Full moon with lowered head, a white bull

At night the landscape looks as if snow has sheeted the dark earth. But it is just the whiteness of the moon blanching fields and gardens and rooftops. Outdoors it is warm and clear, I walk through whiteness like a slip of shadow. A moon daughter going out to smell  the night-flowering Brugmannsia and that lovely small tree smothered in mauve and violet flowers we call Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow.

The full moon in Taurus. Sometimes known as the Hunting Moon that follows the Harvest Moon. The Mourning Moon. The Sabian symbol for this moon is ‘A woman sprinkling long rows of flowers’. A time for nurturing, perhaps.

But I think too of the white bull with lowered head and  shining horns, garlanded with flowers. The sacrificial bull? The menacing Minotaur? My garden in moonlight is a labyrinth laid bare, the paths that fork and twist, the long undeciphered shadows of trees, the echoing cry of the owl finding its own pathways across the currents of air over the fields and forests. There are sightlines that can be traced  across Otherness and Here, flickers and glimpses. A world at night, denuded of that paltry human element, complete unto itself.

The moon with lowered head, a radiant white bull cantering across the whiteness of veld.

Persephone the Wanderer

 

From the poet Louise Gluck:

Persephone The Wanderer

In the first version, Persephone
is taken from her mother
and the goddess of the earth
punishes the earth—this is
consistent with what we know of human behavior,

that human beings take profound satisfaction
in doing harm, particularly
unconscious harm:

we may call this
negative creation.

Persephone’s initial
sojourn in hell continues to be
pawed over by scholars who dispute
the sensations of the virgin:

did she cooperate in her rape,
or was she drugged, violated against her will,
as happens so often now to modern girls.

As is well known, the return of the beloved
does not correct
the loss of the beloved: Persephone

returns home
stained with red juice like
a character in Hawthorne—

I am not certain I will
keep this word: is earth
“home” to Persephone? Is she at home, conceivably,
in the bed of the god? Is she
at home nowhere? Is she
a born wanderer, in other words
an existential
replica of her own mother, less
hamstrung by ideas of causality?

You are allowed to like
no one, you know. The characters
are not people.
They are aspects of a dilemma or conflict.

Three parts: just as the soul is divided,
ego, superego, id. Likewise

the three levels of the known world,
a kind of diagram that separates
heaven from earth from hell.

You must ask yourself:
where is it snowing?

White of forgetfulness,
of desecration—

It is snowing on earth; the cold wind says

Persephone is having sex in hell.
Unlike the rest of us, she doesn’t know
what winter is, only that
she is what causes it.

She is lying in the bed of Hades.
What is in her mind?
Is she afraid? Has something
blotted out the idea
of mind?

She does know the earth
is run by mothers, this much
is certain. She also knows
she is not what is called
a girl any longer. Regarding
incarceration, she believes

she has been a prisoner since she has been a daughter.

The terrible reunions in store for her
will take up the rest of her life.
When the passion for expiation
is chronic, fierce, you do not choose
the way you live. You do not live;
you are not allowed to die.

You drift between earth and death
which seem, finally,
strangely alike. Scholars tell us

that there is no point in knowing what you want
when the forces contending over you
could kill you.

White of forgetfulness,
white of safety—

They say
there is a rift in the human soul
which was not constructed to belong
entirely to life. Earth

asks us to deny this rift, a threat
disguised as suggestion—
as we have seen
in the tale of Persephone
which should be read

as an argument between the mother and the lover—
the daughter is just meat.

When death confronts her, she has never seen
the meadow without the daisies.
Suddenly she is no longer
singing her maidenly songs
about her mother’s
beauty and fecundity. Where
the rift is, the break is.

Song of the earth,
song of the mythic vision of eternal life—

My soul
shattered with the strain
of trying to belong to earth—

What will you do,
when it is your turn in the field with the god?