Mary’s Pentecost           

poem by Mary Stromer Hanson

                                       

art by Gisele Bauche, Canadian

Love at your first breath,                             

My death at your last,

The tomb you escaped,

We embraced, we ate,

Forgot past sadness.

Swallowed in a cloud.

How does a mother

Contain all of this?

Here and gone again.

Enough, no further!

Forty short days, Jesus

I hardly left your side,

You promise to return

Exactly as you rose

by clouds in the sky.

Now wind, tongues,

Of flames on our heads,

Maid servants will prophesy!

It is true, I am blessed,

As the angel Gabriel said.

Your comfort is with us,

In this Spirit you sent,

I feel your breath again.

As you were here before,

I ponder these things.

My other children,

have taken me in.

Yet my first is still here,

I am content now to die

In peace and oblivion. 

  

THE MASTER’S VOICE     Matthew 29:30

Bread broken, a hymn was sung.

“I will not drink of the vine,

fruit of earthly soil until new

with you in my father’s kingdom.”

He raised his voice a soft rumble;

The root note beneath them all.

Thunder in the distance, his bass

Lifted them sweetly aloft.

Perhaps he voiced high tenor,

His lips shaping clear vowels

That soared above the others.

He set the true pitch sensed

 in shimmering stars.

Did their wet eyes seek his,

Inhale in unison, or did Jesus

Tap the downbeat?

Harmony in fifths and fourths

Angelic voices chimed in above.

Marys and Simons in harmony

Tightly woven, occasional

Dissonance relaxed melts into

the sweetest tension.

Earthly echoes of heavenly resonance

A Capella or did John tune the lute?

This the voice lambs heard,

Stilled the water, raised the dead.

Which psalm duets the last cup?

A tremor here and a catch

In breath, there, they blend again.

A plagal echo lingers eternally

Absorbed in ancient walls,

Witnessed the final Amen.

By Mary Stromer Hanson March 2016

Painting by Jacques Joseph Tissot (1836-1902:  

Last Discourse of Our Lord Jesus Christ

Mary's Sword

Mary’s Sword   Poem by Mary Stromer Hanson 4/9/2017

Art: "Women at the Cross" by William Strang 1859-1921

Huddled beneath the cross,

We sink in blood-soaked mud.

Stones embedded in our knees,

Light, dark, thunder, sun again.

Has it been a day? Time is lost.

Moaning mouths now silent,

No two words cling together.

My son just cried, “Father,

Why have you forsaken me?”

Long ago, Gabriel spoke,

“You are highly favored!”

My young body was eager,

My faith was so innocent,

“May it happen as you say.”

Youthful ignorance spoke,

He meant favored for this?

To see my son brutally die?

God, to this I did not agree!

My firstborn was a delight,

Despite the village gossip,

Dear Joseph at my side then,

Ignored the whispered scorn.

A sword did not occur to me.

At first my younger children,

Did not all agree with him.

He asked, “who is my mother?”

That one day, like I wasn’t there!

Simeon’s mysterious words,

“The rise and fall of many.”

Our house was full of friends,

How was I so naive?

One denied him last night,

Betrayed him with a kiss.

You his Father, you allowed this!

Remember, His earthly flesh mine.

Were we not in this together?

Now I know this sword of Simeon,

He said this child, my son, will

Be the rise and fall of many.

Spouses split, friends fail,

Sheep scattered, curtain rent.

The Jews in disarray,

My heart pierced lifeless.

The mighty win, the poor

still hunger. That sword.

He Born of Her          

 “No money to pay, no place to stay.”
She birthed with the breath of animals.
He gasped the dankness of fresh dung.
The gold of kings received with joy,
A few coins paid, his body was hung.

His baby lips sought her breasts,
Her lips brushed his soft cheeks.
From her he learned a mother’s kiss.
His lips greeted, loved, farewelled.
The kiss of betrayal he did not resist.

A thirst awakened on his tongue,
Her mother’s milk brought nurture.
She taught him the taste of fine wine.
From water he fermented vintage of joy,
A cup of sorrow in the garden he cried.

A newborn shivering in the cold,
Soft lamb wool swaddled him.
Her warmth the glow of very first love,
He loved the sheep every last one,
Became the sacrifical lamb from above.

Embryo ears heard hints of life outside.
Her voice told secrets of the world to come.
A childhood in Galilee with friends.
His voice healed the lame, the spirits fled.
But in the end voices condemned.

Eve’s flesh the dust of his humanity.
His human body hungered as a boy.
Her strong arms kneaded dough,
He told the lesson of leaven.
Broken bread of life we now behold.

woodblock by Eric Gill 1929  British

She He Never Blamed

Poem: Mary Stromer Hanson

"She He Never Blamed"

December 2016

Artist: Mina Anton

Cairo, Egypt  2013

"John 8 Woman Taken in Adultery"

She He Never Blamed                  Dec 2016

He laid no blame on her now.

Nor ever. Did he hear the taunts?

Absorb their darts of disdain?

Born of immorality they rant

In derision of his own Mother,

She could have been stoned,

If she were caught in The Act.

Jesus also bore her pain and

On such as her, he laid no blame.

His ancient mothers Rehab,

Bathsheba, Ruth, and Tamar.

Wombs used bravely despite

Deceit to further Jessie’s line.

How did they bear the shame?

Unborn waiting to be born.

His ancestry of uncertain fame,

Boldly proclaimed at his birth.

On mothers, he laid no blame.

The woman spilled blood

Unclean a disgrace shunned.

Jesus did not abhor the stain,

With no angry refrain, he healed.

A woman again unnamed,

Cried and kissed his feet.

How could a prophet not know?

That in this city she is profane.

“Go in peace I lay no blame.”

