POEM: To the Queen of Heaven

juno_vatican

Let it not be said that there are no goddesses in heaven.

Let it not be said that all goddesses are of earth.

Let no one deny the sovereignty of Juno,

queen of heaven, lady of the sky.

Praise to Juno whose domain is the heavens.

Praise to Juno whose mantle is the clouds.

Praise to Juno whose handmaid is the rainbow.

Praise to Juno who both stirs and calms storms.

Praise to Juno, wife and mother, queen and matron,

protectress of all women whether slave or free, rich or poor.

Praise to Juno, equal to Jove, wise as Minerva,

steadfast as Vesta, free as Diana, beautiful as Venus.

Praise to Juno, protectress of women, shaper of heroes,

guardian of the nation, noblest of goddesses.

Ave Juno Dea!

 

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POEM: For Juno, on the Calends of her month

juno-sospita
Juno Sospites by Lykeia

I approach you, Dea Juno, Juno Regina: I see you

standing over me with queenly mien. Queen of heaven,

queen of gods, sovereign lady, you preside in state

on the Capitoline Hill with Jupiter and Minerva,

your husband and his daughter. Like Hera in Hellas,

you own the peacock as your bird; the stars are your eyes,

the rainbow your handmaid, the clouds your veil.

 

I come closer, and you are Juno Moneta, Juno Curitis.

Wrapped in the aegis, you advise the sacred king

and wield your spear in defense of the people.

Under your protection auguries are issued, coins

are minted, and you become the giver and preserver

of wealth. Records, too, are in your storehouse,

for it is memory that advises and counsels us at need.

 

I come closer to find Juno Sospita, Juno at Lanuvium,

mistress of fauns, she who purifies with whips.

Under your direction the Luperci hound but do not harm;

pain and laughter drive out the winter’s filth.

Juno Seispes Mater Regina, Savior, Mother, Queen,

your temple is a grove, and as Juno Caprotinae

you bring together slave women and free in revels

and accept the sacrifice of the lusty goat.

 

If I approach closer still, I see you as Juno Lucina,

she who brings to light, the midwife who helps

the birthing mother, who opens the doors of the womb

that the child may journey from dark to light.

You are our helper in the deepest pain, in the hardest

labour, in the most daring task: Bringing life to light,

bringing children from our bodies. Protectress

of marriage, of children, of matrons, you still

remind us that our sovereignty is our own.

 

At last I come face to face with you, great goddess,

and find your face to be a mirror of my own.

For my own inner deity, guardian spirit, better self

is also called juno. Or should I say that my face

is the mirror to yours, and if I look at you, Savior,

Mother, Queen, Wife, Adviser, Purifier, Defender,

I may become all this as well? Therefore I look to you,

Juno Dea, Juno Regina; I bow to you, great goddess,

divine matron, heavenly sovereign; I praise you,

glorious Juno, of peacock, spear, and cloud.

 

(Originally written 1/30/2015, for an agon in the goddess’ honor sponsored by Galina Krasskova)

POEM: Lemuria III

The dead children are walking
I hear their scuffling footsteps
The dead children are walking
Victims of the father
Victims of the mother
The dead children are walking
Infants and toddlers shaken to death
Babies and children starved and beaten
The dead children are walking
The gay and trans children bullied to suicide
The girls raped by their fathers
The dead children are walking
The boys sent off to war
The black boys dead in a war at home
Shot by the father’s police
The dead children are walking
Those who died in concentration camps
In Germany, Austria, Poland
In Texas USA
The dead children are walking
I spit beans at them
Go home, children
There is peace for you
in the realm of the dead
There is no peace here

POEM: Lemuria II

There’s someone crying in the kitchen
I have heard that voice before
Someone shouting in the kitchen,
banging the pots and pans, brooding
over the lighted burners, the boiling pots.
Someone, something is in the kitchen
the ghosts of dead mothers, mother martyrs,
martyred mothers, the mothers who expect help
without asking for it, the mothers who smoke cigarettes
in their children’s faces, the mothers who flirt with
their daughter’s boyfriends. Someone is crying
in the living room, hunched in the corner of the sofa,
on the phone with a friend saying how awful
everything is, unfaithful husband, ungrateful child,
no money for jewelry, no time for herself.
Someone, something is clutching at me,
a cigarette in one ghostly hand. I spit beans at you!
Let the ghosts of unloving mothers be forever gone,
silent in Asphodel. Shut up, mother, you’re dead.

POEM: Lemuria I

The family ghosts are quiet; they behave themselves.
It is the ghosts of old regimes that creak so loudly on the stair.
The father of all fathers, patriarchy, walks these halls.
“I am man, I am father, I am king,” he mumbles ceaselessly
under his breath. “I am white, I am rich, I am powerful.
Whatever is not me is less than me, less than human,
fit only to serve my will, my whim. Give me more wives,
more gold, more power! Give me more servants to carry my weight!”
Like Hamlet’s father’s ghost, he wants to be avenged, that is,
perpetuated. Instead I spit beans at him. Let the ghosts
of old kings, old fathers, begone! Let the white man ghost
be laid to rest, never trouble his women, his children,
his servants. Let the rest of the world breathe free, stand up,
unhaunted, undaunted, walking freely in the light of day.

POEM: The Last Revelation of Julian of Norwich

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Statue of Julian by David Holgate, Norwich Cathedral

And he showed me a little thing, a book,

scarce larger than the span of my hand,

and it was all I had writ.

My great book of his Showings,

wrote by me with so much labour,

lo, it was gone, as if it had never been.

And our Lord said,

Fret not, for I shall put you away like wine;

I shall hide you in my cellar; I shall keep you

even until last, until your even-Christians

be never so thirsty. And then

I will pour you out, I will crack open

the little hazelnut, and many shall drink

from your book, a multitude shall feast

on the meat of the nut. Wilt thou wait?

Yea, Lord, said I,

if such be thy will, then will I wait,

and all be well.

 

And I closed my eyes, which had gazed so long

on his blessed image, and stepped through

his wounded side into paradise.

 

(January 1999, February 2013)

POEM: Rosa, Mystica

small_red_rose

 

Ave, Rosa, spirit of the rose, fragrant nymph,
companion of Flora, numinous flower!
Hail to thee, mistress of secrets, keeper of mysteries,
all that is passed on sub rosa, mouth to ear,
hand to hand; hail, lady whose wet unfolding petals
drenched in scent bespeak another flower
and another fragrance, river and ocean, salt
and source. O lady of birth, life, and death,
who shared your mysteries with Miriam,
mother of Yeshua, joy and sorrow and glory,
five-petalled goddess who initiates and regenerates,
remind me of the secret every time I pass near
your blossoms: Love, life, sex, woman, eternity.

(Originally posted to Antinous for everybody, 5/11/2016)