Coming Back Christmas

Tante Elsie

One must leave one’s mountains
one must descend early in the day
through ice and snow, fog banks,
ripped up trees and branches helter-skelter,
one must leave one’s silent warm cabin on Christmas
and descend through the trees
down the long grade in fog, way down.
One must leave one’s silent cabin 
full of fire, full of sadness,
silent, remembering,
on Christmas one must come to family,
come down through the trees 
while smoke curls up through the woods,
come down to help old Tante by her stove,
down to a place with children, with messes,
with pots and pans helter-skelter in Tante’s kitchen,
where there will be singing and jigs playing,
“Ihr Kinderlein kommet” and the Crist-kindl,
chocolates in tree branches and sooty fingers,
the old stove that pops and moans,
family groaning around the table,
with resentments, accomplishments, aches and pains,
medicines and red wine and forgotten addresses,
all of us elbow-to-elbow, hunters and hairdressers,
poets and plumbers,
day-to-day survivors making do.
One must come in a hurry on Christmas,
come gladly to the loud rooms of one’s family,
full of judgments and kind advice,
full of wariness and unspoken joys.
One must remember to leave one’s quiet warm cabin 
full of sadness
and come down each Christmas, be pulled magnetic
to let one’s heart warm again unbidden,
with no plan, just you, and nothing else.


Annelinde Metzner
December 25, 2005
Phoenix Cove


I wrote this poem in 2005 one year after my son passed away, and we had been hit by two hurricanes in Autumn.  I am honoring my wonderful ancestors who have passed into the spirit, and I thank them for how they taught me to love life every single day.

My son Peter

La Reina de America

Nuestra Senora de Guadalupe, all photos by Sylvia Ponce

We honored our Great Mother,
Queen of America,
filling the largest stadium in Charlotte with our joy.
There She was, emblazoned with gold and light,
Her joyous followers all gathered in love.
The people danced, children and elders,
sturdy young men leaping and stamping,
bright colors flashing.  For Her!  For Her!
Quietly She gazed as group after group
paid homage to Her with their dances and their prayers.
The men sang, the musicians played, for Her.
Tears streamed down my face.
“This is my world,” my soul was whispering,
my roughed-up soul, who had seen such deceit,
my soul who had come face-to-face so recently
with disrespect, violence, viciousness and lies.
“This is my world,” She whispered to me,
pouring from my face in tears,
tears of recognition, relief, remembrance.
Empress of the Americas!
Flags of all colors, North, South and Central,
paraded the aisle with a flourish and a spin, for Her.
Children gazed in wonder, 
shiny black hair beribboned with color.
A man with Her image on his poncho, Juan Diego!
Ready for the North Carolina cold.
“Que Viva la Reina de America!” (Viva!)
“Que viva la Morenita Virgencita!” (Viva!)
Tears on my face, my soul leaping, 
the parade continued before Her,
teenagers with boxes full of roses,
young men leaping, feathers flying,
all for Her, and there She is smiling,
my soul weeping, all of us cheering,
a glad returning to this night for Her,
for all of us, for the beauty of the world,
for the healing,
La Reina de America.

Annelinde Metzner
Feast of Our Lady of Guadalupe
December 12, 2016

Just Friday

(a spontaneous poem from the beach)

It’s forty-five degrees, and the water feels even colder,
But I splash in the foam like Aphrodite, 
even though I’m almost sixty.
And I’m NOT SHOPPING.
A kite is suspended in the sky,
so much wind that no one at all is holding the string,
and it stays suspended for hours,
and the kite is NOT SHOPPING.
A child builds palmetto fronds into an altar in the sand,
a  child NOT SHOPPING.
A boy out in the ocean paddles by on some board,
paddling along in the ocean, 
looking for all the world like Jesus,
and certainly Jesus would not be shopping.
Two dogs whirl around each other ,
joy sparking off of them like the flash of Venus in the night,
like the Pleiades in the dark moon night,
and today is just Friday, and no one is shopping.

