persephone

i'll take a stab at corraling my thoughts on persephone. as with everything i write, i have no idea what i'll say until it's said, and then it is too late, because i don't go back and pretty it up. to some this is an immense waste of creativity, akin to laziness. to me, it is just my process. like getting up and serving a huge cup of coffee, i don't really put a value judgment on it, i just do it. and enjoy every cup. it is my routine.

there have been very few times in my life that i recall this type of feeling. ripe. full of seed. bursting. have you seen pomegranates on the tree pouring themselves out to birds and passers by to eat their bloody fruit? it is a gorgeous sight. the skin of the pomegranate is a blushing coral red. not deep red, but almost pastel, perhaps sunfaded. the fruit is the color of beets.

the fruit and juice stain fingers, tongues, mouths. no one can ingest a pomegranate without the evidence being evident. (how i enjoy using words that way.)

when we were children, my grams would crack one of these babies open and make us sit on the curb to eat it. spitting is invovled. we must have looked like little vampires gorging on that bloody fruit. it was a divine summer pastime.

persephone is the daughter of demeter according to greek legend. she was beautiful. the god of the underworld, hades (or jupiter) wanted her to be his alone. so he lured her down into the underworld, i think he kidnapped her. either way, there she be.

demeter got pissed and refused to bless the earth with spring. she is the goddess of spring, if i recall it correctly.

so she storms up to zeus and demands he do something. zeus makes hades give up persephone, but she had unwittingly, while in the underworld, perhaps sitting on a brimstone curb, eaten a pomegranate.

she could not return to the world above ground fulltime. demeter therefore makes everything to die in the winter months while persephone is in the underworld.

i really dig myths. they are so much a part of life, that they seem to be life itself at times. marion woodman warns,

watch what metaphors you ingest, they are like the food you eat.

metaphors,

according to woodman,

are the language of the soul.

linear thought won't do when talking about soul,

she says.

so my winding through thoughts might be construed by some as soultalk.

art,

woodman says

is giving spiritual significance to transient moments.

there is nothing more significant than making a poem out of a transient moment. that is what we poets do. capture a moment. a feeling. an emotion in time for others to identify with.

so these seeds i'm bearing, the full belly of life i carry, the dripping milk of inspiration which awaits their arrival encourage me. i am ripe with creativity these days and feel my time underground for this season has come to an end. i am returning with spring, full of life.

dr. clarissa pinkola estes wrote,

we hang upside down with our feet in the world and our head in the underworld.

this image, of the person doubledealing as it were, functioning in two realms has brought me great comfort. the abovedwellers want things itemized, priced, and stacked neatly on the shelves. product, product, product. is always their cry.

the underworldwellers, seem more content to let beauty reign even amidst chaos. to let dreams speak as well as flowers and birds. to be creative and move in a dark and uncertain place for a while, knowing it all leads to appreciation of the light.

persephone had a demon lover, one who wanted her and found a way to keep her with him alway, at least part of the year. i do not understand any more than that at this moment. so i leave off here.