Garden dance

URBAN SOLACE IX
Garden Night
—Mitz Sackman, Murphys

She looks out the kitchen window
Her small garden a picture of stillness
In the fading light
She has worked hard this summer
Planting and harvesting
Been abundantly rewarded by fresh food and herbs
She reflects on the turning of the year
Solstice but a distant memory
The cross quarter day approaches
Her garden dance of thankfulness is due
She prepares carefully washing with herbs 
Donning her cloak, she steps out in the moonlight
Slowly dropping the cloak, she circles the garden sky-clad
She thanks the earth for its fruits
For her life and dreams

Image from Photobucket

Poem found at Medusa's place

Lunar Eclipse

THE MOON CIRCLE
—Joyce Odam, Sacramento

(based on “Maiden Moon” etching by Elaine B. Rothwell)


Death is dancing with the maiden in the moonlight. 
He has made a ring of light for them to dance in. 

She lifts the hoop of light 
and dances away from him. 

He is left standing in the circle 
where he is powerless to follow. 

She has stolen the power of his intention 
with her refusal, and thus has transcended 

both light and dark. Death waits—and waits— 
until she is through dancing and will return to him.

Image from Photobucket

Poem found over at Medusa's place

Because I need something other than the horror of The Gulf

Salutation to the Dawn

Look to this day!
For it is life, the very life of life,
In its brief course
Lie all the verities and realities of your existence

The bliss of growth
The glory of action
The splendor of beauty.

For yesterday is but a dream
And tomorrow is only a vision,
But today well lived makes every yesterday
A dream of happiness
And every tomorrow a vision of hope.

Look well, therefore, to this day!
Such is the salutation of the dawn. 

~Kalidasa~

Images from Photobucket

A scene of green

MIDSUMMER

A green world, a scene of green, deep

with light blues, the greens made deep

by those blues. One thinks how

in certain pictures, envied landscapes are seen

(through a window maybe) far behind the serene

sitter's face, the serene pose, as though

in some impossible mirror, face to back,

human serenity gazed at a green world

which gazed at this face.

And see how,

here is that place, those greens

are here, deep with those blues. The air

we breathe is freshly sweet, and warm, as though

with berries. We are here. We are here.

Set this down, too, as much

as if an atrocity had happened and been seen.

The earth is beautiful beyond all change.  

~William Bronk~

Aurora Borealis image from Photobucket

Poem found at Medusa's place

From prehistoric mists...

Dragonflies

Dragonflies from prehistoric mists,

flying around long before the ice ages, above shallow water

in the shade of gigantic trees – their clear blue wings fluttering,

growing deeper, slower, rays still shining on them -

such fragile wings, a thousand years old,

vibrating, like rainbow drops,

in the primeval wind – there were no birds is yet,

just the shade of branches, ferns rustling, just, dug in above

the lush coal swamp, flight till then, intoxicating,

lasting but a moment. 

 ~Judita Vaiciunaite~

(Poem translated from the Lithuanian by Viktoria Skupskelis and Stuart Friebert Literary Review, Fall, 1993)

On her own terms

No Hothouse Rose

No hothouse rose

Is She

No even color

or clipped thorns

No controlled bloom

can She be

She is a wild rose

found growing in the bramble

Rich in color -

Fragrant and Free

A rare find

On her own terms

~Raymond A. Foss~

What is born with me

I saw this poem over at Medusa's place yesterday and was just stunned by it.  I had not read it before.

*******

WHAT IS BORN WITH ME

—Pablo Neruda

I sing to the grass that is born with me

in this free moment, to the fermentations

of cheese, of vinegar, to the secret

spurt of the first semen, I sing

to the song of milk which now comes

in rising whiteness to the nipples,

I sing to the fertility of the stable,

to the fresh dung of great cows

from whose aroma fly multitudes

of blue wings, I speak

without any shift of what is happening now

to the bumblebee with its honey, to the lichen

in its soundless germination.