Annelinde Metzner
Isles of Palms, South Carolina
November 25, 2011

Tell a Woman

Tell a woman that, deep inside,

deep in her heart, where no one can see,

she holds the flame that lights the world.

Tell a woman that no one can ever extinguish that flame.

Not anyone,  be he bigger than her, stronger than her, 

faster than her, angrier than her, 

drunker than her, more convinced he is right.

This flame is our secret, all women’s.  We are born with it.

With this flame, we work two jobs while raising three kids,

and we give them piano lessons.

With this flame, we cross oceans

so our children can grow up strong without stigma.

With this flame, we nurse our elders, 

and our young ones too,

often at the same time, 

keeping an eye on bill payments,

scrounging for food and rent.

Tell a woman she has a huge bright flame 

ready to flare up in her heart,

and she’s not alone.   We all have one,

we who walk tall, and we who are under the thumb,

we who speak here now, and we who have been silenced,

we all share this flame, it’s an eternal flame,

it’s hot, and it’s brilliant, and it never goes away.

Tell a woman, this is our birthright, this is who we are,

we, the women, the people of the womb,

who carry the world, who yearn for love and honor,

who, somewhere deep inside, 

will never be denied, will never give in.

Tell a woman, this is who we are, 

all of us aflame, all of us women,

all of us carrying that precious fire

that guides our days, 

that reminds us of what this life really means,

that shows us its light and tells us how to move,

how to be, how to turn, how to love each day.

Tell a woman, she has a pure flame deep in her heart

that can never be extinguished, that cannot be pushed under,

that can never be broken, 

that does not bleed away,

that cannot be raped or beaten down,

that can only rise higher, 

that flares up within us,

and with each step brightens, and lights our way,

brighter and brighter, as we see our flames

more clearly, more loudly, more assuredly, more proudly,

all of us gazing at that brand new day,

not much longer now, just on the horizon,

when we look at a woman and know,

with her light, she leads the way.

Annelinde Metzner

January 15, 2013

I wrote this poem in 2013 for an event called "One Billion Rising" envisioned by Eve Ensler and celebrated around the world.  This event, and my poem, were created to bring women together to know their own power, and to break the chains that bind us.
      Here are a couple of photos from the event.

Myself reading at "One Billion Rising"

Listeners at the event

The Eaters of Death

Artwork by Maria Silmon which appears in We'Moon with my poem

Scarcely a day’s rain 
and the white mushroom emerges jubilant
above the crackle of dry leaves,
opening wide to the light.
On the broken branch, the “dead” branch,
the lovely jade of Bushy Beard lichen, usnea strigosa,
grows riotous, joyful for this moment,
green flowers alien and graceful, exquisitely turned.
The dying tree hosts lichen of all colors,
shapes and textures rivaling Picasso or Matisse.
This is Death in the forest!  What ecstasy!
This is one end of life’s continuum,
one tip of the see-saw, wheeee! 
“We gobble up Death, it’s our specialty,
it’s where we love to live.
Give us Death and let us create,
regenerate, revive, renew!
We’re eaters of Death, alive once more,
and eager, eager for YOU!”

Annelinde Metzner
December 29, 2013

It has only been a week between poems, and this is my poem featured on page 162 of the We'Moon Datebook, 2016.  I was inspired by lichen growing on dead trees, and seeing how in nature we witness regeneration constantly.  There is death, but it is a renewal, just one small part of the never-ending life cycle.  I liked putting in the sharp bite of a reminder that we, too, are part of the cycle.

Usnea Strigosa

 

The Way

We'Moon Datebook 2016 with art and poetry by women

The way the young apprentices, full of hope,
count seeds at Vandana Shiva’s farm.
The way the thin, nervous girl, damaged by war,
throws back her head and sings.
The way Wangari Maathai taught us
to plant trees in tin cans,
making Kenya green again.
The way the women of Sahara Peace Choir come to sing,
envisioning a green city park under the tar.
The way Lisa Shannon laughs in the face of violence,
running for her sisters in Somalia and the Congo.
The way two round women rise to dance,
their hands gesturing aloft,
constructing a future of wonder before our eyes.
The way a shimmering ray of sunshine
cuts through the fog and lands at our feet.
We meet in Love, in Honoring, and in Passion!
We create a new world,
as the old world breaks down all around us,
and we just let it.
This is the way.



