Ariadne

Goddess Ariadne
Mistress of the Labyrinth
Liquefy the walls of my
Rib Cage.

Reach into my chest with your
Spool of red thread.
Tug at me ‘til I can see the
Light of your face.

Slayed a monster made of memories
Lurking in the shadows of my
Labyrinth of atria and
Ventricles and veins.

Curled up and fell asleep
Right next to its corpse.
It’s cozy in the dark, but
Now it’s growing cold.

Dreamt that I was well again
Down here in the depths
Believing in my slumber I was
Free as a dove.

Woke up to a ball of red
Thread and she was wrapped around my
Little finger, tugging at my
Heartstrings.

Goddess Ariadne
Mistress of the Labyrinth
Liquefy the walls of my
Rib Cage.

Reach into my chest with your
Spool of red thread.
Tug at me ‘til I can see the
Light of your face.

Wakened and disoriented
Following the call of a
Voice that was both far-off and
Familiar:

“Follow this path out of
Complacence into Truth.
Awaken to a love you’ve never
Known you never knew.”

Fervent and confused
Overcome by something new
A certainty that blinded all my
Senses

I stumbled through the dark ‘til I could
See sacred geometry.
She gazed at me; Her eyes were a
Sunset.

Goddess Ariadne
Mistress of the Labyrinth
Liquefy the walls of my
Rib Cage.

Reach into my chest with your
Spool of red thread.
Tug at me ‘til I can see the
Light of your face.

This is where the story takes an
Unexpected turn:
I won’t leave and you won’t die
Alone.

Together on this island
We’ll become eternal.
You’ll be queen and I’ll be god of
Revelry and wine.

Throw your rope into the sea.
You won’t be needing that with me.
Lay your head down instead
Here upon my chest.

The eruption of our love and
The alignment of our stars and
This collision of our souls
Transcends fate and time.

Goddess Ariadne
Mistress of the Labyrinth
Liquefied the walls of my
Rib Cage.

Reached into my chest
Expanded my heart
I’ll never live another day
Away from her grace.

I’m home now,
Basking in the light of her face.

The Haunted Womb

I have a Sacred Need
     To never birth a child;
          To be solely One
               Unto myself.

The only Soul who belongs
     To me
           In me
               Is me.

Invasions, expectations and 
     Expectancies, violating fantasies, 
          Assumptions and pregnancies
                Are not my cross to bear.

I have a Sacred Need
     To BE the Holy Child 
          That everybody seems
               To want me to conceive.

The only child who belongs
      To me
          In me
              IS me:

For thirty years forgotten,
     Invisible, neglected,
          Parentified, devalued,
               Typecast and ignored

By a family 
     That could only see
          My ability
               To be my brother’s keeper,

My mother’s caretaker,
     My sister’s protector, 
         My father’s enabler and
             My lover’s Manic Pixie Dream Girl. 

“Manic Pixie Dream Tarantula” 
     Said the t-shirt I tried
          To order online.
               That’s who I really am inside.

Earthy, furry, quietly wild,
     Magical, web-weaving, and potentially
          Dangerous 
               (but only for the staunchly uninitiated).

I’ve spent my whole life being 
     Forced to exist for 
         Someone else. Why would I 
               Force someone else to exist

 So that I could again 
Exist only for them?

My Sacred Need to NOT
     Is NOT a lack, an
          Absence, a void,
               Or deficiency.

It is the only space
     I feel free to be
          The muchness, the mostness
                The magnificence, the majesty that is

Me

Just me.

If only you knew
     The relentless fire
          That burns in my core with
               Destructive/Creative

Self-Realizing, Self-Actualizing
     Potential and Power,
          Then you'd understand why 
               I CANNOT compromise.

My Sacred Need to NOT
    Is NOT a selfish avoidance,
          An act of cowardice,
               Or a moral failure.

It is a loving embrace of my
     Womb full of cells that would
          Inevitably yield a
              Graveyard of Souls,

Were they to be nonconsensually
     Cursed with life reluctantly 
          Given by a woman who never felt 
               Called to be called “Mother.”

