BY TORSTEN SCHWANKE
HYMN TO THE GODDESS SUSANNA
O heavenly Muse Urania, sing the maid,
The sacred hymn to Susanna, chaste arrayed!
O Muse, whose priest and prophet-king am I,
A swan’s white quill within thy hand I lie.
Behold how ancient Hebrew scriptures tell
Through Daniel’s lips the tale remembered well:
In Babylon once dwelt the Jewish band,
Where Joachim held honor in the land.
Esteemed was he; within his noble hall
Each Friday gathered elders, one and all,
To read the sacred texts and there engage
In earnest disputation, sage with sage.
This noble man was wed to Susanna fair,
Revered by all for virtue pure and rare—
The chastity that sanctifies the bed,
Where faithful love by holy bond is led.
Her beauty shone like lilies freshly born,
With dark-brown hair and eyes both warm and worn
With tender grace; her lips with softness glowed,
Her form unlined, in youthful fullness showed.
One summer day in Babylon she came
To bathe within her garden, free from shame;
Amid the tulips stood the vessel fair,
Her maidens Dina, Lea, served her there.
They brought her oils and soaps, then went away,
Returning to their tasks without delay.
But hidden in the hazel bushes near
Two elders stood, consumed by lustful leer;
They watched her bathe with greedy, burning sight,
Her form immersed in foam, unveiled and bright.
By Eros stirred, inflamed with wild desire,
They stepped forth boldly, driven by that fire.
Alone she stood, for now her maids were gone,
And thus the men addressed her, pressing on:
“Come, lie with us, here in the garden shade.”
She blushed, yet firmly answered, unafraid:
“Unblemished be the marriage bed I keep;
My vow of chastity runs true and deep.”
Then they, by foul corruption overthrown:
“If you refuse, we’ll bring you to the throne
Of judgment—claim we found you in embrace
With some young lover in this very place.
Thus shall you die by stoning, full of shame.”
She prayed: “O Lord of mercy, guard my name!
Preserve my virtue, crown of spotless light,
And save me from this dark and cruel plight.”
Then spoke to them: “Accuse me if you must;
I trust in God, not in your wicked lust.
I will not yield to sin, nor you obey—
My soul is steadfast; take your course, I pray.”
Now sing, O Muse, the tale of judgment grim,
How Susanna stood accused before them,
Charged by the elders with adulterous deed,
Who claimed they saw her yield to sinful greed—
A youth beside her in the garden fair,
Engaged in acts of passion hidden there.
But she proclaimed her innocence aloud,
Calling on heaven before the gathered crowd.
Her prayer was heard; the Father from above
Sent Daniel, filled with wisdom and with love.
He stood as judge and questioned each apart:
“Where saw you this betrayal of her heart?”
The first replied, in falsehood’s crooked guise:
“Beneath the hazel tree before my eyes.”
But Daniel knew the garden’s every part
And saw at once the falsehood in his heart.
The second then was questioned in his turn:
“Beneath a beech,” he said, “did passion burn.”
But Daniel knew the place and proved him wrong,
Exposing both their lies before the throng.
Thus Susanna from the charge was freed,
Her virtue shining clear in word and deed;
Through Daniel’s wisdom, keen and justly wrought,
Her innocence was proven as it ought.
O heavenly Muse, sing Susanna’s sacred name,
Whom Hebrews, Persians, Greeks alike proclaim;
The chaste Athena, owl-eyed virgin bright,
Whom once Tiresias saw in bathing light.
Now let thy voice, O Muse, in heaven resound,
Of Susanna-Athena, holiness crowned,
And tell the fate that bound the blinded seer,
Whose wisdom lives though sight has disappeared.
This Tiresias, priest of cloud-compelling Zeus,
Beheld on Mount Cyllene serpents loose—
A male and female twined in union fast;
He struck the female, and his form was cast
Into a woman’s shape by fate’s command,
Thus living life as both in either land.
As priestess then to Hera did he serve,
White-armed queen, in dignity and nerve.
He wed, bore children—Manto famed among—
A prophetess whose future songs were sung.
Seven years passed; again the serpents met,
And once more joined in nature’s ancient debt;
He slew the male, and straight was he restored
To manhood, as the shifting gods had stored.
Thus knowing both the woman’s and the man’s
Desires, he judged what neither fully scans.
Then Zeus and Hera called him to declare
Which sex finds greater joy in love’s affair.
Said Zeus: “The woman’s pleasure deeper lies.”
Said Hera: “Man more keenly gratified.”
Then Tiresias spoke: “O Zeus is right indeed—
Ninefold the joy that women’s senses heed.”
Then Hera, wrathful, struck his sight away;
But Zeus bestowed prophetic inner ray.
Now comes Susanna—Athena’s form divine—
The virgin goddess, sprung from Zeus’s line,
Who armed arose from out her father’s head,
Yet here in naked purity was led
To bathe unseen; but fate would have it so,
That Tiresias beheld the hidden show.
She saw the watcher in her sacred place,
And anger flashed across the goddess’ face;
She struck him blind—no mortal might behold
Her unveiled form, in purity untold.
He wept and told his mother Chariclo,
Who prayed to Pallas with devotion low:
“Restore my son the vision of his eyes,
O wondrous maiden, goddess pure and wise!”
But Pallas answered gently: “What is done
By gods stands firm beneath the circling sun.
Yet since thy plea has touched my sacred heart,
I grant thy son a higher, nobler part:
A seer he shall be, in wisdom strong;
Even in Hades shall his gift prolong.”
Thus Tiresias revealed to mortal kind
The hidden truths the gods had once confined;
Yet grudgingly he shared the sacred lore,
And spoke in sayings brief, but meaning more.
In war, when Seven marched on Thebes’s gate,
He prophesied the city’s saving fate:
“One must die freely, that the rest may live.”
And Megareus his life chose then to give.
Again he stood where Oedipus did reign,
Who sought the truth through suffering and pain;
But Tiresias warned: “The truth you dread—
You are the slayer whom you seek,” he said.
Revealed at last, the king in anguish fell,
Blinded himself, and wandered, cursed as well.
Once more he came when Antigone defied
King Creon’s law, and for her brother died;
For she had buried him by nature’s claim,
Though Creon doomed her cruelly to shame.
Then Tiresias spoke of wrath divine,
Declaring gods would judge the tyrant’s line.
At last Tiresias drank of fateful spring,
Tiphussa’s source, that death to him would bring;
Down to the shades he passed, where spirits dwell,
In Hades’ realm, beneath earth’s shadowed shell.
There still a seer among the silent dead,
To wise Odysseus solemn words he said:
He told the wanderer of his destined way,
Of Helios’ herds no mortal must betray;
Yet still his comrades, reckless, would not hear,
And sealed their doom, though prophecy was clear.
