Hermes, the swiftest, god of travelers,
tricksters, messengers, thieves, bright deceiver,
storyteller– Do you truly believe
still that I ate the fruit unwillingly?
“Even one taste of the food of the dead
is fatal,” wise haunting voices had said,
“giving the underworld a claim on you
irrevocable.” This eternal rule,
binding inescapable consequence,
warning clearly given: I heard, I knew
the goddess of grain and golden harvest
would take my vanishing as grave offense,
a loss requiring restoration,
she would search, seeking to reap recompense.
For months I’d dwelled below with spirits dim
finding, before she found me, increasing
confidence: it’s no ephemeral whim.
I wanted darkness, soothing quiet, peace,
and the heat of subterranean fire.
I wanted secret caverns, hidden, deep
running rivers. I wanted an entire
pomegranate. So much… I wanted him.
I reached out my own two hands,– demanded–
“Give me from this garden my true desire.
I will, I must insist while there’s still time:
It’s ripened. Now. Give me the fucking fruit.”
Shocked? It wasn’t forbidden, nor denied.
I didn’t nibble bites distractedly.
Not tricked, I held the crowned and weighty globe
looked into an ending filled with hidden
beginnings, considered eternity.
Wanting all, I took, sucked deliberately
from the shadowed and glistening fissure,
counted costs, set some few arils apart,
the pulp gleaming red as ruby treasure,
or a broken but still a beating heart.
Juice sour and bitter, as well as sweet
I chose to savor, not abstain, to eat
and to be changed (even my given name).
More than a pretty girl, now I am known
Not just as Demeter’s daughter, Kore,
dutiful darling innocent, bringing
spring with light step, mild smile, and dancing feet.
I have desires of my own. It’s true,
Years ago, I did get carried away,
Hades not being the type, like Apollo,
to court at Mother’s house with a bouquet
(She rejected a son of Zeus, archer
of light, who sought my hand, to his dismay).
You heard I cried? There is no departure
from truth in that. I did. By the gateway
to a new world I wept, amazed, with joy
safe beside my kind companion and guide.
Once maiden, now married, I have become
the queen of dark, Paradise and dreadful
mysteries, this territory of dreams
and sleep, with patient king, all-conquering
Hades. He sees– wants and loves– all of me,
Not only parts, laughing youth and beauty,
but crowning my entire curious,
circumventive, changing, conflicted self,
cryptic and craving, as his beloved.
Feared by many, he can be moved to tears
by sad love songs. Do you know another
god who weeps? He is shelter from all storms
a shade from sweltering sun. I must leave
his side now with you for this long season—
to heal the earth, make the world grow and bloom,
feed mortal hungers (not my own), save lives
by soothing in the realm of motherhood
the wrathful grief that would make barren, doom,
desolate all. Yet none can make me stay
Forever: not evergreen unchanging
always, but coming again and again,
a rhythm and perennial return:
first apple blossoms, followed by the fruit,
then seeds, buried in the earth, where they grow
hidden under the fallen leaves, and take root
deeply in darkness, nourishing green shoots.
Yes, I agree. The flowers are lovely.
They filled the clearing wherein we first met–
I picked crocus, hyacinth, a violet–
then, curious and filled with fresh wonder
I reached out with both hands to gather more:
radiant and fragrant, a new flower
a splendid gift unnamed, unseen before
his request, crafted by Gaia’s power
created for my delight, just for me.
He appeared then, looking with love and wistful
yearning despite his greatness, spoke gently,
low uncertain voice, inviting, aware.
He was pale, wore grey and melancholy
black with silver in strands of curling hair.
I dropped all that I had, opening free
arms, embracing him, host most welcoming,
who receives every fallen hero and
each spent-petaled daffodil and poppy.
Hermes, I am not yours, just hers, or his.
I love you all, you and many other
sons and daughters, and therefore my choice is
not to choose just one. Not merely mother
I choose not only my love or this work,
solely being for family or romance.
I choose them all, though each cannot be all
the time: it is a balance and a dance
Through turning seasons. I have learned to know
myself whether I am in marble halls
and seated upon a jeweled ruler’s throne
or enlivening the farmer’s meadows
walking wildflower-crowned, hair wind-blown.
I descend and rise above in compromise
a now ancient cycle of renewal
The price of glad returns are these goodbyes.
I ate three pomegranate seeds whereby
others will endure the winter and I
must face spring and lengthy summer days while
In his realm below Hades waits for my
return, prepares for me: Persephone.
Who then are you yourself when you’re alone?
If you re-tell a tale, make it your own.
Acknowledgements: This poem draws inspiration from the Homeric Hymn to Demeter, D.H. Lawrence’s “Pomegranates,” Ron Koertge’s “Three Poems,” Kelly Dalton’s “Persephone Lied,” “From Hades to Persephone” by Lee Ann Schaffer, “Hades and Persephone” by Jo Walton, and Daniella Machalleni’s “Persephone Speaks.”
Buried Verses 