Friday, August 26, 2016

She's Still There




Grandmother in the blooming rhododendrons


Poison ivy blisters our legs,
bugs get in our eyes, under our tongues,
it rains on our best notebooks,
it’s too hot-
and all the while,
even as we scratch and slap and spit,
Grandmother lies face up in the sky sun,
arms spread in the daisies
and the blood-red myrtles,
nose in the clouds,
inhaling and exhaling our lives,
breathing our lives throughout the millennia,
infusing stone with the spark of stars,
singing mystery into the hollow spaces
where the thousand things
daily vanish.

Annelinde Metzner
July 1, 1994




Recently at a retreat at Wildacres, I reviewed my many years of poetry composition and came across this one, one of my first "love songs" for Grandmother Mountain, known popularly as Grandfather, whom I experience as an ancient, wise, feminine presence, grounding and offering energy to the Earth with Her arms outspread.




Grandmother's View of the world



Daisies



Wreathe of abundance at St. Mary of the Hills


Grandmother in Her glory from the Blue Ridge Parkway










Friday, August 19, 2016

Voices of Gaia III











Gray Wolf

I have a silver-furred clan.
Grandmas and nephews
and cousins twice removed.
We keep each other in line
and we survive
here in the cold reaches of Canada
down to Minnesota.
We raise pups and talk,
howl and roam,
and when I twitch my eyebrow
at what I hear you say,
why, my heart is reverberating
in a wild dance with your soul.


Annelinde Metzner
June 1992 "Voices of Gaia"
















Key Deer   
                                                       
I am a solitary being
even among my own kind.
I step with caution from the mangroves
and the hardwood hammocks,
expecting the open meadow,
finding instead the fast machines on asphalt
who run us down so heedlessly.
I step carefully and alone
through silver palms and mulberry
observing without comment
the passage of time.


Annelinde Metzner
June 1992 "Voices of Gaia"














 

Friday, August 12, 2016

Sunrise in the forest



Water from the East



Sunrise in the forest- water from the East.
More and more beauty breaks into my awareness!
Sunrays slant through, yellow-green in the mist.
Moisture drips from the high branches, drop drop drop.
A boulder’s hollow space makes bass sounds in the creek.
Five trees on the island listen to this cacophony all year long!
Overhead, Perseid meteors zip zip zip.
I take a seat at the theatre of my imagination.


Annelinde Metzner
Mountain Light Sanctuary





View from my cabin






















Thursday, August 4, 2016

Voices of Gaia II





Prairie smoke


Prairie Smoke      

Flower of the grasslands
unfurling pink plumes
in dry, inch-thin soil.
Geum triflorum.
The wind blows gently through my sweet feathers.
Shamaness, mistress of illusion, shape shifter.
I grow in soil but cast a spell of mist,
drift like smoke.
Now you see me, now you don’t.
I’m never where you expect me to be.
I may grow into your consciousness when you least expect it,
misty flower of the grasslands.


Annelinde Metzner
"Voices of Gaia"  1992




Field of prairie smoke






Karner Blue butterfly

Butterfly   
                                                                 
On the Midwest prairie
the bright-spotted Regal Fritillary
dines on a banquet of violets.
Wild lupines feed the Karner Blue
next to a runway at the Saratoga Airport.
Bay Area elfins will lay eggs
only when the sun is bright and the air calm,
succulent sedum nearby.
Yes, we are regal, the Butterfly Queens.
We richly deserve your admiration.
We are finicky and difficult.
We require a wild garden paradise.
You may keep your dull sameness
and live without us.


Annelinde Metzner
"Voices of Gaia"  1992






Regal Fritillary

Here are two more from my collection of poems in the voices of endangered species, called "Voice of Gaia" of 1992.















