1.30.17

Poetry for the Esbat: Mad, Mad, Mad Moon. (November, 2016)

"Infernal Apparition" by Paul Lormier, 1848

Lilith. (and the lilītu?)

Dark Moon, She is (they are). But I shall explain...

"The energy of the evening was lacking & what little there had been died away in an unceremonious manner. At an unusually early hour, the other women -- now more than vaguely disaffected -- meandered home, leaving just the two of us & the Night. She stood, I sat. I looked up at her & realized how much & in how many ways I will miss her. She has always struck me as unusually carefree & a touch New-Agegy, but not tonight. This was supposed to be our parting, but she was mad, mad, mad. There was room now to speak of taboos -- that which has left us all reeling inside but was left unsaid. Instead of exchanging pleasantries, we shared our chagrin. Raising her rich, full, singer's voice in disgust, she shrieked, 'Why the fuck do we train for this shit if we do not use it for anything?!? The time is over! No more messing around -- if you know how to do Magick, do it people!'" 

Who said this? Was it the dark, luscious woman before me, or was it... Her?

As far as I can tell, the Earth has split open & one large, festering pustule of human loathing has been loosed from its containment. (Not that it is the only one.)

So be it. 

(as long as those of us with any wit do not remain idly grazing in the pastures)

***

The Works. So many, so little time.

I began an ambitious project a year or so ago (one of many, believe me) -- a shrine to Lilith. 

It is not for me, it is for Her.

It has waited patiently for me to complete it, but the time for patience is over. Her rage & despair are mine. They are ours.

May Her fire be unleashed & may Her steely, self-assured grit carry us through the unwanted Darkness (there is a difference). I will do my part to facilitate this. 

Rupi Kaur, artist, poet, woman.

Segovia Amil, artist, poet, woman.

Use your Magicks*, Women. 

And remember this: The moon lives in the lining of your skin.

***

Like the feline, She sleeps ever so lightly.
The Moon/La Luna, from Patrick Valenza's 
Trionfi Della Luna & Trionfi Della Luna Paradoxical limited ed. sets.

The Esbat... not something I would normally associate with Lilith, a Dark Moon sort of creature. I am not one for Dark Moons (or Lilith really) until now & that stems purely from an elephantine indignation shared with so many of my kind. 
Women: 
We are magnificent. 
Thus, it is in a kind of tangled web of Moon forces, womanhood & sheer exasperation that I present the poetry for this Esbat. 


Ode to Naked Beauty, by Pablo Neruda

With a chaste heart 
With pure eyes I celebrate your beauty
Holding the leash of blood
So that it might leap out and trace your outline 
Where you lie down in my Ode 
As in a land of forests or in surf
In aromatic loam, or in sea music

Beautiful nude
Equally beautiful your feet
Arched by primeval tap of wind or sound
Your ears, small shells
Of the splendid American sea
Your breasts of level plentitude
Fulfilled by living light
Your flying eyelids of wheat
Revealing or enclosing
The two deep countries of your eyes

The line your shoulders have divided into pale regions
Loses itself and blends into the compact halves of an apple 
Continues separating your beauty down into two columns of
Burnished gold
Fine alabaster
To sink into the two grapes of your feet
Where your twin symmetrical tree burns again and rises
Flowering fire
Open chandelier
A swelling fruit 
Over the pact of sea and earth 

From what materials
Agate?
Quartz?
Wheat?
Did your body come together?
Swelling like baking bread to signal silvered hills 
The cleavage of one petal 
Sweet fruits of a deep velvet 
Until alone remained
Astonished 
The fine and firm feminine form 

It is not only light that falls over the world spreading inside your body
Yet suffocate itself
So much is clarity 
Taking its leave of you
As if you were on fire within 

The moon lives in the lining of your skin.



Extra Blessings to you this Esbat, my friends. You may need them. 


*We all have them. What is yours? 
(If you have no answer to this question, find it.)

Muditā or "Facilitating Bliss"

A Witch "Queen" & her tools. 

