PaganSquare


PaganSquare is a community blog space where Pagans can discuss topics relevant to the life and spiritual practice of all Pagans.

  • Home
    Home This is where you can find all the blog posts throughout the site.
  • Tags
    Tags Displays a list of tags that have been used in the blog.
  • Bloggers
    Bloggers Search for your favorite blogger from this site.
  • Login
    Login Login form
Subscribe to this list via RSS Blog posts tagged in poetry

Posted by on in SageWoman Blogs

The turning of the seasonal wheel
is a feast for the senses,
sometimes it seems
all I've done
is sit on the same swing
in the same place
while the wheel turns around me,
the tapestry of birds and leaves,
flowers and berries,
budding,
blooming,
peaking,
and dropping
as I sit and see,
bare branches spinning
into tips of green catching the sun,
spreading into great green umbrellas
and then fading to yellow.
White flowers blushed with pink
becoming tight knots of green berry
deepening to black
and then gone again
rusty red canes crowned
with thorns and patience.
Gray juncos to orange orioles,
to swift hummingbirds
to black capped chickadees
and back to gray juncos again,
a swirl of feathers,
and color
and song.
Watch carefully.
Remember to laugh.
Sit in the center as often as possible.
Feel how it all spins.

b2ap3_thumbnail_ooak-priestess-in-road-by-sunflowers.jpg

Last modified on
Honoring the Ancestors: It's a Minoan Thing

Here's a little something I wrote in honor of the Ancestors:

Step into the light
Wearing your ancestors
Like a cloak
Like a crown
Bearing their power
Into the future
Generations of love
Stand behind you
Upholding you
Hear their voices
Urging you on
Feel their wisdom
Guiding your thoughts
Their hands
Holding yours
Never fear
You are not alone

...
Last modified on

Posted by on in SageWoman Blogs

In the early hours of night-morning,
I am summoned
by the eclipsing moon, b2ap3_thumbnail_black-and-white-twinkle-goddess.jpg
waking suddenly
with a sense of delight bubbling
behind my breastbone.
My heart is beating fast
and a sense of wild, anticipatory glee
fizzes in my bones.
My feet are cold on
fine sparkles of frost
as I gaze upward,
hand against my heart
at the crescent of full moon.
I hear a noise behind me
and turn to see
the white flashes of two deer
in the woods.
They move only a few feet away
and then stand there,
dark and silent watching me.
I kiss my hand
and lift it to the moon three times.
Orion is leaning on the rooftop
and the sky is alive with stars.
I am a priestess on a spinning Earth
in the temple of night,
my body an altar beneath
a shadowed moon.
My breaths are an offering,
my heartbeat a song of praise,
in this,
a rite of resetting.
I return to my bed
and lie there
for a long time,
eyes bright,
listening to star song,
kept awake by poems.

Last modified on
Recent Comments - Show all comments
  • Steven Posch
    Steven Posch says #
    Where does poetry end and storytelling begin? Wherever that may be, Molly, you've made the fleeting lasting, in a beauty way. Tha
  • Molly
    Molly says #
    Good question! My poems do tell stories and I actually often find that I can either strip an essay back to a poem OR I can extend
  • Jamie
    Jamie says #
    Molly, Seemingly randomly, I recently woke up at 4:30AM (where I live) to see the eclipse at near-totality. I took it as a sign
  • Molly
    Molly says #
    That is so neat! Thanks for telling me about it!
Diving Into the Wreck: Working With the Dark Waters of Autumn

It is no secret or surprise that fall is probably most people’s favorite season, and it’s easy to see why: the beautiful changing colors of trees and falling leaves, the relief of cooler weather (in many regions), seasonal treats made from pumpkins and apples and, definitely not least of all, the ubiquitously popular holiday of Halloween. Halloween, or All Hallow’s Eve, originated as the pagan Irish holiday Samhain (SOW-in), which occurs when the veil between this world and the world of the dead is thinnest, and the spirits roam freely. Keeping unwanted spirits away resulted in enduring customs such as costumes and lanterns carved out of turnips (which would evolve into carved pumpkins, which Irish immigrants found much more readily available in the New World in the 19th century), as well as leaving out treats to placate the wandering souls.

There is certainly something in the autumn air itself that seems to testify to the inherent magic and mystery of the season. I know I’m not alone among worshipers of nature and practitioners of magic in feeling like I come back to life in the fall and have much more energy and motivation for journeying, rituals, meditation and magic. Summer stifles and suppresses me on every level, and just makes me cranky. Being fair-skinned and blue-eyed (descended almost exclusively from peoples of the far north) makes me physically sensitive to heat and bright light, and everything else about my personality means that darker, quieter, mystical surroundings are much more conducive to my magic and creativity.

I am especially and unsurprisingly appreciative of and tuned in to the watery energies of fall. Anyone who practices the more common forms of western magic or is familiar with classical occult correspondences knows that the element of water is assigned to the season of fall and the western quarter. While water in her myriad forms is obviously applicable to any direction or time of year, fall does seem to be the most fitting to water in her most common and basic forms.