Hesiod once upon the Muses’ height,
On Helicon, lay resting in soft light;
A shepherd, tending lambs upon the hill,
He slept, when sudden voices hushed and still
Became divine—the Muses’ song arose,
Of Actaeon and his tragic woes:
How he desired Semele, his kin,
And thus provoked Olympian wrath and sin;
For Zeus had sown within her mortal frame
Dionysus, child of deathless fame.
Thus perished he; yet even when he died,
His hounds would roam, unsatisfied, and cried,
Till Chiron shaped in bronze his master’s form,
And calmed their grief, their frenzy to transform.
Another tale, by Pausanias told,
From Stesichorus drawn in days of old:
That Artemis, the virgin huntress bright,
Transformed Actaeon at the fateful sight—
Before he sought Semele’s fateful grace,
Or dared aspire beyond his mortal place.
For she, beloved of Zeus, bore fate’s cruel cost,
By Hera’s envy to destruction lost.
His mother, Autonoe, in grief oppressed,
Sought out his bones with sorrow in her breast;
Through wandering paths she searched both far and wide,
Till in Megara’s land her quest would bide.
Another legend tells his restless shade
Cast stones by night, the villagers afraid;
They sought the oracle, obeyed its word,
And forged a bronze-bound image of the lord;
Fixed to the rock, it stilled the haunting fear,
And Actaeon’s ghost no more drew near.
In epic song, Stesichorus declared
Actaeon’s crime, how boldly he had dared
Assault Semele, sacred in her place—
A deed provoking heaven’s avenging face.
Euripides described with tragic art
The envy burning in the goddess’ heart:
For Actaeon’s skill in hunting’s noble game
Provoked her wrath and brought him death and shame.
Transformed to stag, by his own hounds pursued,
He perished torn within the forest rude.
After his death the grieving hounds withdrew,
Into a cave where sorrow deeper grew;
There Autonoe came, with tender care,
To free them from enchantment’s dark despair.
At last they knew their master they had slain,
And mourned the deed in newly conscious pain.
To Dionysus then the hounds were given,
Newborn son of Zeus, a god of heaven—
Kin to Actaeon, whose tragic breath
Was lost upon Cithaeron’s height in death.
So writes Apollodorus: while at chase
In Plataea’s vale, a hidden place,
Actaeon saw the virgin goddess fair,
Artemis bathing with her nymphs there.
Behold again Susanna’s mirrored scene—
The sacred maiden, pure, untouched, unseen.
But he was marked; the goddess, swift to act,
Splashed him with water, sealing fate’s harsh pact:
He changed to stag; his hounds, with frenzy wild,
Pursued and tore their once-beloved child.
Across the land they roamed in mournful cry,
Till Chiron soothed them, standing ever nigh.
He showed again the bronze-formed hunter’s grace,
And stilled the anguish in each faithful face.
His mother gathered bones with grieving hand,
And laid them gently in their final land.
Diodorus relates yet one tale more:
That Actaeon, in pride, the goddess bore
Offense—first offering spoils from hunted deer,
Then daring acts that filled the shrine with fear;
He sought to win the virgin’s sacred hand,
Or worse, transgress divine and mortal band—
Thus sealing fate no mortal might withstand.
But Ovid, following Callimachus of Greece,
Retold the hunter’s tale in Roman piece:
Actaeon, grandson unto Cadmus’ line,
Returned at noon from labors of the pine.
He sent his comrades home with nets and spear,
While he, unwitting, wandered drawing near
The sacred grove where virgin Dian strayed—
Artemis called in Greece—there bathing lay.
Behold again Susanna’s mirrored grace:
The goddess naked in her hidden place.
In Boeotia’s woods, Gargaphia’s retreat,
A shaded pool lay cool beneath her feet.
Her nymphs attended: one her bow unstrung,
Another loosed the arrows lightly hung;
Crocale dressed her chestnut-colored hair,
While Nephele and Hyale with care,
With Rhanis, Psecas, Phiale beside,
Poured cleansing waters in a crystal tide.
Then Actaeon, through woodland wandering free,
Came on the pool by chance, unwittingly;
He saw the virgin goddess as she bathed—
A sight no mortal gaze should ever have.
The startled nymphs in modest haste drew near
To shield their mistress from the stranger’s leer;
Yet she above them stood in stature bright,
And blushed beneath the hunter’s sudden sight.
Deprived of bow and arrow’s ready art,
She flung cold water, wrath within her heart:
“Now boast, if thou canst speak,” the goddess cried,
“That thou hast seen Diana thus,” she sighed.
At once there sprang from brow a branching horn,
His ears to stag-like length and shape were borne;
His hands and feet to cloven hooves were turned,
A dappled hide across his body burned.
He fled in terror, marveling at his speed,
Till in the stream he saw his altered breed.
He sought to speak—but voice had fled away,
A groan alone broke forth in wild dismay.
His mind remained, though form was wholly changed,
And tears upon his furred face fell estranged.
Ashamed, afraid, he dared not homeward go,
But hid within the forest’s shadowed woe.
Then came his hounds, that once his hunts obeyed,
Now chasing him as quarry through the glade;
His friends urged on the chase with eager cry,
Unknowing he they sought was standing nigh.
They called his name—he heard, yet could not speak,
Still answering to the sound they vainly seek.
At last they tore him down in savage might—
The hunter slain by those he trained to bite.
Now sing we Venus, goddess fair of love,
Who joined with mortal heroes from above;
Yet bathing, she restored her maiden grace—
Thus sacred are the waters of her place.
On Cyprus’ shore, where flows her fabled spring,
A narrow path to hidden baths doth bring;
Of whispered power the ancient tales are told:
That those who bathe regain youth’s bloom of old,
And strength and fortune in love’s tender art,
Renewing body, quickening the heart.
Yet warnings stand beside the sacred tide:
“Enter not here, nor in these waters glide!”
Still many plunge, by secret hope possessed,
To seek renewed the beauty once confessed.
Within a basin carved by nature’s hand,
Where springs arise beneath a rocky stand,
There Akamas, Theseus’ noble son,
Beheld Love’s goddess, radiant as the sun.
Unclothed she bathed; and true to Love’s own art,
She joined the youth in passion at the start.
Yet Slander’s voice accused the pair above,
And Zeus recalled to heaven the Queen of Love.
Perhaps this place, in mystic speech concealed,
Is Fontana Amorosa’s shore revealed—
A western bay where locals still maintain
The fountain grants youth’s beauty once again.
Who drinks its stream regains the bloom of years,
Love’s strength returns, dissolving doubts and fears;
One drop alone may stir the longing breast,
And kindle passion’s fire within the guest.