Sunday, July 31, 2016

Voices of Gaia





Wood Thrush

Wood Thrush

I weigh the same as three pennies
and I navigate by the stars
in my nighttime migration
from Cape May to Mexico.
I need six million square miles to breed
and to winter.
I need DC and Baltimore to be my deep forest
that I might call to your heart
from where I perch beyond your sight
as you venture out to the edge of the dark.
Listen to my soul’s call,  and love me,
that I may be near you when your hungry heart
yearns to drink in my song.




Florida Panther

Florida Panther

I won’t show you my face.
Dawn and dusk, cool nights,
I slip out and observe my succulent prey,
and I may be watching you!
I stretch out cool under saw palmetto
letting Florida sun bake and buzz and bleach,
but I move like lightening when evening falls,
and in the peripheral shadows of your dreams
I’m stalking you, too. 





Humpback Whale

Humpback Whale

Through acres of ocean space
I chant and sing and rage,
call and declare.
I remember my songs over months and years.
I remember and change and improvise
and evolve my songs
like Miles Davis in the night.
I am the archivist of the ocean,
and, man, I comment on you.
I’m sure you don’t know this,
but decades from now we will sing your tale.
Where I can’t breathe my ocean,
where my babies die,
I record it all and remember what you do.




Redwood tree

Redwood

We are older than you could ever imagine.
Sequoias, tallest living beings in the world,
wide and massive as a house.
One thousand insect species reside in our branches,
accustomed to the altitude
and evolving on their own.
I’ve watched the world move and change
for over two thousand years,
seen glories and follies at human hands,
seen birth and death and growth and decay,
and you want to drive your damn car
through my trunk!


Annelinde Metzner
July, 1992 from "Voices of Gaia"


Reviewing my poetry of the past thirty years, I came across a collection from 1992 called "Voices of Gaia," in which I speak in the voices of a dozen endangered species from the plant and animal world.  While I was directing the choral group Womansong, we enlisted our friends and families to help present a powerful performance beginning with these poems, and adding dance, improvised music and spoken word.
      I will post more of these poems over the next few weeks.








Friday, July 22, 2016

Thank you, Hillary




Hillary Clinton from CNN


A deep relaxation, an exhalation, a gratefulness,
knowing you have been there to represent us,
you, a woman, the mother of a woman,
the daughter of a woman, one of us.
Hillary, you inspire us, with your bravery, your clarity,
your firmness, your discernment on the world’s stage.
High up in the echelons, you represent us.  Thank you.
Traveling, traveling, in ease and in strain,
you spoke of Malala and Inez, all our brave women,
at one with our great community, this world.
Hillary, without fear, you went feet first
to the most dangerous places in the world.
Yes, we share your pain, our pain,
we born with a womb, our badge of courage,
our births that say the way will be rough,
the climb uphill all our lives.
We born with a womb, and from a womb,
our daughters, our mothers and ourselves,
know from birth that we must be strong,
we must know our minds and love our bodies,
we must speak for ourselves when our Hillaries are gone,
remembering her and teaching ourselves,
going on, for their sake, for Malala and Wangari,
for all the women who show the way,
to live strong and free, to move as we choose,
to be what we are, to be.

Annelinde Metzner
December 7, 2012



I wrote this poem of deep thanks to Hillary Clinton in December of 2012, after listening to her speech on Human Rights at Dublin City University in Ireland which you can listen to here.




Hillary Clinton from ABC











Thursday, July 14, 2016

Farm Kitchen




The farm kitchen in 1992

Cups and cups hang from hooks,
plates of every color and design in the cupboard,
enough for a field full of neighbors some hungry noon.
Rafters and ceiling a greasy black
even now that the big wood stove is gone,
flavored of pancakes and kuchen,
Sunday chickens and potato soup.
A ladle and a dishpan over the sink
where the cold, clear water gleams to the taste.
On the table, flour, salt and sugar flow,
foods that keep and stretch
and fill the belly to last all day.
Mice scurry across the floor
and hop up on the big table
to gawk at the evening game-players,
forgetting themselves momentarily
and then startling to the squeals.
Foot baths on the step, warm and sensual,
makes you feel clean all over!
In the morning, the aroma of coffee,
and a child’s dreamy inheritance
of the never-empty pot,
abundant evermore.


