(Tribute) In Memory of Barbara Mor by Harriet Ann Ellenberger and others


March 8, 2015

International Women’s Day

Dear Barbara,

Now that you’ve flown free of your body, I won’t bother with e-mail — I’ll just talk to you.

Listen, Barbara, you fought the good fight for women and for earth and for all of earth’s children. What that English soldier said of Jeanne d’Arc, I say of you: you were a brave captain.

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(Poem) she was found wandering on by Barbara Mor

The Mago Triad

The Mago Triad

“….she was found wandering on

the street, bleeding, with a

naked baby in her backpack.

she had apparently delivered

herself alone, by caesarian

section, cutting herself open

with a pocket knife, sewing

herself up afterward with

needle & thread. the newborn

daughter weighs 2 pounds, &

will survive. the mother is

being held for psychiatric


poem heard on the radio,


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Meet Mago Contributor Barbara Mor


[Editor’s Note: With sadness and gratitude, we share with our readers that Ms. Barbara Mor passed away on Jan. 24, 2015. We are grateful and privileged to have published three of her poems in Return to Mago. Thank you, Barbara Mor for your life and work as Goddess Feminist! Rest in peace and love.]

Barbara Mor is from Southwest US coast & desert; she is the author of The First God (unhelpfully retitled The Great Cosmic Mother, co-authored with Monica Sjoo, 1987, 1991 by HarperCollins) & The Blue Rental, Oliver Open Press 2011, a collection of texts. Her work has appeared in print in MS., Trivia, Sulfur, BullHead, Mesechabe & OrpheusGrid in US; in Spectacular Diseases, Ecorche & Intimacy, UK; online at www.CTheory.netwww.TriviaVoices.netwww.TriviaVoices.com. DarkMatter/WALLS, a new blog, at barbaramor.blogspot.com, contains links to some of this work & new texts also.

Published posts from the recent:

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(Poem) ice ages by Barbara Mor

ice ages

we walk in the ice age.  our hairy bodies

alive among rock foreheads, subliminal

animals of snow.  colors of caves leak thru

buildings, the skin’s murals unfaded, with elk

leaping over the wrist, bison in the corner of

the eye.  down this street, the mastodon and

tiger, their eyes glint as blue windows, a

luxury in their glacial paws descending slopes

and eons of winter.  sexual caves, with moss and

oil, and a soft nakedness of dancing.  women of

lightning discover fire, heat.  those who bleed

etch the moon on bone.  wind howls in a bear’s

mouth, the snow falls everywhere.  someone

crouches alone and dreams of earth as a white

body, wounded with vulvas, that are not sad

but miraculous.  everywhere one looks, the deer,

the bison, the wolf, the tiger, the dreamer also,

are walking, shining, out of red wounds in

the snow.

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