The Pagan Poetry of Edna St. Vincent Millay

Yesterday, Star Foster wrote this post over at the Patheos Pagan blog. She speaks about one of her favorite poets, Peggy Pond Church, and how her poetry evokes Pagan ideas and images in a time when Paganism wasn't necessarily a thing.

This made me think of one of my favorite poets, a woman who lived and wrote poetry in the 20s and 30s and manages to evoke very specific Pagan themes in her writing.

I first learned about Edna St. Vincent Millay when I was very young. My mother had been an English teacher before I was born and she still had several volumes of poetry on our bookshelves. I specifically remember a time when I was attending Catholic catechism.  Because I went to public school, I took catechism classes as a kid. They were usually taught in the home of another parishioner. At one teacher's class, I remember that us kids rotated who would bring in and read an opening prayer for the class.  I think I might have been in the 6th grade, just on the cusp of teenager-hood.  I spent a lot of time agonizing over what prayer to read and couldn't think of anything.  My mom suggested looked for a poem in one of her poetry books.  And that was when I discovered Edna St. Vincent Millay.

The poem I read at catechism that night was "Afternoon on a Hill."

I will be the gladdest thing
   Under the sun!
I will touch a hundred flowers
   And not pick one.

I will look at cliffs and clouds
   With quiet eyes,
Watch the wind bow down the grass,
   And the grass rise.

And when lights begin to show
   Up from the town,
I will mark which must be mine,
   And then start down!

Of course, at the time, I was Catholic but the reverence of nature clearly resonated with me even at that age. No one new at that time how deep my relationship with the cycles of nature went, least of all me. Those those cycles of nature would eventually speak to me through the story of Persephone and would lead me to honor her throughout my life. 

Curiously enough, that brought me back full circle to the poetry of Edna St. Vincent Millay.  It was after became devoted to Persephone that I discovered some of Millay's other poetry. I don't think anyone can say that Millay herself was Pagan but her use of mythology in her writing was undeniable. 

She wrote about Daphne and Apollo in "Daphne".

  Why do you follow me?—
Any moment I can be
Nothing but a laurel-tree.

Any moment of the chase
I can leave you in my place
A pink bough for your embrace.

Yet if over hill and hollow
Still it is your will to follow,
I am off;—to heel, Apollo!

She wrote about Odysseus's wife in An Ancient Gesture:

I thought, as I wiped my eyes on the corner of my apron:
Penelope did this too.
And more than once: you can't keep weaving all day
And undoing it all through the night;
Your arms get tired, and the back of your neck gets tight;
And along towards morning, when you think it will never be light,
And your husband has been gone, and you don't know where, for years.
Suddenly you burst into tears;
There is simply nothing else to do.

And I thought, as I wiped my eyes on the corner of my apron:
This is an ancient gesture, authentic, antique,
In the very best tradition, classic, Greek;
Ulysses did this too.
But only as a gesture,—a gesture which implied
To the assembled throng that he was much too moved to speak.
He learned it from Penelope...
Penelope, who really cried.

 And this is an excerpt of her poem "Invocation to the Muses" which she read at a dedication at Carnegie Hall in 1941.

O Muses, O immortal Nine!—
Or do ye languish? Can ye die?
Must all go under?—
How shall we heal without your help a world
By these wild horses torn asunder?
How shall we build anew? — How start again?
How cure, how even moderate this pain
Without you, and you strong?
And if ye sleep, then waken!
And if ye sicken and do plan to die,
Do not that now!

 But none of these make me feel like one tiny little poem does. It is said that she wrote this poem when she was mourning the death of her lover, another woman - certainly scandalous in the 1920s!

  Be to her, Persephone,
All the things I might not be:
Take her head upon your knee.
She that was so proud and wild,
Flippant, arrogant and free,
She that had no need of me,
Is a little lonely child
Lost in Hell,—Persephone,
Take her head upon your knee:
Say to her, "My dear, my dear,
It is not so dreadful here."

ee cummings and my daffodils

My daffodils in North Carolina.