Annelinde Metzner
July 9, 2014

Right now, for the week of October 24th, 2016, my poem, "The Way," is featured in the We'Moon Datebook.  I am so happy and proud to have three poems included in this wonderful anthology of works by women.  
     In this poem, I have a world view encompassing strong women from all over the globe such as Wangari Maathai (deceased now) of Kenya and Vandana Shiva of India.  Their brilliant and tireless work for women and the planet is shaping the future for all of us.  
     And, the small daily acts of women you know, nearby, in your own neighborhood.  Thus I include Sahara Peace Choir of Asheville, which I direct.  This photo is from a singing demonstration at our basilica, to help lobby for more green space instead of a parking lot!

Vandana Shiva developing and protecting heirloom seeds

Wangari Maathai (1940-2011) organizing reforesting in Kenya

Sahara Peace Choir singing for green space in Asheville

Autumn Fullness

Gathering Catskill apples

Such abundant richness!
Apples ripening, apples of Avalon,
every grain at its fullest,
amaranth, oats and wheat.
Milkweed pods, ready for Monarchs,
about to burst open and float away.
Goldenrod flowers bend on their stalks.
Blackberries, raspberries for the bear’s delight.
There is no coolness yet, no frost,
but still, we are storing away,
all living beings, storing away,
aware at some level of the icy cold to come.
Autumn! Why have I not seen your fullness,
your round abundance, your gifts?
Seed after seed on the underside of ferns.
Burrs clinging to our clothes.
Dragonflies dip and soar across the field,
bees and hummingbirds gorging.
Oh, round fullness of Autumn!
My mouth opens:  feed me.

Annelinde Metzner
September 1, 2015

What the Mountain Says

Some days I can tell what the mountain is saying.

Light plays against each leaf, so close

I could hold the mountain here in my hand.

Cloud shadows pass over, giving homage.

The tall mountain ash quivers in the wind,

a girl new to womanhood,

shining light back at the mountain.

The pokeberry spreads gloriously

at the base of the mountain,

mirroring its shape like a cool lake.

The cat and kitten tumble and scurry,

joyous to live by the mountain.

The locust tree holds her long arms perfectly still,

to frame the mountain in beauty.

I feel the mountain only in my heart.

The mind can hear but not know.

The mountain's heart speaks to my heart,

but her meaning is deeper, from the womb.

Perhaps I bleed some of the mountain into the ground.

Perhaps she pulls me into her, 

making me die, making me be born.

Annelinde Metzner 
July 1995

Love for the world

Balinese dancer

I watch the dancer, one arm framing her face,
one hip drawing upward in the belly’s rhythm.
The dance of mature women, Raqs Sharqi,
born of the sensuous music of the Middle East.
Her hips pull us into infinity,
an inward-outward shout of beauty and desire.

In Cameroon, babies learn music
while strapped to Mama’s back.
Coming of age, boys leap high,
beaming with the village’s newfound respect.

In Bali, the gamelan orchestra cues the dancer
with clangs and thumps,
the bodies telling stories of monsters and gods,
each movement of eyes, and fingers, and feet
a perfectly timed posture of sacred geometry.

Oh humans, oh, humans, can’t you love all this?
Can’t you love the way we’ve created the world,
each culture born of each unique place,
and each of us expressing in our own way?
Doesn’t this beauty tear at your heart,
that everywhere we draw up our Earth’s strength
through our feet, through our hands,
and we thank Her with leaps and turns,
ecstatic to be stretching our bounds?

Oh people of our Earth, can’t you love all this?
The exquisite mudras of Bharat Natyam,
nuances of the courtship of Radha and Krishna, her love?
The kibbutz youth, leaping to dumbek and flute,
‘til joy bursts like fireworks from the chest?

