Rest your hands against your heart.
Say: I am here.
I am grateful.
Open your arms to the sky.
Feel air soothe you
and wind bless you.
Say: I am radiant in my wholeness.
I am loved.
Sweep your arms down
to touch the Earth (or the floor.)
Say: I am connected.
I belong.
Settle your hands against your belly.
Say: I am centered.
I am powerful.
I am strong.
Return your hands to your heart.
Wait.
The sacred will meet you here.

We pause today in the middle of the road to listen to a mockingbird perched in a crabapple tree by an abandoned house. In clear and rapid succession, it runs through its impressive repertoire: Phoebe, cardinal, chickadee, titmouse, laser-gun, a few extra trills and beeps and back again. We stand, heads cocked and silent, to experience the performance before walking on with a smile, pausing again to inhale deeply as we pass the wild plum trees so sweet and fleeting. I have been preoccupied with projects, feeling bright, creative energy burgeon inside me as it does around me, so many things tug at the mind and ask for time, leaving my dreams restless, my eyes wild, and my mind awhirl with both pressure and possibility, a persistent urgency that calls me on and away and out of being where I am. On the way back home, we stop again because there are five red winged blackbirds, conversing by the neighbor’s pond and we circle through the grass to examine white flowers in the pear trees and to check for peach blossoms (none). I love spring in Missouri, it restores and nourishes me. It reminds me I am home. I sit with my tea listening to a distant chainsaw and the wild turkeys in their rites of spring, a light rustle of wind, and the clinking of my flattened spoon wind-chimes from years gone by. A lone crow glides in to alight on an oak tree beneath the sun. It tips back and forth briefly, wings a satin shimmer in the sunbeams and then drifts away like a black kite through the spring sunshine. I have joked that the description of my next book could be: “I sat. I saw these things.” And, this is true, for I did, and this is my news for today.

Praise Arianrhod by Diane Finkle Perazzo

arianrhod-silver-wheel painting by Judith Shaw — Artwork: Judith Shaw from her post on Arianrhod, Feb 23, 2013 which can be read here.

Divine Arianrhod, Beloved Goddess.
Your truth is an inspiration to all living beings.
As you weave the light and the dark so do you scatter.
Joy is in our hearts while you live among the heavens

Celestial Arianrhod, Your crown shines among the stars.
You are the Goddess of the silver wheel upon which all magic is bound together.
Fortunate are we that you are a child of the land and the sky
and mother of the sea and the sun.

POET WARRIOR BY JOY HARJO: HEALING HEARTS AND NATIONS by Maria Dintino

Moderator’s Note: This post is presented as part of FAR’s co-operation with The Nasty Women Writers Project, a site dedicated to highlighting and amplifying the voices and visions of powerful women. The site was founded by sisters Theresa and Maria Dintino. This was posted on their site in 2021 and then again on March 21, 2023. You can see more of their posts here.

**“MY INNATE IMPULSE IS HEALING, WHICH IS ALSO STANDING UP FOR JUSTICE, WHICH CAN HEAL HEARTS AND NATIONS.” – JOY HARJO**

Healing hearts and nations is what Joy Harjo does. Standing up for justice is what Joy Harjo does. Joy Harjo is a teacher and leader for our times, for all times.

When she asks this question in her book, Poet Warrior:

“What do I do with this overwhelming need for justice in my family, for my tribal nation, for those of us in this country who have been written out of the story or those who appear to be destroyed or perverted by false story?” (46),

Archives from the FAR Founders: The Dark Half: Reflections on the Winter Solstice By Xochitl Alvizo

This was originally posted on December 21, 2011

Xochitl Alvizo; Photo by http://www.chrispinkham.com/

I’m a Capricorn. People seem not to be surprised when they find out. I’m also the oldest of three siblings and a keeper of people’s secrets. Stories and secrets – my family’s included – I hear them all, take them all in. Sometimes someone will share something with me that involves another and afterward say, Now, don’t you go telling so and so that I said this. And of course I always reply, I don’t tell no one nothin’. And it’s true, I don’t tell – I simply take it in. I listen and I take it all in. The stories shared, stories of joy and of love, excitement and disappointment, of hurt feelings and misunderstandings, all of them inform me. They all cause me to reflect and consider the fragility of us all, the precariousness of life. We affect each other so much, from the smallest moment to the largest system, all of it makes such a difference to us.

Tonight we celebrate the Winter Solstice – it marks the boundary of darkness and light – it is the shortest day and longest night of the year.

If I Were an Octopus by Marie Cartier

You say you want the truth, and I want to give it to you—I mean you asked for it and I want to give it you. I mean—I do want to tell the truth but—
to be honest I’m not sure I want to be the person that truth belongs to – but I want to tell the truth

So- ok.
To be honest. You know, transparent– I am out of candles.
Totally – even tea lights, never mind seven-day candles
I am out. In all colors: red, pink, blue, orange, even white. And I have no intention of getting any more.
Done with candles.
I am also out of quilt squares, and quilt materials and thread— and I – well, I am just out of anything to do with sewing, quilting. And nope- not getting any more. Done.

What, Together, We Are by Annelinde Metzner

It seems that the hearts of the whole world, and especially the hearts of women, are grieving now, as war and warmongering take over more and more of the Earth. Patriarchy rages on, like a monster in its death throes, and we wonder, “will they take us all down with them?” It is my hope that these poems will help us to keep on keeping on, keep on loving Her.

My grief, my love for the world

I watch the dancer, one arm framing her face,
one hip drawing upward in the belly’s rhythm.
The dance of mature women, Raqs Sharqi
born of the sensuous music of the Middle East.
Her hips pull us into infinity,
an inward-outward shout of beauty and desire.