"Muditā (Pāli and Sanskrit: मुदिता) means joy; especially sympathetic or vicarious joy. Also: the pleasure that comes from delighting in other people's well-being..." -- Wikipedia

A kindred spirit recently mentioned the Japanese concept of jiri rita enman, or the harmony of self-benefitting & benefitting others. In his correspondence, he mentioned this concept from an act of 'doing for the sake of doing' which may or not be quite the same as a practice I call "Facilitating Bliss." Where this behavior may differ from jiri rita enman is that I engage in certain activities quite consciously -- with premeditation -- knowing that I will benefit from the experience of Muditā, or gaining joy from the joy, growth, advantage or bliss (& sometimes recovery) of others. 

Facilitating Bliss is a relationship style, a "practice," "tradition" or "Lifeway" (to use a specifically animistic term). It is a way of engaging, relating & cultivating. It is a supporting role, sometimes essential, but rarely central to the stage. I do this for the benefit of my persons (particularly the human ones) & for the experience or sensation of Muditā. It happens that this practice has additional benefits -- if the persons in my world are being enriched, our world in general is enriched -- everyone & everything becomes increasingly juicy.

I also do it because I believe that anything I can do to honour the Old Ones, the spirits of place, or my kindreds is worth my energy & dedication. 

This means that sometimes I assist & participate in things that may or may not be my "thing" in an aesthetic or ceremonial way but still serve to Facilitate Bliss. And as Graham Harvey so eloquently stated,

"It isn't about (me) you. It isn't without (me) you. 

There is only one world. We live in it together."

A ceremonial or mock hazing of sorts: returning to the tweenage years.

Poetry for the Esbat: Witch Moon 2015

View of a very special place, from a very special place
near the ocean, in Alaska.

Which Moon is this?

I have called it the Blessing Moon... or was it the Corn Moon?
And I have called it the Wyrt (Wort) Moon.
I have called it the Isn't She Lovely Moon.
I have also called it either the Buck Moon or the Night Life Moon or Beetle Moon, but I am not prepared to count...

I may also have mentioned it as a Blue Moon, which it is, once again.

But this time, I shall call it the "Witch Moon." 

☽○☾

Tomorrow we shall embark upon an unusual adventure. We will travel several hours to a quiet location, nestled upon the shore of the Cook Inlet. We are traveling there for a beachside gathering of Witches.

I do not consider myself a Witch. Some Witches do. Perhaps this is why I was offered the invitation, or maybe somehow I have charmed them, or something. 

But I got to thinking about the Witch: The Witch as a representation of all that is untamed, unruly & not easily contained. The Witch as something that offends the moderate senses & confuses the tractable mind.  The Witch, who more often than not, represents (Woman's, in particular) noncompliance, paired with primitive intuition. This last point, for me, reaches right into the heart of the Feral Self. 

The Witch operates independently of the rules, or at least those held dear by a social majority. She explores & operates past the boundaries of what is familiar. Her life ways, imagination, sense of self, aesthetic, relationship, power, etc. do not correspond to those of persons who stand outside her. Despite the scorn of her rebellion & unorthodox ways, she retains a inextinguishable allure.

I think it is her freedom, her independence & her willingness to consider hidden possibilities which cause people to wax romantic -- despite their disapproval -- when they consider the Witch. Were all the Witches to disappear from the Earth, they would leave a gaping hole behind, a yearning which could never be satisfied.  

There are many kinds of Witches. Some are classic, easy to identify. Others may come as a complete surprise. In the end I suppose, they are perhaps, as simple as all of us who are not entirely domesticated… 

For this Witches' Full Moon, I offer two poems which speak to me of precisely this paradoxical pair of sentiments: Rejection & Romance. Both poems are not exactly about Witches & yet they are  entirely about Witches. 


