#magdalene: poems

[aboutbirds]

Teacher, they said to Jesus, The law of Moses says to stone her. What do you say? —John 8:5 You know how it is when your speeding car spins on the ice at night and you think here it is? When the deer spring across the headlights? When you begin to slip down the steep and icy steps? Now imagine someone is about to push you, someone you know and then they don’t.

Marie Howe, "Magdalene: The Woman Taken in Adultery," from Magdalene: Poems

[asoftepiloguemylove]

WE SHOULD JUST KISS LIKE REAL PEOPLE DO

Marie Howe "Walking Home," Magdalene Poems // Mo Xiang Tong Xiu Heaven Official's Blessing (via Alpha Coders) // Florence + the Machine Cosmic Love // Hozier Work Song // Mo Xiang Tong Xiu Heaven Official's Blessing (via weibo) // Coldplay Sparks // Brenna Yovanoff The Replacement // Mo Xiang Tong Xiu Heaven Official's Blessing (via Wallpapers.com) // Hans Christain Anderson // Richard Siken Crush // Mo Xiang Tong Xiu Heaven Official's Blessing (via panda_colada) // Madeline Miller The Song of Achilles // Leah Horlick For Your Own Good

[majestativa]

I cried day and night like Magdalene at the Cross, “All powerful God,” I once begged Him, “Give me the courage to pull out this nail with one stroke.” God heard my plea and I pulled it out.

— ROSALÍA DE CASTRO ⚜️ Poems, transl. by Anna-Marie Aldaz, Barbara N. Gantt, & Anne C. Bromley, (1991)

[contremineur]

Ales Debeljak, Mary Magdalene

from here

[saintcande]

Mary Magdalene

[zaraisnotcool]

Hic requiescit magdalenae corpus Mariae.

My rotting skull encased in gold, under the house of my lord.

Time, beauty, and decay exude my body. I am gold and brown. I am nothing and everything.

Touch me not in my final resting place, where the angels sang me to sleep.

They will pillage my body from where I was promised to stay. I am no longer mine.

May my womb be lost to time and tale.

Here lies the body of Mary Magdalene.

[what-else-is-new-420]

I go to church. I make a list of the things I learned from you, reading about Mary's seven dolores. behind every word I eat and make my own, like "church" or "God" or "pain", is your name, your face (or my version of it, at least). I take in the iconography, see the devotion, it makes sense. I go back to what you wrote about me. I look at my dad's old paintings. I hold a vinyl in my hand and feel it hot to the touch. it looks like flesh, I swear I can feel it pulsating, hear blood pumping within the valleys and ridges of the plate. this is what a person is, I think. this is God. and I think of the seven dolores again, and I realise that is God, too. I imagine those long swords sticking out of my own heart like a great poem or good love, and I wonder what Mary would've been able to make of herself without them. maybe she was satisfied, maybe they drove her. maybe she wouldn't have wanted to save herself instead of the world. maybe loving Christ was her own cross to bear, but then again, I hold this belief within a grip so childish and desperate, that maybe the temporary privilege of loving is worth seven eternally bleeding wounds.

[valentinahogdahlholm]

The violent breaths of a profane soul//En profan själs våldsamma andetag:

I was too good to be true until I became true, Too perfect until I became human. And the light of holiness becomes profane, Scrubbed knees and vertebrae of steel. How should I say it another way? When the light of holiness goes out, what am I then? If only human? Promised paradise, the entire sky of stars,

A lie melting steel, Back, voice, words. Muse risen form the stanzas of poets and Appollo's hands, These words to make sense of it.

Lost in silenced prayers and ending psalms. Worshipped voice whose words fall on deaf ears, Fall from god's grace, Icon to golden calf. Mirrored in cracked stone tablets.

