What the Crone Can Teach Us About Sex and the Deep Feminine. {poetry}


If you want to be a badass sexually empowered woman, embrace your inner hag.

That’s right.

The crone. The ancient old woman. The witch. The hag.

The crone archetype is an aspect of the Feminine not associated with sexuality.

Women groom themselves to be girls. The younger the better.

Paint those lips red and blush those cheeks like you are wet and ripe for impregnation.

Make them believe you are in perpetual ovulation.

Make them hard. Make them desire you.

Get that facelift. Suck in that belly. Bat those lashes.

Guess what?

The crone doesn’t give a fuck.

And that is her power.

She doesn’t care about looking pretty.

She embraces her spider-lines and swinging, sagging flesh.

After all, this is what life does to the body of a woman.

Does that make you uncomfortable? Would you rather not see?

They have tried to hide her but she will not go away.

They have tried to silence her.

Because she knows what they do not want you to know.

Her secret threatens to corrupt you.

She can make you wild.

She can reveal to you your power.

Your volcanic senseless holy power.

They don’t want this.

No, they want you to be nice and pretty and digestible.

Easy to manipulate.

Groomed to be a sex toy.

Or a sensual goddess, if you’re spiritual.

Different drag. Same game.

They want to put you in their dollhouse.

Be a good wife. Be a good girl.

Be sexy.

Be pretty for us. Be nice.

She could ruin the whole game.

Once she opens her mouth, the jig is up.

So what do they do?

They tell you she is crazy. She has lost her mind. Poor old thing.

Or maybe she is evil. Dangerous.

Yes. She is dangerous.

Dangerous because she has broken out of that jail cell you call your home.

You don’t notice these are bars you have been primping and polishing.

How would you have sex if you didn’t give a fuck about how pretty you look?

Or how flat your stomach is?

The crone is not an object of desire.

And because of this she is free.

She is free to claim her own desire. To be the subject of desire.

In a world that praises women for being objects of desire.

Where the more lust you can seduce the more value you possess, the crone is laughing with that cackle that only women of power have.

Her sex belongs to herself.

She does not need any husband or man.

She does not possess the enchanting beauty of the maiden or the fertile reproductive juices of the mother.

They would like to throw her away for this.

What good is a woman without sex we can use?

She no longer bleeds. She no longer bears children.

Her sex no longer waxes and wanes with the moon, gaining and draining energy with each passing tide.

No, she is full.

The portal to her blood has been sealed.

She is drinking in the nectar.

She is bathing in its luminous darkness.

She is sitting inside of an alchemical bomb.

A nuclear power source.

Her sex is a diamond pressed and polished by years of cultivation.

Her sex is what makes the wind move.

Her sex is the core of her wisdom.

She has passed through all the phases of initiation as a woman.

She used to be wrapped in the same cloak of lies as you are in right now.

That heavy web of social conditions all feminine creatures are baptized into.

Be nice. Smile. Look pretty. Be desired.

She has unraveled herself from these webs.

She has liberated her sex from all their stories.

She has made it to the other side.

She is free.

And a free woman is a very dangerous woman.

What good is a woman who isn’t desired by men?

Without the ability to be a mother or a sex object, what is left of a woman and her sex?

I’ll tell you what.

Pure power that doesn’t give a fuck.

Crazy wisdom that knows how to make love to the moment.

To be penetrated by existence.

Sex that ripples through every cell of your body.

Sex that pulses with every tiny whisper of life knowing life.

If you want to find the seat of your sexual power.

Your real deep sovereign sexual nature.

Find the crone that lives in you.

Let her unravel your false beliefs.

All the lies that they told you.

They told you men know about sex.

Just let them lead, they said, they’ll know what to do.

They tried to turn you into pornography.

Your body a vessel for his lust.

They tried to make you appealing to look at.

They shoved strange sounds down your throat,

And called it female orgasm.

They told you how to be sexy so you could have good sex.

As though the image was the point.

Put on a good show.

Be loud but not too loud.

Don’t be a prude.

Don’t be a slut.

They wrapped you in so much pretty packaging you forgot to feel inside.

They gave you the right shade of lipstick for the perfect blowjob.

They gave you straight lines when your true language is a circle.

The crone will draw her dagger and slay all that noise.

She will cut through the tight corset that has been suffocating you.

She will make you wild.

And that’s how your sex is meant to be.

Wild. Ugly. Innocent. Real.

Erupting from the deep.

Love you can taste from the inside out.

It is inside you, woman.

It has always been inside you.

This is no Cosmo magazine sexuality.

You must forget everything they told you.

Turn inside.

The real initiation begins here.

Welcome to the temple of your sex.

The crone is here, waiting for you to begin.


Maya Luna is a poet, a mystic and teacher of feminine spirituality. She belongs to a lineage of untamed feral yoginis who transmit the primal core of the tantric wisdom streams. Her work is focused on the lost feminine ways of gnosis. She is the creator of the Deep Feminine Mystery School. Her spoken word poetry album, Holy Darkness: A Tantric Opus, and her poetry book, Omega, are available now.


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