The skeptic drinks from either sacred flow—
Yet who prefers calm health should neither know.
No grand display the pebbled shore proclaims,
Yet there the water works its subtle flames:
To love at once, as Venus would inspire,
To burn at sight with swift, consuming fire—
So choose with care whom you accompany there,
Lest love arise beyond your will or care.
As once Susanna stood accused unjust,
So Phryne faced the court with beauty’s trust.
Mnesarete first named, of virtue’s claim,
Yet “Phryne”—froglike—was her later name.
In Thespiae born, Epicles’ daughter fair,
She sold capers, then rose through beauty rare;
In Athens gained both wealth and high esteem,
Her grace refined, her bearing calm, supreme.
She shunned display in public baths or art,
No paint adorned her face, no gaudy part;
In modest robes she moved with quiet pride,
Though many suitors sought her at her side.
When Thebes by Alexander’s might was thrown,
She offered wealth to raise it from its stone—
On walls inscribed her boast for all to see:
“By Alexander razed, restored by me.”
Athenaeus tells how, in sacred rite,
At Eleusis she stood revealed to sight;
Before the gathered throng her robes she cast,
And bathed within the sea’s embracing vast.
Then cried the crowd: “Aphrodite appears!”
As foam-born beauty through their awe and tears.
This vision stirred Apelles’ painter’s hand
To shape Anadyomene at command;
Praxiteles too, in sculptured grace refined,
Formed Cnidian Venus from her living mind.
So fair the statue, temples stood amazed,
And Knidos claimed the form all others praised.
One worshipper, in secret passion bound,
Was found at dawn with telltale traces found—
A tale that speaks how art and longing blend,
Where mortal love and marble forms transcend.
Thus from that time the artists shaped the divine
From mortal forms, in beauty’s living line;
And Greece beheld in sculpted, naked grace
The goddess’ presence in the human face.
Again Praxiteles shaped the courtesan fair,
And cast her form in gold with sculptor’s care;
In Delphi’s shrine her radiant image stood,
Near where the oracle of wisdom flowed.
Yet Crates, cynic sage, with biting tone,
Declared it wasteful splendor overthrown.
Then Phryne faced accusation in the court,
By Euthias charged in scandal’s harsh report:
For shameless acts within the Lyceum’s view,
And for new rites of love she brought anew.
Her advocate, though pledged to take her part,
Defended weakly, lacking skill and art.
But when the judgment neared its fateful breath,
She saved herself from condemnation’s death:
She tore her robes, her beauty laid bare,
And cast herself before the judges there.
Not words persuaded, nor the lawyer’s plea,
But divine beauty won her liberty.
And when her doom seemed near, her lover bold
Drew her unveiled before the court of old;
The judge then spoke, astonished at the sight:
“Before us stands Love’s goddess, pure and bright!
We trust her innocence, her beauty’s claim—
No guilt can dwell where shines such sacred flame.”
Now Tacitus, historian of Rome’s might,
Described a German goddess robed in light:
Nerthus, Earth-Mother, borne through fields and lands,
Her chariot drawn by cattle’s patient bands.
She brought them peace, and harvest’s fertile grace,
And joy returned to every dwelling place.
When ended was her sacred, wandering way,
She bathed within a lake at close of day—
Behold again Susanna’s mirrored sign:
The bathing goddess, naked and divine.
Yet those who served her rites were doomed to fall,
Sacrificed after witnessing her call.
On Rügen’s isle, in Stubnitz’ ancient ground,
Her sacred lake and shrine were once renowned;
At Borgsee’s edge and near the ancient wall,
Her rites of peace and плодic gifts enthrall.
A poet sang of wandering through that land:
Where altars smoked and hymns rose soft and grand,
Where sacred groves with echoing songs replied,
And flowers bloomed along each verdant side;
Where rusting arms lay idle, cast aside,
And war forgot where gentle spirits abide.
There stands the beech, the holy Hertha tree,
Where priests once spoke in winds’ deep prophecy;
There too the stone where lambs were offered slain,
In rites to bless the earth with fruitful gain.
And still we see the maiden-form divine
In tales of swan-born spirits, half in sign—
The swan-maidens of sky and northern lore,
Like Valkyries, elves, and fairies told of yore.
A youth once saw beneath the moon’s pale gleam
A swan-maid bathing in a forest stream;
Her feathered robe lay resting on the shore,
He stole it—she could change to bird no more.
Thus bound to earth, she could not take to flight,
Nor flee his longing through the silent night.
He lay with her; she bore a child in time,
A tender son of fate’s entwining rhyme.
Yet later, by the child’s revealing word,
She found her hidden robe, her wings restored;
And rising swift, she vanished to the sky,
Leaving behind the life she could not deny.
So too in tales of the Nibelungs we hear
Of swan-maidens beside the flowing Rhine,
Who came as Hagen, dark in deed and mind,
Concealed the fateful treasure from mankind.
In ancient lays of the Edda still we find
Three brothers wedded swan-maids, heaven-assigned;
Yet after seven years the maidens fled,
Returning skyward from the bonds they’d wed.
Wieland alone no search for her would make,
Thus forced to serve King Nidung for her sake;
Yet wings he forged, and through the air he sped,
Escaping thralldom where his grief had led.
So too in China’s vast and golden land,
The tale of swan-maids passes hand to hand:
A youth once stole a feathered robe away
While one bathed naked in the lake one day.
She bore him sons—three children fair and mild—
Yet found her wings again, and skyward smiled.
She fled to heaven, then later did return,
With robes for all, her children’s hearts to earn;
She took them home into the airy dome,
Where bird-maids dwell in their celestial home.
Thus have I sung the goddess’ sacred lore,
As Muse inspired in Homeric strain of yore.
O Susanna, heavenly, purest of the pure,
In chastity and radiance secure,
Appear in heaven robed in swan-white light,
Reveal thy breast, source of all comfort bright.
Descend, O Virgin, over sacred lands,
Extend thy peace with gentle, healing hands;
From German fields to China’s distant shore,
Grant humankind the peace they seek once more.
Bestow new life, green strength, renewing grace,
Let fertile power flow through every place.
Grant to thy faithful souls a tranquil mind,
And joy in spirit, pure and unconfined.
HYMN TO THE GODDESS DINA
I
Sing, Muse, of Dina, fairest to the eye,
The virgin child whom Leah bore on high
To Israel; she wandered forth to trace
The daughters of that strange and foreign race.
When Shechem, Hamor’s son, the Hivite youth,
Beheld her beauty, void of grace or truth,
He seized the maid and with a lover's might,
Defiled her soul and sinned within the night.
O God, have mercy! Yet his heart remained
Ensnared by her whom he had lately stained;
With tender words he sought to soothe her fear,
And held the trembling maiden close and dear.