It IS the voice of my
     Maternal instinct ringing
          Deep in the ears of my Soul that says,
               “Leave them alone; They are at peace.”

My Sacred Need to NOT
     Is NOT a dismissal of my
          Sisters who are mothers.
               They felt their deep need to conceive

Just as deeply as my own Soul warned me,
    “That is NOT Your Way.” 
          Their path through birth
               Is not mine to deny, just as

My path through life is not
     Theirs, or yours,
          Or my boyfriend’s, or my girlfriend’s,
               Or my family’s, or society’s,

Or the (literally)
Motherfucking government’s.

It takes a village 
     To raise a child.
          How can I keep helping 
               Families in need If I’m

Always too busy with
     “My own” kids? 
           Does anyone really
                Own anyone else?

“Don’t bleed out on your Golden Path.”

No one can ever be 
     Spread too thin and
         Expect to arrive at their 
              Destiny in One Peace

Or at all.

Hymns of Irreverence

ALIGHT

Miriam Magdelene, Mother Maria
Who carries these Marys from legend to life?
Mothers and lovers of gods, I implore you
Slice through the bullshit and let truth alight.

Are you woman? Are you goddess? Are you mystic archetype?
One is shaded by false shame, the other blinded by false light.
Obscuration, obfuscation and fantastical projection
All that pedestalization all but buried you alive.

Miriam Magdelene, Mother Maria
Who carries these Marys from legend to life?
Mothers and lovers of gods, I implore you
Slice through the bullshit and let truth alight.

I was cast as Holy Virgin from the time I was fourteen
Skinny, pale and silent was the part I learned to play.
"Such a perfect mother," all the people coaxed and cooed
And just like Mother Mary’s, my true self was washed away.

Miriam Magdelene, Mother Maria
Who carries these Marys from legend to life?
Mothers and lovers of gods, I implore you
Slice through the bullshit and let truth alight.

I was twenty-three when my soul first met the Other.
"Magdelene," she called herself, and could she be Christ's lover?
"No," the voices of my patriarchal past insisted.
"At best, she was a penitent whore. By GRACE our God has fixed her!"

Miriam Magdelene, Mother Maria
Who carries these Marys from legend to life?
Mothers and lovers of gods, I implore you
Slice through the bullshit and let truth alight.

Despite false dichotomies,
Silence, shame, and hidden agendas,
Something deep inside of me
Felt Her as complex and tender.

Passion, grief, love, longing, fear
Spanned across all space and time.
Body, breath, dance, hair, and tears
Mine were Hers, and Hers were Mine.

Miriam Magdelene, Mother Maria
Who carries these Marys from legend to life?
Mothers and lovers of gods, I implore you,
Slice through the bullshit and let truth alight.

NIGHT WATCH

Life sliced me up and served me raw
So I gathered up my viscera
And I learned to make medicine from my body
For my body.

An angel of the light told me I had
Night vision, and that most would close their
Eyes, and they'd plug their
Ears, some might even

Bury me alive.
Just a handful
Might
Thank me.

I prayed to Lady Darkness and I
Cried to Mother Water and I
Cursed the fucking sun and I
Yearned toward Sister Moon, but

None of them could save me.
They all said, "Hey, we're here for you
But just so you know
We're in pain too."

Every time I see a hopeful
Light in someone's eyes, and I
Hear them fucking say,
"It feels so good to be alive," I

Disappear. They don't see
Pain, but pain sees you:
A porcelain facade
Of cracks and glue.

The angel saw an owl, and the
Owl was my body
A great and feathered beauty, and she
Never could die.

"Tell her she's eternally invincible," they said.
"Tell her," they insisted, for she truly doesn't know.”
What I'd really rather know is this:
How is that good news?

When death comes
And the shattering of my astral body scatters
Shards of me all across the cosmos
What will I have left?

Soul.

