Christmas Special - 21/12/2011

Welcome to our Christmas Special Features and the last features for this year. We cherish the group and all our members and the feminist art and writing that you submitted and allowed us to feature here. We wish you a Merry Christmas and a wonderful New Year. Have some cyber champagne and a box of chocolates on us. :-) Anna, Jenifer & Sybille xoxo Here are Jenifer’s selections: ‘Tis the season for the Forerunner Spirit, where the common bonds of woman’s connectedness have been prepared by those who’ve come before and paved the roads to destiny’s potential and those who’ve run ahead to find and lead the way. Where lineage forms the silver lining of the sky’s limit. Ghost Stories by Helene Ruiz When the forerunners find ways to sweep a finger into the future in order to point out a forewarning, can the hands of time be turned back in time to make a difference? A cry from the future by Su2anne We know it is the Natural order of Things to die. I stand here before you Life Incarnate Representative of all Creatures yet to Exist. My soul not yet Born… To ask Plead Beg… Take care you humans Of the Mother Of the Air. So We might Breathe To have some chance to Exist… A legion of beautiful spirits dance within the winds of change in a procession of diversity, slowing down only to change in due season in order to navigate the ever-changing terrain underfoot. Chameleon Me by RC deWinter Wandering unfettered by a constant role, not being wedded to a corps of cultural icons has given me freedom, but also placed me outside the herd. Adept at slipping into masks and costumes when necessary to gain access to the slices of life I serially inhabit, I always return to just me – whoever she is. And she is legion: gentlewoman, tomboy, empress, harlot, nun and mother, scene-stealer, wallflower, beggar and thief. I sit in gracious drawing rooms, legs crossed neatly at the ankles, sipping sherry, talking books. I dance like Salome in bars, teasing attention, wheedling drinks. Some Saturdays, immersed in sugar and vanilla, I concoct delightful epicurean fantasies – ephemeral, seductive, with which to entertain the palates of the ragtag topsy-turvies parading through my kitchen. Then months go by and I don’t touch so much as a toaster, eating all my meals in dusty diners, quaint cafés. For weeks I am surrounded by the strains of the Baroque, peremptorily replaced by pedal steel, then by Satie, back again to Restoration madrigals, fastforwarding to Woodstock – the original, the lusty mother of all music festivals, no pasty GenX imitations here. You never know. I never know. Today I’ll ramble with you through the cool green fields of Eden – tomorrow I am running headlong down a concrete alley. You can come along, but you’d best be quick and versatile. I will not play a lifelong part – you mustn’t ever doubt that I have slipped my bonds before and will again if they do chafe me. But run with me like quicksilver and we shall own the future, adapting seamlessly in the unpredictable but welcome winds of cosmic whimsy, transforming on the fly, not stopping for regrets or worries, but greeting open-armed and fearless each successive, ever-growing incarnation of our beings. Without the dreamers and shakers, who would paint the wonder and prophecy upon butterfly wings—the very canvases that are capable of carrying such a heavy load into tomorrow? The Last Dream before Dawn by Dorina Costras Anna’s Selections: Continuing the theme of the forerunner spirit, I became submerged in the emotion of Cynthia’s haunting image ‘Ephemera’ with its sense of longing and yearning for what has been and what is to come." Ephemera © by Cynthia Lund Torroll *EPHEMERA Some part of her Floats a few feet overhead A part I can touch By imagining It’s all I am allowed Not even a name can I attach to this vision © Cynthia Lund Torroll Mariska’s work moves me beyond myself and takes me to that other world, – a world of love, dreams and remembrance. A world where the past directly influences the present and the future. Fields Of Golden Dreams / Whispers Series  © by Mariska “…For where those whose touch you have lost long since you stopped your dreaming, live on, through the extended hands that strive to pull you into a new light. A light that will guide you through this unforgiving plane…and in hopes that, together, you will find a way again…back to the state of dreams you longed for, but this time…the dreams will no longer be dreams themselves, as they materialize onto the mortal plane…and you learn the meaning behind those golden fields..” “A tribute to my beautiful daughter , she died when she was nearly 16…, Terezkem emlekere….” Mariska Such a strong, dramatic image from Helene, (which is what we have come to expect in all her work) reminding us of those who have inspired us in the past and who will influence us in the future. La Inspiradora © by Helene Ruiz Sometimes there is no need for words. Kasia Ikasia Gvantsa-L presents us with a powerful image which is timeless, and which captures all we feel and all we want to say. Escaping From WORDS | kasia ikasia | © by by kasia ikasia GVANTSA-L Sybille’s Selections: And sometimes we just need to remember who we are, who we want to be and take flight on our own. The Cross by © Maree Cardinale Your condemnation is nailed into my flesh and I hold up your sins for the world to behold I am ancient murder and blood fresh renewal I am the bearer of all before and all to be I am life and death and hope and despair I am. I just am. © Maree Cardinale And what says it better, this need to fly then this poem? If by © msdebbie I’ve left you for dust; It’s where you should stay. You don’t know how to play the game, You never mattered anyway. If I shut my mouth, Does truth become false? If I shed my inhibitions, Am I someone else? You drove me so far, so fast, Smooth and sleek like a flashy car. I tried to resist, but it’s so hard; My memento is a heart-scar. If I close my eyes, Does it mean I don’t see you? If I block my ears and refuse to hear, Does it mean you’re brand new? I love your venomous tongue, But hatred does not help you to be free, It acts as a shield, but is limiting, you’re not The person you claim to want to be. If I shun your touch, Do former thrills become tension? If I lose my taste, Will you no longer be mentioned? Something crucial is missing; I can no longer breathe. Where were you when I called? Your vows are an empty decree. Once you looked deep into my mind. And I thought you were so true and kind. Now I’m exhausted and weak from my life. Your fears and delusions are just unwanted strife. If If only If only I If only I could If only I could try If only I could try to If only I could try to fly If only I could try to fly free But sometimes our heart weighs so much that we cannot lift off the ground… we’re stuck, and falling seems the only option. My heart weighs heavy by © SimplyRed My heart weighs heavy with reasons I do not know, my mind is confused and in a state of “busy Lizzy” … I have sprinkled myself with a good dressing down that settles like a dust storm at my feet but my heart weighs heavy I gulp and swallow fresh salty tears Enough ….. I shout to the echoes of my mind but those tears fall on damp, cloth ears they fall silently and twinkle in the sun spun crystal forms the ocean I walk fragile, unique and alone my feet drag with old woman shuffle shoulders hunch where pride once stood my heart weighs heavy The black abyss awaits hypnotising me with its haunting call numbness of heart knows it’s own glory unknown journeys lay cobbled and twisted only I can hear it’s beckoning call my heart weighs heavy Collapsing with fear holding my heart with both hands is futile and pointless as I submit to the calling and await the darkness for my heart weighs heavy My wish for every one of you this year is that you may all find your wings and that 2012 will be a great year for all of us. No Longer Can She Fly by © Heather King