To Hamor then the stripling turned and cried:
"O seek this lovely Dina for my bride!"
When Jacob learned his darling was defiled,
That shame had fallen on his favorite child,
His sons were with the cattle in the field;
In silent grief his aching heart was sealed
Until they came. Then Hamor went his way
To speak with Jacob on that bitter day.
The sons of Israel, from the pastures led,
Heard of the crime and Shechem’s lawless bed;
With burning wrath their heavy spirits swelled,
For love of Dina was the flame they held.
They loathed the folly Shechem’s hand had wrought,
The violence that Dina’s sorrow bought;
In Israel such deeds shall ne'er be known,
Nor such a seed on holy earth be sown.
Then Hamor spoke: "My son, with soul afire,
To wed your Dina is his soul's desire.
Make league with us; let ancient feuds depart,
And join with us in hand and home and heart.
Give us your daughters; take our maidens, too,
And dwell among us as the comrades do.
The land is wide; its gates are open spread;
Here labor, trade, and find a marriage bed."
And Shechem cried to Jacob and the sons:
"Let me find grace among your holy ones!
Whate'er you ask, I grant it for my life,
If you but grant me Dina for a wife."
With guile the sons of Jacob made reply,
Hiding the vengeance in a watchful eye,
Because their sister’s honor had been torn;
They spoke to Shechem with a mask of scorn:
"This thing we cannot do; we cannot give
Our cherished Dina, while as Greeks you live;
To wed a man whose flesh is unrefined
Would bring a shame upon our holy kind.
But we shall grant the wish that you have sought
If you become as we, in deed and thought:
Let every male among you feel the knife
And be circumcised to win a wife.
Then shall we dwell as friends and kin with you,
One people joined, the Hivite and the Jew.
But if you will not heed what we demand,
We take our girls and seek another land."
The word pleased Hamor and his youthful heir;
The lad delayed not, for the prize was fair.
To win his darling Dina, he submitted,
And all his pride and person he committed.
Then to the city gates the leaders went,
To move the townsmen toward a grim consent:
"These men are peaceful; let them dwell in peace,
And let our wealth and families increase.
The land is vast; their daughters we shall wed,
And bring our maidens to the Hebrew bed.
But only on this term will they remain:
That every male endure the sacred pain,
To be circumcised as they are, every man,
According to their ancient, holy plan.
Their herds and gold shall then be ours to share,
If we but yield to what they deem is fair."
The citizens gave ear to Hamor's plea;
At the city gate, they bowed the stubborn knee.
Each man was cut by flint and sharpened blade,
And on their tender flesh the mark was made.
But on the third day, while they groaned in pain,
With swords in hand to wipe away the stain,
Simeon and Levi, Dina's brothers, rose
And fell like lions on their helpless foes.
They slew each male who pisses 'gainst the wall;
"For God and Dina!" was their battle call.
They butchered Hamor and his son likewise,
And rescued Dina from their lustful eyes;
From Shechem's house they led the maid away,
While Jacob’s sons descended on the prey.
They sacked the city, seizing herd and flock,
The braying donkey and the golden stock;
The weeping wives and children were their prize,
While "God and Dina!" echoed to the skies.
"Our vengeance burns!" they cried in holy ire,
"And quenched is Dina’s shame in blood and fire!"
II
Saint Dina was Seraphia’s daughter fair;
At thirteen years, she learned the holy prayer
Of how to yield to Christ, the Lord of Grace,
Within His Mother’s merciful embrace.
At fifteen years, she read the "Little Soul,"
Who died at twenty, having reached her goal;
From her she learned that every act must prove
The boundless power of a holy love.
With convent sisters, Dina learned to play
The grand piano in a gifted way;
They sent her to New York to seek the light
And bring her music to a greater height.
She dwelt with sisters there of Jesus’ name,
And Mary’s too, until a spark became
A holy flame; impressed by how they lived,
Her heart and soul to Canada she give.
She joined their order, took the sacred vow,
And taught the nuns the songs she mastered now.
As mistress of the chords and harmony,
She served in many lands with piety;
But oft her strength would fail, her body break,
Bearing a crown of pain for Jesus’ sake.
Yet till her death, she labored to impart
The spirit’s song and music’s sacred art.
In nineteen-hundred-twenty-five, her sight
Was filled with visions of celestial light;
She gazed upon the realms of endless day
And mastered mystic paths along the way.
Her Mother Muse then gave her a command:
To write the visions with a steady hand,
That all might read the mysteries of old
And see the knowledge of the Lord unfold.
In nineteen-hundred-fifty-one, they bore
Her hallowed bones across the chapel floor;
Within a sarcophagus, she was laid
Where Mary-Jesus sisters knelt and prayed.
In Canada her relics still remain,
The holy remnants of a life of pain.
Her book of visions, born of heaven’s grace,
Is read in fifty tongues by every race.
In nineteen-hundred-ninety-three, in Rome,
Beneath the glory of the Peter’s dome,
Great John Paul raised her to the altar’s height;
As Blessed Dina, she reflects his light.
O Sainted Dina, hear us as we call:
Pray now to God for mercy on us all!
III
The Angel Dina rules the student’s mind,
Guardian of laws and wisdom for mankind.
When first the world was fashioned and begun,
She taught the children 'neath the rising sun;
The seventy-two tongues of every race
Were gifted by her eloquence and grace.
A radiant spirit, beautiful and bright,
She guides the scholar through the silent night.
For Dina is the name a spirit bears—
A messenger who answers human prayers.
She shields our souls and leads us by the hand
To seek the truths that few can understand;
She stirs the heart to master every art,
That science and the Word might not depart.
The Bible’s angel, messenger of light,
She brings God’s feminine wisdom into sight.
Yet this most lovely spirit does not stay
Content to point the intellectual way;
Beyond the reach of science and of thought,
The greatest lesson is the one she taught:
To seek the love of God, the highest prize,
And view our neighbor with a brother’s eyes.
For though the mind may soar to heights above,
The highest wisdom of the Lord—is Love!
IV
Now speaks my Muse the Sanskrit of the sage,
Where Dina marks a small and humble age;
It signifies the helpless and the weak,
The poor in spirit and the sorrow-meek.
It names the child who walks the vale of tears,
Beset by trembling and by ghostly fears,
A needy soul within the shade of death,
Who draws in grief a faint and flickering breath.
Yet in the Sanskrit of the Brahmin line,
Is Dina too the Mother-Soul divine;
The Goddess-Mother, guardian of the low,
To whom the sick and broken children go.
She is the Mother of all Mercy’s light;
When you are lost within the hollow night,
When mother dies, or when your child has fled,
Or faithless friends leave bitterness instead,
Then turn to Mother Dina in your rest:
She’ll pour the milk of comfort from her breast.