Annelinde Metzner

Catskill Farm
July 13, 1992


  The old farmhouse, circa 1860, in the Catskills is just about gone now due to age and recent vandalism.  But the memories and mysteries I learned there from the deeply shared culture of our immigrant family will remain with me forever.  I give thanks for all I carry with me from this place. As with immigrants in all times and places, we knew that we must love and take care of each other in order to survive.



Farm upstairs bedroom with Mom's old vanity




Detail of barn construction


Farm house wave



Brother and sister, Martha and my dad Rudolph






Enjoying a beer on the front lawn






Friday, July 8, 2016

In Love with the Rooted Earth




Small rainbow, Black Mountain


When people see rain, 
it’s “get the umbrella,”
“cancel the game,”  “close the window,”
“my new hairdo!”
When rain comes to the wild grasses
they lay back like expectant lovers,
Gopis awaiting Krishna,
and it’s just the sky changing.
Just the gray massed clouds 

becoming dragons and mermaids,
fragrant with the next field over,
jolly with surfeit of love.
And the Gopi grass hears one, two,
three splats on the head of the drum,
and then party!  It’s Krishna, gaining momentum,
entering like the mayor in the small-town parade,
rolling in rain like the ship had come in,
drunk,  timeless,  out-of-grass-body
and in love with the rooted Earth.




Annelinde Metzner

July 9, 1992



Marsh rain



Blue Ridge Mountain rain











Saturday, June 25, 2016

Raining





Looking Glass Mountain in the rain



‘Way down in the valley below,
     the rush of Little Pine Creek
     is full of mystery, portent.
She is warning us, analyzing what we do,
     a wise woman full of the lessons of history,
     if we will only listen.

Nearby in the tree tops,
     the rain is a sheet of sound, pointillistic,
     as each leaf receives a drop.
In the woods in the rain, I am rewarded,
     gratified, satisfied,
     hearing Mother’s great bountiful “enough for all.”

Here on the screened-in porch in the rain,
     the taps on the tin roof go deep,
     settling into my soul.
The soft gentle beats are the Goddess’ finger patterns
     moving down my spine, reminding me
     of the heart-stirring journey that began all this.

The black crow glides across the white sky,
     crying, “raining, it’s raining.”

Annelinde Metzner
May 29,2016
Little Pine



Catskills rain



Betsy's Little Pine cabin










 

Friday, June 24, 2016

The Platter of Dates




Moulid An-Nabi, dates


The Platter of Dates                               
Ramadan

This is the Holy Month of Ramadan,
a time to dwell on Scripture, and to pray.
Heaven is wide open.
A time to fast all day ‘til the sun goes down.
I remember, touring Morocco,
our gala nights of dancing and singing,
the Sufi Issawa.
Praising God all night long.
The repetition of the chants, call and response,
the hypnotizing movements of the body,
the long, slow, beckoning solo,
pulling us into each song.
As we danced and sang, young people
roamed the floor with platters of dates,
assuring we would not faint in ecstasy.
Today on the radio, a Muslim woman
remembers her father’s store in New York,
owned by Muslims, staffed by Jews and Hispanics.
At dusk, everyone broke the fast together!
She carried a platter of dates,
to break the fast with all who would partake.
This is the world of possibility.
This is the soft bed of my dreams.
The platter of dates at dusk,
the smiles and thank you’s all around,
the long sacred days devoted to God,
the oneness of our holiness, all one, everyone.
The touch of a soft scarf against my neck.
The generous hand of a young woman,
her platter of dates.