Witchgrass by Louise Gluck
Published in THE WILD IRIS (The Ecco Press, 1992)
(Text from The Poetry Center at Smith College)

Something
comes into the world unwelcome
calling disorder, disorder—

If you hate me so much
don’t bother to give me
a name: do you need
one more slur
in your language, another
way to blame
one tribe for everything—

as we both know,
if you worship
one god, you only need
one enemy—

I’m not the enemy.
Only a ruse to ignore
what you see happening
right here in this bed,
a little paradigm
of failure.  One of your precious flowers
dies here almost every day
and you can’t rest until
you attack the cause, meaning
whatever is left, whatever
happens to be sturdier
than your personal passion—

It was not meant
to last forever in the real world.
But why admit that, when you can go on
doing what you always do,
mourning and laying blame,
always the two together.

I don’t need your praise
to survive.  I was here first,
before you were here, before
you ever planted a garden.
And I’ll be here when only the sun and moon
are left, and the sea, and the wide field.

I will constitute the field.



15. Lines written in Dejection by W.B. Yeats
(From The Wild Swans at Coole, 1919.)

WHEN have I last looked on  
The round green eyes and the long wavering bodies  
Of the dark leopards of the moon?  
All the wild witches, those most noble ladies,  
For all their broom-sticks and their tears,         
Their angry tears, are gone.  
The holy centaurs of the hills are banished;  
I have nothing but the harsh sun;  
Heroic mother moon has vanished,  
And now that I have come to fifty years  
I must endure the timid sun.

Blessings to you this Esbat, my friends.

Idols & Animism. Wherein Lies the Power?

A portion of the large shrine at a Women's Mysteries ceremony,
a shrine populated by many, many persons.

Goddess figure.

This week I was assigned the job of taking photographs at a Women's Mysteries ceremony where a large credenza was filled with images, symbolic representations & figures of goddess forms. The task gave me pause to consider a simple question with no clear answer: Wherein lies the strength of an idol, icon or other symbolic object?  

Surely some would quite automatically argue that the power lies in the deity/spirit the idol represents, in the connection or entanglement to the godform or spirit, but as a photographer & animist, I would argue differently. Or rather, I would argue that while there is indeed often an external influence present, there is also something else.

Goddess figure.
Possibly Blodeuwedd.

When you spend years behind a macro lens, you invariably see that something else -- something in the small worlds that tells you that these "things" or, as I prefer these persons, have their own strength that resides within, independent of external correspondences. They have an identity, speech & attitude of their own -- if you ask them, they will tell you so. 

Moving across the terrain of this latest spiritual assemblage was no exception -- even the offerings had something to say. (Note: It may seem peculiar, but the little figure dedicated to Bast had a particularly strong character & later as I sorted photos, "he" [owner's designation] seemed to dominate my photos.)

So, while I do not deny the potency & influence of the godform which inspired a specific icon, I also cannot deny the inner sprit of the "things" which represent them. It may not be obvious to the casual observer of these images, but for me, just looking at their photographs tells me so many secrets. 

And if the truth is to be told, I must confess that I am not sure which was more personally compelling that evening; the women & their stories, the ceremony & it's story, or the opportunity to be in the presence of (& the honour of photographing) some incredibly beautiful, beloved & dynamic "object persons" with so many stories of their own.

Poetry for the Esbat: Baladi Moon (Again, It's Personal)

The Creative Centre & Essence of Baladi Dance
Image passed from dancer to dancer to dancer...
Credit: unknown. (Leave a comment if you know this artist.)

Baladi (Arabic: بلدى‎):

"The word Baladi (you may also see it spelled balady, beledi, beledy, etc.) can mean several things: 

1. My country, of the country or of the people.

2. It can be used a complement as the balad are considered the salt of the earth or a slur when referring to somebody as unrefined, like calling somebody a hick.

3. In dance it refers to the dance of the everyday people, raqs baladi as opposed to raqs sharqi.

4. In dance it can also refer to a particular music and dance construct, also called baladi taksim, or ashra baladi.

5. In American belly dance and in the Levant it also sometimes used to refer to a particular variation of the rhythm masmoudi saghir." 

-- from Egyptian Baladi and the Baladi Taksim, by Shems 

I generally tend towards the outside world & bioregionalism when I share Full Moon poetry, but of course the protracted Alaska winters tend to provoke a turning inward. The end result then, is that inevitably some winter Esbat poetry winds up being more personal. This is one of those times.

