Tell a Woman

One billion women rising

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, within our hearts, 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 25, 2013



"One Billion Rising"
          In conjunction with its 15th anniversary, V-Day, a global activist movement to end violence against women and girls, launched its most ambitious campaign to date -         ONE BILLION RISING. The concept of the campaign is simple. If you take into account the statistic that 1 out of 3 women will experience violence in her lifetime, you are left with the staggering statistic that over 1 billion women on this planet will be impacted by violence. On V-Day's 15th Anniversary, 2.14.13, V-Day is inviting ONE BILLION women and those who love them to WALK OUT, DANCE, RISE UP, and DEMAND an end to this violence. V-Day wants the world to see our collective strength, our numbers, our solidarity across borders.


Watch as Alice Walker explains the beauty of dancing for One Billion Rising.  Look for an event in your community on Valentine's Day, February 14, 2013.  

 

Thank you, Hillary

Hillary Clinton in Ireland, September 2012

A deep relaxation, an exhalation, a gratefulness,
knowing you have been there to represent us,
you, so much a woman, the mother of a woman,
the daughter of a woman, one of us.
Hillary, you inspired us, with your bravery, your clarity,
your firmness, your discernment on the world’s stage.
High up in the echelons, you represented 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



Click here for an article in the Huffington Post about Hillary's future as a presidential candidate in 2016.  One former aide says, "Never say never."

 

 

The sheer lace curtain

Photo by Ann Laudati

Icy white curves of pure sunshine
come through the white lace curtain
surprised, as if the Sun
had tumbled into a clothes dryer
full of lace undies.
I can’t fully see the day,
She is so veiled, so disguised
in honeycombs of lace,
lace petals of flowers,
filigrees and tendrils,
flirtatious as flickering flame
even though the glass is frozen.
It’s twenty degrees today, even at the beach,
January. A world white as lace,
and hiding something too, maybe hiding a year,
a whole new year, a brand new number,
the world not quite discernible
beyond the sheer lace curtain,
January delicate and lovely, thin as lace.
The Sun, as bright as He can be,
happily cascading into white roses of lace,
caught in time, in January’s sheer wonderment,
the unknowing, the promise of the future,
beyond somewhere, waiting.

Annelinde Metzner     
January 17, 2009

January beach

New Year's Gathering

Candle circle at Hawkscry, New Year's 2012

         “Come, come, whoever you are,
          wanderer, worshiper, lover of leaving.”
 
We come New Year’s day, to Sandy Mush,
that Shangri-la, quiet always, but quieter still, this January day,
the rapeseed fields lying fallow, waiting for Spring’s yellow,
the old dogs and the old farmers beside their wood stoves.

         “Ours is no caravan of despair.”
 
And it isn’t!   Many old friends, one behind the other
to get there for sharing warm food and warm regards,
to share births, deaths, all the new, all the new.
The caravan shifts on the leaf-layered road,
and one tire goes ‘way out over the abyss.
“Stop the car!” and everyone hops out.
What to do?  But a neighbor has a come-along.
This has gone on before, so many times before,
at the end of a long dirt road, where we are our own future,
it’s only us, and what we can do,
stuck on the road in winter.
Twenty arms and hands, a dozen brains
ponder and work, trying this and that,
pulling here and tugging there,
until, voila!  the van is free with its big load,
a wheelchair and four eager passengers.
We’re free!

            “Come yet again, come!”  
   
Arriving up at the top of the road,
laden with food and one more good story,
we eat, hug, regale and gather around the flames, lighting candles for the world,
for our futures and all peoples’, 
for making it one more day in this body.
Out to the woods to dance beneath the grey, bare trees,
for Allah, for God, for the Goddess,
and to remember, as grey winter clouds lumber gloriously across the sky,
we are all here together in this.
We are all one.

          "Come, come, whoever you are,
           come, yet again, come."       (Jelaluddin Rumi)


Annelinde Metzner 
Hawkscry    
January 4, 2012


Many thanks to William and Jane Stanhope for sharing their beautiful land in Sandy Mush, North Carolina for my writing, my spirit and my peace of mind.  


Listen to Annelinde reading "New Year's Gathering" here.
 

Many brains, strong backs and a come-along.

Coming Back Christmas

Christmas at Phoenix Cove

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 

Star the Cat in the snow

Joyous Yule!

Praises to the return of the Sun!
Now on this Solstice day,
Suspended, awaiting the Earth's glad turn,
No farther will we stray.

