Monday, March 30, 2015

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 

Friday, March 20, 2015

The Peace Choir

Sahara Peace Choir 2010

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 we founded Sahara Peace Choir, blending the names of Sara and Hagar, the two lineages of Judaism and Islam.   In my poem are quotes from a number of our regular repertoire, as well as Bible quotes in italics.   We will be singing a benefit once more at Ten Thousand Villages in Montreat, North Carolina, this Saturday March 21, 2015.

Singing for an urban park 2014

Women singing change the world!

Friday, March 13, 2015

Dancing with Swords

Sword dancers, photo by Holly Baumgarten

It seemed like water was everywhere-
     the shimmer of scarves,
     the shimmy of womanly bellies, muscular and yet soft.
Skin billowing wave-like to the beats.
The dancer carried water upon her head,
     blessing us, blessing us, healing our ills,
     casting water upon the Earth for its deep magick.
The room grew quiet, and a dark-haired dancer emerged,
     black skirts and gold, black leather, pearls in her hair,
     and-  what’s that?
     around her waist and shoulder, a snake.
Dancing with her!  The snake in love with her,
     this watery undulation hers too,
     the power of the serpentine. 
Soft power.
And all at once it’s long ago,
     women gathering to share this,
     this movement, this joy, uniting us
     with our bodies, with our Earth.
The Goddess is here!  Six women dancing with swords!
There is such power...
And the Goddess says, “Do not forget me!”
Thousands of years have passed
     since Inanna first dropped her veils
     to the tune of the ancient modes, with santur, oud and dumbek.
“Do not be ignorant of Me,” She cries across the ages,
with the seven swords balanced.
“Be wise. Be aware.”

Annelinde Metzner

White Horse Black Mountain
March 12, 2015

This poem was inspired by "Stars of Jerusalem Garden," last night at White Horse Black Mountain.  Dancer and teacher  Mizilca has been gathering fabulous dancers and musicians at Asheville's Jerusalem Garden since 2001.  This art form was created by and for women, as a way toward health and self-knowledge, and it invokes in me a sense of ancient wisdom.

Snake dancer Logan Labbe Jarrel- photo by Don Talley

Seven veils dance by Claire Dima- photo by Don Talley

Golden Wings of Isis, Charlotte Louise-  Photo by Don Talley


Scarf dance by Logan Labbe-Jarrel, photo by Don Talley