Since just after midwinter I have been quite preoccupied by dance studies with a new instructor/mentor (I have mentioned her before). This is an exhilarating, expansive & somewhat terrifying experience. I have completely thrown myself into the fire this time. On purpose.

***

This week we began "Baladi studies" in earnest. 

And this is only some of what she has to say about Baladi:

"...It´s all about the FREEDOM of speech – literally – but not a mental speech made of ideas and stored data in my brain – it´s a HIP speech...HIPS CAN TALK...

After watching, teaching, correcting, stimulating thousands of dancers from different nationalities, it´s obvious that most women are totally disconnected from their hips (and the organs, muscles, creative energy, sexual impulses, LIFE inside it). It´s a problem if you wish to dance a mean, juicy, (im)proper baladi piece but it´s an even bigger problem if you wish to enjoy life and use all your potential as a human being. 

Here´s what I call my hips: “MY BELOVED POWER HOUSE“. They expand with time – literally and metaphorically speaking – and are the source of my power, inspiration, love, passion, drive, ambition, dreams, pleasure and and and and. And then some. My hips are queens, goddesses, mother and father as well as their children; my hips sustain me when everything seems to go down the toilet and are a fountain of endless joy, discoveries, strength and divine pleasures. 

If your hips could talk, what would they say?... 

...Women who are disconnected from their hips (or carry around a hate relationship with them) cannot be fully creative and alive – they just can´t. One thing – love for your hips – leads to the other: the FIERCE willingness to be yourself and move ahead in life outpouring love and pleasure..."

-- Joana Saahirah, Hips don´t lie (we agree, Shakira!) – BALADI DELUXE

But this dance is so much bigger than even all of that -- with cultural context & nuance to grasp, technique to study, vocabulary to build, rules to learn & then break... To add to it, there's a unique musicality to be understood as well.

Gasp.

And in the end, it is about getting down to the essence of your being, feeling & communicating your raw, honest truth through the art of movement we call dance. 

***

Today I was asked to dance an improvisational Baladi for her. She told me to dance with gratitude for something I really love, really enjoy, letting my hips speak for me.

So I did. As I danced, I forgot about being under pressure with her eyes on my every move, every moment, because I was dancing with gratitude for wild mushrooms in cream sauce. My wild mushrooms... mushrooms I picked, cleaned, dried, soaked in wine, sautéed & bathed in butter & heavy cream & maybe some fontina or...

When we reached the end of class, she told me (not aware of my particular gratitudes) that I had indeed just danced my very first Baladi.

And it made me wonder: what could I create if I danced Baladi for the Moon?

Hence, the Poetry for this Esbat. (I do love successful multi-tasking... or is it syncretism?) When I read this poem, I said to myself, "This is about a Baladi. A Baladi for the Moon."


Moon Dancer 
By Spencer Kluesner
(poem inspired by the painting "Moon Dancer" by artist Julia Watkins)

She dances to the drum's rhythmic pulse.
Until we are entranced.
Until we begin to feel as if we were with her
A part of her
Living through her
Anticipating her next move

And she twists
With an instinctual certainty
An aquarian dream
An ancient dance to the female cycles of the moon
Knowing her next move without thinking
Feeling her next step while dreaming

I want to be her
I want to feel the infinite forces of energy
Flowing through my being
I want to let go into that space
As only a women can

And I may
But if my body can't dance
My spirit still can

And I'll connect to the infinite
To the nothingness that is really the everything
The whole of our existence
The energy of all that was
And all that will be.


Blessings to you this Esbat, my friends.

Here's to All the Women

Here's to all the Women.
"Vintage Dancers" by SolStock of deviantART.
(She is also the creatrix of this blog's background image.)