Goody Santa Claus - A light-hearted look at gender roles in thisholiday season.

A light-hearted feminist look at gender roles at this season.

Santa, must I tease in vain, Deer? Let me go and hold the reindeer,
While you clamber down the chimneys. Don’t look savage as a Turk!
Why should you have all the glory of the joyous Christmas story,
And poor little Goody Santa Claus have nothing but the work?

It would be so very cozy, you and I, all round and rosy,
Looking like two loving snowballs in our fuzzy Arctic furs,
Tucked in warm and snug together, whisking through the winter weather
Where the tinkle of the sleigh-bells is the only sound that stirs.

You just sit here and grow chubby off the goodies in my cubby
From December to December, till your white beard sweeps your knees;
For you must allow, my Goodman, that you’re but a lazy woodman
And rely on me to foster all our fruitful Christmas trees.

While your Saintship waxes holy, year by year, and roly-poly,
Blessed by all the lads and lassies in the limits of the land,
While your toes at home you’re toasting, then poor Goody must go posting
Out to plant and prune and garner, where our fir-tree forests stand.

Oh! but when the toil is sorest how I love our fir-tree forest,
Heart of light and heart of beauty in the Northland cold and dim,
All with gifts and candles laden to delight a boy or maiden,
And its dark-green branches ever murmuring the Christmas hymn!

Yet ask young Jack Frost, our neighbor, who but Goody has the labor,
Feeding roots with milk and honey that the bonbons may be sweet!
Who but Goody knows the reason why the playthings bloom in season
And the ripened toys and trinkets rattle gaily to her feet!

From the time the dollies budded, wiry-boned and saw-dust blooded,
With their waxen eyelids winking when the wind the tree-tops plied,
Have I rested for a minute, until now your pack has in it
All the bright, abundant harvest of the merry Christmastide?

Santa, wouldn’t it be pleasant to surprise me with a present?
And this ride behind the reindeer is the boon your Goody begs;
Think how hard my extra work is, tending the Thanksgiving turkeys
And our flocks of rainbow chickens — those that lay the Easter eggs.

Home to womankind is suited? Nonsense, Goodman! Let our fruited
Orchards answer for the value of a woman out-of-doors.
Why then bid me chase the thunder, while the roof you’re safely under,
All to fashion fire-crackers with the lighting in their cores?