PLEASURE'S SORROWS

I'd wake up from a flying dream
Her arms and warmth would greet me
I'd sip warm milk, still half asleep
Then bask in morning light

The box of crayons right by my bed
Would beckon to be opened
I'd lift the lid and feel the swell of
Love for all color in sight

As a child, I desired to be just like Monet
To paint magic that captured the eye
In becoming the beauty I once longed to paint
I am hurting inside all the time

The music underwater like a
Siren pulled me in
She sang right through my body, songs that
Seeped into my skin

I had to hold her magic so I
Asked to learn to dance
I cried through that ballet class
And yet I kept coming back.

As a child, I desired to be just like Monet
To paint magic that captured the eye
In becoming the beauty I once longed to paint
I am hurting inside all the time

Once I dreamt in my darkest hour
I was blooming, a bright sunflower
Defiantly birthed from a crack in the road
Laden with the weight of glory

I awoke in human form and yearned
To be seen for me, and to be heard
Alone on that bridge, where I'd written the words
“Isolated, yet I'm on display"

I'm a child and desire to be just like Monet
To paint magic that captures the eye
In becoming the beauty I still long to paint
I am hurting inside all the time.

There Was a Time

23

There was a time when Shame was the loudest voice in my body. 

The silent scream of that black abyss coursed in me, around me, through me, and throughout me, utterly consuming, shutting out any and every Other voice that could not squeeze itself into her paradigm of Total Self-Annihilation.

Nothing that didn’t make sense to Shame could make sense to me. 
I couldn’t hear anyone else. couldn’t feel anyone else. couldn’t be reached. couldn’t be touched.
I could see other people, but they couldn’t see me.

Is Shame really gone?
Or is she chained down and locked up behind brightly painted, tightly sealed doors, all throughout the haunted house of my Body?

24

There was a time when I ached every goddamn day. 

My whole body ached with sorrow, loss, forgottenness.

The heartache was so big, it just didn’t fit inside my heart anymore. That tender organ burst open, leaking rivers and rivers of ache all throughout my being. 

I thought those rivers might never cease to overflow.

I remember writing, “It feels as though my heart is having a miscarriage.”

25

There was a time when I learned how to breathe fire.
Like any hard lesson, it started with a smackdown.
I was already so low, I didn’t think I could get any lower.
“Surprise,” said the smackdown.

I cried in the woods that day.
If I hadn’t, I never would have heard that little girl fall off her scooter. She was crying too.
I never would have been there to sop up her blood with my scarf, or to teach her how to breathe through the pain.

26

There was a time when my faith crumbled into pieces all around me.
I saw it one day, laying at my feet, a great and glorious tragedy of ancient stone ruins.

I remember writing around that time that I felt like the burning bush in the middle of the wilderness.* I burned and I burned and I burned, and yet even the sweet relief of death was not in the cards for me. 

My teacher asked me, “What is the texture of your crisis?”

I said my chest had collapsed in on herself like a cave, and every last shred of hope and meaning I’d ever clung to had been gouged out of my heart.

She said, “That sounds viscerally painful.”

All the same, when you see that vast expanse of open sky where the roof used to be, it’s hard to want to unsee it.

27

There was a time when I decided I could handle it all.

Work seven days a week this month? No problem.
Manage nine projects at once? I’m on it.
Family’s still dysfunctional? I’ve got it under control.
World’s falling apart? Not to worry. I’ve been TRAINED for this!!

Then she died.

I went into shock.
Found out between two gigs, and just went to the next one.
Inertia is a property of matter.

When it finally hit me, my world stopped.

I remember kneeling before her body. She was still 15.
I thought I might have shredded that plush velvet communion rail, my fingernails were scratching it so hard.
Only her little brother recognized me.

At her remembrance ceremony, I read the journal entry I’d written years earlier about her 5th-grade graduation speech. They all laughed. Then they all cried.

All the while, the pain was creeping up the back of my neck.

28

There was a time when I decided to leave Shame behind.