Annelinde Metzner
June 19, 2016


On a trip to the Fez Festival of Sacred Music which I made in 2002, we were honored guests at a Sufi Issawa, a religious gathering in private homes, usually lasting all night, featuring (loud!) music, singing and dancing in honor of Allah.  It was mesmerizing and unforgettable.
     I was extremely touched by the memories of a Muslim woman of her childhood in New York, sharing a platter of dates to break the fasts of Ramadan.
    May we all remember our Oneness!












Sunday, June 5, 2016

Release




Flame azalea



Angry men carry guns
and everywhere they shoot.
Enraged, they shoot,
carrying away women, children,
everyday innocent people.
Far from feeling remorse,
they shout all the more,
proud, swollen with hate.
“We should all carry guns,” they cry,
meaning them, or men like them,
as if this world had somehow slighted
the muscular, the Caucasian, the loud.

If you are not afraid, you are somehow tired,
hearing of these senseless acts
day after day after day.
Like the bully on the block,
they take all the attention,
voracious for your gaze.

Thousands of years, we have found ways to live
integrated into Earth life, warm, colorful,
artistic, joyfilled, unique to each place.
Each corner of this perfect globe
has its arts, its languages,
its people ingrained in the life of that place,
seeds sprouting in native soil.
Yes, we were born for this!
A daily life of magic, of ingenuity,
creativity, days spent unearthing
the gifts of our soul’s being.

Now I hear, “protect yourself,
shield yourself, be on your guard,”
caveats that seem to make sense
for these crazy times,
a natural response
to the ugly, the unwarranted,
the cruel, the violent, the unjust.

But here I sit beside the still waters,
pen in hand,
life still churning within me,
joy bubbling up from nowhere,
and I am on notice:
“I am coming,” the Goddess cries,
“and you will see...
Soon I will bring the spring flowers to bloom,
the migrating birds to return to your window.
When did men, beautiful men,
turn themselves into weapons?
Why do they worship the gun, and forget Me?
Regenerate! is My call,
all you who are heavy laden.
Rebirth is My watchword, all we ever are.
Look to the East with Me,
the bright burst of sun in the sky,
and call out to Me with your urgent voice,
your ancient joy and pleasure,
with all the pure love you can wield.
Then human flesh will soften again
and guns will speak for us no more.”


Annelinde Metzner
January 30. 2016


 On June 2, 2016, the country and the world observed its first "National Gun Violence Awareness Day."   The watchword was "Wear Orange."  I am letting the beautiful native Flame Azalea wear the orange for this post.










Saturday, May 28, 2016

through the green




Buttercups

Delicate, the new willow leaves twist and turn
     before me in the wind.
From somewhere, the five notes of a wind chime
     carry to my other ear a gift,
     going deep, so I must tilt my head
     to completely receive their vibration.
From the underside, the leaves glow brilliant.
Chlorophyll, green fireworks within each leaf,
     explodes with gratitude for the Sun.
The brave new garden plants,
     each claiming their patch of dirt,
     show their best posture, row upon row,
     standing tall and delicious.
I soak up this silence almost desperately,
     pulling in the sweet, sweet air,
     the purity of the breeze cleansing me completely,
     replacing my tired staleness with life and space.




Annelinde Metzner
May 6, 2016







   













Saturday, April 16, 2016

Returning





Azalea in my front yard



Each year more precious,
the rebirth of Spring!
As if now, at my age, I have my doubts,
mired down in tasks and obligations,
living just day-to-day, sunrise to sunset.
But this! The joy of brand-new life,
a quickening in the brown Earth,
and in my soul.
The lilac is back,
each bud bursting into four-petalled sweetness.
Deep in the dry leaf mold,
bloodroot arises from the forest floor,
its sap vermillion, exploding with life energy
into unique white variegated wonder.
Dandelions resume their relentless growth
with a yowl!
Trillium emerges, complete,
ready to live a miracle of grace.
And I too burst forth.
Spring flowers gorgeously in my chest,
silencing my fears,
pulling me back, whee!
into my place in the wonder of living.



