June Poems

Jun 3rd, 2013 | By | Category: Tiffany Chaney

tiffany chaney photoTiffany Chaney is an artist and writer residing in North Carolina, USA. She holds a Bachelor of Arts   in creative writing from Salem College and is Founding  Editor of Recto Verso Review, serving as Art Editor of Thrush Press. Her poetry collection Between Blue and Grey (2012) can be requested at any book retailer or purchased at Amazon.com. Her works in poetry and fiction have appeared in Ophelia Street, Pedestal Magazine and Thrush Poetry Journal.  Discover more about the author at www.tiffanychaney.com

When all you have to piece together
your past is a bit of twigs and animal sinew
you become skilled at stitching the wounded. 

Perhaps you made the virgin crouch in the bushes
so she’s not raped by some misguided snake,
or made her don the animal skins of the slain
to keep at bay the weather and to remember
what it is to hunger for something outside the self. 

Perhaps you forgot what it was like
to chase butterflies from bud to bloom,
watch them sleep in their cocoons, but recall
their death three days after the first change.
You danced with the dryads from spring to fall,
and in winter you hardened with the rest.
Your tummy ripening like a plum, the Oak King bearing
spring forward and the butterflies innumerable. 

You had to tend to the saplings, let the birds
have their fill of the berries and let the weary
give themselves again to the earth, and how you cried.
How your tears cut rivers into the earth until the land
split first in two, then into pieces. You got your first wrinkles.
The job of a mother never ends…
                                    Keeping the order where you can.

You learn as you get older how to stitch the pieces,
call back the virgin you may have lost in the woods,
and she’ll teach the mother in you to dance again,
while the crone, well, she’s just watching you, waiting
to give herself back to the soil. Don’t worry.
She will show you how to remove the stitches.

He Seeks Her
The Horned God waits patiently while She tends the garden. He only chased the nymphs to gain her attention. He asks the animals to gaze upon her, pass her songs among the night larks like notes in the classroom. The buck leaves the herd, awaits her as the new moon gains full and the Holly King has had his stay and now gone away‚ÄĒThis May Day the doe with the muddy eyes after the storm finds him, among the myrtle branches, and so they mate until the moon falls in love with the horizon.

She Swells With Him
The Goddess green and glowing will soon bloom
full and lit, that moon-milk skin is sage, what they will name sin
pregnant and no father to be found, rumors will surface of
a boy babe nurturing a corn dolly, reminder of his mother’s folly,
but for now she swells and wobbles through the lands
tending them until they are brought to harvest like she
wails in response to the wolf’s howl and the Cailleach
comes a’callin, builds a fire in a cave and comforts
this sweet child as regains her strength after the birth
the buck all grown hunts for her until soon the seed calls
and the ancient grandmother again teaches her the steps
of a sacred dance, wraps her in the mantle of the long dark night,
and the sweet maiden bends her first sapling into a bow. 

Wild Child’s Prayer
Teach me to dance, Mother.
Teach me to bend the bow
and string the arrow.

Sing to me the sorrows.
Celebrate with me the joys.
Show me where the deer
keep their secret path
through the snow and
answer me why I never
see them move to from fro.


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