A TRIBUTE
TO
NASIRA ALMA
Nasira left her physical body on Sunday, November 16, 1997. I would just like to share parts of this magical woman's art. Nasira was a priest, healer and poet. A quarter century ago, she spent five years in a Roman Catholic convent. After that transition she spent her life as a practicing Christian, Muslim, and Hindu, as well as a devotee of the Goddess. She would like to see people free to turn to the spiritual tradition that best fills their needs at the moment. Many blessings on your new path our sweet friend, Nasira
BRAHAMS SONATA IN A MINOR
the violin weeps
and God is created
from almost nothing
no howling infant, this manifestation:
lightshot
honey that pours out in the waves:
Give yourself to Me, give
the throat sweats, tears, the amber ribbon
crests and troughs into the thousand ears
of the body's delight.
Dear One, as swell after swell of You
lifts and rocks me, I release myself
into the flood of Your urgent love.
Nasira Alma....."The Wafer Cage"
copyright 1995
PRESSING A FINGER IN THE NAVEL
Mother washes the kitchen counters
one last time for the day. She metes out
a precise dab of toothpaste. Then
in her beige jersey nightgown, she climbs
between the lilac-patterned sheets
on her single bed. She turns on
the clock radio, sets the alarm, and
switches off the light. This is how it is
with Mother every night.
Two thousand miles away, I press a finger
in my navel, what's left to prave there ever
was closeness between her and me.
Great Mother, have compassionon all mothers
who can find no compassion for their daughters,
Hve compassion on daughters whose heawrts still
cry out fo r a mother though their is gray
and their jowls have surrendered to gravity.
The cells of their lips, arms, lungs have been
told by other cells, who were told by others
before them, what life was in the uterus,
fed from Mother's bloodstream, carried
by her everywhere, into her bath, even
into her bed. She felt their heartbeats
and her heart was the metronome for their
growing brains. She received their playful
kicks with joy and now has not spoken
to them in two years, ten, or maybe half
a lifetime.
Great Mother, collect the shards of
mother-daughterhood from dust bins, empty
lots, gutters, the doorways in the seedy part
of town. Mend these shards. Relieve us of
our shame. Bring us back to that wholeness
we knew when life began. This time please
let it be indestructable.
NASIRA ALMA...copyright
REPRINTED FROM WOMYNSPIRIT NEWSLETTER...1994
HEART FIRST
Go to God
in the stance of
one crucified.
Advance heart first
nor armor
your and nothing more.
your entrance swept
your door open wide.
The Divine
will stretch out on you
like one crucified.
"Short Breads 1"
NASIRA ALMA copyright 1996
BLESS ME, MY SELF
Don't worry about
God's forgiveness
Here is the act of grace:
Go to the center of
your quaking knees;
absolve your fears.
Go to your groin's nadir;
forgive your lust's
ever holding back.
At your stomach pith
console your power
in its molehood.
Walk your heart's perimeter;
accept its smallness. Pity
the words stuck in your throat.
Let your inner eye enjoy
the antics of mistakes. Hear your
crown crow because you're you.
When redemption's touch tickles
head to toe, you are forgiven.
Go and sin some more.
"Short Breads 1" Nasira Alma copyright 1996
SEASON OF THE MOTHER
Scarcely lying down before
its rising, the summer sun
penetrates the vulvae figs
on their branches.
Sea turtles' sinews are warmed,
along with their avalance
of eggs. Hardheaded human hearts,
infused with easy grace,
unthaw in thanks as
the languorous Woman-
Womb-en! stirs within. She accepts a lusty
peach from the sun's adoring
hand, guzzles its juice while
a peacock fans her.
Summer is the season
of the Mother.
"Short Breads Two"
Nasira Alma...copyright...1996