And now, a poem by ee cummings:

in time of daffodils(who know
the goal of living is to grow)
forgetting why,remember how

in time of lilacs who proclaim
the aim of waking is to dream,
remember so(forgetting seem)

in time of roses(who amaze
our now and here with paradise)
forgetting if,remember yes

in time of all sweet things beyond
whatever mind may comprehend,
remember seek(forgetting find)

and in a mystery to be
(when time from time shall set us free)
forgetting me,remember me

Don't Cry Any More Persephone by Ronald Peat

I found this poem over at Poem Hunter. 

The Return of Persephone

I was googling "Persephone", as I frequently do, and I came across a poem I had never read before.  It is by a poet named Alec Derwent Hope:

The Return of Persephone


Gliding through the still air, he made no sound;
Wing-shod and deft, dropped almost at her feet,
And searched the ghostly regiments and found
The living eyes, the tremor of breath, the beat
Of blood in all that bodiless underground.

She left her majesty; she loosed the zone
Of darkness and put by the rod of dread.
Standing, she turned her back upon the throne
Where, well she knew, the Ruler of the Dead,
Lord of her body and being, sat like stone;

Stared with his ravenous eyes to see her shake
The midnight drifting from her loosened hair,
The girl once more in all her actions wake,
The blush of colour in her cheeks appear
Lost with her flowers that day beside the lake.

The summer flowers scattering, the shout,
The black manes plunging down to the black pit --
Memory or dream? She stood awhile in doubt,
Then touched the Traveller God's brown arm and met
His cool, bright glance and heard his words ring out:

"Queen of the Dead and Mistress of the Year!"
-- His voice was the ripe ripple of the corn;
The touch of dew, the rush of morning air --
"Remember now the world where you were born;
The month of your return at last is here."

And still she did not speak, but turned again
Looking for answer, for anger, for command:
The eyes of Dis were shut upon their pain;
Calm as his marble brow, the marble hand
Slept on his knee. Insuperable disdain

Foreknowing all bounds of passion, of power, of art,
Mastered but could not mask his deep despair.
Even as she turned with Hermes to depart,
Looking her last on her grim ravisher
For the first time she loved him from her heart.

Praise Demeter and her Daughter

There is a great book called Greek Lyric: An Anthology in Translation by Andrew M. Miller.  It is a great collection of ancient Greek poetry by everyone who wasn't Homer or Hesiod and it is collected in one easy to use volume. 

Here is an offering for Demeter and her daughter by Bacchylides.  This is a portion of an Ode to celebrate Deinomenes, an Olympic charioteer*.

In Praise of Demeter, Queen of fruitful Sicily,
and of the Maiden, violet crowned,
sing, Klio, giver of sweet gifts; and sing as well
 of Hieron's horses that ran swiftly at Olympia 

*As an aside - I do think they should bring back chariot races as part of the Olympic games.

Orpheus. Eurydice. Hermes.

As you might imagine, the Myth of Orpheus and Eurydice is among my favorites.  I love that Persephone is featured so prominantly and I love that in many versions Hades is shown as kind of a softy.  But they aren't the only Gods present in this myth.  This poem by Ranier Maria Rilke tells Hermes' side of the story.

That was the deep uncanny mine of souls.
Like veins of silver ore, they silently
moved through its massive darkness. Blood welled up
among the roots, on its way to the world of men,
and in the dark it looked as hard as stone.
Nothing else was red.

There were cliffs there,
and forests made of mist. There were bridges
spanning the void, and that great gray blind lake
which hung above its distant bottom
like the sky on a rainy day above a landscape.
And through the gentle, unresisting meadows
one pale path unrolled like a strip of cotton.

Down this path they were coming.