Like an everlasting drum

sounds the flow of succession, the course

from being to being, and I'm born, I'm born, I'm born

with all that is being born, I'm one

with growing, with the spread silence

of everything that surrounds me, teeming,

propagating itself in the dense damp,

in thread, in tigers, in jelly.

I belong to fruitfulness

and I'll grow while lives grow.

I'm young with the youthfulness of water,

I'm slow with the slowness of time,

I'm pure with the purity of air,

dark with the wine of night,

and I'll only be still when I've become

so mineral that I neither see nor hear,

nor take part in what is born and grows.

When I picked out the jungle

to learn how to be,

leaf by leaf,

I went on with my lessons

and learned to be root, deep clay,

voiceless earth, transparent night,

and beyond that, bit by bit, the whole jungle.

(translated from the Spanish by Alastair Reid)

For Dakota and his mom

THE FRUIT FELL RIPELY DOWN

Fox-child

of the old pretend

I know

where you go

when the moonlight

bends

in the trees

and the trees come alive

in the night.

I followed you

again

and saw

old branches

lift and gesture

in a winter-dance

in that forgotten

orchard.

Fox-child,

your sly smile

lit the dark

where no life grieves

and the music

clapped

its broken-fingered

leaves

and you, an acrobat,

gamboled

in such a hungry

pleasure

that old lucent ghosts

of fruit

fell ripely down

to taste

your laughter.

~Joyce Odam, Sacramento

Image from Photobucket

Poem from Medusa's place

Lilith, Eve, May Queen and Beltane musings....

Ah, Beltane.

I love this holiday as much as I love Samhain.  And I LOVE Samhain.  It doesn't surprise me that these 2 holidays are opposite each other for one begets the other.  Life begets Death and Death begets new Life.  And with Life, there must be sex.  Beltane celebrates sex and the Life that comes from it.

Sex.  One of the great mysteries:  so celebrated, so despised; so revered, so maligned; a potent path to spiritual ecstasy or debauchery.  It is, indeed, a mighty force, one that should not be taken lightly.

And sex always brings to mind Lilith and Eve.  Not Adam and Eve, but Lilith and Eve.  And their garden with the fruit of knowledge.  I first discovered Lilith in the early '90s when I read Demetra George's fabulous book "Mysteries of the Dark Moon."  I fell completely in love with her.  Here is an excerpt from that book that just stunned and delighted me.

Jonelle Maison

Lilith was the first woman, made at the same time, from the same stuff as Adam. So, when Adam refused her equality and forced her to lie under him, Lilith spoke the forbidden name of god and flew from Eden. In mythology she became the Succubus, shown as a winged woman with taloned feet. The stories differ, and I have selected from among them. Sanvi, Sansanvi, Semangelaf are the angels sent by god to bring Lilith back to Adam. 

You gotta give it to Lilith, she was a hell of a woman.
Said she'd rather fuck demons on the beach
than lie under the belly of that whiner Adam
and flew from paradise.
Told god's angels to shove it when they came to get her
said
Listen to me now, while you still can.
The original sin was rape and god has chosen Adam.
From here we begin.
This wound unhealed between man and woman
draws out the world.
I am the first woman.
And the last.
My children may be sterile as raisins,
die each evening with the sun, but I continue.
You will see me soon, looking with the eyes of
sweet-faced Eve when Adam breaks another covenant
as easily as teeth break the fruit's skin.
I am always here.
Justice owed and justice withheld.
I see my place in history: the forgotten metaphor
living with the beasts in the desert.
You'll try to erase the sound of my name,
call me Witch.
Queen of Ghosts, Mother of Terror.
Then you come here, wanting assurance
that I will not harm Adam's seed,
will not steal from another woman's cradle.
Go ahead.
Write your names over doorways
if you think it will keep them safe.
Sanvi. Sansanvi, Semangelaf.
The syllables curl and fade,
grow old as children.
And what do you ask of me after
the eight days have set?
I am the Night Hag.
Patient as memory, I wait at the crossroads,
visit your men in the dark,
they have reason to fear.
I bring them a sleep restful as my own.
Go back now.
I'm through talking.
Tell god for me, this fight goes on as long as it must.
Let him make Eve, thinking to undo this treachery.
Let him make laws declaring the mud's mistake.
In every generation there is a woman
who belong to me.