Oh humans, oh infinite diversity,
aren’t you breathtaken, aren’t you amazed?
don’t you treasure each other, for the vastness
of what, together, we are?

Annelinde Metzner
August 23, 2014
Black Mountain

Boys practice drumming in Cameroon

Dancers on an Israeli kibbutz

Raqs Farqi, belly dancer

Bharat Natyam dancer of India playing Krishna's flute

I Am With You

No one can talk me out of the hurt he caused me.
                                                 -The Stanford Rape Victim

Brava, brave one, hurt one, raped one.
Voice this loudly, with all the power you can summon!
Brava, brave young woman of Palo Alto,
“Stanford Rape Victim” the only name we know.
But you speak, you voice this loudly!
Your deposition twelve pages, single-spaced,
letting us know, letting the world know,
letting the court know
what he did to you, what they all did to you.

“You don’t know me, but you’ve been inside me,
      and that’s why we’re here today.”
 
Raped behind a dumpster after a party, unconscious,
pine needles and dirt rubbed into your body.
Painstakingly you described the ordeal.

At the hospital- 
       “a Nikon pointed right into my spread legs...”
the immediate aftermath-  
        “I didn’t talk, I didn’t eat, I didn’t sleep...”
the aftereffects-  
       “I didn’t want my body anymore.  I was terrified of it.”
the news media-  
        “By the way, he’s really good at swimming.”
 
Brava, brave one, voicing this for us all!
Your profound work, your deposition
is out on the table for us all,
for young men and for young women,
now at last out in the open, the vividness of your truth.

After a physical assault, I was assaulted with questions
      designed to attack me, to say, 
            “see, her facts don’t line up.”
 
You gave this back to the world, saying “chew on this!”
and we have. We hear you!
The world will never be the same,
never again to doubt your truth and your pain.
The world has changed.  There is no turning back.

I can’t sleep alone at night without a light on.
  I have nightmares of being touched when I cannot wake up.
 
Brava, strong one, give it voice! 
Spare the world nothing of your truth!

And finally, to girls everywhere, I am with you.
      On nights when you feel alone, I am with you.
 
I bow in thanks, a thousand thanks, to you, victim-no-more.
For the sake of girls, the next ones and the next,
you gave of your all, you gave us your truth,
the screaming depths of your pain.
Brava!



(All quotes in italics are taken from the deposition of the Stanford Rape Victim,  reported in Buzzfeed, June 3, 2016 by Katie Baker.)

Annelinde Metzner
July 2016

Here Is The Powerful Letter The Stanford Victim Read Aloud To Her Attacker  (click here)

A former Stanford swimmer who sexually assaulted an unconscious woman was sentenced to six months in jail because a longer sentence would have “a severe impact on him,” according to a judge. At his sentencing Thursday, his victim read him a letter describing the “severe impact” the assault had on her.

Katie J.M. Baker

BuzzFeed News Reporter

posted on Jun. 3, 2016, at 4:17 p.m.

One night in January 2015, two Stanford University graduate students biking across campus spotted a freshman thrusting his body on top of an unconscious, half-naked woman behind a dumpster. This March, a California jury found the former student, 20-year-old Brock Allen Turner, guilty of three counts of sexual assault. Turner faced a maximum of 14 years in state prison. On Thursday, he was sentenced to six months in county jail and probation. The judge said he feared a longer sentence would have a “severe impact” on Turner, a champion swimmer who once aspired to compete in the Olympics — a point repeatedly brought up during the trial.
On Thursday, Turner’s victim addressed him directly, detailing the severe impact his actions had on her — from the night she learned she had been assaulted by a stranger while unconscious, to the grueling trial during which Turner’s attorneys argued that she had eagerly consented.
The woman, now 23, told BuzzFeed News she was disappointed with the “gentle” sentence and angry that Turner still denied sexually assaulting her.
“Even if the sentence is light, hopefully this will wake people up,” she said. “I want the judge to know that he ignited a tiny fire. If anything, this is a reason for all of us to speak even louder.”
 

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