the circle
repeats
tightens
with age
crushing
an
aging heart
I cannot
breathe
through
these lifetimes
of
loss
instead
I relive
old
pain
4AM
lasts
an eternity
each mourning
Tag: poetry
How to Talk to a War Goddess: A Poetic Lesson From Sekhmet by Annie Finch
Consensus decision making, according to the mother of matriarchal studies Heidi Goettner-Abendroth, is woven into the definition of matriarchal societies. In these cultures, the respect, empathy, kindness, maturity, and belief in sustainable relationships that consensus implies are foundational. War, as the inimitable Yael Deckelberg sings to us, is “not a woman’s game”; any society that truly hears women will not play it. Overseen through the caring wisdom of circles of elder women in what Genevieve Vaughan calls the Maternal Gift Economy, matriarchal societies have less than no use for such a cruel, stupid, wasteful custom. As my great-aunt Jessie Wallace Hughan, founder of the War Resisters League, used to say, someday humanity will consider war as absurd as we now consider the custom of dueling. But we won’t see the end of this integral outrage in our lifetimes; that day will likely arrive only after we’ve all come to our matriarchal senses.
Meanwhile, here we are again.
Continue reading “How to Talk to a War Goddess: A Poetic Lesson From Sekhmet by Annie Finch”Two Poems by John Hardman-Zimmerman
“When Evil Has Its Way”
When Love is not imperative,
When Love has been dismissed,
When Love is not our way of life
Evil has its way.
When we think we don’t need others,
When we think we are superior,
When selfish interest has precedence,
Evil has its way.
When controlling others is priority,
When domination is our goal,
When assertion of power is means,
Evil has its way.
When our faith’s the power of violence,
When our trust is in our weaponry,
When we rely on military prowess,
Evil has its way.
Mountain Mother by Sara Wright
When I picked berries in the mountain field that first summer, I could sense wave after wave of feeling rising up – seeping into my feet from the ground below. The sun spread blue heat over the hills, and I bathed in summer’s glow. For the first time in my life I felt visible, witnessed for who I really was and accepted: I was loved –unconditionally loved by a Mother. That She was a mountain field didn’t seem odd at all. I loved her back – fiercely. I marveled. To be in love with my goddess, the one that lived in this field, brook, young forest, the one who inhabited each of these rolling hills and mountains seemed so natural. Remarkably, She celebrated my presence not only by gifting me with a love that ran like a great underground river beneath me but because She created a palpable sense of belonging. I belonged to Her. She loved me just because I was. I couldn’t get over it. My gratitude knew no bounds. All I wanted to do was to serve her…
She was visible in so many ways – in the riot of purple and green jack in the pulpits that sprung out of the sphagnum moss behind the camp in the moist valley that often filled with water, through the solitary pink lady slipper that appeared by the bridge that crossed the brook, the tiny white swamp violets, the blue fringed gentians and pearl-white turtleheads that popped up in the meadow fed by it’s own spring in the center of the field.
I glimpsed her face in the cedar that sprung to life in the rich wooded soil that bordered the brook, she sang to me from the wild apple branches that bowed over rippling water, she blinked through each firefly night, burst into a “high” when thunder and lightening churned up the waters and the brook overflowed – White Fire crackling out of her clouds and slamming into me.
Continue reading “Mountain Mother by Sara Wright”Poems by Annelinde Metzner
For five days this March, I gifted myself with a stay at the Meher Baba Center in Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. I often plan short getaways to help me find my center and decompress from everyday life. The contrast between “worlds” is very great when you’re staying in a pristine nature preserve with the overwhelming commercialism of Myrtle Beach right outside the gates. I knew that this retreat was helping me to deal with a similar conflict I felt in my body, from the pain and stress of living in this moment in time. Poems flowed easily, and I’m grateful for that.
Retreat in Myrtle Beach
A preserve of five hundred acres,
here on the South Carolina coast,
where fresh-water lagoons teem with waterbirds
just across the forested dunes from the breaking ocean waves.
Turtles sun in the grass,
deer leap and raise generations.
A preserve! and out beyond the gates,
over the protecting wall,
is Myrtle Beach, another type of Mecca.
Come out the gate, and it’s “Hooters!”
then, “Tsunami Beach Souvenir Shop!” (everything on sale!)
then, “Maui Beach Miniature Golf,” with an exploding volcano!
and of course, “the MAGA Megastore,”
who’ll sell you anything you could want or need.
This morning I awoke in my sweet-smelling cabin,
little propane heater in the old fireplace
keeping me warm.
And here is the teaching:
Plant your feet on the Earth.