Praises to the warm, dark Earth!
Our mother, our nourishing home.
Safe She keeps us, and well indeed
Wherever we may roam.

Praises to the singing of songs!
Beloved signs of life.
We gather together in joy and love,
And release all strain and strife.

Annelinde Metzner
December 21, 2012

Landfillharmonic

Ada plays her recycled violin

“We don’t throw away people either.”
A town built on a landfill,
the people of Cateura, Paraguay spend their lives each day
sorting out the last usable bits in the trash.
The water, the air, all are poisoned with waste and runoff.
Here, Szaran and Favio taught the children music.
On a cello made of an oil can,
Bebi, age 19, smilingly offers the ineffable beauty
of the Bach cello suites.
“When I hear the violin, I get butterflies,
says Ada, age 13.
“I don’t know how to explain it.”
Drying out old flour sacks,
and following the garbage trucks,
the people make a few pennies to survive.
“You can’t have a violin here.  
It would cost more than your house.”
And now, an orchestra of children,
the children of the landfill town,
an orchestra of instruments reclaimed from the trash.
“My life would be meaningless without music,”
says a girl, as delicate as the strains she picks out on the strings.
How this world is cruel, unkind, unjust,
and full of miracles!
“We don’t throw people away either.”

Annelinde Metzner
December 14, 2012

Watch some of the Cateura children in the Landfillharmonic here. 

Bebi plays the cello made from an oil can

A girl from Cateura plays her violin

Love Cannot Be Silenced

Sister Kathy Sherman, composer

The sisters were stunned, angry and confused.
The Leadership Conference of Women Religious,
a voice for most of the nuns,
had spoken its beliefs-  health care for all,
concern for the poor in their care.
The Vatican fathers condemned the nuns
for their “radical feminist themes.”
For focusing too much on poverty!
On economic injustice!
Who is the Christian here, who practices the Way?
Whose feet are out on the streets,
side by side with the poor?
Two days after the condemnation,
Sister Sherman felt a song coming,
on the wings of the spirit dove.
“Love Cannot Be Silenced,”
she heard, and wrote it down.
“It never has, it never will.”
She sang for her sisters at supper,
and they felt the spirit dove too.
The people emerged on the streets of Iowa and Illinois,
everywhere the sisters had reached their hands in love.
Thanking them, defending them, the hands and feet of Christ:
Rise up, sisters, rise up!
“God Bless the Sisters,”
Holy fire in their eyes!

Annelinde Metzner
December 7, 2012


Click here to listen to Sister Sherman's song, "Love Cannot Be Silenced," and to see protests from all over the US.


Read more about Sister Sherman and the LCWR here. 

 

 

High on the Sacred Mound

In the bare grey branches of the apple tree
     high on the sacred mound,
the Goddess.

In the patches of pure white snow,
     still lying deep in the grass despite all day’s sun,
the Goddess.

In the twists and turns of the fallen tree
     reaching back into the Earth,
the Goddess.

In my hand putting pen to paper,
     gloved and warm in the bracing sunshine,
the Goddess.

In the curve of the Earth above the mound,
     where land ends and deep space begins,
the Goddess.

In the last butterfly,
     still hunting merrily for blossoms in the cold air,
the Goddess.

In my lungs, deep and warm under layers of clothing,
     inhaling this sweet and precious air,
the Goddess.

Is there anywhere She is not?
Doesn’t She know us in every way?

In the profound quiet of this November day,
     halfway to winter, the pure air on my skin,
     I have Her, I’m with Her, She moves me,
     She impels me to live for Her passionately,
my Queen, my Goddess.

Annelinde Metzner
November 9, 2012

 

This Fire Blazes

This Fire Blazes

This fire blazes, crying “I will defend You!”
My mother, Earth, I will defend you
      when greed fouls your waters with black oil,
      when ignorance and pride leak radiation into your soil,
      when desperate fear invents “fracking”
      to rape you deep down to your core.
This fire arises in me, crying “I will defend You!”

This fire defends the world’s women,
      when a seventeen-year-old is publicly beaten
      for wearing pants under her burka,
      when five-year-olds are bred for slavery and prostitution,
      when women cannot count upon a safe night’s sleep at home.
This fire arises, crying “I will defend You!”