See! I’ve fetched my snow-flake bonnet, with the sunrise ribbons on it;
I’ve not worn it since we fled from Fairyland our wedding day;
How we sped through iceberg porches with the Northern Lights for torches!
You were young and slender, Santa, and we had this very sleigh.

Jump in quick then? That’s my bonny. Hey down derry! Nonny nonny!
While I tie your fur cap closer, I will kiss your ruddy chin.
I’m so pleased I fall to singing, just as sleigh-bells take to ringing!
Are the cloud-spun lap-robes ready? Tirra-lirra! Tuck me in.

Off across the starlight Norland, where no plant adorns the moorland
Save the ruby-berried holly and the frolic mistletoe!
Oh, but this is Christmas revel! Off across the frosted level
Where the reindeers’ hoofs strike sparkles from the crispy, crackling snow!

There’s the Man i’ the Moon before us, bound to lead the Christmas chorus
With the music of the sky-waves rippling round his silver shell —
Glimmering boat that leans and tarries with the weight of dreams she carries
To the cots of happy children. Gentle sailor, steer her well!

Now we pass through dusky portals to the drowsy land of mortals;
Snow-enfolded, silent cities stretch about us dim and far.
Oh! how sound the world is sleeping, midnight watch no shepherd keeping,
Though an angel-face shines gladly down from every golden star.

Here’s a roof. I’ll hold the reindeer. I suppose this weather-vane, Dear,
Some one set here just on purpose for our teams to fasten to.
There’s its gilded cock, — the gaby! — wants to crow and tell the baby
We are come. Be careful, Santa! Don’t get smothered in the flue.

Back so soon? No chimney-swallow dives but where his mate can follow.
Bend your cold ear, Sweetheart Santa, down to catch my whisper faint:
Would it be so very shocking if your Goody filled a stocking
Just for once? Oh, dear! Forgive me. Frowns do not become a Saint.

I will peep in at the skylights, where the moon sheds tender twilights
Equally down silken chambers and down attics bare and bleak.
Let me show with hailstone candies these two dreaming boys — the dandies
In their frilled and fluted nighties, rosy cheek to rosy cheek!

What! No gift for this poor garret? Take a sunset sash and wear it
O’er the rags, my pale-faced lassie, till thy father smiles again.
He’s a poet, but — oh, cruel! he has neither light nor fuel.
Here’s a fallen star to write by, and a music-box of rain.

So our sprightly reindeer clamber, with their fairy sleigh of amber,
On from roof to roof , the woven shades of night about us drawn.
On from roof to roof we twinkle, all the silver bells a-tinkle,
Till blooms in yonder blessèd East the rose of Christmas dawn.

Now the pack is fairly rifled, and poor Santa’s well-nigh stifled;
Yet you would not let your Goody fill a single baby-sock;
Yes, I know the task takes brain, Dear. I can only hold the reindeer,
And so see me climb down chimney — it would give your nerves a shock.

Wait! There’s yet a tiny fellow, smiling lips and curls so yellow
You would think a truant sunbeam played in them all night. He spins
Giant tops, a flies kites higher than the gold cathedral spire
In his creams — the orphan bairnie, trustful little Tatterkins.

Santa, don’t pass by the urchin! Shake the pack, and deeply search in
All your pockets. There is always one toy more. I told you so.
Up again? Why, what’s the trouble? On your eyelash winks the bubble
Mortals call a tear, I fancy. Holes in stocking, heel and toe?

Goodman, though your speech is crusty now and then there’s nothing rusty
In your heart. A child’s least sorrow makes your wet eyes glisten, too;
But I’ll mend that sock so nearly it shall hold your gifts completely.
Take the reins and let me show you what a woman’s wit can do.

Puff! I’m up again, my Deary, flushed a bit and somewhat weary,
With my wedding snow-flake bonnet worse for many a sooty knock;
But be glad you let me wheedle, since, an icicle for needle,
Threaded with the last pale moonbeam, I have darned the laddie’s sock.

Then I tucked a paint-box in it (‘twas no easy task to win it
From the Artist of the Autumn Leaves) and frost-fruits white and sweet,
With the toys your pocket misses — oh! and kisses upon kisses
To cherish safe from evil paths the motherless small feet.

Chirrup! chirrup! There’s a patter of soft footsteps and a clatter
Of child voices. Speed it, reindeer, up the sparkling Arctic Hill!
Merry Christmas, little people! Joy-bells ring in every steeple,
And Goody’s gladdest of the glad. I’ve had my own sweet will.

This poem, and four other Christmas poems, were also included in Bates’ Fairy Gold (New York: E. P. Dutton & Co., 1916). See:
Poems of Christmas by Katherine Lee Bates