Stones raised against her,

He could see his mother.

Forced to drink the cup of dust

From the temple floor as the

Priests were quoted.

The adulteress condemned

Miscarries, barren, cursed.

Jesus bent to write in the dust.

Who of you have not sinned?

No one remains? A fetus saved?

On a woman he never laid blame.

Spietis of the Devill

Spietis of the Devill                     Mary Stromer Hanson

                                                  October 30, 2016

Spietis of the devill, shrieked the High

Court of Justiciary. Women for pain.

No whiff of herb, sorcerie,  charms.

Sche deserves what Eve brought forthe.

Timber heaped high, stake driven deep.

Shee is reprehensible and heretical. 

From Pain of labour to Pain of flames,

Eufame MacLayne bare twins, her babes

torn from her full breasts aching on the

Castle Hill of Edinburgh. Genesis, Exodus . .

Do not contravene the Decrees of Providence.

Evil women. Gateway of the Devil. 

Sche gasped for a potion, the midwife

Agnes Sampson, seized her hidden stash.

Now damned for showing compassion

practicing her craft. Carnal, Heresy!

Woman, do not despise your curse.

Outcasts, Bitches, Hexen, Vixen, Scum.

Faire is foul, and foul is faire. She who is

the misbegotten sex, brings black plague.

"God almighty, when did I deny you?

You forsook me, you made my feminine form."

Fire licking at her soles, hair singed."

“Come my child, you are home in my breasts.”

Wedding Poem after Song of Solomon

Cecil Buller Embrace, from Song of Solomon, 1929

 

Wood engraving 1929

  Art Institute Chicago

Wedding Song after Solomon

by Mary Stromer Hanson

Flesh of my flesh, bone of my bone, 

Take my hand on this path unknown. 

Cleaving forever to you alone, 

And leave my mother and father’s home. 

Blessed with sweet wine and the honeycomb, 

Our bed is green as in Solomon’s poem. 

Together we go to a place of our own, 

And find there our own sweet shalom. 

 I give to you, you give to me, 

Such is God’s plan since Adam and Eve. 

Man and Woman, together they lead, 

Ruling the earth by God’s decree, 

Mirrored in God’s image equally. 

When the time comes that we disagree, 

Patience and prayer, that is the key. 

May Christ be the head of this family. 

Wind and rain, rock and flame, 

 Yes, we are different, but also the same. 

When you are strong, that is my gain, 

If I am weak, that is your pain. 

With God’s blessing, peace does reign, 

Sin and sorrow which Christ overcame. 

All that is old has passed away, 

Together our crown we do reclaim.

Mary Did As Mothers Do

Kaethe Kollwitz 1867-1945  a Prussian artist mostly influenced by the German Expressionist. She lost a son in WW1 and a grandson in WWII. She was most interested in drawing the suffering of the working class and greatly impacted by the wars.

"There has been enough of dying! Let not another man fall!"

Mary Stromer Hanson April 2016

 Mary Did As Mothers Do 

                                            Mary did as mothers do.                                              

She drew him under her scarf,

If sharp winds suddenly blew.

Or wrapped him in her skirt,

He noted the hen too lowered her wings,

Over her chicks frightened,

Of dangers, she taught him what she knew,

When overhead an eagle flew.

One day they drew lots for his coat.

Did she teach him how to die?

Mary did as mothers do,

And Joseph too, in the cool of the grove,

They taught him where the olives grew.

To seek solitude and sustenance,

In trees where he rested and prayed.

He selected wood with strength and straight

Grain to build tables and good things.

They taught him work that satisfied.

Then one day a tree was felled. 

Did they teach him how to die?

Mary did as mothers do.

She hastened not where the poor

Hoped for healing or sight renewed.

He saw those begging for crumbs or coins.

She taught him to care, 

And showed how blessings are shared.

One day he was anointed king,

His feet were washed by her who cried,

He received the oil over his head.

Did she teach him how to die?

Mary did as mothers do.

On that day the angel Gabriel came.

Obedience the only answer she knew.

“May it be unto me as you say.”

This son of the house of David born

By the power of the most high.

As she obeyed so did he,

The call of the Father not denied.

One day he faced Jerusalem.

Did she teach him how to die?

In Memory of Her

Mary Magdalen 1926 by Eric Gill 1882-1940

Tate Gallery London

Mark 14:9 And truly I say to you, wherever the gospel is preached in the whole world,

That also which this woman has done shall be spoken of in memory of her.

In Memory of Her

Mark 14:9 And truly I say to you, wherever the gospel is preached in the whole world,

That also which this woman has done shall be spoken of in memory of her.

She, who alone understood,

            What the others found too hard.

Her alabaster flask was filled,

            With a rare and costly nard.

She, who did the utmost,

            Her lot in life allowed.

The poor are with us always,

            Here sat Jesus before her now.

She, who anointed the head,

            Of David’s son, this was the mark,

Of the heavenly King, who

By thorny crown was scarred.

She, who felt the scorn,

            “She’ll be stopped,” they vowed.

“No, this is a great favor.

            The deed she did just now.”

She, who showed such love,

            With the little in her power.

By her His body was prepared,

            For the burial and sorrow.

She, who did not speak,

            Her actions spoke much louder.

Had the twelve only asked her,

            Her motive would not be doubted.

She, who was not asked.

            Her wisdom lost never learned!

Her thoughts were never sought,

            Her voice was never heard.

She, will be remembered,

            Far as the gospel reaches.

Whomever is empowered, and

            Forever her story teaches.

Chorus:

In Memory of her, in memory of her.

Truly I say to you, wherever the gospel’s told.

In the whole world. In the whole world.

What she has done, will be told.

In memory of her.