Annelinde Metzner

April 8, 2016



Trillium




Bloodroot




Chickweed





Baby jewelweed









Friday, March 25, 2016

The Egg








The egg, elliptical, luminous, whole,
separate, indivisible, complete,
nexus of life, invisible, unspoken,
unnamable ancestral pearl of power,
chosen one: you are my pride, my treasure.
I nurture and guard you with all my life,
a green dragon whose jewel lies hidden
in the humming recesses of her dark-red cave.
I share you with the mammals, and the fish too,
the birds, amphibians, insects, snakes:
our common inheritance, our common being.
All of us, whether we fly or swim,
trot, slither or leap beyond our height,
we all love you the same, and commend you
with lifetimes of attention and lavished care.
There are others, too, ferns and firs,
and maybe fruits, too, our cousins
guarded within the muscled trunks
of our rooted green sisters who grow in the Earth.
There they pull from the black nutrition
the crystals of power, the amino molecules,
fuel from which you radiate light
in fruit, in flower, in ovule, in shell.
I feel you well, with every moon,
through thirteen moons in every year.
You arise and make yourself plain,
crown jewel in the parade of our homeland,
flowering, intoxicating, odoriferous, fecund,
temple priestess of life everlasting
in burgundy velvet, concealing and beckoning.
It is easy, and not easy, to court you, egg,
and find you whole, enthroned in all life,
at once at the center and imminent in all things.
It is easy, and yet to properly seek you,
one must have peace, and presence, and life,
abundant life, and love without question
that leaps into the future, many times ones own height.
I bought a dozen of you today,
to boil you and color you, an essence, a symbol,
a ritual item more real than words
and you’re everywhere, among baskets and bunnies,
colored and white, foam and fluff,
and children’s hands under the bushes.
It is Eostar, your long-ago day
when Russian mothers baked you into bread,
and Czech mothers painted you for hours,
and my own ancestors walked for miles
to gather you one by one from afar,
all of us looking to the reborn world,
the flyers, the creepers, the unfathomable sea-swimmers.
These eggs are ours, our hours, our years,
the perfect pearl of our lives.


Annelinde Metzner
March 19, 1989














Tuesday, March 1, 2016

The Peace Choir




Some of the members of Sahara Peace Choir



Sing, O heavens, shout, O depths of the earth; break forth into singing, O mountains,
O forest, and every tree in it!    Isaiah 44:23



The women come to sing.
In the cold and icy dark, we gather
to rehearse the songs of peace.

“I’m gonna lay down my sword and shield...”

Putting aside aches and pains, and serious ills,
we come to sing with that wee bit of faith,
that last urge somewhere hidden deep in the heart.

“Oh, if I could ring like a bell...”

The great Black Dome, the great mountain
hears them coming, the mountain heart leaping.

“a song of peace, for their land, and for mine...”

until we arrive, there at Black Dome’s feet,
to open our mouths and hearts for Her love,
leaving our homes with all our annoyances,
to sing, to wail, to cry out
for the world we can see, within reach.

How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of those who publish peace.  Isaiah 52:7



Annelinde Metzner      

April 10, 2010


 In 2008 my friend Roberta Newman asked me to start a new choir to sing for a program sponsored by the Friendship Force to bring together Christians, Jews and Muslims on a trip to their common Holy Land.  I had made arrangements of music from all three religious cultures as a way to bring them together in spirit.  We've been singing these songs ever since, including many songs that help nourish the human spirit and honor women of all world cultures.
      I wrote this poem for our yearly concert for International Women's Day, which we will give this year on March 12th.  We will be at Ten Thousand Villages in Montreat, where I can feel the strong vibes of Mount Mitchell (known to the Cherokee as "Black Dome,") highest point in the East, very nearby.
     I quote a number of Bible passages, in italics, as well as some of our song lyrics, to give this poem my wholistic vision of what our concerts are like.





Sahara 2014





Sahara 2010




Singers on the water