Poems for a Strawberry Moon

Members of the national Council met for reflection at the time of the Strawberry full moon in June, and shared poetry for these times; some evoked the spirit of council.

Two poems that were read are by Susi Moser (national Council member) and Marge Piercy.

Marge Piercy

We must sit down
and reason together.
We must sit down.
Men standing want to hold forth.
They rain down upon faces lifted.

We must sit down on the floor
on the earth
on stones and mats and blankets.
There must be no front to the speaking
no platform, no rostrum,
no stage or table.
We will not crane
to see who is speaking.

Perhaps we should sit in the dark.
In the dark we could utter our feelings.
In the dark we could propose
and describe and suggest.

In the dark we could not see who speaks
and only the words
would say what they say.

Thus saying what we feel and what we want,
what we fear for ourselves and each other
into the dark, perhaps we could begin
to begin to listen.

Perhaps we should talk in groups
small enough for everyone to speak.

Perhaps we should start by speaking softly.
The women must learn to dare to speak.

The men must bother to listen.

The women must learn to say, I think this is so.

The men must learn to stop dancing solos on
the ceiling.
After each speaks, she or he
will repeat a ritual phrase:

It is not I who speaks but the wind.
Wind blows through me.
Long after me, is the wind.

Full Moon
Susi Moser

Out by the far edges of the ocean
where the dark line of the horizon
slips under the sky,
the big orange disk of the moon
pulls itself up from the depth
of the sea.

With every turn of the Earth
one wave at a time
the golden carpet of light
rolls toward shore,
lapping on the hard edges
of our selves.

On land,
deer and foxes,
fear and anger
move in the underbrush,
through swamps,
the deep forests of grief –
nocturnal truths
scurrying silently in the shadows
of consciousness.

On full moon nights,
they gather in the clearing of silence
a council of questions, of knowing not,
holding in their midst the heart of darkness,
holding it like an offering to the moon
as it rises, slowly, almost indifferent
into the sky.

But the moon is never indifferent
to the eyes of longing.
Ever wide in its gesture,
it redraws the arc of faith one more time
for those watching:
We must lean into our yearnings
like the moon into its course,
that the center
– however dark, however distant –
will hold.