Exploring the F-word in religion at the intersection of scholarship, activism, and community.
For this post, I’ve collected five of my poems from the past ten years up to the present, which are centered around the people and cultures of the Middle East. Like the region, the poems are filled with hope and unspeakable grief.
In my end is my beginning.
T. S. Eliot
This year two colleagues of mine died. And my heart roared. Tears aplenty accompanied me. Poet that I am. Word-lover. Image-seeker. Meaning-making-hound-dog. Doggedly seeking a place to plant myself so that the ache of these losses within the crucible in which I find myself grounded, honed, chiselled, challenged, challenging, writing, wording, rewording, sculpting relationship with my students, who are too my teachers, is soothed. By tiny shards. Soothed. And death finds home everywhere. In each nook. Cranny. Crevice. Concreted crenellation or grassy llano, there she be.
What research, I ask myself, can we do when the heart fails to cease its eking, leaking ache, and crushing sorrow? What academic skill need we birth, resurrect, divine in order to erase this over-whelming tsunami of acknowledging our finitude? Where to look? What book? What paper? What journal? To what podcast need we creep, crawl, scurry, bound, fling ourselves in order to quell brutal, blistering despair? Self-immolation cannot work, for too, too many teeming tears douse the flames.
Continue reading “In My End: My Beginning by Margot Van Sluytman”
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.
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.
Mira was born in Northwest India in 1498 CE. She is considered a 16th Century Hindu Mystic, Poet, and Wandering Devotee of Krishna. Her relevance and importance is cemented in the moniker given to her of Bai. Bai, is a honorific ending which can also mean elder sister. Mirabai is quite known throughout India and even across religious traditions. She is a celebrated Bhakti Saint whose devotion to the god Krishna is now lauded and praised.
Mira was born into a Rathore Rajput Royal Family (in modern day Rajasthan). It is said that from the very young age of 5, Mira expressed her devotion to Krishna. Her upper caste status did allow Mira to have access to education and religious practice. But her status also came with forced responsibilities. Mira was forced into a marriage to the crown prince of Mewar and would become a widow five years later. Her father and father-in-law would also later die during the ongoing struggles with Babur, the first Mughal Emperor. As she was still considered part of the Mewari royal family, her remaining in-laws tried to assassinate her on multiple occasions. Some of the attempts included sending her a vial of poison disguised as nectar and a basket of flowers which contained poisonous snakes.
Continue reading “Herstory Profiles: Love, Devotion, and Ecstasy in the life of Indian Poet Mirabai by Anjeanette LeBoeuf”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.
Continue reading “Poems by Annelinde Metzner”
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.
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.
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),
Continue reading “POET WARRIOR BY JOY HARJO: HEALING HEARTS AND NATIONS by Maria Dintino”
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.
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.
Feminism and Religion 