To the Memory of My Mom, Beverly Ann Smith: Persephone

Persephone

To my delight and too my pain,

I hear her laughter echo near;

Though muffled by the veil of time, 

It comes obscured, yet still I hear. 

The chords are faint, yet still resound, 

And overwhelm my listless state, 

Til all at once my heart gives way 

To joy and grief that will not wait. 

Oh would that I could reach my hand 

Through that thick darkness we call death, 

And draw her out to me again, 

Restoring laughter and her breath.

But mortals may not thus retrieve

The ones we’ve lost, who’ve gone before, 

And so, to hear her laughter clear, 

I’ll have to pass through Hades’ door.

—jwm

Of the Poem Stanza Type: Quatrain Meter: Eight lines per stanza (i.e. tetrameter) 

Rhyme Scheme: xaxa xbxb xcxc xdxd (where ‘x’ represents unrhymed lines) 

Composition: April – May 2016  In Greek mythology Persephone is the daughter of Zeus and Demeter. Demeter loved Persephone so much and cared for her innocence that she was exceedingly protective of her and utterly opposed to allowing her into marriage, believing any possible suitors to be unworthy of her. Hades, who loved Persephone, was well aware that Demeter would certainly deny him her hand.  One day, as Persephone was gathering flowers in the meadows of Enna, a jagged fissure ripped the earth wide open and Hades emerged out of the twisting and rumbling. Seizing Persephone, Hades descended with her instantly into the Underworld—the fissure closing behind them. The event occurred so quickly that even those who were gathering flowers nearby did not notice Persephone was missing.  Demeter was beside herself and writhed in despair upon the discovery of Persephone’s abduction. Crippled by agony, Demeter neglected her supervision as goddess of fertility and harvest and the earth began to reel in degeneration- crops began to fail, fruits and all manner of nourishment began to dry up and wither away, people and animals began to perish beneath the growing famine, along with countless other miseries. Hearing the cries below Mount Olympus, Zeus confronts Hades and persuades him to release Persephone from his bonds, but not before Hades tricks her into tasting a few pomegranate seeds—fruit of the Underworld, of which those who partake are filled with an overwhelming desire to stay in the Underworld.  Restored to her relieved mother, Persephone expresses a desire to return to Hades and this, of course, infuriates Demeter. Demeter threatens to let the earth perish if Persephone leaves her side. A compromise was ultimately made: Persephone is permitted to spend a given duration with Hades below, and a given duration with Demeter above.  It is said that for this reason, when Persephone abides with Hades, autumn strips trees bare and winter ravages the land—this as a result of Demeter’s indignation; and that when Persephone is with Demeter, spring’s vitality returns and summer feeds the earth with warmth and light.  That is one way of telling Persephone’s story. Inasmuch as the poem Persephone is concerned, I wanted to imagine the agony and sorrow Demeter felt upon the discovery of Persephone’s abduction by Hades (represented by death in the poem) and imagine beyond the crippling grief the inexplicable joy she must have felt upon being reunited with her daughter.  Persephone is dedicated to the memory of my mom, Beverly Ann Smith, who died October 3rd, 2015. Like Demeter, my heart perpetually writhes in crippling pain at her departure. Memories of her sustain me from despair: her angel-voice, her beautiful face, her unique and punctuated laughter, her love for me. Unlike Demeter, however, I am unable to call her back from the other side of that dark veil, and so my inexplicable joy awaits me on the other side, where I will see her again.

To the memory of my mom ...

Warfare in Homer's Iliad

In no manner do I glorify warfare, nor am I a devout pacifist. I have mentioned before that the prospect and reality of warfare both horrifies and fascinates me at the same time. I cannot fathom the fact that we have it in ourselves to utterly vanquish one another by means of brutality that darkly transcends the violence we see in the animal kingdom; and at the same time, the methods and strategic means by which we wage war, the competitive ebb and flow of it, intrigues my imagination. Devoid of any morbid fascinations with warfare, it utterly amazes me every time I read passages from Homer’s Iliad how descriptive and poetically visual he renders the violent acts of combat. One of my all time favorite quotes from the Iliad, as I have mentioned in the past, comes from Book 7, lines 275–281:

“War—I know it well, and the butchery of men

Well I know, shift to the left, shift to the right

My tough tanned shield. That’s what the real drill

Defensive fighting means to me. I know it all

How to charge in the rush of plunging horses—

I know how to stand and fight to the finish

Twist and lunge in the War-god’s deadly dance.”

Inasmuch as Homer’s descriptive passages are concerned, and with regard to the language he uses to make their violent acts visibly accessible, below are a hand full that I found to be especially impressive.

“With that he hurled and Athena drove the shaft and it split the archer’s nose between the eye—it cracked his glistening teeth, the tough bronze cut off his tongue at the roots, smashed his jaw and the point came ripping out beneath his chin. He pitched from his car, armour clanged against him, a glimmering blaze af metal dazzling round his back—the purebreds reared aside, hoofs pawing the air and his life and power slipped away on the wind.”

“Eurypylus, chasing Hypsenor fleeing on before him, flailed with a sword, slashed the Trojan’s shoulder and lopped away the massive bulk of Hypsenor’s arm … the bloody arm dropped to the earth, and red death came plunging down his eyes, and the strong force of fate.”

