Sometimes, and sometimes it is when I am amongst other people and other times when I am alone in a room, sometimes I hear a voice whispering to me, “Wake up, wake up.” This voice is full of yearning. This desperate voice begs me and entreats me. If I turn my head, it could be just the hollow whistling of the wind.
Pierre-Antoine Moelo aka peahart on Tumblr
They’ve kept the truth
about Persephone a secret,
burying it deep below
Hercules’s murdered wife
and all of Zeus’s affairs.
It’s dangerous, you see,
a spark threatening to
ignite a long dead flame.
She loved her power,
the Queen of the Dead,
to forever reign
in the fires of hell.
She wore her crown
like a beacon;
a beautiful queen,
plotting against her king.
They never wanted you
to know the hunger of Persephone,
how she starved for something
other than pomegranates.
The primal thirst
that burns all women’s throats,
denied by eons of men.
Listen closely to the voice from hell, sweetheart.
“You are a queen;
don’t wait for a king.”
No writing is wasted. Did you know that sourdough from San Francisco is leavened partly by a bacteria called lactobacillus sanfrancisensis? It is native to the soil there, and does not do well elsewhere. But any kitchen can become an ecosystem. If you bake a lot, your kitchen will become a happy home to wild yeasts, and all your bread will taste better. Even a failed loaf is not wasted. Likewise, cheese makers wash the dairy floor with whey. Tomato gardeners compost with rotten tomatoes. No writing is wasted: the words you can’t put in your book can wash the floor, live in the soil, lurk around in the air. They will make the next words better.
there is nothing in this world i love more than witches and i got to draw one for The Babe, The Bitch, and The Blueblood, a show my roommate and life partner Leigh Luna is putting together! it’s about fairytales and archetypes and feminism and cutting dudes’ heads off with your copper knife
I know we say people are killin it a lot… but literally….
<3 <3 <3
Instead of waiting in her tower, Rapunzel slices off her long, golden hair with a carving knife, and then uses it to climb down to freedom.
Just as she’s about to take the poison apple, Snow White sees the familiar wicked glow in the old lady’s eyes, and slashes the evil queen’s throat with a pair of sewing scissors.
Cinderella refuses everything but the glass slippers from her fairy godmother, crushes her stepmother’s windpipe under her heel, and the Prince falls madly in love with the mysterious girl who dons rags and blood-stained slippers.
Persephone goes adventuring with weapons hidden under her dress.
Persephone climbs into the gaping chasm.
Or, Persephone uses her hands to carve a hole down to hell.
In none of these versions is Persephone’s body violated unless she asks Hades to hold her down with his horse-whips.
Not once does she hold out on eating the pomegranate, instead biting into it eagerly and relishing the juice running down her chin, staining it red.
In some of the stories, Hades never appears and Persephone rules the underworld with a crown of her own making.
In all of them, it is widely known that the name Persephone means Bringer of Destruction.
Red Riding Hood marches from her grandmother’s house with a bloody wolf pelt.
Medusa rights the wrongs that have been done to her.
Eurydice breaks every muscle in her arms climbing out of the land of the dead.
Girls are allowed to think dark thoughts, and be dark things.
Instead of the dragon, it’s the princess with claws and fiery breath
who smashes her way from the confines of her castle
and swallows men whole.
It is no punishment. They are mistaken –
The brothers, the father. My prayers were answered.
I was all fingertips. Nothing was perfect:
What I had woven, the moths will have eaten;
At the end of my rope was a noose’s knot.
Now it’s no longer the thing, but the pattern,
And that will endure, even though webs be broken.
I, if not beautiful, am beauty’s maker.
Old age cannot rob me, nor cowardly lovers.
The moon once pulled blood from me. Now I pull silver.
Here are the lines I pulled from my own belly –
Hang them with rainbows, ice, dewdrops, darkness.
How could you possibly love her? You don’t even know her favorite book.
The heavy white wing whisked away into smoke, into nothing.
The library always smells like this:
an ancient stew of vinegar and wood.
It’s autumn again,
and I can do anything.
At midnight on her ninth birthday, Alison Marie was crowned Queen of the Nightlands; she decreed that flowers should glow in the dark and that bats should dine with her at supper.
Want to explore Verse Kraken but not sure where to start? Here is a hyperlink poem Claire made out of lines from our contributors’ pieces, enjoy:
The wait is over, and Verse Kraken #1 is LIVE! Click, explore, share and enjoy!