To the right
inside the portal
maiden mother and crone
share their knowledge of this temple of what is past
The Goddess holds the head,
the severed head,
of merely mortal man.
Do you dare ascend the
sweeping stone stairs
to the chamber of the Queen of Heaven
Cross the threshold
under the lintel
into the womb room tomb
where Mary is conceived,
This is a place of extraordinary conceptions.
An angel connects Joachim and Anna, father and mother.
At this moment of embrace the Queen of Heaven
is supposedly conceived.
Who is this female attendant, who stands behind the barren woman,
whose thighs join in a most distinctive V?
Is this the holy ghost, whose hand stretches in blessing?
Is this the maiden who shall bear the surrogate child of God?
Or is this the Goddess in whom all things find fruition?
I always struggle with the idea
We are made in the image of God.
Then Mary is born.
Two envious midwives fight over the baby.
An attendant gives her condolences to the visitors;
sad and sombre visitors.
Mother lifts a hand
in blessing or dismissal.
She looks really tired.
What is to be understood from all of this?
The angel descends direct from God above.
His wings are dark.
Mary bows her head.
This is indeed a fearful undertaking,
to bear a child
not sanctioned by the human law.
She will need an angel by her side
to keep the stoning mobs at bay.
Even at this moment
a spy conceals himself
behind a pillar.
Mary holds her child,
practising for the sorrows of the crucifixion.
The Christ child struggles to be free,
already too big to be a babe in arms.
Then Jesus is already fully grown.
He eagerly ascends
to the heaven of his mother’s face,
tenderly touching her cheek,
while pulling at the neck line of her dress.
She gazes down, serene.
In the old religion
the God man king
would have been sacrificed to the Goddess.
At this crucifixion
the Goddess grieves for her lost son,
while her sexual self continues
worshipping his feet.
Martha looks on, ashamed.
For the men
Christ goes on suffering on his cross.
Mary’s Magdalen maid
pensive or penitent,
her pink lips flowing with oil,
Her halo turns the world to gold
behind her head.
In the distance,
We must be born again
Into another world, another room.
Puritans have come
taking the Goddess’ head,
leaving the headless body holding
the infant saviour,
safe in a world of yesterday.