“If I can’t have my faith anymore, then at least I can have everything else,” was something along the lines of how that logic went.

I did everything that had once been forbidden, claimed each experience that had been kept JUST out of reach.

Why didn’t I feel better?

All the while, the pain kept creeping up the back of my neck.

29

There was a time when the pain reached a fever pitch.

It had crawled up my skull, blaring like two silent smoke alarms I could never shut off.

I said, “Enough.”
I said, “Let’s fix this.”

I waged a holy war against everything and everyone that was hurting me.

I cut, I burned, I cleansed, I purged.
I quit, I left, I resigned.
I deconstructed, reconstructed, destroyed, disarmed, dismantled.

I coughed shit up, I spat people out, and I renounced every non-consensual role to which I’d ever been relegated.

I told my friend I was on a killing spree.
She said I reminded her of Kali.**

30

There is a time called “Repair.”
The pain is still there.

Sometimes she sears, like a hot welding torch.
Sometimes she cracks, like sharp, jagged stones.
Sometimes she’s raw and tender, like a fox’s leg caught in a trap.
Sometimes she sits and sits and sits in a tense, agitated state, squirming like a restless child who’s been forcibly instructed not to move.
Sometimes she’s brittle and dry, like fragile autumn leaves.

Is Shame really gone?

I still catch glimpses of her silent screams, just under my skin.
Are they echoes? memories? ghosts?

Or is Shame chained down and locked up behind brightly painted, tightly sealed doors, all throughout the haunted house of my Body?

References:

Ecclesiastes 3:1-8: https://poets.org/poem/ecclesiastes-31-8

*Exodus 3:1-17: https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Exodus%203:1-17&version=NIV

**Hindu Goddess of Time, Creation, Destruction, and Power: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kali

The Most Difficult and Beautiful Year.

I. A Fury of Fragility

From the thunderclap emerged pure tears of music. Rainfall dripped and bled, tapping gently upon the shoulder of her silent heart grenade, which released a furious explosion of mourning glories, tumultuous cascades of deepest sadness, and crystal waves of invincible love.

The eruption shattered her skin
And their prettily manageable delusions.
 

II. When I Think About Your Soul

When I think about your soul,
I feel warm waves washing up on the shores of my heart
And I feel pure, healing blood spilling out all over the sky in that deep, blue hue that cries over us every night
Right before the stars come out.

Terrifyingly tender.
A heart of flesh,
Warm-blooded supple skin,
Scent of mint and fresh life.

Close your eyes
Lose your mind
Release it to the rain and become

unencumbered

By visions of a sunrise
Seeping from Her intimate embrace.
 

III. The Beauty Never Broke

The beauty never broke;
It was only the window.

Quivering leaves,
Stained glass,
Happy Birthday.

A bag of lavender,
Petals in a candle jar,
Jam made from apples and roses.

The aroma of death
Is the fragrance of life,
A pungent potpourri of
Beautiful, broken memories.

Fragility,
Like the bone structure of a baby bird,
Will survive the severest of stranglings.

Light, air, space and
Color

Will burst forth from the density of dark
As a rainbow from the rock.

A Very Brief Thought of Utmost Importance.

Why does the most meaningful beauty always seem to appear effortlessly? We learn all our lives that beauty is something to strive toward, to work at harder and harder with relentless energy and determination... and while there may be some element of truth to this, I find myself consistently floored each time I open my eyes to this greater truth: The most heart-melting, soul-shattering works of art are already painted into the simple scenes passing before our very eyes, like carousel horses. It is the least I can do to capture a few of these eternal glimpses of our passing lives with my humble pen. From these scenes, I derive my most divine inspiration, momentarily extracting the veil that lies over the surface of all Created Beauty.

I am reminded of a scene from Thornton Wilder's Our Town:

EMILY: Does anyone ever realize life while they live it - every, every minute?
STAGE MANAGER: No. The saints and poets, maybe. They do some.

Beloved friends, please don't close your eyes. Your life is so tender and exquisite.

Love,
Hannah