This fire defends the Goddess.
      Exquisite one, source of all Life,
      within our Earth and within our Bodies,
      Giver of Love and Abundance, holder of Power,
      I am your warrior!
      Not on my watch will You be the harlot,
      the evil witch eating children.
      As we once were burned for Your love,
      so our Fire will restore You,
      Your warmth, Your brilliance,
      Your Fire.


Annelinde Metzner
August 20, 2011


Listen to Annelinde reading "This Fire Blazes" at our concert, "Lady of Ten Thousand Names" on August 18, 2012.   CDs and DVDs are available- click the BUY tab!
  

Click on BUY tab to purchase a CD or DVD of "This Fire Blazes"

The bone drum

Peter Metzner

The bone drum                                                    

On my living room floor sits the Bone Drum.
One Christmas, long ago,
my bright flaming son Peter,
all of seventeen,
brought home this gift for me.
A slit drum of wood, meticulously carved
so that the rounded joints of the bone
play tones!  One side minor,
one side major, all interlocked,
drawing the player into a numinous soundscape
of warm, rounded maple.
In another room, in a small wooden box
are little bones, tiny pieces of bones
too big to burn in cremation’s fire,
all that’s left of my bright flaming son.
How this world is a mystery!
My bone drum speaks from my living room floor,
calling, calling,
saying, “Play me! I am not just pieces of maple,
polished and pretty.
I will carry you with my magic tones
beyond and beyond and beyond.”
My son’s bones sit in their tiny box, calling to me too.
“Fly, Mom, fly!  We are not just bones! 
We are so much more.
We rise like the Phoenix in orange and gold.
From this one tiny point, this bone, this life,
we expand, we dissolve into everything!
We are everywhere, Mom, do not forget,
Augra was right, I’m the drum, I’m the tree,
I’m the eyes of a child, I’m a doorway.”
Out of this amalgam of minerals and ash,
borne from the shape of bone and drum,
we fly, we fly, we sing!




Annelinde Metzner
November 16, 2012

The bone drum

Jubilation in Kenya

At 3 AM, I awake, remembering the day,
and turn on the radio.   Jubilation in Kenya!
Barack Obama has won again, in the USA,
Kogelo village’s own “greatest son.”
A night of dancing and ululation
has given way to a bright morning,
more dancing, more of this joy.
“He has the knowledge to love all people,”
says Mama Sarah Obama, the president’s step-grandma.
“He doesn’t have the knowledge of division.”
Sitting patiently together, watching the results come in,
the people lift their plastic chairs in rhythmic celebration.
“I am beyond joy!” says one.
“God chose Barack, it is his time,” says Mama Sarah.
“I had full faith and confidence he was going to win.”
Laughter and jubilation, confidence and joy.
Schools close for the day, a giant feast is planned.
“Obama cannot forget us.”


Annelinde Metzner
November 13, 2012

I cannot grasp Her power

Hurricane Sandy from satellite

Beneath us, quiet as it is, this power

links directly to my heart.

Fresh, cool, down in the layers,

the emerald, the sapphire:

the power of the mountains is with us, everywhere.

Today, as if posing for a portrait,

She is holding still, so still,

holding each branch forth with her immense grace,

available to us, almost shy.

The mountain, enshrouded today, is retreating in heavy fog,

head in the clouds, really.

She is seen, and She fades.  She is seen, and She fades.

As for me, I’m but a puppet, magnetized,

a whirling skater upon a mirror,

a slave to Her power.

Autumn and Winter, Spring and Summer,

pulling the Moon, and being pulled,

She turns so slowly, so beyond our ken,

each minute shift is an avalanche on Denali,

a hurricane in Cuba, a rock slide in Tennessee.

I cannot grasp Her power.

Now and then, a turn in the path, a change in the weather,

and I glimpse the mountain’s power, the ageless magnetism.

I feel Her pulling my eyelids down at night,

pinching me to leap for joy in the day...

but She is so far beyond me to know,

I am only here to witness, to glimpse and guess,

to be propelled through my life, a leaf on the wind,

at the mercy of Her grace.

Annelinde Metzner

Wildacres Retreat

October 29, 2009 

Grandfather Mountain in clouds

 

Autumn Samba

The bite of fresh compost,
sharp leaf mold in the wind.
Goodbye to the galax,
farewell to the creeper,
“Adios” to the chokecherry vines.
It’s the majestic farewell,
the queen’s farewell.
It’s delicious, it’s numinous, it’s forever!
This is the goodbye of no tears but the rain’s.
Goodbye as relaxed as Guernseys in the alfalfa,
as relaxed as three women in a hot tub.
It’s goodbye, never more be seen,
and it smells like Paris perfume.
It lifts the feet. It’s Fred Astaire.
It’s a lilting “adieux.” It’s bagpipes.
It’s all the cousins waving.
Orange, red, a fandango,
it’s forever, it’s the end,
and if you twirl and spin your way down,
you’ve got the idea.