I have saved this song's lyrics for a year now -- to be shared in honour of this very day, in honour of all the Women, everywhere. 
Thanks to Hubby for reminding me with his own techno-daddy honourings. 

splinter by Ani diFranco

something about this landscape just don’t feel right
hyper air-conditioned and lit up all night
like we just gotta see how comfortable
comfortable can get
like we can’t even bring ourselves to sweat

sweat in the summer, shiver in the winter
just enough to know that we’re alive
watch out for that tv
it’s full of splinters
and remember you can always go outside
(really really really far outside)

some might call it conservation
some might call it common sense
and maybe it’s because i am libra
but i say balance balance balance balance
i say balance balance balance balance

who put all this stuff in my apartment?
who put all this ice in my drink?
who put the poison in the atmosphere?
who put the poison in the way i think?

women won’t you be our windows?
women who bleed and bleed and bleed
women who swell with the tide
women who change when the wind blows
show us we are connected to everything
show us we are not separate from everything

so here’s to the trials of living
here’s to feeling our share of pain
all the way from childbirth to dying
here’s to being connected to everything
here’s to staying connected to everything

When We Missed the Elephant In the Room.

This past Spring we were due to see an Ani diFranco concert in Las Vegas. We drove the requisite 5 hours, ran late arriving to the show, went to the wrong venue, arrived at the correct one extraordinarily late only to stand in line outside the Hard Rock for an additional 20 minutes before the security crew came round to dismiss us all. Ani was sick.

Now, you might find it interesting, but I am not the epic fan, that's Hubby's role. The show was rescheduled... for a date when he would be in Alaska. His hopes & joy were all but shattered, so we nursed his aching heart with free drinks in front of the penny slots at the Monte Carlo & all the while, I had this feeling that we were missing something important...

I was recently reminded of all this by a posting over at poet Annie Finch's website inquiring about a new poem Ani read at one of her recent shows. Annie had been given only a few lines of the piece & was hoping someone complete it for her. I found the poem in its entirety, but for the life of me, I cannot find a way to send it to her. Perhaps she has already found it herself. Or not. C'est la vie I suppose, unless someone who knows how to contact her comes across this post. So, just in case, I throw it out here into the ether.


Besides, after reading it, I think it has a place here. Watch it. Read it. Several times.





A Poem by Ani diFranco, transcribed by "Shawn," posted by "francoapple" in the onherown.net forums. Thanks guys.

The Elephant in the Room, by Ani diFranco 

Together at our river source
Two streams join with equal force
And then naturally find their course
through all the froth and the churning  

First comforting and then haranguing
Nature forever yin-ing and yang-ing
The end well pots and pans a' clanging
And with each turn learning  

Together at our river source
Two streams join with equal force
But the water will change it's course
If one should surge ahead  

And in the fundaments of religion
Behold the patriarchal vision
To take creation away from women
And bid us prey to the Father instead  

Look at the leaders of nations
At the architects of social relations
At all the distorted manifestations
Of the world of the humanoid  

So many glorious inventions
Triumphs too numerous to mention
And yet we've lost our true intention
It's been cast into the void  

And just because the truth is written
And the writers of history smitten
Don't mean an opposite truth ain't hidden
And the way still quite unclear  

Yes cooperation trumps competition
As the engine of evolution
And if I were Darwin's girlfriend
I would've whispered that in his ear  

Give the witches back their brooms
Give the weavers back their looms
Chase the elephant from the room
At long long last  

Send some scouts ahead up river
Heed the messages they deliver
And while the moon is still a sliver
Try not to move too fast  

It will be a slow unwinding
Of these ties that have been binding
From a masculine that's been blinding
To a pulsing give and take  

It will be a slow reinvention
Of our underlying intention
Til relationship and connection
Be the thread we dare not break  

My body is your body
No such thing as separation
It takes a quantum explanation
To explain what Mothers know  

And by all means pursue your science
Celebrate your many triumphs
But know the wheel is always turning
Whether or not you say it's so  

Women, you must do nature's bidding
With a force that isn't kidding
When all the pain you've been forbidding
Comes back brutal and divine  

Women, you must face the terror
Be the feeder, be the bearer
Women please don't make the error
Of just falling right in line  

Let us all go back to college
Grow the shadow side of knowledge
Let's collectively acknowledge
The elephant in the room  

People peace is born a bounce
And the twenty first century challenge
Is to remain God, the mother
And spaceship Earth, her fertile womb  

This one's for the files.