deepundergroundpoetry.com
The Crone
Cast up on a crag
she hums her craft through the horn of plenty,
vibrates along the barren land, dusting the dormant and frail.
Hair made of Spanish Moss, clothes of rotting oak leaf and bracken, support of driftwood thrown up by the ocean chill.
She climbs down, steady in darkness, the bones of rock most reliable friends,
dashes her cloak and tunic from flesh, wilted, worn and quaking.
She dives, fearlessly, into a basin of water, ice demanding her shoulders,
shock arrives to greet her there where warm, consistent breath meets and defeats it. She washes her hair in the baptism of her soul, beneath the virginal, full, white Moon, gives herself gratefully over to the earth and it's nutrients,
time ever ticking and taking a toll.
Cast up on a crag
she hums her craft through the horn of plenty,
one last time as she walks back to a rock, hollow, to bed down until it is her time again.
Hair made of Spanish Moss, clothes of rotting oak leaf and bracken, a support of driftwood thrown up by the ocean chill.
she hums her craft through the horn of plenty,
vibrates along the barren land, dusting the dormant and frail.
Hair made of Spanish Moss, clothes of rotting oak leaf and bracken, support of driftwood thrown up by the ocean chill.
She climbs down, steady in darkness, the bones of rock most reliable friends,
dashes her cloak and tunic from flesh, wilted, worn and quaking.
She dives, fearlessly, into a basin of water, ice demanding her shoulders,
shock arrives to greet her there where warm, consistent breath meets and defeats it. She washes her hair in the baptism of her soul, beneath the virginal, full, white Moon, gives herself gratefully over to the earth and it's nutrients,
time ever ticking and taking a toll.
Cast up on a crag
she hums her craft through the horn of plenty,
one last time as she walks back to a rock, hollow, to bed down until it is her time again.
Hair made of Spanish Moss, clothes of rotting oak leaf and bracken, a support of driftwood thrown up by the ocean chill.
Published 20th Nov 2018
All writing remains the property of the author. Don't use it for any purpose without their permission.
likes 4
reading list entries 1
comments 6
reads 670
Commenting Preference:
The author encourages honest critique.
20th Nov 2018 8:06am
the imagery
the rendition
"She dives, fearlessly, into a basin of water, ice demanding her shoulders,
shock arrives to greet her there where warm, consistent breath meets and defeats it."
amazing is understatement for its effect...
the rendition
"She dives, fearlessly, into a basin of water, ice demanding her shoulders,
shock arrives to greet her there where warm, consistent breath meets and defeats it."
amazing is understatement for its effect...
20th Nov 2018 8:43am
Anonymous
20th Nov 2018 9:25am
I’ve been doing a lot of reconnection with the menstrual cycle lately. The three stages of life: the maiden, the goddess and the crone, and how this circle intertwines in so many things - the circle of the seasons, the circle of our cycles, even our wombs are in a way a protective circle.
The crone however, was always my favourite because she holds the most wisdom. She has lived. She bares scars. She knows how to laugh in the face of adversity.
I’ve always found it interesting because I just don’t see age. I don’t know if something in me is broken, but I just see people. Some of my closest friends are in their 50’s... I just seem to relate to older people better. Or maybe I’m simply attracted to this crone archetype - the wisdom years.
Anyway, sorry to ramble but this is the journey this poem took me on. It’s sensitvely written and was an easy reading list for me. Thank you for sharing.
-M
The crone however, was always my favourite because she holds the most wisdom. She has lived. She bares scars. She knows how to laugh in the face of adversity.
I’ve always found it interesting because I just don’t see age. I don’t know if something in me is broken, but I just see people. Some of my closest friends are in their 50’s... I just seem to relate to older people better. Or maybe I’m simply attracted to this crone archetype - the wisdom years.
Anyway, sorry to ramble but this is the journey this poem took me on. It’s sensitvely written and was an easy reading list for me. Thank you for sharing.
-M
20th Nov 2018 12:44pm
I hear you. If a Red Tent is locally available to you I would join it, also check out Womb Yoga and Yoga Nidra if it is available locally also. Things I have found to ground me to my cycle, the seasons and accepting my womanhood in all its non stereotypical bullshit.
You are powerful. We all are and the crone should be a point of aspiration, at least she is for me. She is where I am headed, who I want to be, a warrior in the face of trial and adversity. A version of you where others interpretation matters not.
The maiden for me is innocence, a beautiful thing we left long ago, younger than depictions, smaller, fragile and full of curiousity. She is a beautiful memory sat upon the years before bloodshed.
The mother to me is often something we shrug from, a marvellous, enduring creatures, never allowed time to appreciate her womanhood, waiting for cronedom, stretching out her fingers from two trunks of arms bearing fresh fruit. I adore these women who sit in my cycle, in my Springs, Summer and Winter (Autumn often a transition of Mother and Crone for me), who teach me acceptance and safety in all that we are, when we respect and appreciate. I love a good natter, thank you for sharing your journey with me and reading my ramble if you got this far.
Love and light. X
You are powerful. We all are and the crone should be a point of aspiration, at least she is for me. She is where I am headed, who I want to be, a warrior in the face of trial and adversity. A version of you where others interpretation matters not.
The maiden for me is innocence, a beautiful thing we left long ago, younger than depictions, smaller, fragile and full of curiousity. She is a beautiful memory sat upon the years before bloodshed.
The mother to me is often something we shrug from, a marvellous, enduring creatures, never allowed time to appreciate her womanhood, waiting for cronedom, stretching out her fingers from two trunks of arms bearing fresh fruit. I adore these women who sit in my cycle, in my Springs, Summer and Winter (Autumn often a transition of Mother and Crone for me), who teach me acceptance and safety in all that we are, when we respect and appreciate. I love a good natter, thank you for sharing your journey with me and reading my ramble if you got this far.
Love and light. X
Anonymous
- Edited 20th Nov 2018 1:40pm
20th Nov 2018 1:36pm
Are you a red tent sister?!
Me too :)
I’ve written about it quite often, my circle experiences. How cool.
Me too :)
I’ve written about it quite often, my circle experiences. How cool.
20th Nov 2018 8:47pm
As a "Crone" I can appreciate your genuine appreciation of age, Poppy. But, of course, you are wise beyond years, as evidenced by your body of work.
This holds such a mystic beauty for the cyclic process of life, attributing beauty to the natural instinct of evolution.
We've lived, we've loved, we've grown. And through poetry such as this, we continue too.
This holds such a mystic beauty for the cyclic process of life, attributing beauty to the natural instinct of evolution.
We've lived, we've loved, we've grown. And through poetry such as this, we continue too.