Because you cannot believe in burning blood, warm skin, beating hearts. Only worshipped fiction mirroring you in the metal of the halo, But underneath it all I was human. Liberated by salt tears, Lost promises of the crown of heaven. Freed air you tried to drink,

To call poisoned when the holy oxygen met the spring air. Instead of blessing lungs with prayers you spoke on my lips to dring, Gold of your lungs, Worship their purity. Which I banished with a violent breath collected underneath golden skin, Liberated by tears and the path of blood. Mixed with floods, Lakes free from guardian dogs and the eyes of doe.

Kissed feet echo further and further away, Kissed forehead turns upward And worshipped eyes fall on red roses and the path of the moon across the nigh sky.

Holy breathing declares false prophet of young blonde god, Whose voice, damned and echoing through the church, Torn down monuments, altars and icons. But still worshipping the angel, saint, godess they portray. Without seeing the scarred forehead. Only the muse risen from Apollo's fingers' dance over the lyre, Song from his lips. Oracle declaring the fate of our hero, Martyr to Messiah in a golden crown, Golden halo alone on her forehead, Blind for blood and pain, Eyes fixed on the holy light, open arms, blue shroud which will soon turn red from her bleeding humanity. And the name is erased from holy writings, Paintings covered in white sheets. Images covered with paint on churches' walls,

Thickening with layers and soon thicker again, When the halo crowns blonde curls once again, Making gold of your image in the mirror, Hers you swear. While lungs are filled by your prayers, To become madonna, angel, godess.

While I am condemned to rot, Not a single rose on my grave. As empty handed as before promises of celestial beauty in my hands, Condemned greed.

You sought holy blue light, And found the red dust of humanity, You sought a holy mythological image And found the profane existence of the soul. You sought a saint, a godess, an angel And found a human. You are dissapointed.

//

Jag var för bra för att vara sann tills jag blev verklig,

För perfekt tills jag blev mänsklig

Och helighetens ljus byttes mot profanitet,

Skrubbade knän och kotor av stål.

Hur ska jag uttrycka det på annat sätt än dessa ord? När det heliga ljuset släcks, och vad är jag då.

Om bara mänsklig? Lovad paradiset, natthimmelens alla stjärnor,

En lögn som smälter stål,

Rygg, stämma, ord.

Musa frammanad av poetens strofer och Apollos händer,

Dessa ord för att begripliggöra det.

Förlorad i tystade böner och utklingade psalmer.

Dyrkad stämma vars ord faller på döva öron,

Syndafall,

Ikon till gyllene kalv

Speglad i spräckta stentavlor.

För du kan inte tro på brinnande blod, varm hud, slående hjärtan,

Utan endast helgade fiktioner som speglar dig i glorians metall,

Men jag förblev människa när huden förgylldes.

Frigjord av salta tårar,

Förlorade löften om himmelrikets krona.

Frigjord luft du sökte supa,

För att kalla förgiftad när det heliga syret blandades ut med vårluften.

Istället för att välsigna dina lungor med bönerna du talat mot mina läppar för att supa in,

Förgylla dina lungor,

Dyrka dess renlärighet

Den jag förkastade med ett våldsamt andetag som samlats under den förgyllda huden,

Frigjordes med tårarnas och blodets bana ned,

Blandas med floder,

Källor fria från vaktande hundar och hjortars blängande ögon.

Kyssta fötter ekar längre och längre bort,

Kysst panna vänder sig uppåt

Och dyrkade ögon fäster sig på röda rosor och månens bana över natthimlen.

Helgade andetag förklarar falsk profet av ung blond gud,

Vars stämma, förkastanden, ekar genom kyrksalen,

River monument, altare och ikonbilder.

Men dyrkar ännu ängeln, helgonet, gudinnan de föreställer.

Utan att se den medföljande ärrade pannan,

Endast musan sprungen ur Apollos fingrars dans över lyran,

Sången från hans läppar.

