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;
Hut opened around her purple anemones,
Caverns,
Little hells of colour, 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 snap —
ping 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.