And if you suffer, let your sorrows rise
To reach the Father in the starry skies;
For God the Father bears that name as well:
As Dina, where His mercies ever dwell.
V
Now let us ask the Rabbis of the law,
And star-gazers who watch the sky with awe.
Twelve sons had Jacob-Israel of old;
Twelve signs the wheeling Zodiac does hold.
Each child of Israel is fixed on high,
A constellation in the velvet sky—
Save Joseph, who no single sign can claim.
But Dina, daughter of the holy name,
Is Virgo, shining in the heavenly height;
On August’s fifteenth day she sheds her light,
The feast when Mary rose to heaven's throne.
For Dina as the "Judgess" shall be known;
That is her name, and thus the Virgin sign,
Which Greeks called Astraea, is hers by line.
Astraea, Goddess of the Just and True,
Whom Romans as Justitia once knew,
She ruled the world within the Age of Gold,
A queen whose mercy never wandered cold.
But when mankind began to kill and lust,
Obsessed with gold and treading in the dust,
From rape and war the weeping Goddess flew,
And to the third high heaven she withdrew.
Yet in the end of time she shall descend!
The Virgin Dina, whom we now commend.
In John’s Apocalypse the vision runs:
A Woman stands, more radiant than the suns;
Upon the crescent moon she rests her feet,
The glory of the light her only sheet.
The Zodiac is set upon her brow,
Twelve stars crown Our Lady even now;
And in that wreath of the Celestial Queen,
The star of Dina is the brightest seen!
VI
Now let us praise the Kabbalist’s deep lore:
That Splendor which endures forevermore,
That highest Beauty, peerless and sublime,
Where angel hosts transcend the reach of time.
There Thrones and Cherubim and Seraphim,
With Michael and with Gabriel, chant their hymn;
There every guardian of the human race
Beholds the radiant glory of her face.
The Thrones as living Gods are named on high,
The Cherubim as Wisdom’s light draw nigh,
While Seraphim, with wings of burning fire,
Are angels of the heart’s most holy hire.
The heavens seven by these hosts were made,
In celestial light and cosmic shade.
What is the name of this great Majesty?
The name of Beauty is Adonai;
She is the Kingdom, Heaven here below,
From whom all names and living waters flow.
She is the power that makes all things new,
The moved, the mover, and the morning dew.
What is her name? The Lord of Might and Grace!
The Tabernacle and the dwelling place;
She is the Tent, the Palace of the King,
The garden where the souls of merit sing;
The Pleasure-Castle and the Paradise,
The joy of God within the highest skies!
From her did David take his golden crown,
And Solomon his wisdom and renown;
Of every sage she is the Mother true,
Who brings the ancient Law to light anew.
She teaches us the Talmud and the Way,
Our Mistress and our Teacher every day;
The Darkest Mother and the Night is she,
The stainless mirror of Divinity.
But in that Mirror, what is brought to light?
The Mothers rise before our wondered sight!
There Rachel's lovely eyes begin to shine,
And Leah’s bounteous form, the mother-vine;
There Bilhah and there Zilpah take their place,
The handmaids of the sons of Israel’s race;
And in that glass, the virgin's form we see:
The sacred Dina in her majesty!
The spotless Mirror of the Lord’s own grace
Reveals the glory of fair Dina's face.
HYMN TO THE GODDESS ANNA
I
Come down from heaven, Anna, bride divine,
To guide my song and dictate every line!
I sing the Mother of the world’s wide span,
Adored by nations and beloved by man.
Huwass-Anna, Luwian queen of old,
Whose sacred rites the ancient towns enfold;
In Hupisna, within Eregli’s wall,
The folk proclaimed thee Mother of them all.
Hittite poets sang the holy days,
When festive crowds would offer up their praise,
To mark thy birth or see thy soul arise
To claim its dwelling in the vaulted skies.
Each Hittite bard would labor to rehearse
Thy Luwian name in Luwian-flavored verse;
They loved thee with a spirit deep and grand,
The soul and sense of that old, sun-drenched land.
Few know the name of holy Anna now,
Or where the ancient throngs were wont to bow;
How soon the world forgets the Mother’s grace!
Yet I am sent to find her dwelling place,
To sing her mercy, and her wars proclaim,
Her love, her beauty, and her sacred name;
The Poor-Man’s Mother, she who hears the cry
Of those whom pride and power would pass by.
The Hittite state and its established creed
To Anna’s altar gave but little heed;
The King and High Priest praised the God of Might,
Who speaks in thunder through the stormy night.
But little children and the aged crone,
The poor, and poets to the Goddess prone,
In private shrines their secret love confessed
To her who holds the world upon her breast.
They loved her more than Him who shakes the ground,
In her pure heart their only comfort found;
They sought her bosom when the grief was deep,
For Anna heals the weary ones who weep.
"She always helps!" the folk were heard to say,
Though State and Church looked quite the other way.
Within her temple, for the sacred rite,
A holy staff was robed in purest white;
The priests and maidens joined in choral song,
While priestesses harangued the gathered throng.
In sacred groves the holy harlots stood,
To offer joy within the leafy wood;
For he who with the harlot sought to lie,
Was joined to the Divinity on high.
The faithful brought their offerings to the shrine:
The salted loaf and blood of purple wine.
With silver coin they blessed the hungry poor,
With bread and butter at the temple door;
With steaming drinks and cheese they gave relief,
To ease the burden of a brother's grief.
The singers joined the priestess in her task,
With psaltery and songs for grace to ask.
The wise gave proverbs to the seeking mind,
And holy women healing herbs would find;
For Anna is not only Queen of Love,
But Goddess of the Wisdom from above.
The scholar’s light, the mystic’s wild delight,
She guides the thinker through the deepest night;
And even then, the Priest of God would stand
To bless the work of her maternal hand.
For many days they kept her feast each year,
The Sahhan-rite, because they held her dear.
As broken tablets of the Law attest,
A wedding feast was honored with the rest;
High up in Heaven, on a bridal bed,
The Queen of Love to her own lord was wed;
The Goddess Anna took her husband there,
And melted into him in open air.
At every feast the sacred wine was poured,
The heavenly bread was placed before the Lord.
What Hittites lacked, her cult would yet provide:
The holy kiss that none would wish to hide;
Where sisters met their brothers in the street
And gave the kiss of peace to all they'd meet.
In Ishtanuwa, town of holy grace,
The Luwian folk would kiss in that high place.
The priestess Pappi performed the cleansing rite
To lead the soul from darkness into light;
To heal the sick in body and in mind,
When Anna’s wrath left misery behind.
To soothe the Goddess, oil was freely spent,
With figs and raisins for a sweet ascent;
That Anna might her friendship grant again,
And bring her comfort to the sons of men.