Orakel som förtäljer vår hjältes öde,

Från martyr till Messias,

Iklädd guldbelagd törnekrona,

Endast krönt med gyllene gloria,

Blind för blodet och smärtan i blicken,

Ögonen fästa på det heliga skenet, öppna händer, blå skrud som snart blir röd av hennes blödande, flödande mänsklighet.

Och namnet suddas från heliga skrifter,

Målningar täckta med vita lakan,

Bilder täckta med spackel på kyrkoväggar,

Som tjocknar med lagren, och snart blir tjockare igen,

När glorian kröner blonda lockar åter en gång,

Förgyller din spegelbild.

Hennes spegelbild lovar du.

Medan hennes lungor fylls av dina böner,

För att bli madonna, ängel, gudinna.

Medan jag är fördömd att ruttna,

Inte ens en ros på min grav.

Lika tomhänt som innan löften om himlavalvets skönhet i mina händer.

Förbannade girighet.

Du sökte heligt blått sken,

Och fann mänsklighetens röda damm,

Du sökte helgad mytologisk bild

Och fann den profana själens existens,

Du sökte ett helgon, en gudinna, en ängel

Och fann en människa.

Du är besviken.

[aboutbirds]

The first cold morning, the little pumpkins lined up at the corner market, and the girl walks along Hudson Street to school and doesn't look back. The old sorrow blows in with the scent of wood smoke as I walk up the five flights to our apartment and lean hard against the broken dishwasher so it will run. Then it comes to me: Yes I'll die, so will everyone, so has everyone. It's what we have in common. And for a moment, the sorrow ceased, and I saw that it hadn't been sorrow after all, but loneliness, and for a few moments, it was gone.

Marie Howe, "October," from Magdalene: Poems

[oh-my-little-hearth]

Anon Poem Request: Mary & Jesus

Written in a folk perspective.

A Love Lost In The Ages

Love meant for the ages,

Suddenly lost entirely from histories pages,

Savior, Messiah, Shining Teacher.

By his side you’d always see her,

Never faltering in her faith,

Something so true, impossible to scathe.

Love filled her body just as it filled the Lord

For her life was built, on his teachings she adored,

He was a humble servant of all broken kind,

She was a servant of his word divinely assigned.

In Mary's eyes, redemption's light did gleam,

As Jesus walked beside her, in every dream.

In hymns echoed, their spirit remains,

Mary & Jesus, concluded eternally with tear stains.

[mystery-of-a-magpie]

Mary Magdalene

“There was a little girl, who had a little curl,

right in the middle of her forehead.

And when she was good, she was very, very good

But when she was bad, she was horrid.”

- Henry Longfellow

Bandages on her knees and that

all-too-familiar wide toothy grin

that can only come from a child

not yet chastised for joy.

A smile that came before the altar, 

when “Magdalen” was just her name. 

She was a devil of a child.

The statue was grotesque. 

It’s head was turned down to the altar, 

staring into the souls of sinners.

The replica stood all bruised and beaten

in immaculate detail, from the 

bloodied coils of matted hair, 

down to the emaciated torso

where ribs protruded from

yellowing translucent skin.

He was lifeless in most regards,

a porcelain pilar to which they prayed.

But he was not dead.

You could tell by the sorrow in his sunken eyes

to weary to look up to an uncaring sky, 

but pleading for mercy nonetheless.

Painted blood dripped

down pained porcelain,

congealing at forged nails

that tore through artificial flesh.

More dripping from the crown of thorns

that bore deep into his forehead,

and bloodied knees, not a bandage in sight.

So very real in the eyes of a child,

not yet old enough to understand

the significance of suffering.

When their eyes met, she cried

like her namesake. “Mary Magdalene”

echoed through candlelit corridors as 

she ran from the warmth of hellfire

to the painful flare of frigid light.

Uneasy terror creeping its way in,

making a home in her skull, 

Scaring her curls straight. 

The image would come to her today in shards.

With tears, a sinner’s only sacrifice,

trickling down in prayer. 

With it, an apology disguising a farewell, 

a dream from a dreamer scorned,

and a sly smile resurrecting.

