Mixed media assemblage by Yvonne Lucia
The Black Madonna is an archetype understood by many scholars to be related to the ancient Egyptian Goddess Isis. Her legacy is marked by passionate identification with the oppressed and with values of justice with compassion, equality, and transformation.
In classical Christian iconography, a sweet-faced Virgin Mary is often depicted standing on a globe, crushing the head of a snake. This image was a brilliant way for the patriarchal church to eclipse Goddess cults: to have the asexual and passive Mary killing off the snake, an ancient symbol of the goddess, wisdom, and transformation .
Read Meet Mago Contributor Yvonne M. Lucia.
We, the co-editors, contributors, and advisers, have started the Mago Web (Cross-cultural Goddess Web) to rekindle old Gynocentric Unity in our time. Now YOU can help us raise this torch high to the Primordial Mountain Home (Our Mother Earth Herself) wherein everyone is embraced in WE. There are many ways to support Return to Mago. You may donate to us. No amount is too small for us. For your time and skill, please email Helen Hwang (firstname.lastname@example.org). Please take an action today and we need that! Thank YOU in Goddesshood of all beings!
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Michael Brautigan is a freelance writer, poet, literary scholar, and political activist who lived most of his life in and around the Bay Area. For over a decade he lived in Berkeley where he enjoyed both studying and participating in community awareness groups and activism before graduating from UC Berkeley with a degree in English Literature. He has been published in the Milvia Street Journal, Unlikely Stories, Blink-Ink, and Undergroundwriter. He has also been an active member of online writing groups such as the New Surrealist Institute, World Poets Society, Inter Dada, and Poetry San Francisco.
Shardana woke with a start. The chilling dirge of a howling wolf rang in her ears. Her heart raced. She rubbed her eyes, but was unable to erase the face of the animal that had haunted her dream. In the murky residue that lingered from her night vision, Shardana could still feel the anger that radiated from the wolf’s bloody stare. His fangs, sharp as the blade of a shepherd’s knife, glinted in the moonlight that bathed the deck of the sea-going vessel. His thick coat bristled along the bony ridge of his spine as he prowled the squeaking wooden planks.
Shardana stared into the darkness of her bedroom, allowing the blackness to calm her. “Dea Madre!” she called out. She kicked off her blankets and reached across the mattress to where her husband Basilio should have been—and would have been—had he not spent the night at his shepherd’s hut outside the village on this early February night, tending his herd of birthing ewes.
Sweat bathed Shardana’s brow, though she didn’t wipe away the dampness. She grabbed a shawl to chase away the cold before walking to the kitchen to boil some water to make a medicinal remedy to calm her mind.