Powerful, isn't it?  That's Lilith.

I wrote a poem to Lilith which you can find here.  I was struggling with the poison of patriarchy and was reading Demetra's book at the time.  It helped to write it, to channel the fury and despair out of myself and onto paper - far less destructive than keeping it in or lashing out.

May ~ the month is so seductive.  The sights, the smells, the sounds - all background music to celebrate sensuality and sexuality, our own and the Earth's.

Which brings me to the haiku I recently wrote about Eve:

Eve's Gift

Don't stop kissing me

she hissed writhing under him.

Serpent taught her well.

And, this which I found over at Medusa's place:

I FOUND YOU GROWING IN MY GARDEN

naked as the dust

sitting among corn-stocks shooting up

like magic bean-stocks

and watermelons bigger than the moon.

I was naked too.

Mint and thyme sprang up

in my cool, dark foot-prints

as I walked toward you.

Tomato vines embraced us

twining up our legs

caressing us with bright red fruit

falling faster than a breath.

Pomegranates and apples showered us

grapes grew in our hair

and when your tongue touched mine,

I knew this was Eden.

—Cynthia Linville, Sacramento

When I was a child, we actually had a Maypole Dance.  I had no idea what it meant at the time and thought it was ridiculous.  Too bad we're not taught the origins of the celebration - I think we'd have a sexually healthier population.  Click here to see some really great pictures of a May Day celebration - click on the "see all 44 pictures" link and then view as the slideshow. You won't be disappointed.  Updated to add:  I just realized after watching that May Pole dance that it is another version of the Spiral Dance that we danced at Samhain!

Ah, May....

'Tis the Season!  May it be a delightfully sensual one for each of you!

Image from Photobucket

Earth Day Eve...

The world's great age begins anew,  
The golden years return,  
The earth doth like a snake renew  
Her winter weeds outworn;  
Heaven smiles, and faiths and empires gleam  
Like wrecks of a dissolving dream.  


~Percy Bysshe Shelley~

from his poem Hellas

Trout Lily

It happened that I couldn’t find in all my books

more than a picture and a few words concerning

the trout lily,

so I shut my eyes.

And let the darkness come in

and roll me back.

The old creek

began to sing in my ears

as it rolled along, like the hair of spring,

and the young girl I used to be

heard it also,

as she came swinging into the woods,

truant from everything as usual

except the clear globe of the day, and its

beautiful details.

Then she stopped,

where the first trout lilies of the year

had sprung from the ground

with their spotted bodies

and their six-antlered bright faces,

and their many red tongues.

If she spoke to them, I don’t remember what she said,

and if they kindly answered, it’s a gift that can’t be broken

by giving it away.

All I know is, there was a light that lingered, for hours,

under her eyelids–that made a difference

when she went back to a difficult house, at the end of the day.

~Mary Oliver~

In the dream...

IN THE DREAM…

I was in the hospital

something to do

with my heart,

probably broken again,

it happens a lot...

That’s when you came in,

but you weren’t you,

you were something else,

a rabbit,

not a huge one,

but a big one,

maybe three feet long.

You had this white fur,

with caramel colored patches,

lovely.

The inside of your ears

were very pink,

soft,

your nose too.

You cuddled beside me,

under my arm,

your whiskers tickled,

I could feel your

tongue

tasting

me.

The doctor came in

said it was time

for you to leave.

You smiled.

I didn’t know

rabbits could smile,

but you smiled...

It was a nice dream,

I’m glad

you were in it...

~William S. Gainer~

Poem found over at Medusa's place where you can read some fabulous word crafting.

Image from Photobucket.

Song of the Flower

Song of the Flower

I am a kind word uttered and repeated

By the voice of Nature;

I am a star fallen from the

Blue tent upon the green carpet.

I am the daughter of the elements

With whom Winter conceived;

To whom Spring gave birth; I was

Reared in the lap of Summer and I

Slept in the bed of Autumn.