In front, the slender man in the blue cloak —
mute, impatient, looking straight ahead.
In large, greedy, unchewed bites his walk
devoured the path; his hands hung at his sides,
tight and heavy, out of the failing folds,
no longer conscious of the delicate lyre
which had grown into his left arm, like a slip
of roses grafted onto an olive tree.
His senses felt as though they were split in two:
his sight would race ahead of him like a dog,
stop, come back, then rushing off again
would stand, impatient, at the path’s next turn, —
but his hearing, like an odor, stayed behind.
Sometimes it seemed to him as though it reached
back to the footsteps of those other two
who were to follow him, up the long path home.
But then, once more, it was just his own steps’ echo,
or the wind inside his cloak, that made the sound.
He said to himself, they had to be behind him;
said it aloud and heard it fade away.
They had to be behind him, but their steps
were ominously soft. If only he could
turn around, just once (but looking back
would ruin this entire work, so near
completion), then he could not fail to see them,
those other two, who followed him so softly:

The god of speed and distant messages,
a traveler’s hood above his shining eyes,
his slender staff held out in front of him,
and little wings fluttering at his ankles;
and on his left arm, barely touching it: she.

A woman so loved that from one lyre there came
more lament than from all lamenting women;
that a whole world of lament arose, in which
all nature reappeared: forest and valley,
road and village, field and stream and animal;
and that around this lament-world, even as
around the other earth, a sun revolved
and a silent star-filled heaven, a lament-
heaven, with its own, disfigured stars —:
So greatly was she loved.

But now she walked beside the graceful god,
her steps constricted by the trailing graveclothes,
uncertain, gentle, and without impatience.
She was deep within herself, like a woman heavy
with child, and did not see the man in front
or the path ascending steeply into life.
Deep within herself. Being dead
filled her beyond fulfillment. Like a fruit
suffused with its own mystery and sweetness,
she was filled with her vast death, which was so new,
she could not understand that it had happened.

She had come into a new virginity
and was untouchable; her sex had closed
like a young flower at nightfall, and her hands
had grown so unused to marriage that the god’s
infinitely gentle touch of guidance
hurt her, like an undesired kiss.

She was no longer that woman with blue eyes
who once had echoed through the poet’s songs,
no longer the wide couch’s scent and island,
and that man’s property no longer.

She was already loosened like long hair,
poured out like fallen rain,
shared like a limitless supply.

She was already root.

And when, abruptly,
the god put out his hand to stop her, saying,
with sorrow in his voice: He has turned around —,
she could not understand, and softly answered
Who?
                                        Far away,
dark before the shining exit-gates,
someone or other stood, whose features were
unrecognizable. He stood and saw
how, on the strip of road among the meadows,
with a mournful look, the god of messages
silently turned to follow the small figure
already walking back along the path,
her steps constricted by the trailing graveclothes,
uncertain, gentle, and without impatience.

Tr. Stephen Mitchell

Finding Inspiration in the strangest places

Last night, I was watching the newest episode of Caprica on the Syfy channel.  If you haven't seen it and you liked the reimagining of Battlestar Galactica, check this out.  In last night's episode, which you can watch on line, Joseph Adama was encouraged to honor his late wife and daughter in a traditional ritual from his home world of Tauron.  I was very impressed with the ritual itself.  The theology of the 12 colonies from both Battlestar Galactica and Caprica is based heavily on the Olympian Gods.  And clearly in this episode, there is also a nod toward the entire Hellenic pantheon including the Chthonic gods of the underworld.  They never said the names of the gods there - which may be consistent with how the ancients viewed them as well. 

I think sometimes about funeral rites.  Not that I am rushing to have a funeral or anything, but I do think about how to incorporate my own spiritual traditions with something that most of my friends and family can also take comfort in even though most of them are not Hellenic.  The main problem with pre-planning your own funeral is that once you're dead you really don't have a say in it any more. 

The ritual that the Adamas participated in during lasts night's episode was lovely.  And even though it comes from a pop-culture TV show based on a fictitious world with a Hellenic-like state religion, I don't feel the least bit weird saying that I would like to incorporate something like that into a funeral. 

