The grapes must be cut down
Or no one but the bees
Will be drunk next summer.
They are full of juice,
Tight-skinned like the testicles
Of a boy with his first shadowed chin.
The harvesters move, row by row,
Unburdening the vines
And making the bees angry.
The grapes are trampled, then put away
While the darkness works its magic.
Not all harvests are so orderly
Comes a day when chaos pours out
Along with the blood of the grape.
Threshing ground and trampling vat
Are abandoned for a wilder dance
In the green meadows, high on the hills.
Where the elder trees of the forest
Still remember their sisters,
Who once cast their leaves and shadows
Upon the floor of the valley.
The plow may subdue the earth, for now.
But the wilderness remembers its ancient boundaries.
And as the sun goes down, Dionysus appears
To dance among his feral women,
His own life safe
Only as long as they can sieze and rend
Anything else athwart their path -
And the wine holds out.
The dance as if they were trampling
The fruit of the vine,
But the red stain has crept
Much higher than their ankles.
They wear golden bells and the skins of leopards.
The hunt has made them happy at last.
If the women cannot kill the god
Who pretends to direct them,
They will take the head of any man
Who struggles to remain upright
When madness has become a virtue
And everything forbidden is permitted.
Backs straight as if they had forgotten.
A lifetime of toiling over field and stove,
The prancing shrieking women dress
Their fores in ivy and demand
They bend their knees or hit the ground
To service what can never be tamed altogether.
The darkness works its magic.
The grapes must be cut down.
A plowshare may be hammered
From a sword,
And just as easily turned
Once more into a weapon
With enough force, enough heat, and
Hard punches from a hammer.
Women are so dangerous
When they become overheated.
Only the profligate might survive this night
And waken eager to drink
Still more of the grape god's blood,
To help them forget the fences
That were so easily trampled down
Within the walls of this temperate town.
(Reprinted with permission from Pat Califia's newest book, Diesel Fuel. Pat Califia's WWW page address is http://www.patcalifia.com)
Her First Poem Told Of:
by Maren
Swift courses of small birds
on their way, winged
through the frightening sky -
gray banked and hovered
in anticipatory rains
as if called on, bound
to a home that is lost to
our tangible sight -
revenant and peerless
within the trees,
storm shuddering and fragrant
as all our lost memories
of our own journeyed flights,
and storms and unmapped homes.
Samhain Hymns to Hades and Persephone
by Perseus
Noble Lord Hades, the god who does wait,
We ask your attendance, be with us here.
This night the Wheel turns,
the Gate is flung wide,
Grant us your blessing;
the dead now draw near.
You who are brother, grandfather and son,
This night you are husband, lover and king.
She who approaches must taste of your fruit,
She'll speak of love's pain
but soon she will sing.
You who have waited alone in your hall,
By your sovereign will the holy veil rends.
This night you triumph, your bride will return;
Great Lord of the Dead, your loneliness ends!
Gracious Persephone, daughter of Earth,
Your Crown awaits in a land without birth.
We join in your mourning, hear your lament,
This night we honor your willing descent.
You are the seasons, each one in its turn,
From cold Winter's grave in Spring you return.
By Summer your passion has sparked
and burned,
And this Samhain night you claim
what you've earned.
Maiden no longer, you bear love's full bloom;
You carry the Sun's rebirth in your womb.
Abandon your mother, welcome the crone,
Behold the Dark Lord alive on his throne!
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