Shawna R. B. Atteberry

“In the Kitchen”
Father Kilian McDonnell, O. S. B.

Bellini was wrong.
I was not kneeling
on my satin cushion
quietly at prayer,
head slightly bent.

Painters always
skew the scene,
as though my life
were wrapped in silks,
in temple smells.

Actually I had just
come back from the well,
placing the pitcher on the table
I bumped against the edge,
spilling water on the floor.

As I bent to wipe
it up, there was a light
against the kitchen wall
as though someone had opened
the door to the sun.

Rag in hand,
hair across my face,
I turned to see
who was entering,
unannounced, unasked.

All I saw was light, white
against the timbers.
I heard a voice
I had never heard.

I heard a greeting,
I was elected,
the Lord was with me,
I pushed back my hair,
stood afraid.

Someone closed the door.
And I dropped the rag.

Jay Cormier says this in response to “In the Kitchen”:

And so Mary’s Child comes to us, often unannounced, into our kitches and living rooms, our offices and plants, our classrooms and playgrounds. He comes to transform not only human history but also our own personal histories. In him, the compassion of God takes on a human face; in him, our everyday struggles and confusions are transformed in the peace of the Father (Daily Reflections for Advent and Christmas: Waiting in Joyful Hope, 2007-8, 43).

My poem, Daughter of Mary Magdalene, has been published on The Ooze website.

“Kitchen Mage”
Creating magic
Waving my spoon over pots
Ingredients become a feast

“Wheat Bread and Pumpkin Cake”
Warm, spicy smells
Wafting from the oven.
The scent of fall.

“Thanksgiving Snow”
Deep gray and steely
The lake echoes the clouds;
Snow swirls and twirls down.

“Holiday (or the day after Thanksgiving)”
A day to be a bum
Sprawled on the bed, watching TV
Guilt nowhere to be found.

All poems ©2007 by Shawna R. B. Atteberry.

“Mythic Memories”

I have mythic memories.
An arrow let loose.
A foe defeated.
I remember seeing things I can’t see now.
I remember my senses heightened and much more attune.
I remember my heart sending powerful blood rushing through my veins as I tracked and could sense the presence of the enemy.
A warrior born out of time.

I have mythic memories.
Rose petals in water.
Flickering candlelight and rose-scented water.
Hair cascading down my back.
Silk falling off my shoulder, pearls around my throat.
I remember midnight breezes in moonlit gardens.
I remember nymphs dancing in streams and the feeling of grass and moss under my back.

In the place between sleeping and dreaming I remember.
I remember being
A warrior and a lady.
A fighter and a lover.
Strong and beautiful.
I remember a graceful strength I used wisely.
I remember when I held a tenuous balance with elegant poise between the worlds of love and war.

© 2004 Shawna Renee Bound

I lived in Barcelona, Spain in 1997. This is a poem I wrote after I waded in the Mediterranean for the first time.

“Wading in the Mediterranean”

I waded in the Mediterranean as the tide was rising
The blue-green, aquamarine jewels invited me
Off came my shoes and socks as the wind blew from the sea.
As the sun-lit diamonds twinkled very bewitching
Out I waded into the sea.

The cold waters made my feet zing
As I walked on the shore slowly, breathing deeply
The sea air which made my cheeks pink and rosy.
The sheer beauty of the moment made my heart sing
As I waded in the sea.

The sun’s rays brought warmth to my face
A stark contrast to the cold which nipped my toes
I looked out to where the sea ended and the horizon rose.
The snow-capped waves created an endless maze
As I waded in the sea.

My heart was light and I felt care-free
For a few minutes I had no worries
For a moment lost in time there is no hurry
I felt as if the world was at my feet
As I waded in the sea.

© 1997 Shawna Renee Bound

Hipchickmamma goes to seminary had this wonderful poem posted on her blog today, and I decided to copy her. It’s too go good not to share.

I saw Jesus yesterday,
she winked at me and said I looked really cute.

When I blushed
she said for me to smile more
it brings her light to my face.

Later I saw a homeless man,
I waved hello
and when he smiled
he winked at me,
his eyes glimmered too.

I found myself blushing,
not sure what to say or do.

I think I saw Jesus today
but mamma said I
must be crazy
“‘cuz Jesus don’t wear no dirty suit.”

Sister says Jesus only wear white.
When I mentioned daddy’s
pimpin’ white shoes
mamma slapped me
said not to make light.

I won’t tell her
I saw Jesus yesterday,
and Jesus was a girl
dressed in blue,
with pretty brown eyes
and scraggly brown hair
crying as she held her baby tight.

She looked so sad,
until I stopped to say hi.

Have you seen Jesus today? This week?

I am holy ground.
My body is holy ground.
All around me they scream: “Unholy!”
The world cries: “Unholy!”
The church sniffs derisively “Unholy!”
Unholy by virtue of my sex.
Unholy because of my body.
My body can’t be what it is—
mature,
full,
curvy,
feminine.
No–my body is never too age.
I am to be a perennial adolescent—
never to grow;
never to age.
My body is not to be spoken of:
it’s cycles,
it’s fertility,
it’s sexuality (what girls have that?),
it’s sensuality.
It’s power.
The “M” words are never spoken.
I am forced to hold my mysteries deep in myself.
My body cannot be seen:
it must be covered.
It’s temptation in a skirt.
It’s a sin waiting to happen.
But my body can be exploited:
TO SELL!
TO SELL!
TO SELL!
Isn’t this prostitution?
So what does it mean that I am holy ground?
What does it mean the my body is holy ground?
What does it mean for me—
A Woman—
to be holy ground?

©2007 Shawna R. B. Atteberry