In the episode, friends and family gather at their home for the ritual.  As the ritual begins, Joe and Willie Adama (future Bill Adama of Galactica) approach a priest that appeared to be a symbolic Charon, the ferryman who allows passage of souls across the River Styx in the underworld.  The priest asked them if they had a coin for him and they each handed him one - one for Shannon Adama and one for Tamera Adama.  Joe and Willie then asked if they would be granted passage and the priest replied yes, but then asked if they (meaning Joe and Willie) would be willing to let them go.  They both said yes.  Then someone in the background began to sing a song, presumably in the Tauron language, and the priest gave Joe Adama a tattoo - which are very symbolic in their culture. 

I really like the core of this ritual; the approaching Charon, the offering of coins and the granting of passage to the underworld.  I would never ask someone to get a tattoo for me, unless then wanted to of course.  I have also always wanted the poem by Edna St. Vincent Millay to be read for me and I think it would incorporate nicely into the ritual.

Be to her, Persephone,
All the things I might not be:
Take her head upon your knee.
She that was so proud and wild,
Flippant, arrogant and free,
She that had no need of me,
Is a little lonely child
Lost in Hell,—Persephone,
Take her head upon your knee:
Say to her, "My dear, my dear,
It is not so dreadful here."

Winter's Daughter

Sitting on the highway
I75 North,
Through Ohio, just thinking
The naked trees and the silvery snow
Make everything twilight
Leaving eternal summer
For the gray
Seeing family, I have missed them
But leaving Home. 

Each year, Persephone journeys
The underworld
Is not a prison, but a castle
And the guilded beauty of Olympos
Is cold and lonely

I long to see Atlanta
She longs to see the Underworld
It is the same path.

The Pomegranate

Are you the symbol of death?

Or the symbol of marriage?
With what intention were you given to Persephone?

Don’t eat more than 6 seeds or you may never return.
I have been told that before
But I throw caution to the wind
I feel the sweet juice between my lips
Seed after seed after seed
Given by my lover
And with him I am wed

If you were the symbol of death
Why would you also be held by
Hera and Aphrodite?
Their realms are of marriage and passion
And that is your realm, too.

It wasn’t that he was tricking her into staying
He was giving her a gift
From Husband to Wife.

Pomegranate,
Your history has been distorted
But I hold you gently in my hands
And know your secret.

Psychopompos' Lament

I am not certain where, but I remember hearing that one of the possible suitors for Persephone's hand was Hermes.  That recollection, along with this well-known painting by Lord Frederick Leighton, led to the following poem. 

I can see myself burying my face into her flower-scented hair
I can see myself holding her delicate face in my hands and kissing her lips
I can see myself with her tiny hand in mine
I could have made an excellent husband
I guess I wasn’t fast enough.

I see her all the time.
Every time I guide the dead to her golden throne
I have to look into her deep colored eyes
Eyes that change from blue to green to violet
They see my sadness
She thinks it is for the soul I have just transported
And she is moved by my compassion
That is not why I am sad. That is my vocation.
My heart aches with my love for her
And she will never know
I cannot betray her friendship or the friendship of her king

I remember the day that I brought her back to her mother
She was still pale and scared
The juice of the pomegranate still staining her lips
Blood on the mouth a vampire freshly fed on a virgin
She was the sacrificed virgin
She had become the vampire

The thieves, the gamblers, the tricksters
They are simply a pastime
I have waited an eternity to hold her in my arms
I will never hold her in my arms
I will wait until the end of time
To love the queen of the dead

Persephone's Glade

A soft spring maid picking daffodils
Autumn wife and most dread Queen
A field of white sweet asphodel
A soft spring maid picking daffodils
Olympos high above the rolling hills
Halls of Hades in the world beneath
A soft spring maid picking daffodils
Autumn wife and most dread Queen