Pine Tree Ode
~ Sharon Olds

I was sitting on the top stones of a wall—can you
get even closer to the tree, he said, so I went
inches from the trunk of the tallest of the ones
we’d been standing among like small children
among the legs of the grown-ups.
Now, the side of my face was almost
against the bark, intimate,
I could see where its growing had pulled its surface
open, into wooden lozenges, like
stretch marks, I could not feel it breathe
but I felt it alive beside me, a huge
ant running down, and stopping, and turning
its feelers, in the air, between us, and then
walking so fast it seemed to be pouring back
up. Then I looked, up, along
the branchless stem, into the canopy,
to the needles fanning out in bunches
eating the sun. And the length of it seemed like
bravery, like strong will,
a single, whole, note, like a tenor’s
cry, sustained, as if a tree were
a spurt from the earth, a heart’s gush.
And the ants flowed from ground to sky,
sky to ground. I don’t know where the ants
had been, or their ancestors had been, the noon
the tornado came through, wall of water
a hundred and thirty miles an hour,
solid ferocious grey static.
The tree stood. And now I sat up straight
beside it, feeling my way back
through species, and species, toward the pine, and toward
the ones we both descended from, the
fern, the green cell—the sun,
the star-stuff we are made of.

Listen to Sharon Olds read this poem: http://bit.ly/2IGvc5N

This month’s Community Altar is dedicated to Mothers of the Norse Pantheon, being as May is when Mother’s Day falls in the U.S.

A closer view:

From left to right: Frigg, Sigyn, Bestla, Laufey, Angrboda. The Frigg image is from Pinterest (no artist credit, despite searching for one) and the other four images are from The Giants’ Tarot.

Frigg is the wife of Odin, and mother of Baldr.

Sigyn is the wife of Loki, and mother of Narvi and Vali.

Bestla is the wife of Bor, and the mother of Odin, Vili, and Ve.

Laufey is the wife of Farbauti, and the mother of Loki.

Angrboda is the wife of Loki, and the mother of Fenris, Jormundgand, and Hela.

Bestla and Laufey are the Matriarchs, starting the direct lines of descent which tie together many of the key figures in the Norse pantheon.

Frigg, Sigyn, and Angrboda each carry a facet of the Mourning Mother, each having lost one or more children to death or kidnapping.

Each of these Goddesses represent the fierce love, devotion, strength, and courage that are associated with maternal care.

Many of us had, and perhaps still have, difficult relationships with our mothers. We can work with these Goddesses, individually or collectively, to heal ourselves and those relationships.

I offer this prayer for all of us this Mother’s Day:

Prayer to the Mothers

Great Mothers, hear me as I pray to You.

Bestla, mother of murderous creators, slayers of Ymir, makers of Midgard,
Give me the strength to create the world anew,
Better, more fair, more just, more free.
Give me strength to create myself anew,
Wiser, kinder, more loving, more free.

Great Mothers, hear me as I pray to You.

Laufey, mother of the Trickster, Himself both mother and father,
Teach me to bear the heat of creation,
To endure the pangs as I birth my fire,
Bringing my gifts into the world,
Bringing light and heat and change and love.

Great Mothers, hear me as I pray to You.

Angrboda, mother of monsters, three beloved, magical children,
Teach me to remain true to myself,
Standing strong in the winds of negative opinion,
Of oppression, of disregard,
Sheltering those who are gathered beneath my branches.

Great Mothers, hear me as I pray to You.

Sigyn, mother of young sons lost to fear and treachery,
Teach me loyalty and victory, teach me
Endurance and perseverance to see me through
The caves of my life, dark and dank,
And emerge victorious.

Great Mothers, hear me as I pray to You.

Frigg, mother of a golden son, felled by a small plant,
Teach me to protect those who need it,
From life’s sharp darts and arrows,
From all which would cause harm,
That they may live in joy and peace.

Great Mothers, hear me as I pray to You.

Ithaka
~ C.P. Cavafy
Interpreted by Sarah Ban Breathnach

You may be familiar with the translation by Edmund Keeley and Philip Sherrard, which you can read here. I also enjoy this version, as it offers a fresh take on the work. While not a direct translation, Ban Breathnach brings a feminine perspective.

Pray that your journey be long,
full of many summer mornings
when with much pleasure and much joy
you anchor in harbors never seen before;
Browse through Phoenician markets,
to purchase exquisite treasures–
mother-of-pearl and coral, ebony and amber
and sensual perfumes of all kinds–
as much as you desire.

Visit many Egyptian cities, content
to sit at the feet of sages, eager
and open to receive learning.
Keep Ithaka always in your mind.
Your arrival there is your destiny.

But do not hurry the journey at all; be patient.
Better that it lasts for many years–
longer than you can even imagine.
So that finally, when you reach this
sacred isle, you will be a wise woman,
abundantly fulfilled by all you have gained along the way;
no longer expecting Ithaka to make you wealthy,
no longer needing Ithaka to make you rich.

Ithaka offered you the profound journey,
the chance to discover the woman you have always been.
Without Ithaka as your inspiration, you
never would have set out in search of wholeness.

And should you find her poor, Ithaka did not deceive you.
Authentic as you have become, full of wisdom, beauty and grace,
enriches and enlightened by all you have experienced,
You will finally understand what all of life’s Ithakas truly mean.

Ithaca, Greece; Image from AGreekAdventure.com

No Holds Barred
~Anna Swir (Świrszczyńska)

I catch hold of different things:
snow, trees, useless telephone calls,
the tenderness of a child, journeys,
Rosewicz’s poetry,
sleep, apples, morning exercises,
conversations about the salutary properties of vitamins,
exhibits of avant-garde art,
walls on Kosciuszko’s mound, politics,
Penderecki’s music,
natural disasters in foreign countries,
the joy of morality and the joy of immorality,
gossip, a cold shower, fashion magazines from abroad,
learning Italian,
a fondness for dogs, the calendar.

I catch hold of everything
so as not to fall
into the abyss.

Slow Rain
~ Gabriela Mistral
Translated from the Spanish by Gunda Kaiser and James Tipton

This water, sad and fearful,
like a child who suffers,
before touching the Earth,
fades away.

Calm the wind, calm the tree—
but in the tremendous silence,
this lean, bitter song
is falling.

The sky is like a heart,
immense, opening up, bitter,
it is not rain; it is a bleeding,
long, and slow.

Men in houses
do not feel this bitterness,
this sad flow of water
out of the heavens.

This long and tiring descent
of conquered water,
towards Earth, recumbent,
and paralysed!

It is raining . . . . and like a tragic jackal
the night watches over the land.
What is going to spring up, in the shadow,
out of Mother Earth?

Will you sleep, while outside
falls suffering, this slow water,
this lethal water, sister
of death?