Love this greenness, these creatures,
love Yourself,
because the entire off-kilter, out-of-balance,
koyaanisqatsi (*) world out there
is depending on You: feet planted,
head in the stars.
Mother/Meter: Reclaiming Poetry’s Sacred Goddess Languages by Annie Finch
Those of us on the paths of the Divine Feminine can go to great lengths to approach Her. We might read and study hard-to-find books, invest time and money to visit temples and museums, and seek out Goddesses-related power spots around the world. We might acquire ceremonial jewelry and devotional artworks, attend conferences, track down Goddesses-inspired music, and apprentice with teachers from spiritual traditions that may be far removed from our own heritage. We might invest in supplies and training to craft devotional music, art, sculpture, and apparel, and create or attend performances, healings, and rituals honoring the Feminine Sacred.
Yet there is one important ritual activity that we routinely forget and ignore, one that we know was key to Goddess worship whenever we have written prayers, from Demeter to Inanna, Isis to Freyja, Hekate to Sarasvati. This time-honored practice is simple to learn, costs nothing to use, and quickly, safely, and legally creates an altered state of mind that brilliantly and efficiently connects us with our spirits, the natural world, the Divine Feminine, and each other. And furthermore, this ancient sacred craft is not limited to indigenous or ancient cultures but is already part of the familiar heritage of anyone who speaks English, so there is no danger of cultural appropriation in using it.
Continue reading “Mother/Meter: Reclaiming Poetry’s Sacred Goddess Languages by Annie Finch”Renee Nicole Good—An Acrostic Poem by Marie Cartier
Say Her Name So We Remember Her
R—Remember– that is what I think we need to do
E– Everything that she did, like poetry, like raising kids
N– Not just the horror of what happened… Bam! Bam! Bam!
E— Everything she did …like win the Academy of American Poetry Prize
E— Everything she did …like be a lesbian, be so beloved, be.
***
N- Not just that video on an endless loop- Bam! Bam! Bam! “Fuckin’ bitch.”
I–I want to see her, more of her, before that day, all of her
C- Colors. All of the crayons in the coloring box she represented.
O- -Oh! I wish I had known her. I wish it hadn’t happened. I wish we weren’t here right now in these United States
L– Let me say I wish we were not here.
E– Everything feels dystopian. I forget all the crayons in the coloring box, except gray.
My God Bleeds With Me by Jsabél Bilqís
My god bleeds with me
Her feet right beside mine for morning gratitudes
Soles to soils, we touch skin to skin
She’s vast like me
And I love her
My god grieves when I do
My sorrows meet Hers at the ocean shore
Vial for vial, our tears make our medicine
She can transmute anything, just like me
And I love Her
She courts me
leaves me love notes in the shapes of flower petals
winks at me in amber sunsets
morning serenades and juicy fruits
She loves me! She lifes me!
And I love and I life Her too
Broken Roots? by Sara Wright
I write to
find out
who I am
becoming
and when
I implored
Sedna
to take
me back
to the sea
I came
to know
my roots
to Place
were
broken
by age
by betrayal
by loneliness
by advocating
for a planet
animals, trees
by people
who do not listen
by people who
will not see
like Mother Pine
moaning
outside
my door
I too
moan
Unforgiving
Ice and Wind
Treachery on every path
Trees encased
in White
At the Bottom
of the Well
Water Murmured
accept
this Break
Underground
Mycorrhizal
threads remain
your Guides
Sedna
rises
meets you
on
dry land
for the second
time in
one year
Confessions: Lunch with Ann by Margot Van Sluytman
This is not Augustine’s confessions. This is not an essay on what love should mean. This is a poetic evocation of recognizing the beauty of friendship, the beauty of companionship. The blessing of breaking bread together and sharing in conversation that is the heart of who and how we are. Who and how we are forever becoming. Even when the Muse abandons us.
My dear friend, Ann, and I shared a wonderful lunch, talking, tears, supreme laughter, exquisite food. During that conversation, it became clear to me that the poetry of life is love that is situated where kindness and kinship and commitment highlight our meaning, our meaning for being and doing, which is intimately linked, for many of us, with our pens to the page. Fingers to the keyboard. Twinned and intertwined with lushness of choice.
A choice to have boundaries, whereby though the heart and the flesh can feel moved by what may present itself to be love, stepping back and feeling with the intellect of the heart and the intellect of the mind what is not being said, what is not being expressed warrants keen attention. A life-changing recognition of the possibility to wash away miasma and mist and pretence. And to stare directly into the depth and clarity that is: Wisdom. She Who Is. Sophia Speaking.
Feminism and Religion 