The women brought their cakes of honeyed yeast,
Baked in the breast-shape for the Mother's feast.
Besides Great Anna (whose sweet name means Mother),
In Heaven’s courts they honored many another;
She felt no envy when the poets’ lays
To Sea or River offered up their praise;
In Kuliwischna, bards would even sing
To Ishtar, whom the harlots’ praises bring.
II
Ancient Anatolia claimed her as its own,
E'er yet the cruel Assyrian power was known;
In Kanesch-Karum, while the merchants swayed,
To Anna’s name the native people prayed.
The chief of spirits in that rugged land,
A Mother-Goddess with a healing hand;
When foreign traders sealed their formal pacts
To bind their commerce and their worldly acts,
Beside great Assur, Anna took her place
To grant the treaties her celestial grace.
The Queen of Kanesch was her rightful name,
The city’s glory and its holy flame.
The King himself would seek her temple gate
Upon her feast, to consecrate his state;
By Anna’s mercy did he wear the crown,
The Servant of the Mistress of the town.
Two thousand years before the Christ was born,
From Anna’s brow the diadem was torn;
By Baal, the cursèd Bull, she was displaced,
And from the height of government erased.
That God of Thunder, bringer of the rain,
Was master of the harsh Assyrian train;
From Syrian sands to the Mesopotamian flood,
The Storm-God ruled in tempest and in blood.
Yet though the empire bowed to Baal’s command,
Old Anatolia loved the Mother’s hand;
The common folk remained forever true
To that bright Goddess whom their fathers knew.
The Hittite scrolls preserved in ancient script
Record her name, in Luwian honors dipped;
When that great Empire reached its golden height,
They still recalled the Luwian Mother’s might.
The Queen of Kanesch, through the ages' span,
As Huwass-Anna blessed the Luwian man;
In Hupisna the gathered people stood
To praise the Mother, beautiful and good.
III
Anna, by doting tongues called Annu still,
Once ruled the Celtic glade and Irish hill;
The Island’s Mother, throned in emerald green,
Until St. Patrick’s God transformed the scene.
In Cormac’s Glossary her name is found:
Mater Deorum on Hibernian ground.
As Mother of the Gods she held her sway,
While through the soil she pushed the blooms of May;
The Book of Conquests links her sacred name
To Morrigan, the Fate of battle-fame.
The Triads of the Isle and Britain’s shore
Make her the bride of Beli Mawr of yore;
The mother of Afallach, noble son,
Whose line through misty British ages run.
Fair Ireland, by the poets of the Muse,
Was "Anna’s Land"—the name the singers choose.
Two swelling hills, like breasts upon the plain,
Are "Paps of Ana," where she holds her reign;
And there, to honor her maternal might,
The signal fires are lit on Midsummer’s night.
As Danu or as Danann she was known,
Or as Black Annis on the Cymric throne;
The Scottish highlands "Gentle Annie" cry,
While "Annea" was the ancient Celtic tie.
In Irish legend and the faerie-tale,
As Áine Cli she haunts the misty vale;
Though but a sprite she seems in modern lore,
'Tis Annu, whom the ancients did adore.
Daughter of Manannan, or Caulan’s child,
A virgin fairy, beautiful and wild;
She bit the ears from off the Irish King
Who sought to do a foul and lawless thing.
She loved Fionn mac Cumhaill with a heart of fire,
Though he remained quite cold to her desire.
O, Earl of Desmond! Thou didst seize the maid,
And in her womb a phantom son was laid;
The boy returns, so do the legends tell,
Each seventh year to cast his ghostly spell.
To this very day the Irish folk believe,
And call on Áine’s name on Midsummer’s Eve;
They beg for fruitfulness and strength of mind,
That health of soul and body they may find.
IV
Anna Perenna, she who circles through the year,
To Rome and to Etruscan hearts was ever dear;
As Mother Earth the old Etruscans gave her praise,
Like Gaea or like Tellus in the ancient days.
Upon the fifteenth day of March her feast was spread,
Where by the Flaminian Way the happy crowds were led;
There, in her honor, every man would drink his fill—
Deep draughts of juniper to fortify the will!
For every cup of spirits drained throughout the night,
A year is added to your life of sun and light.
The men would dance, and girls with many a wanton glance
Would strip their garments in a wild, erotic dance;
The songs they sang were lustful, rhythmic, and obscene,
Like Greek Anthologies, to praise their festive Queen.
This Goddess Anna was a mortal maid, they tell,
Who loved the Roman commoners and served them well;
When bread was scarce, she brought them cakes of honeyed yeast,
Baked in the fashion of her own white, rounded breast.
She fed the starving poor and saved them from the grave,
Till for her mercy, godhood to the maid they gave;
Apotheosis! Thus the poets sang her name,
With lewd and ribald verses to exalt her fame.
They sang of secret acts, of mentula and lust,
Of every carnal joy and every cooling thrust;
They sang how Cynics coupled in the market square,
And showed her pornography to please a soul so rare;
As Venus Porne was she hailed in every street,
Where sacred vice and holy virtue used to meet.
Once Mars the War-God felt a deep and burning fire
For wise Minerva, who disdained his fierce desire;
The Virgin Goddess would not hear the suitor’s plea,
So Mars sought Anna’s help to act as deputy.
But Anna played a trick: she donned a modest veil,
Disguised as chaste Minerva, somber, cold, and pale;
Then to the God of War she opened wide her knee,
While Ares thought he plucked a flower of purity!
This Anna gave her name—as Ovid Naso told—
To Dido’s sister in the legends known of old;
Good Naso loved the Goddess and her ribald wit,
Till by Augustus’ ban to exile he was hit.
V
Of Anna-Purna now my muse shall sing,
Who does to man the wealth of harvest bring;
The Mother of the Loaf, the Spirit’s Bread,
By whose full hand the hungry world is fed.
As Parvati she walks the earthly maze,
With bowl of rice to meet the seeker's gaze;
Within the vessel dip her fingers fair,
With tender mercy and a mother's care.
Her name a mountain bears in Nepal's height,
An Upanishad shines with her holy light.
A manifestation of the Hindu sky,
To Shiva's house she brings a rich supply;
For Shiva wanders as a beggar-king,
To whom the Goddess does her alms-deed bring.
He begs for love, receiving from her hand,
As we as beggars in God’s presence stand;
We plead for grace, and from her golden store,
The Mother gives until we want no more.
When to your daily toil you take your way,
To earn the wage that keeps the wolf at bay,
To feed the wife and children at your knee,
Or save for days you cannot yet foresee;
Remember well, though by your sweat 'tis won,
'Tis by the Mother’s grace the deed is done.
