Persephone's Challenge
by Raisa Hunter
The spirit wants the sun above,
green fields, laughter, play and
the dizzying heaven of blue
scattered with cloud sheep.
The heart wants the darkness,
the mystery, the unseen hands
and unheard voices of the past weaving
through the bones of the future.
The spirit wants safety, enough to eat,
to drink, arms to hold you and sing you
to sleep, to close eyes against the night
and the shadows that circle.
The heart wants the danger, the path
that may lead to hunger and thirst,
loneliness, tears, these are all worthy payment
for the knowledge down below.
Sometimes we are all so divided.
So I came to the underworld, and whether
it was forced or willing, it matters not,
someday we will all pass here, our feet
treading the dust that was once the bones
of our past, choking on our words.
Not all true paths are beautiful,
not all false paths are safe.
Sometimes the hand that takes you,
screaming, into your own depths
will be the greatest gift Life can give you,
the mantle of self-knowledge through pain,
the shirt of true compassion next to your skin,
once you have become worthy of wearing it.
All journeys down are rapes,
for what few can bear to go willingly
into the teeth of the darkness
without the armor of denial,
knowing it will not be better than you fear,
it will be worse, until you come through
the storm that blows within you
and learn to ride it, that dark chariot.
Pull the black horses together,
every muscle straining, every breath
a sob, a gasp, a hymn to pain,
learn to keep them on the straight road,
learn to ride the wheels that took you down
and, finally, to move beyond the fear.
Eat the seeds of blood-red, greedily,
hunger for the darkness and pursue it,
take the mask of innocence and sweetness,
the mother’s daughter who has no cruelty
in her soul and cast it away, show the truth
and the cold fire that burns and draws,
embrace the dark king and understand
you are not so different inside, you
who must return to the daylight each year.
Rise up to the surface on your birthday,
on that fine day of near-spring,
winter not quite run from the earth,
and pull the seedlings up from below
as you always did before, in the sun.
But this year it will be different,
this year you know the dark they came from,
this year you know the dark within you,
this year you have held out your hand
in friendship with that which brought you pain
and no flower that blooms in the sun
will ever be taken for granted
by your clear eyes again.
Artwork by Manic Pipsqueak.