You have come to understand that if women are like flowers
you are most like lavender: wild, earthly, resilient, abundant Continue reading
Ntozake Shange did the same work of redemption when she created her choreopoem in the San Francisco Bay area: For Colored Girls who have Considered Suicide When the Rainbow is Enuf. Performing her sacred rite in bars, cafes, galleries, women’s studies departments and other spots, this modern-day ritual would eventually emerge on Broadway in 1976 at the Booth Theater produced by Joe Papp. Seven women dressed in rainbow colors shared their stories, their loves, music and some of the grief of black women in a wilderness of human relationships where friends are capable of rape and husbands of murdering their children. Continue reading
My Very Own Mother’s Day Proclamation
Brenna Jean Richart
I SOBBED FOR THE FIRST TIME in six months today. Throat aching loud, heaving sobs that come when someone dies. The kind that make you feel like you’ve been hit by a truck, then cement has been poured on top of you. It leaves you puffy-eyed and when you get up from the fetal position, there is a puddle of drool melting beautifully into your pillow, as your head pounds and your body aches.
Tomorrow is Mother’s Day. Continue reading
I wrote this poem, which includes the commentary by the character Curatrix, after visiting Malta in 2013. An extraordinary island nation filled with the most amazing places, archaeological sites and remains of prehistory. To anyone with eyes it is clear that women’s bodies were the basis of the architecture. Unfortunately, the site has been got at by Colin Renfrew and his followers in the Cambridge School. They are in the process of distorting prehistory and pretending that women played no part. The poem is written in two voices. In three lines the speaker is experiencing the site, the silence and stillness of stones. In four lines, Curatrix is challenging the ideas being pushed by the museum’s interpreters and in her commentary Curatrix reflects on the different ways of seeing.
Work by Amina Rodriguez
My journey toward the divine source within me was inspired by a tree and only began in my 40s. I usually write poems and other inspired writings as notes on my phone or in a journal. My work is amateur at best because I only began to connect within and express myself creatively a little over two years ago. This was after I had an experience with a tree in the astral or maybe it was a lucid dream. It was a very real experience to me, resembling an out of body experience and it changed my life. It started me on a more intentional journey toward my own truth. I had Continue reading
Source: Rijkdienst voor Cultureel Ergoed.
[Author’s Note: The Fayetteville Goddess Festival is a long-running event held in Fayetteville, Arkansas and hosted by the Omni Center for Peace. Started in 1990 as the Women’s Festival and Conference at the University of Arkansas, the Festival was forced to cut ties to the University in 2000 amid rumors that University officials were displeased by the presence of a lesbian workshop at the Festival. The most recent Fayetteville Goddess Festival took place March 17-26, 2017 and featured concerts, rituals, and daily workshops. Some of these workshops were restricted by age and self-identified gender, which did not seem to be the source of controversy.]
There has been a lot of discussion over the last week or so about the Fayetteville Goddess Festival, Continue reading
two roaring rivers
wash away my concrete thoughts
hurting, growing up
finding my place Continue reading
Heide Goettner-Abendroth was born in Thuringia, Germany, in 1941, she is a mother and a grandmother. She earned her Ph.D. in philosophy of science at the University of Munich where she taught philosophy for ten years (1973-1983).
She has published on philosophy of science and extensively on matriarchal society and culture, and through her lifelong research on matriarchal societies has become a founder of Modern Matriarchal Studies.
She lectured in Europe and abroad, and her main work “Matriarchal Societies” has been published in German, English and Italian. Continue reading
[Author’s Note: This poem is written in honour of the work of Marija Gimbutas, archaeologist, linguist, visionary. I was lucky enough to hear her give a lecture one day in 1990 in Los Angeles. She had the audience in thrall to her ideas. I hope that one day her name will be better known than any other archaeologist. You can see by the bends and markers on her books that these are well-thumbed copies of just three of her remarkable books.]
The roses are in bloom. They are red and cool
and have a smell that makes me remember
my mother, cutting stems of red roses.
Cutting red roses
Tree of the ancestors: ceramic, ultrasaturate Blue
In fairy stories a forest is the site of transformation. Unexpected encounters with shadow and benign figures take the protagonist from one state of being to a state of wholeness so a marriage can take place – ultimately giving birth to a golden child. The story of The Handless Maiden is one such story. It is a tale of endurance over a lifetime through repetitions of loss, sacrifice and renewal. Her father is tricked into selling her to the devil for riches and plenty. When the devil comes to take her, her purity of heart throws him across the yard. The devil threatens her father with ruin and tells him to cut off her hands and to not let her bathe. But the girl and the father both cried so many tears that the stumps of her arms were clean and again when the devil tried to seize her, he was thrown across the yard. Continue reading
I had closed a door on Catholicism many years ago and to repair the damage, embarked on reading the feminist writers and “New Age” teachers and met many eastern teachers to find relief from a deep darkness, a black dog that haunted by life. The return to the Christian tradition proved to be a profound revelation that I documented, and then as time went on, revealed the nature of the darkness as stark visions of abuse at the hands of a hospital chaplain when I was a student nurse, and an impact of witnessing an enraged nun, who was teaching us the Catholic catechism in preparation for our first confession, beating a boy with a cane in a frenzy, which drove into me a terror of hell and damnation that I was mute and lost for the next 4 years. Continue reading