How do I know Who I am When all I have been taught Is who to be According to rules That belong to a past That believed in the domination Of nature As a path to power.
How do I know Who to be When the judgment that gets thrown Arises from a fear so old That no one even knows Why it’s wrong To shine Or show pleasure As a woman.
Why would I stay Cooped up in a cage Of shoulds and oughts When this body Is crafted from moonlight And fire And the deeper river Of ancient knowing Guides my every felt sense Of what it means To be a woman.
So I stand Shameless bright My heart open wide Wild crafted pleasure And mountainous might I define myself As I set myself free And I laugh out loud As I birth a new me For all women.
She lost herself in the trees among the ever-changing leaves. She wept beneath the wild sky as stars told stories of ancient times. The flowers grew towards her light, the river called her name at night. She could not live an ordinary life with the mysteries of the universe hidden in her eyes. ~ Christy Ann Martine
I wander in the wilderness of thoughts, A vagabond and a stray around the tray. A bitter and a sour tasting drink, Too hot and harsh to swallow. A cockatoo left out of the crackle, A lonely miner quarrying my soil.
Who do I share my hot and harsh drink with, Who do I share my bitter and sour drink with, Pain is not an item to be dished out, My tears are a stream that flows into my mouth alone. A wounded cockatoo paddle his boat alone.
Come hear me out!!! The starkly trees. Come hear me out!!! The silent lake. Come hear me out!!! The crippling insects. Come hear me out!!! The fertile soil.
Let them hear me out, My kind is not ready to hear me, And I seek solace elsewhere; The sack attached to my soul, The cross attached my shoulder; Has became a burden to my existence, All I called out heed and not mock me, They share my burden and ameliorate my pains.
Sometimes I wonder If Mary breastfed Jesus. If she cried out when he bit her Or if she sobbed when he would not latch.
And sometimes I wonder If this is all too vulgar To ask in a church Full of men Without milk stains on their shirts Or coconut oil on their breasts Preaching from pulpits off limits to the Mother of God.
But then I think of feeding Jesus, Birthing Jesus, The expulsion of blood And smell of sweat, The salt of a mother’s tears Onto the soft head of the Salt of the Earth, Feeling lonely And tired Hungry Annoyed Overwhelmed Loving
And I think, If the vulgarity of birth is not Honestly preached By men who carry power but not burden, Who carry privilege but not labor, Who carry authority but not submission, Then it should not be preached at all.
Because the real scandal of the Birth of God Lies in the cracked nipples of a 14 year old And not in the sermons of ministers Who say women Are too delicate To lead.
“The solar system turns without thine aid, Live, die! The universe is not afraid.” ~ Israel Zangwill
“Remote, yet near, unutterably aged, lone, He sits within the temple’s inner shrine, with folded hands and countenance divine, Omniscient, inscrutable, unknown.” ~ G.F.Williamson
“But what thing dost thou now, Looking Godward, to cry, I an I, thou art thou, I am low, thou art high? I am thou, who thou seekest to find him. Find thou but thyself, thou art I. O my sons, O too dutiful Towards Gods not of me, Was I not enough beautiful? Was it hard to be free? For behold, I am with you and in you and of you; look forth now, and see.” ~ Hertha, by Algernon C. Swinburne
“If thou would’st hear the Nameless, and wilt dive Into the Temple-cave of thine own self, There, brooding by the central altar, thou May’st haply learn the Nameless hath a voice, By which thou wilt abide, if thou be wise.” ~ Alfred Tennyson
“Because I had forsaken unity with thee, Because I, fool, had made my body me, Because I did not know thee who didst dwell in me, Therefore I wandered through raging hells … Because I threw away my very self, I therefore was in chains.” ~ an old Indian writing
“Turning away from the world, I have forgotten both caste and lineage, My weaving is now in the infinite silence. Kabir, having searched and searched himself, Hath found God within him.” ~ Kabir
“His death in Benares Won’t save the assassin From certain hell, Any more than a dip In the Ganges will send Frogs—or you—to paradise. My home, says Kabir, Is where there’s no day, no night, And no holy book in sight To squat on our lives.” ~ Kabir
“We cannot kindle when we will The fire which in the heart resides; The Spirit bloweth and is still In mystery the soul abides.” ~ Matthew Arnold