At dawn I unite with the breeze

To announce the coming of light;

At eventide I join the birds

In bidding the light farewell.

The plains are decorated with

My beautiful colors, and the air

Is scented with my fragrance.

As I embrace Slumber the eyes of

Night watch over me, and as I

Awaken I stare at the sun, which is

The only eye of the day.

I drink dew for wine, and hearken to

The voices of the birds, and dance

To the rhythmic swaying of the grass.

I am the lover's gift; I am the wedding wreath;

I am the memory of a moment of happiness;

I am the last gift of the living to the dead;

I am a part of joy and a part of sorrow.

But I look up high to see only the light,

And never look down to see my shadow.

This is wisdom which man must learn.

~Khalil Gibran~

The Laughter of Women

The Laughter Of Women 

The laughter of women sets fire

to the Halls of Injustice

and the false evidence burns

to a beautiful white lightness

It rattles the Chambers of Congress

and forces the windows wide open

so the fatuous speeches can fly out

The laughter of women wipes the mist

from the spectacles of the old;

it infects them with a happy flu

and they laugh as if they were young again

Prisoners held in underground cells

imagine that they see daylight

when they remember the laughter of women

It runs across water that divides,

and reconciles two unfriendly shores

like flares that signal the news to each other

What a language it is, the laughter of women,

high-flying and subversive.

Long before law and scripture

we heard the laughter, we understood freedom.

~Lisel Mueller~

Image from Photobucket

I heard the crocus laughing

First Crocus

This morning, flowers cracked open

the earth’s brown shell. Spring

leaves spilled everywhere

though winter’s stern hand

could come down again at any moment

to break the delicate yolk

of a new bloom.

The crocus don’t see this as they chatter

beneath a cheerful petal of spring sky.

They ignore the air’s brisk arm

as they peer at their fresh stems, step

on the leftover fragments

of old leaves.

When the night wind twists them to pieces,

they will die like this: laughing,

tossing their brilliant heads

in the bitter air.

~Christine Klocek-Lim~

Ode to Olive Oil

I love olive oil.  Really.  I do.  I use it almost exclusively when cooking.  I tend to use the Kalamata oil, but will use anything which has that deep, rich flavor - and I like it when the color is green, not yellow.

I also love the poetry of Pablo Neruda who wrote his odes about everyday things. Olive Oil was no exception.

Oda al Aceitepor Pablo Neruda Cerca del rumoroso Cereal, de las olas Del viento en las avenas El olivo De volumen plateado Severo en su linaje En su torcido Corazón terrestre: Las Gráciles Olivas Pulidas Por los dedos Que hicieron La paloma Y el caracol Marino: Verdes, Inumerables, Purísimas Pezones De la naturaleza, Y allí En Los secos Olivares Donde Tan solo Cielo azul con cigarras Y tierra dura Existen Allí El prodigio La cápsula Perfecta De la oliva Llenando Con sus constelaciones el foliaje Más tarde Las vasijas, El milagro, El aceite. Yo amo Las patrias del aceite Los olivares De Chaeabuco, en Chile En la mañana Las plumas de platino Forestales Contra las arrugadas Cordilleras. En Anacapri, arriba, Sobre la luz tirrena La desesperación de los olivos Y en la mapa de Europa España Cesta negra de aceitunas Espolvoreada por los azahares Como por una ráfaga marina Aceite Recóndita y suprema Condición de la olla Pedestal de perdices Llave celeste de la mayonesa Suave y sabroso Sobre las lechugas Y sobrenatural en el infierno De los arzo bispales pejerreyes Nuestro coro Con Intima Suavidad poderosa Cantas: Eres idioma Castellano Hay sílabas de aceite Hay palabras Útiles y olorosas Como tu fragrante material. No solo canta el vino También canta el aceite Vive en nosotros con su luz madura Y entre los bienes de la tierra Aparto Aceite, Tu inagotable paz, tu esencia verde Tu colmado tesoro que desciende Desde los manantiales del olivo.