Eyes filled with darkness and heresy,

as every half-truth sliced through flesh,

she shattered porcelain walls.

Freed by her own blood this time,

scrambling towards the past,

She bared her toothy grin

with bandages on her knees

and unkempt curls in her eyes.

And she was horrid.

[windstalkerwolf]

To Heal the Shattered World: Magdalene Speaks

By Harmony Harrison

(this is the most powerful poem I have ever encountered)

When the world is shattered as I have been shattered, the world goes on, broken, as a life goes on, broken, until the dismembered life feels like a normal life, though it is far from the wild wholeness of God.

Sisters, brothers, kin— find the pieces of your own dismembered selves strewn through the shadows of the world.

Seek them in the desert of unknowing, in the stories lying buried within caves.

Seek them in their coffins of clay, in the boles of the trees, in the rivers that roll beneath the wing beats of the angels and the crows. Seek them in the hawk’s spearing cry, and in the hunted dove. Seek them in the nighttime, cradled in the seed and the stone

Seek them in the hum between the ancient words, but seek them, too, in the asphalt and exhaust fumes and char, in the skid marks of fear, in the ashen ruins of our lives.

Seek them in the trauma— nothing is truly lost, and everything deserves to be reclaimed.

Bring them home to me, bring them home to the fullness of humanity. As you bring home your soul, you bring home my story, restored. As you bring home my story, you bring home the soul of humankind.

This is how we remember. This is how we re-member, this is how we begin to heal the shattered world.

[doll-dot-c0m]

[blossomingasbeth]

Political Prayer

So what if DeSantis and Trump won't hear our plea,

That their ideologies dissolve like a misty sea.

May their voices fade, like echoes of the past,

As compassion and acceptance emerge steadfast.

Grant us a world where equality thrives,

Where all individuals' worth truly survives.

A tapestry of diversity, woven in grace,

Inclusive in every hue, gender, and space.

So, let our prayer reverberate far and wide,

As we join hands together, side by side.

May no Nazi politicians ascend to power,

And our shared humanity bloom like a flower.

Grandma Beth

[valentinahogdahlholm]

Declaration of saints // Helgonutrop

You attached the glassclear, shining halo in blond curls,

mirrored your picture,

when you bent to kiss my feet, the ground they walked.

Golden mirrorimage,

on your knees to the notes of psalms,

dedicted to me, while finger danced over keys and strings.

Their echo, every word in your holy book,

leatherbound and golden print,

words in black ink,

shaped by your careless hand.

Those you swore god personally spoke to you.

You declared me their image, before you attached the icon at the heart of the alter.

Housegod, guardian angel, your personal saint.

Madonna,

Angel,

Godess,

You declared me.

Sinai's stone tablets you swore you saw in my manners.

Their traces in every movement,

And my lips were kissed by a young blond god,

Who made gold of my tongue,

Vehicl of holy words,

Written in your holy book.

Prayers to my image as an icon.

Halo

Golden sun,

"Too good to be true",

Mantra spoken to my lips,

To fill my lungs with words from stone tablets you swear god gave you on top of Sinaimountain,

Make them part of every breath you inhaled to bless your lungs,

Reflected in the golden shine of the halo.

Crowned with your hands to the godess of holiness.

Blushing cheeks and turned away gaze.

Every holy breath you inhale.

Living of the blessed oxygen.

An altar to services and declarations of god's words.

Staring at the icon painted with your words,

Captured in your holy book,

God's words, you swear it.

My mirror you declared them.

Kissing her lips, her feet, her forehead.

Your reflection in its golden surface.

I turn my gaze away from her portrait,

open arms and demure demeanor in angel image.

A patron saint,

With bent neck, soft spine, soft words and softer speech.

All for a young blond god,

Mirror in his shining irises.

Him, whose painting words I can nolonger read.

Eyes, given away, in your hands.

