A poem for Jehanah Wedgwood, Celtic Bard, Druid Priestess, Mistress of Ceremonies and enabling spirit for fifteen years of the Sacred Grounds Poetry Reading.  We each owe her more than we can ever express.  And damn it, we're poets.  Jehanah had a deep, deep soul, but she never made us delve deep to be touched by it; her spirit was always there, on the surface, an aura accessible to us all.  How many times have we seen and heard her both laugh and cry as she read her poems for us?  She could be gracious and she could be fierce.  Jehanah blessed us.  Jehanah, you will be deeply missed.

Mistress of the Labyrinth

Ariadne utterly pure
The virgin at the gate
What is she called after
She's breached by the hero
Who sought her grotto
Into the center of being
To meet with the desire
Dwelling in our gore spring

Pasiphae utterly luminous
Mother of the bull of Minos,
Mother of Asterion, the Star
To which does the center
Of the winding cell belong

Daedalus architect of wings
Unriddled the labyrinth
By tying a silken thread
To a myrmidon that walked
The circuit of a kohli shell

Persephone utterly clear
The Mother of Night
Guardian of the Tomb
Of the Dancing Ground
Vessel of mystery's mystery
goddess planted by god
Gives birth to the god
And only to the god

There is only one god for
There is only one goddess
Mistress of the Labyrinth
In the age of honey a gift
Keeper of the god stung bull
Raw meat for the Rite a gift
It is about the dance of death
And since this is so it must be
Ever about the dance of life

SP Mackin

Mother Of Winter

Winter Solstice time, Alban Arthuan,
And Ramadan and Christmas,
Hanukah and Kwanzi time...
There is one theme amidst us.

What druids call Dagda...
The great sun stands our best metaphor...
Works through his daughter Brighid,
Patroness of Light.

Where comes the art of firetending and
Metalworking in gold and silver,
The language of poetry, legend and Ogham,
The magic of music,
The mirroring of healing.

When the Dagda's daughters,
Nine Irish sacred women,
Even before the time of nuns,
Tended the perpetual Sacred Flame of Kildare...
Who but bright Brighid gave way to Hathor
With association with the white bull of memory
And the images emerge of sacred Egypt and Atlantis
As the pure white bull of Hathor

-Jehanah-

Jehanah

I miss you Jehanah
and I never told you thank you for welcoming me.
You were the heart of Sacred Grounds for me
and when the ground was pulled out
from under my stumbling feet -
you were there for me,
offering safe haven
at the reading you built,
not for yourself
as the shine of your silver hair
wove us into your moonlight,
but for us
the poets decimated by pinball economics,
shadowed by unwanted graves,
broken hearts on our sleeves,
and you gave us word birds
to chirp on our shoulder
until our poems flooded back,
our tears dried up,
and a river of words came,
reminding us
that there is hope, always hope.
When my bones disconnected,
words no longer joining them together,
you reminded me
that Dorothy's scarecrow
already had courage
as you pat me on the back with smiles,
sign me up, and tell me to sit if I need to
everybody was here to hear my poems.
Yesterday I read you were gone on Facebook,
put my head down, and cried
as my youngest son gave me a hug.
I feel adrift with no safe refuge,
unable to walk beside or thru my poems
that slip away with my confidence,
and as I stumble and fall again,
a million letters-words-poems
scattered around my crippled body,
I look up thru the tangle of my hair
to see you there,
reaching out to smooth my hair,
offering me a smile and an ear
with that twinkle of life in your eyes.
You brought us the peace of trees,
the redwood history of ancient stories,
your thrill at a new Hawaiian grandchild,
always touching each person who came into the room.
Now, here at your memorial
encircled by the wonder of your friends
who tell in a rain of poems
that you are here and always will be,
I know why this is Sacred Ground,
knowing that you have left each of us
a closet of visions
just waiting for us
in your mansion of trees

- Debra Grace Khattab - 11/17/10

Red Room

Jehanah Wedgwood - New Author Page on RedRoom.com

Ode to Jehanah Wedgwood

Jehanah, Queen of the woodland,
keeper of the Sacred Grounds,
your poetic gremlins salute you.

For two decades
you sit among us,
splendid in your silver mane
and moss green raiment.
With each turn of your dial
we are given time
to illuminate our thoughts.

Jehanah, the great Monarch Bear
has summoned you
to follow him to the stars,
to be one of the ancients,
a protector of the universe.