“… Agamemnon lord of men spilled the giant Odius, chief of the Halizonians off his car—the first to fall, as he veered away the spearhead punched his back between the shoulders, gouging his flesh and jutting out through his rids—he fell with a crash, his armour rang against him.”

“Antilochus winged a rock and smashed his elbow—out of his grip the reigns white with ivory flew and slipped to the ground and tangled in the dust. Antilochus sprang, he plunged a sword in his temple and Mydon, gasping, hurled from his bolted car face first, head and shoulders stuck in the dune for a good long time for the sand was deep—his lucky day—till his own horses trampled him down.”

“Meriones caught him quickly, running him down hard and speared him low in the right buttock—the point pounding under the pelvis, jabbed and pierced the blatter—he dropped to his knees, screaming, death swirling around him.”

Our Past as a Dream: Edgar Allan Poe

“It is by no means an irrational fancy that, in a future existence, we shall look upon what we think our present existence, as a dream.” 

I cannot agree more with Poe’s statement here. Even within the stream of a single lifespan our distant past presents itself often as if it were a dream. One wonders: Is the life of the caterpillar a dream to the butterfly?

Let us entertain the thought that life persists after death (for myself, I believe it does). Just what will we remember of this existence? Will we remember the taste of the foods we enjoyed while we were here? Will we remember the cold sensation of winter breezes, the ancient auburn hue hovering over falling autumn leaves, the perfumed smell of loam-drenched trees after a summer thunderstorm, or the distant melodies of tiny birds greeting spring’s sunny advent?

One thing is certain, if life does persist after the death of our bodies, then Poe—at this very moment, wherever he is out there—knows the answer to our inquiry, and the truth of the above quote of his.

Edgar Allan Poe: January 19, 1809 — October 7, 1849 Happy 211th, dear poet

An Elegy to Heather Tripler

On October 10th, 2008, a woman entered my life who I've never met, and who I'll never forget.

When I arrived home from work that day there was a story on the news of a woman who was found dead on a park bench in Grand Junction. She was very young, only 34, homeless, and died there alone in the elements. Her name was Heather Tripler.

I can't even begin to explain the overwhelming grief and saddened that hit me after having heard this (a grief and sadness that's fresh with me ...still). A few days later it snowed, and as I stood there near the front door watching it calmly descend, I couldn't stop thinking about her- homeless and all alone in that park. This is when I knew that I had to write about her.

I promised myself that I would allow the poem to come to me on its own, to never force it, and to scribe every word as if Heather were standing there next to me. Two years later the poem was complete.


Initially, I was just going to keep the poem to myself, but something felt wrong about that. So I went online and, by searching the Grand Junction Free Press, found the name of a family member who I might be able to contact. And I did, and explained the how the poem came to be, and asked permission to post it- to my delight I was given permission.


And that's the story and context behind this poem- Heather's poem. As I said, though we've never met, as long as there's breath in this body, I'll never forget her.

Emerson Park
An Elegy on the Passing of Heather Tripler

There’s snow there now where once she lay
Alone that Autumn eve
And though that day seems far away
I still lamenting grieve

For she- a daughter, mother, friend
She pined, I’m sure, in grief
For hard distraught there came her end
By Death, that surly thief

She roamed, she roamed through deepest dark
Alone, no friend to guide
And when she came upon that park
There on a bench she died

No tear went forth, nor word was said
To her who lay asleep
Til angels by her bed were led
In solace ever deep

“Awake, dear child, slumber’s past”
They said in one accord
“Come to the warmth and light at last
For therein is the Lord”

-jwm

Happy Friday the 13th!

Fairmount

How calm the sound of snow that's falling
Soft upon these lonely stones
As if the north winds now were calling
Sleeping ghosts from restless bones

Some think this yard of graves as eerie
Filled with silence and with woes
Where souls departed wander weary
Chained to earth and seen by crows

I've seen some come with flowers weeping
Doubting God as they lament
While others deemed the dead as sleeping
Waiting for the Lord's advent

And some would do the most appalling
Cracking headstones, tagging hate
Yet still the snow would be there falling
Falling calmly on our fate

-jwm



A Brief Side Note:

I don't know what others think, but for me it's one of the most weirdest reversals that I personally experience in life … attempting to create something that, when brought into being, immediately begins to recreate you! I swear it's astonishing, amazing, and really surprisingly scary-cool.

I'm referring here to writing in general, and poetry writing in particular. Almost every time I begin a poem it takes on a life of its own. I'll even catch myself stuck on a single word that I'm trying to 'force' into the poem, and the poem sits there flintingly resisting me until- and this happens more than not- I give in and go with the poem's momentum.

Anyhow, I had ideas for this poem that went entirely unfulfilled due to the poem's own life, and just thought I'd share that with you. Hope everyone has an awesome Valentine's Day and a great weekend ... happy Friday the 13th.

Of Clouds

 

Clouds Within

The clouds, rolling in on that solemn day,
As if to deliver the dire news,
Approached my gray zenith to mourn with me ...
And rained.

And I remembered your most godly ways,
And then loathed myself for our little time;
And as the dreadful clouds within grew dark ...
I wept.

 

-jwm

 

 

 

Dedicated to my grandmother ... miss you.

To GG

The Evening Sun

The evening sun has cast his cope

Upon the maple’s fragile frame

Outside my window, in my scope,

And all is calm and tame.

I wish with all my heart, I swear,

That we could share this lovely sight …

But I’m alone, and you’re not here,

And twilight fades to night.

-jwm