Purple Anemones
Who gave us flowers?
Heaven? The white God?
Nonsense!
Up out of hell,
From Hades;
Infernal Dis!
Jesus the god of flowers—?
Not he.
Or sun-bright Apollo, him so musical?
Him neither.
Who then?
Say who.
Say it—and it is Pluto,
Dis
The dark one
Proserpine’s master.
Who contradicts—?
When she broke forth from below,
Flowers came, hell-hounds on her heels.
Dis, the dark, the jealous god, the husband,
Flower-sumptuous-blooded.
Go then, he said.
And in Sicily, on the meadows of Enna,
She thought she had left him;
But opened around her purple anemones,
Caverns,
Little hells of color, caves of darkness,
Hell, risen in pursuit of her; royal, sumptuous
Pit-falls.
All at her feet
Hell opening;
At her white ankles
Hell rearing its husband-splendid, serpent heads,
Hell-purple, to get at her—
Why did he let her go?
So he could track her down again, white victim.
Ah mastery!
Hell’s husband-blossoms
Out on earth again.
Look out, Persephone!
You, Madame Ceres, mind yourself, the enemy is upon you.
About your feet spontaneous aconite,
Hell-glamorous, and purple husband-tyranny
Enveloping your late-enfranchised plains.
You thought your daughter had escaped?
No more stockings to darn for the flower-roots, down in hell?
But ah my dear!
Aha, the stripe-cheeked whelps, whippet-slim crocuses,
At ’em, boys, at ’em!
Ho golden-spaniel, sweet alert narcissus,
Smell ’em, smell ’em out!
Those two enfranchised women.
Somebody is coming!
Oho there!
Dark blue anemones!
Hell is up!
Hell on earth, and Dis within the depths!
Run, Persephone, he is after you already.
Why did he let her go?
To track her down;
All the sport of summer and spring, and flowers snapping
at her ankles and catching her by the hair!
Poor Persephone and her rights for women.
Husband-snared hell-queen,
It is spring.
It is spring,
And pomp of husband-strategy on earth.
Ceres, kiss your girl, you think you’ve got her back.
The bit of husband-tilth she is,
Persephone!
Poor mothers-in-law!
They are always sold.
It is spring.
Taormina