Relic in the name of goodness.

Miracles fron soft touches and softer words.

My mirrorimage in the icon of the altar.

Kissed without tasting Lapis Lazuli's bitterness

Echo of already holy words on my lips, no longer reached by oxygen. Cold as metal, touching your prayers and mantras.

To sweep me in blue fabric and name me the carries of the clean, golden truth.

In blinding shroud and shining halo,

The golden sun,

Heart of the alter

//

Du fäste den spegelblanka, skinande glorian i de blonda lockarna,

Och i den reflekterades din avbild,

När du böjde dig ned för att kyssa mina fötter,

Marken de beträdde.

Förgylld spegelbild.

På knä inför psalmernas toner,

De som du tillägnade mig,

Medan fingrarna dansade över klaviaturen och strängarna.

Ekot av varje ord i din heliga bok.

Läderpärmar och gyllene tryck,

Ord i svart bläck,

Som formades av din slarviga hand.  

De som du svor att gud personligen predikat för dig.

Du deklarerade mig deras spegelbild, innan du fäste ikonen vid husaltarets hjärta.

Husgud, skyddsängel, ditt personliga helgon.

Madonna,

Ängel,

Gudinna,

Utropade du mig

Sinais stentavlor svor du att du såg speglade i mina anletsdrag,

Spåret av deras ord i varje rörelse.

Och mina läppar kysstes av en ung blond gud,

Som förgyllde min tunga.

Förmedlare av heliga ord,

Skrivna i din heliga bok.

Böner till min bild som en ikon, 

Gloria,

Gyllene solklot

”För bra för att vara sann”,

Mantrat du uttalade mot mina läppar.

Sökte fylla mina lungor med orden huggna på stentavlor som du svär att gud gav dig på Sinaibergets topp,

Göra dem till del av vartenda andetag,

Som du andades in för att välsigna dina lungor.

Speglades i glorians gyllene sken.

Krönt med dina händer till helighetens gudinna,

Rodnande kinder och böjd blick.

Vars heliga andetag du andas in,

Lever av det välsignade syret.

Ett altare tillägnat gudstjänster och förkunnanden av guds ord från predikstolen,

Stirrandes på ikonbilden som du målat med dina ord,

Fångat i din heliga bok,

Guds ord svär du.

Min spegelbild utropade du dem,

Kysser hennes läppar, hennes fötter, hennes panna.

Din reflektion i glorians bladguldsbelägg.

Jag vänder bort blicken för att slippa se hennes porträtt,

Öppna armar och bild blick i änglabild,

Dyrkad som ditt skyddshelgon.

Med böjd nacke, mjuk ryggrad, mjuka ord och mjukare tal.

Allt för en ung blond gud,

 Spegelbilden i hans blanka irisar,

Han, vars målande ord jag inte längre kan läsa.

Bortlämnade ögon i dina händer,

En relik du dyrkade i godhetens namn,

Mirakel tillskrivna en mjuk beröring och mjukare stämma.

Min spegelbild i altarets helgonbild

Kysst utan att känna Lapis Lazulins bittra smak.

Ekot av dina redan helgade ord mot mina läppar, som inget syre nådde, kall som metall mot dina böner och mantran.

För att svepa mig i blått tyg och utnämna mig bäraren av den rena, gyllene sanningen.

I bländande skrud och skinande gloria,

Solens gyllene klot,

Hjärtat i husaltaret

[constance-mcentee]

IMAGE DESCRIPTION: A photo of a page from a book shows a poem and reads as follows.

Mary Magdalene and the Gardener At first Mary thought He was a gardener, this miraculous Son. She saw the dirt under His nails through the tears in her eyes, and saw not the grave, but the bringer of life; And how was she wrong, then? This woman wrapped in grief, who saw the dirt of a borrowed tomb, and thought at first of things which bloom; Which turn their heads to the sun, and burst into joyous colour.

From The Backwater Sermons, Jay Hulme