When nature rages or the flames arise,
And all your labor in the ruin lies,
Be humble, man! For only she can give
The daily bread by which the nations live.
There is a prayer, a hymn of ancient line:
"O Holy Mother, we are beggars thine;
Grant us the grain that fills the wooden bowl,
But grant us wisdom as the bread of soul!"
In Nepal's peaks, the Himalayan range,
She sits enthroned above the tides of change;
That sacred mount is Anna-Purna’s throne,
Where fullness of the harvest-wealth is known.
Within the Ashram's walls, the kitchen's flame
Is kept in honor of her holy name;
The boiling rice, the milk, the garden’s meat,
Are offerings laid before her shining feet.
The very washing and the merchant's trade
Are holy service for the Mother made;
The sacred beast, the cup of vintage rare,
Are all committed to her matron-care;
For in the cell where lonely monks reside,
She is the housewife and the heavenly guide.
In old Benares and Calcutta's heat,
She gives the faithful holy bread to eat;
From highest Brahmin to the lowest thrall,
Her mercy reaches out to feed them all.
She gives her breast to every hungry child,
With mother-love, compassionate and mild.
And he who gives the poor a roasted bird,
The Mother's prompting in his heart has heard;
But they who waste the crust and spoil the grain,
In Western lands of plenty and disdain,
Who cast the gift of Heaven in the mire,
Awake the Mother’s breast to righteous ire.
Once Shiva spoke to Parvati in pride,
"The world is but a dream, a phantom tide;
The bread is Maya, nothingness and foam!"
Then, in her anger, Anna left her home.
The Earth grew cold, the stars began to wane,
And empty space felt nothing but the pain;
The fields grew dry, the harvest turned to dust,
And man was left without a single crust.
The children died for lack of love and food—
"Return, O Mother, beautiful and good!"
Then Parvati, with pity in her heart,
Could not endure to play the silent part;
To Kashi’s streets she made her swift descent,
And opened wide her kitchen's monument.
When Shiva saw her mercy and her grace,
He sought with deep remorse her holy face;
No more he called the bread a phantom dream,
But praised the gift as holy and supreme.
Since then, the world adores the Mother’s name,
Who saved the living from the hunger-flame.
I wish to paint her with her spoon of gold,
Before the steaming pot that she does hold;
While Shiva kneels before her, bent and low,
With beggar’s bowl to catch the overflow.
In Karnataka stands her temple-shrine,
Where pilgrims seek her countenance divine;
On Puja-days they bring her bread and wine,
And cakes in breast-shape at her altar-line;
The intoxicating draught they freely drain
To praise the Queen of Every Harvest-Grain.
West Bengal’s sons and all the Eastern shore
Exalt her name and her high grace implore.
This feast of Anna, women keep alone,
The young and old before the Mother’s throne.
When first the waxing moon begins to shine,
They see the Goddess in the silver line;
In Chaita-month, as per the ancient way,
The folk of Bengal keep her holy day.
In Northern lands, she takes her yearly flight
In Margashirsha, robed in lunar light;
The poets then, as priests of every Muse,
To sing her praises do their voices use.
In Southern heat, the Navaratri tide
Brings rice and wine to Shiva’s holy bride.
In Kashi's streets as Bhavani she's known,
The Shakti on the Lord’s eternal throne;
As World-Mother she rules the sacred place,
And blesses Kashi with her radiant face.
O Anna-Purna! Name of spirit-might,
The household’s joy and every heart’s delight;
To every bride who enters wedded life,
A statue goes to guard the new-made wife.
The seeker finds within that name a key,
To unlock doors of high divinity;
When women pray Om Namah Shivaya low,
Or through their beads the Durga-mantras flow,
They learn that Anna is the body’s food,
But Maya-Anna is a passing mood.
For Anna is the Bread of Heaven too,
The Godhead given to the faithful few.
My love, if you should bear this name so grand,
Bestowed upon you by a poet’s hand,
Then you may say: "I seek to give my all,
A servant to the world’s demanding call;
I have the fullness from the Mother’s store,
And having her, I need for nothing more.
I am the daughter of the Queen of Bread,
By whom the spirit and the flesh are fed;
I take from her what earthly life requires,
But God as Bread fulfills my soul's desires."
VI
O Anna, Mother of the Christian line,
Maria’s mystic source, a root divine!
Lord Jesus’ grandmother, I seek thy might
To bless my song and set the verses right.
The Bible’s pages keep thy story veiled;
No word of thee in Gospel truth is trailed.
Luke and Matthew of thy life are mute,
And John and Mark bear no such holy fruit.
Yet James the Just, the cousin of the Lord,
Did in his Proto-Gospel records hoard
The tale of Anna and of Joachim’s life,
And how the Virgin issued from the wife.
Protos is Greek: the first, the very start;
This ancient source speaks to the longing heart;
The spring from which Maria’s birth is drawn,
The tradition that heralds in the dawn.
For deep within the human soul there lies
A thirst for Grandmothers with ancient eyes—
The Wise Old Woman, she who stands before
The world was made, at Heaven’s open door;
A Primal Mother, throned in mythic light,
The Queen of Form who conquers ancient night.
Thy name itself reveals a deeper root,
An ancient stem that bears a hallowed fruit;
Like Persian Anahita, throned on high,
Or great Ananta in the Indian sky.
The Syrian Anath and the Canaanite,
Sumerian Inanna, robed in light;
The Hittite Hanna and the Celtic pair,
Anu and Dana, goddesses most fair.
All Primal Mothers, throned in history's mist,
By whom the unified world is blessed and kissed;
The Female God, the Architect of space,
Reflected now in Anna’s holy face.
To this we add the Roman Mother’s name,
Janna or Juno, she of ancient fame,
Who made it easy for the Roman heart
To play in Anna’s cult a faithful part.
"An" is a primal sound of human speech,
The Ahn, the Ancestor we strive to reach;
Our aged Mother, source of all the kin,
In whom the threads of earthly life begin.
It was no chance that Christ’s own kin was told
By names the world had loved since days of old;
Though Syrian versions of the legend’s trace
Give her the name of Dina, full of grace—
Diana, Di-Ana, she of light,
The Goddess shining through the velvet night.
She mirrors Rome’s Perenna in her ways,
And Nanna Buruku of Afric days;
Two Grandmothers of Time, whose endless span
Defies the narrow calendar of man.
Aeons on aeons are her dwelling place,
Beyond the stars, in time’s eternal grace.
But let us seek the Jewish legend’s thread:
To Joachim the holy maid was wed.
Long years they lived without a child to hold,
Though Joachim was pious, rich, and old;
He gave his tithes to feed the temple’s fire,
And blessed the poor with all they could require.
