Monday, June 3, 2013

Inanna Speaks

This poem absolutely rent my heart out of my chest.  It bears sharing and reading, over and over again.

Inanna Speaks

by Kira R. (from the devotional "Into the Great Below")

This poem was written by the author after meditating on the situation in the Middle East.  Upon asking the Goddess Inanna what could be done, this is what she recieved:

Shrieking.
Hear the Goddess, Goddess shrieking.
The vault of heaven shattering, crashing down
Blood spurting from the wound, where vacant pieces fall.
Smell the Goddess, Goddess dying
A thousand, thousand lifetimes, crushed and lost.
Inanna breathing in every one,
Breath clotted torturing her throat.
Empty Goddess, ripe decay, rotting fruit,
Bodies like cattle, matchsticks piled high
The roar of the furnace...
Naked throat of the priestess defiled
Cut by a Hebrew blade,
Golden calf bleeding
Temple fallen
Rebuilt by unclean hands.
Hear the Goddess, Goddess wailing
Rage and fury, serpent uncoiling
Daughter after daughter bound
Filthy shards of glass raised high
Plunging down, devouring innocent flesh
Mutilating the bodies of the young,
Females sacrificed, scarified
In the name of a weeping God who turns away his face in shame
Inanna hangs above the abyss,
Swallowing poison, vomiting blood, Her genitals shred
To the sound of chanting imams.  Holy writ, their words bound in her flesh.
Holy carcass, piss and shit, a skin stretched too tightly
To hold the violations of the knowing.

Inanna embraces the abyss,
Opening Her cunt to its cruel thrust,
Rapd by demons' dying lust.
Birthing in blood and shit and pain, in ruthless sanctity,
The knowledge that streams like fire
Through the bowels of the world,
Crafted in blissful white bone, scorched in the sun;
In the gore of a thousand childrens' violated flesh.
No room for virgins.
No room for pain.
No room for regret.
Only a knowing that devours that which would devour.

She takes all into Herself.
She is both defiler and defiled.
She is plauge and sickness, AIDS and Ebola,
Festering, running wounds on the body of a child.
She is the spurting cock of a rapist,
The bleeding tears of teh victim,
The fury of the land at its abuse.
She is the child whose body is plundered,
The madness of the plunderer,
And with cold certainty She bears witness.
She is the mad cry of vengance,
The finality that knows no succor.
These gifts she brings to you.
Bring no gold or sweetest wine to Her altars.
Salute Her instead with blood and ash
Bring her barbed wire, canisters of gas,
Wood for kindling witches.
Bring Her that which fuels your devotions.
That on which your sacred halls are built.
Bring her your heart pierced with anguish,
The bodies of children slaughtered by the young.
Do not lie in the face of Inanna.
Your temples and schools and holy places stand empty.
So bring Her what you truly revere.
Pile high your altars with the shit of your choices.
And when She opens her mouth to speak,
The silence will destoy you.

From the abyss, Inanna beckons.

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