I’ve come to see the Underworld as the main bridge between the element and the season. One of the more popular and detailed underworld concepts is that of Greek mythology, the realm of Hades which contains five rivers. One of those rivers (Styx or Acheron) is crossed by newly dead souls with the help of Charon, the ferryman. Each of the rivers’ names is based on an emotion associated with death. This is consistent with water being symbolic of emotions, and death is a very emotional thing.

An even more watery underworld is that of Adlivun, the realm of the Inuit goddess Sedna. She dwells in a whale bone palace at the bottom of the sea, to which she sank and transformed into a goddess and the mother of all warm-blooded marine creatures. There is no shortage of emotion in her dark tale or in the sea itself.

I recently discovered a poet named Adrienne Rich. I did so by stumbling upon one of her books on Ebay while searching for something completely different. I was characteristically attracted to the title of the book - “Diving Into the Wreck: Poems 1971-1972”, a winner of the National Book Award. I looked up the poem and read it online, loved it, and then ordered the book. I’d like to use this poem and the analogy it presents as a foundation for the kind of personal shadow work and other rituals of self-healing and discovery that are ideal to do this time of year.



First having read the book of myths,

and loaded the camera,

and checked the edge of the knife-blade,

I put on

the body-armor of black rubber

...
Last modified on

Posted by on in SageWoman Blogs

Here we are at the edge of fall, b2ap3_thumbnail_fall-persephone-mandala.jpg
looking at the world and at our lives.
May learn from Squirrel
and gather up our resources
to store for future days.
May we learn from Persimmon
and allow ourselves
to ripen patiently
until we recognize
the perfect time to let go,
savoring the sweetness
and delicacy of our own best timing.
May we learn from Oak
knowing we belong to a
great, grand cycle
of generativity and renewal,
drawing up strength
from the earth beneath us,
stretching our roots deep,
and exhaling as we allow
the unneeded to fall lightly away.
May we pause at the turning point,
this hinge of change and choice,
to savor the good work
of this year,
to celebrate
what we have learned and made,
to honor what we've loved
and labored over.
May we open our arms in gratitude
and then wrap them
around ourselves
with compassion.
May we turn our faces to the sun,
feel the wind curl around us,
lay our hands on our hearts
and feel the connection
we always carry within.
May we set our feet to the spiral,
as the deep and powerful mystery
of being continues to unfurl.

Last modified on
Recent Comments - Show all comments
  • Jamie
    Jamie says #
    Molly, That was great! It's nicely written, and at the same it challenges the reader to contemplate and be better.
  • Molly
    Molly says #
    Thank you for reading and commenting!

Posted by on in SageWoman Blogs

I am here to tell the tales
b2ap3_thumbnail_42929604_2192483650963845_6076038633914105856_o.jpgof eerie lights
and thinning veils,
of trickling streams
and singing trails,
of seeking hearts
and thrilling wails.
I’ve gathered sounds of
shadows deep,
of stones that weep
and trees that sleep,
where legends steep
and secrets keep.
Gather round
on bended knee,
with webs to weave
and paths to see,
the Samhain Muse
has tales for thee. 

Last modified on

Posted by on in SageWoman Blogs

How can you write with  b2ap3_thumbnail_94262205_2630042767207929_6051266018465021952_o.jpg
flowered praise
of shining skies and magic days?
Don’t you know
there are bones in the grass
and fear in the air
and things that lurk on every stem
to suck your blood?
Snakes are eating baby birds
and a bobcat is even now
crushing through the skulls
of a nest of soft baby rabbits.
How dare you claim there
is beauty, that the world
is woven from love?
I claim it
because I see it.
Yes, I’ve dripped blood
on stones as thorns drag
across tender flesh,
uncovered worn femurs and ragged hip bones in fallen leaves,
scratched my own ankles bloody
after being fed upon as I walk.
I have faced unnamed skulls on mossy beds,
small jaws cracked in two,
a pelvis resting nearby
catching the rays of the setting sun.
I’ve wept over shattered eggs
and the blue jay’s screaming.
I have also borne witness to
endless
joy.
The mother deer nestling
twin fawns by her side,
the riotous blooms
blanketing the thorns,
the courtship dance of red-shouldered hawks
as they spin across the sky,
vultures skating gracefully
on thin air,
violets blooming in
the center of stones,
blue butterflies and singing bees
across the plum blossoms.
I know there are phoebes who return
year after year
to the nest they’ve built
sheltered under our eaves,
and hummingbirds that traverse endless miles
to alight on our windchimes
and to live in the mulberry trees
all summer,
our feeders their ancestral lands.
I have spotted rich mushrooms nestled impossibly
in curving roots of elm and ash,
I’ve plunged my arms into
ancient water
fresh born from between
the earth’s bones.
I’ve come eye to eye
with crows, black eyes alert,
wings shining,
with a coyote,
both of our heads lifting
to sniff the air.
I’ve eaten redbud flowers
straight from the branch
and watched the swift and patient passage of time
across the faces of those I love.
If there is one thing I know
to be true,
it is that great currents of
love and beauty
co-exist right beside great
stripes of pain,
and I still choose to celebrate this now:
the flowers in the trees,
the bones in the grass,
the blood on my knuckles,
the curving leaves,
the sweet berries,
the joy that bubbles up
right where I am.

Last modified on

Additional information