Ode to Olive Oil by Pablo Neruda Near the murmuring In the grain fields, of the waves Of wind in the oat-stalks The olive tree With its silver-covered mass Severe in its lines In its twisted Heart in the earth: The graceful Olives Polished By the hands Which made The dove And the oceanic Snail: Green, Inumerable, Immaculate Nipples Of nature And there In The dry Olive Groves Where Alone The blue sky with cicadas And the hard earth Exist There The prodigy The perfect Capsules Of the olives Filling With their constellations, the foliage Then later, The bowls, The miracle, The olive oil. I love The homelands of olive oil The olive groves Of Chacabuco, in Chile In the morning Feathers of platinum Forests of them Against the wrinkled Mountain ranges. In Anacapri, up above, Over the light of the Italian sea Is the despair of olive trees And on the map of Europe Spain A black basketfull of olives Dusted off by orange blossoms As if by a sea breeze Olive oil, The internal supreme Condition for the cooking pot Pedestal for game birds Heavenly key to mayonaise Smoothe and tasty Over the lettuce And supernatural in the hell Of the king mackerals like archbishops Our chorus With Intimate Powerful smoothness You sing: You are the Spanish Laguage There are syllables of olive oil There are words Useful and rich-smelling Like your fragrant material It's not only wine that sings Olive oil sings too It lives in us with its ripe light And among the good things of the earth I set apart Olive oil, Your ever-flowing peace, your green essence Your heaped-up treasure which descends In streams from the olive tree.

Van Gogh image from Photobucket

Morning has broken...

School Prayer 

In the name of the daybreak

and the eyelids of morning

and the wayfaring moon

and the night when it departs,

I swear I will not dishonor

my soul with hatred,

but offer myself humbly

as a guardian of nature,

as a healer of misery,

as a messenger of wonder,

as an architect of peace.

In the name of the sun and its mirrors

and the day that embraces it

and the cloud veils drawn over it

and the uttermost night

and the male and the female

and the plants bursting with seed

and the crowning seasons

of the firefly and the apple,

I will honor all life

—wherever and in whatever form 

it may dwell—on Earth my home,

and in the mansions of the stars.

~Diane Ackerman~

Image from Photobucket

Earth my body, Earth my soul

This poem was posted over at Medusa's place - I just love it.  The destruction and  desecration of our Earth is our own self destruction, our own desecration of all that is holy within ourselves.  "Saving the Earth" is really about saving ourselves from annihilation as a species.  There is such Beauty here for us to realize that what we behold is what we are...

SPIRIT OF LOVE
—Barbara Deming

Spirit of love
That flows against our flesh
Sets it trembling
Moves across it as across grass
Erasing every boundary that we accept
And swings the doors of our lives wide—
This is a prayer I sing:
Save our perishing earth!

Spirit that cracks our single selves—
Eyes fall down eyes,
Hearts escape through the bars of our ribs
To dart into other bodies—
Save this earth!
The earth is perishing.
This is a prayer I sing.

Spirit that hears each one of us,
Hears all that is—
Listens, listens, hears us out—
Inspire us now!
Our own pulse beats to every stranger's throat,
And also there within the flowered ground beneath our feet,
And—teach us to listen!—
We can hear it in water, in wood, and even in stone.
We are earth of this earth, and we are bone of its bone.
This is a prayer I sing, for we have forgotten this and so
The earth is perishing.

____________________

Image is from here.

A Sweet Whisper

A SWEET WHISPER
—D.R. Wagner

A sweet whisper clipping the tops of waves.
The humidity changing the colors to pastels,
Opening my eyes in already late morning.

I can hear the birds arguing in the palm
Trees. It seems they have important things
To do. They abandon the yard.

I am working over the lyrics to a song
I can barely remember. It says that heartbreak
Can be overcome if one stops feeling.

I am amazed at the way afternoon
Lopes into the room, recognizing everything
But how my heart understands distance.

I begin to sing my own song. There is a 
Moment where everything that prompted it
Becomes real again. I can hardly continue.
The birds return and gather near my windows,
Silent except for their beaks tapping the glass.

Even more delicious word crafting can be found over at Medusa's Kitchen.