And you rise, knees pulsing,
arms swinging,
chanting verses that are
two thousand years old,
giving birth
to the Next Century's Child.

Jehanah, druid,
we praise you for your walk on earth,
the impression you have left on our hearts.
Jehanah of grace
Jehanah of compassion
Jehanah of love
Jehanah of peace
Jehanah of heart magick
Jehanah of brain quake
Jehanah of light.

Jehanah, you only sleep.

-Clara Hsu-

Our Lady of the Sacred Grounds, Jehanah

You brightened my life these five years - with your gentle kindness, your welcoming smile, your shared love and worry for our sad sick world - you allowed us to speak our minds, as though we had something to say that pleased you.

You brought us together in the warm sunshine of your ever-creative mind - your good nature sprinkled affectionate sparkles from the garden that bloomed in your generous heart.

We were allowed to see how caring a group of humans could be through appreciation of each other, always with your sweet words for each of us - words that made us feel special and warm with the pleasure of being with eachother - with you - you've beaten us to the Fortunate Isles where we will hope to follow, some day, and be with you again.

Now you are free - a wood nymph running on cloven hooves of silver through the fragrant forest of Wyrd.

-Deirdre Trian - 11/17/2010-

The Death of a Woman

For Jehanah - written at the Sacred Grounds poetry reading November 17th

The Death of a Woman

Gregory Corso said
the death of a man
was special, mystical.
"spooky" was the word
he used.

But for me what is heavy
is the death of a woman
as long as you knew
that woman when she was
quite young
or saw a picture of her
when she was young.

If you have seen her
when young and you
are a man like other men
when that woman dies,
the part of you that young
image touched, or picture
touched - that part
dies a little too!

At the memorial tonight
someone passed me a photo
of Jehanah as a teenager
in a ballet tutu
her face was radiant
open, yet proud!
she touched me
in my heart!

And at that point
I felt her death
and now there
is a hole in my heart.

We love with our ears
and our arms
and our voices
and our souls.
But love comes IN
at the eye!

I am glad I saw
that photo
of that young lovely child
in her ballet costume.

The death of a woman
is heavy!

-Chris Trian-

The Ocean Critter

Sometimes I feel like some kind of ocean critter
Floating in a chic sort of grandiosity
Lighting up the earthly depths of the ocean

Occasionally spewing great masses of egg + sperm
Into the void, imaging the many ocean critters
One celled and otherwise, that may respond
and dance in defensive/offensive array

Sparking and sparkling with the light of the Suns
sparking and dancing and growing, growing
Into many hybridized imitations that
Initiate entity, multiplied again into infinity

None of them alike, all of us different
None of us alike, all of them different
     The Ocean, The Ocean, The Ocean...

-Jehanah-

Shadows and Echoes

Trees built this room.  Old trees.
There are diamonds and sapphires
and white zircons in this room.

There are soft furs of mink and leopard,
rabbit, sheep and fox.
There are histories of ancient empires
in this room.

There are rare books and antique scrolls,
lining a wall strewn with paintings and drawings and collage,
gold be-framed and not, photos staring at me

oddly familiar faces, next to dusty mirrors
where glimpses of fairies may be seen
behind old lace draped along the tops.

Old friends and new are here
waiting and dreaming.
My mothers voice lingers...
turned into many echoes of favorite ancestors.

Shadows of my father dance quietly
behind the porcelain stones
and bright roses.

All brothers linger here,
some posing as sisters,
some pretending to be themselves...
a fitting projection.

I linger among shadows,
listening to echoes,
awaiting the children's homecoming.

I will remain in my room, waiting.
Candlefire and the rustling of feathers
echo the leaves and leave their shadows dancing.

-Jehanah - December 19 2000 -

Sacred Grounds Documentary

Untitled Poem

I am sitting here alone
in my attic room in the mansion
the room I said I wanted
where the visions are stored.

I am sitting here alone
paintings up on the walls
books, photos and dress-up clothes
and pretty bits of china
I collected here.

They said I'd moved
but from where I sit
for all I can tell
I'm still in the attic room
in the mansion.

Still hoarding dreams
for children
who get curious.

"What's it like?" they ask
Someone in here
invents a word.
They can tell what it means.

-Jehanah-

1976 Poster

Jehanah

Jehanah left this world three weeks ago today.  This blog has been created to share poetry, stories and memories of Jehanah.  In the coming days we will post some of her best poems, and also poems that were given to the family at the Sacred Grounds poetry reading on November 17th.