Annelinde Metzner 
Phoenix Cove       
September 2001

VOTE

America has a choice, and it’s black and white.
No woman this time, for President,
(but our time is coming soon.)
Even so, who loves the Woman?
Whom do you choose?
Which of the men loves hierarchy,
     loves to be on top,
     must be the top,
     feels entitled to own the world,
     to govern women’s bodies?
(And we know the World and the Woman are the same.)
America has a choice, and it’s black and white.
Which of the men loves and respects Woman,
     seeks what we think,
     knows our bodies are ours to govern,
     expects us to own power, the world over,
     meets us on the World’s stage as equals?
Who will champion us to love whomever we will?
Who will let the soft side rule, let Woman rule,
     and allow Love and Community to return?
Who would rather align the world by rank, with him on top,
     sanctioned by the wrathful god,
     narrowing and narrowing our choices until we all choke?
America has a choice, and it’s black and white.




Annelinde Metzner
October 18, 2012

Holle

Holle

The hard wind tearing through the Nantahala Forest
is the big swift hand of Grandmother,
getting crumbs off the table, thoughtlessly,
readying for the next thing, washing clothes or serving soup.
In the hollow, under the cold wind, you are the crumb!
You may like it here, but you’re gone!
Loud and long the fierce winds howl through the deep forest.
She brushes Her hand, and ancient oaks crash, obedient to Her will.
The Rhododendron stands patient through eons and eons,
accustomed to the Grandmother’s whims.
Her brown and mossy stems meet and turn exquisitely,
solid, rooted, yet reaching for air,
a ballet on the brown forest floor.
Her leathery broad leaves are good for all winter,
each whorl of leaves a brilliant, fleeting thought.
They call this Rhododendron Hell:
Hell, Holle, the Holy, the One Who Lives Death.
Plants and animals die here, ecstatic
to feed Her, to become the next thing.
I, too, would die for Her, here at Her feet in the Nantahala Forest.
“Guten abend, guten Nacht,” sings Grandmother,
tucking me in as I dissolve into nutriment.
Here at Holle’s side, Her perfect whorls elegant,
I’d wash into dirt at the first icy rain, rejoin the family of all being,
sing the green songs of the ages.
Fierce winds tear through here, uprooting oaks.
I sleep at Her feet until whenever She needs me.

Annelinde Metzner
Rattler's Ford, Joyce Kilmer Forest
October 29, 1995

To the City

                                          

We’re going to the City, we would say,
     all of fourteen and thrilled to the core.
My world, my growing up in New York.
Out in the boroughs, quiet, same,
     a drone’s life, just enough money to live.
But get on the bus, get on the train,
     and Eureka!  It’s Manhattan.
Up the subway steps and out into the air.
You never know what might happen!
Every step is an adventure, we learned,
     every street corner a new world,
     every turn opening a thousand possibilities.
Who will you be tomorrow?  Who are you today?
Wearing Nana’s old fur coat,
     dragging and torn, over my jeans,
     I scooted between moving cars, and up into the air.
Open, worlds!  Open, my mind!
What could be next?  The world my chocolate box,
     tripping up and down the streets,
     magic afoot in the City.

Annelinde Metzner
Larchmont, New York
October 2, 2012

Full Moon Over Rye, New York

Boom!  at four AM,
     truck tires slam over the ribs of the ramp
     to the interstate,
     crashing, crashing in their endless push
     to get somewhere.
Bars on the windows of my hotel room,
     as if some thief, agile as a spider,
     would climb up the walls
     to the third floor balcony.
Even in the dark of night,
     all is movement, life at full tilt
     in Rye, New York.
And yet, this night,
     as I creep out in the late-September cold,
     the Moon, white as a billiard ball,
     shines bright, disappearing through a curtain of clouds.
"My Moon is here!" cries the four-year-old.
     And She is!
As if this were some mountain hollow,
     the stars peep through, 'way above the glare of lights.
"You're home," says the Moon,
     pulling at me still, in Rye, New York.

Annelinde Metzner
Rye, New York
September 30, 2012