Some Thoughts on Turning to Myth: Looking back at “The First Lamentation of Demeter ~ (Poetry and Myth)”

A Note to My Readers:

Here it is January 2026. My blog has been quiet this year for a number of reasons too long to list.  But the most obvious reason is that of a block or mental ‘resistance’ to writing. Last year in 2024,  I turned to sharing a few older poems of mine that I love. It was a good reminder to me of why I loved writing.

Today, WordPress showed me my latest stats. I rarely look at these anymore, but one thing I notice each time I see an update is that some of the poems I wrote relating to classical myths seem to be accessed the most. I wonder if, in this sad and tumultuous world and country (mine being the USA), we turn to mythology to find answers to timeless questions that appear and reappear over a lifetime. Who are we and why are we here? What is it we are looking for? What really matters? I am now 79.  Those questions and many more have come up time and time again, and the answers have been quite varied over eight decades. What do you, dear reader, think? Why do we cling to myths and tales from long ago and from cultures we know only though history books, literature or art? I’d love to know what you think.

To honor some of these poems, I’m going to post my two Lamentations of Demeter, one at a time. To save some work, I’ll post the whole original poet from my blog. I hope you find some meaning in each of them or perhaps a way to think of something beyond our wild world of today.

 

 British Museum GR 1885.3-16.1 (Terracotta C 529), AN34724001

British Museum GR 1885.3-16.1 (Terracotta C 529), AN34724001

 

Here is the original 2014 posting:

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I’ve been looking over my writing notebooks written a while back but unread by anyone other than myself or my husband. The myths of Demeter and her daughter, Persephone, fascinate many including me. For a number of reasons these myths seem to appeal especially to women. Many of the great living women poets have written brilliant poems about Persephone (e.g., Louise Glück and Eavan Boland). The story is timeless.

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In today’s poem I’ve written a Lamentation of Demeter. Demeter, the goddess of the harvest and grains, is often referred to as the mother-goddess since she represents fertility on earth. Her importance is indisputable. When she mourns for her missing daughter, Persephone (who has been abducted by Hades and taken down into the underworld by force) the seasons stop. Things stop growing and the earth begins to die before Persephone’s father, Zeus, intervenes.  You know the story, but it is worth re-reading if you haven’t read any mythology for a while.

Demeter statue in front of my gym in Hillsborough, North Carolina

Demeter statue in front of my gym in Hillsborough, North Carolina

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So what is a lamentation? The Oxford English Dictionary defines it simply: “The passionate expression of grief or sorrow; weeping.” Anyone who has grieved knows instinctively what it is to lament the loss of someone who is dearly loved. The feeling is painful and deep, and I think this resonates within us all. Demeter mourned her daughter’s abduction to a point where the earth nearly perished. This poem begins with her not yet knowing all that has happened. I picture her as a mother desperate to know what has happened to her child.

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This is one of two lamentations of Demeter I’ve written. The second will follow at some point.

Demeter

Demeter

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To listen to an audio recording of me reading this poem, click on the link below and wait a few seconds for it to begin:

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The First Lamentation of Demeter

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How is it that I don’t know where she has gone?

        I warned her.

I told her time and time again not to trust them,
that there were those who so longed for her
they would stop at nothing.

        And who was right?

Like all girls her age, she could be headstrong,
believing her own mother too old
to understand those yearnings.

         I warned her.

Last night I watched the dog star rise up.
Its magnificent beams were like beacons
that might lead me to my lost child.

        Why is it the stars are silent?

O, Sirius, your brilliant rays reach down
to us and yet your silence is puzzling.
Surely you saw where she went, my only child.

        Will no one tell me where my Persephone has gone?

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Grief-Statue

On Rewriting a Poem

 

{Sometimes old poems ask to be reworked. This is a small example of just that.}

 

 

                                  

On Growing Old Together, A Love Poem

 

Will you scatter me over water
or throw me to the winds,
letting me float away?

 

Will your ashes mingle                                                                                       
with mine one day
when you too are gone . . .

              Ashes to ashes . . .

 

Will you take my hand again
and hold me close against the wind?
Will your eyes always smile with mine?

              Dust to dust . . .

 

Will our hearts travel as one
no matter where that might be?
Will our love be forever?