Yet once a priest, a Sadducee of pride,
Refused the gift and thrust the man aside:
"Thou hast no child!" the haughty cleric cried,
"The Father’s blessing is to thee denied;
For only he whom sons and daughters grace
Has found a favor in the Holy Place."
Then Joachim to Judah’s desert fled,
To fast and pray where lonely paths are spread.
For forty days he sought the Lord’s decree,
Until an Angel came that he might see.
To Anna too, in Salem’s city walls,
The same bright spirit from the heavens calls:
"Thy womb shall bear a child of holy fame,
A daughter blest; Maria is her name."
To Zion’s Gate, the portal made of gold,
Ran Joachim, as by the spirit told;
And there, within the Golden Gate’s embrace,
He folded Anna in his fond out-face.
Within that hug, Maria was conceived,
In purest grace, as holy hearts believed;
A prompt conception, spotless and most chaste,
Where every stain of sin was quite erased.
It foreshadowed Maria’s virgin birth,
When Jesus Christ was brought upon the earth;
As she remained a maid, her hymen whole,
So Anna bore a pure and perfect soul.
The Church ordains a feast for this event,
To mark the grace the Holy Spirit sent;
On the eighth day of cold December's light,
We praise the Mother, beautiful and bright.
Nine months then passed until the child was born,
On the eighth day of September’s golden morn;
Then folk rejoice to see the Virgin’s face,
And honor Anna for her gift of grace.
But here the scholars and the thinkers part:
How did the life within the body start?
When at the Gate the holy pair did meet,
Was there a flow of seed and carnal heat?
Or is the "Golden Gate" a metaphor
For Anna’s womb, the Spirit's secret door?
The Temple’s gate or gate of holy flesh,
Where God begins the world’s life anew and fresh?
Old tales declare that Anna did conceive
Without the act that modern minds believe;
As pure as was the daughter she would bear,
She breathed a holy and celestial air.
This marks her as a Goddess, great and high,
Who draws her life from sources in the sky.
In Anna’s case, the mystery is more plain
Than when the Virgin felt the Spirit’s rain;
For parthenogenic laws of life decree
That such a birth a daughter's birth must be.
At first the Church this virgin birth confessed,
To prove Maria was uniquely blessed;
But later Fathers feared the world might say
"Two virgins are too many for one day!"
They feared that men might think Maria’s part
Was as a Savior for the human heart;
And so they cast the virgin birth aside,
And said that Anna was a normal bride.
Yet still they hold Maria was redeemed
E'er yet the light of earthly morning beamed;
The "Immaculate Conception" is the name
For this unique and high celestial claim.
Pope Pius Nine declared this as a creed,
A dogma for the faithful soul to heed:
Maria was from every blemish free,
Pure from her start in all eternity.
The only soul who lacked the primal stain,
In whom the serpent’s poison was in vain;
Thus God preserved her, holy and complete,
To be a dwelling for his spirit sweet.
The cult of Anna has an ancient pedigree:
Byzantium built her shrines for all to see.
In Europe’s heart, when Middle Ages reigned,
The height of Anna’s glory was attained.
Pope Sixtus Fourth her day of honor gave,
And Gregory Thirteenth fixed the date we crave—
Midsummer’s heat, the time to seek her face
And ask the Mother for her ancient grace.
By fifteen hundred, relics of her frame
To Düren, Vienna, and many a city came.
But Germany, Maria’s chosen land,
Received the cult with an open, eager hand.
When plagues had passed, the family took hold,
And household life was valued more than gold;
The Father, Mother, and the Child were blest,
But Grandmother was honored with the rest.
It fit the world-view of that changing age
To put the Grandmother upon the stage;
Beside the Virgin and the Holy Boy,
Great Anna stood, the matriarch of joy.
The Primal Mother of the holy line,
The root from which the Savior’s branches twine;
Annen-Fraternities served at her shrine,
And called the Grandmother a soul divine.
Then artists painted Anna Selbdritt fair—
The "Anna-Third" with both the other pair;
Da Vinci’s brush, by every Muse inspired,
Portrayed the scene that every soul desired.
Some say that when her Joachim had died,
She was a second and a third time bride;
To Cleophas and Salomas she gave
Her hand, and bore more daughters from the grave.
Three Marys from her womb were said to spring,
A miracle that made the poets sing!
Though she was old and barren for so long,
She bloomed again to justify the song.
"O Holy Anna!" did the people cry,
"Three Marys didst thou bring from out the sky!"
The Mother of the Trinity of Grace,
Reflecting in herself the Primal Face.
These Marys three are like the Goddess old—
The Maid, the Lover, and the Crone of gold.
Like Celtic Anbeth, triple and supreme,
Who walks through every emerald-tinted dream.
When Ireland turned to follow Christ the Lord,
They kept the Mother whom they once adored;
Her holy wells and hills remained the same,
Though now they spoke them in St. Anna’s name.
Her feast in July, at the summer’s crest,
Is like the Harvest-Goddess, manifest;
The hills and valleys that her name still bear—
The Annabergs and wells in open air—
Are ancient shrines where Mothers were adored,
Before the world was conquered by the Sword.
How did she treat the Child, her grandson dear?
We cannot know, but we may feel her near.
Was she a merry crone, a gentle soul,
Who played with Jesus while the seasons roll?
Did they play chess together on the floor?
Did he find comfort at her chamber door?
When Mary was too strict and said him "No,"
To Grandmother’s sweet bosom would he go?
She gave him honey-cakes and figs to eat,
And date-bread for a special, secret treat;
With salty almonds and the juice of grape,
She helped the little Savior to escape.
And did she read him stories while he slept,
Or sing the psalms that in her heart she kept?
The Shepherd’s Song that royal David wrote,
With every holy and poetic note?
Who knows the truth? The magic is the same:
The Primal Goddess wears a Grandmother’s name.
One thing we know from paintings of the past:
She was a teacher whose decree would last.
The Goddess of all Wisdom, grave and wise,
She watched her daughter with discerning eyes.
In Christian art, a lovely scene is found:
Upon a bench or on the holy ground,
Great Anna sits and shows Maria there
The Holy Bible and the power of prayer.
Anna and Mary! Joined in thought and hand,
To understand what God for man has planned;
From Genesis to Malachi they read,
Upon the sacred Word their spirits feed.
Other scenes show the Virgin, grown and tall,
With seventeen years, the fairest of them all;
The Child is on her lap, but at her side
Stands Anna as a mentor and a guide.
They look into the Book; the Boy is taught
The letters and the meaning of the thought.
These women are the scholars of the Word,
By whom the inner sense is felt and heard.
And so I dedicate this hymn of love,
Not to the Father-God who sits above,
But to the Grandmother-God, the ancient vine,
In whom the roots of every life entwine.