Poetry – Page 5 – Feminism and Religion

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.

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.