              Two stars together.

 

 

 

November 2025

 

This is a love poem written for my husband. We met in 1974, fifty-one years ago. This poem originally appeared on this blog in 2015, but I was never really happy with the ending. It never felt “right” to me. Those of you who are writers will know the feeling. You will know that some poems are meant to pop up again for you to rework it until it really is complete, and this is what I have done.

 

Growing older together has been a gift to both of us. We have shared so much and grown so much. Love is the one constant in the equation we call life. This poem is dedicated to my beloved husband and to all who have loved and been loved.

 

 

I’ve recorded myself reading the poem should you care to listen. Just click on the button below and give it a half a minute to begin. 

 

Ritchie and Mary, 1976

Half-light (a tanka sequence)

Milkweed by James DeMers (pixabay.com)

These tanka were written during the quarantine of Covid-19. My thanks to editor/poet, Marilyn Hazelton, for persuading me to combine some tanka into a tanka sequence.  A really good editor is priceless. It’s always an honor to have poems included in Redlights. Click on the link below if you care to hear me read it.

 

 

 

 

Half-light

 

August morning
just before the katydids
begin to sing . . .
the lake finally calm
with no ripples

 

milkweed seeds
scatter straight from
the cottony pod ~
such freedom to go
anywhere, everywhere

 

a spoon slowly stirs
cream into coffee
those quiet moments
when we lose
all sense of now

 

arm in arm
we walk together –
forty years & more miles
than either of us
can count

 

half-light—
walking in fog
where nothing is seen
but somehow we trust
it’s still all there

 

 

Red Lights, Summer Issue 2020

 

 

Fragrance of old books… (tanka)

Click on the link below if you care to hear me read this tanka:

 

fragrance-of-old-books

My thanks to editor, Marilyn Hazelton, for publishing this tanka in Red Lights, one of the best tanka journals around.

Walking Away

Where do poems come from? Anyone who writes poetry asks that question and has that question asked of them by others who wonder how a poem comes to be. There are many articles and books on the subject, but still there is no single answer. Every poet writes differently and often in a lifetime writing patterns and habits might change, too.

To show you how oddly this can happen, I’ve decided to post a poem that appeared in my chapbook, Erasing the Doubt (published 2015 by Finishing Line Press). “Walking Away” is  a poem that has its own style, its own cadence and its own meaning. If I were to read this somewhere, I think I’d say it feels very much like an old fashioned poem, as if it echoes a voice from long ago. How did that happen? There is an unusual story behind this poem and how it came to be. It came to me as a whole poem when I was up late writing and suddenly became very, very tired. It appeared almost dreamlike to me. I typed it up quickly, read it once and went to bed. When I read it the next day, it didn’t feel or sound like me, but obviously I had written it. Strange indeed. This experience happened only once in my life.Was another poet speaking through me? Or was this merely a side freed from regular consciousness because of fatigue?

I’d love to hear your comments on this poem and what it means to you when you read it. Feel free to leave a message

I’ve recorded this poem if you care to listen as well as read. Just click on this link:

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Walking Away

 

When you go, where do you wander?
When you leave me, do you look back?
I sit here, book in hand, not reading.

           The wind blows fiercely through now.

 

They asked how long you had been silent,
And I answered with a lie, which
Was not the truth but might have been.

          The wind blows silently through now.

 

Did you hear me whispering to you?
Did you hear what I had to say? Or did
I turn away and only mouth the words?

          The wind blows piercingly through now.

 

Where do you go when you wander?
Tell me what you see. When you look
At me, I feel you walking away.

          Lamenting the darkness, the wind blows softly now.

 

 

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“Walking Away” was published in Erasing the Doubt by Mary Kendall (c) 2015, Finishing Line Press.

 

 

 

 

Sleepy French Canals…

And now my last tanka to appear in Frameless Sky 4 (Summer 2016), edited by Christine L. Villa.  The beautiful photograph paired with this poem is by Irena Iris Szewczyk

To hear me read this tanka, simply click on the link below:

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Notes:

My warmest thanks to Chrissi, for publishing this and my other pieces in Frameless Sky 4
and to Irena, for creating such a lovely picture and allowing my tanka to join it.