PersephonePersephone was the woman held captive in the underworld, forced by Hades to become his bride. She was the face of abused ladies who never had a choice, who cannot break free and were forced to call their cage a home, only in her case, she became queen of the dead and damaged.
She is also the goddess of spring, of rebirth--a far cry from the image she became known for. In her return lie resurrection for the barren earth and in her departure, the rest of everything fertile and in bloom. Essentially, Persephone is a paradox, reigning in both death and life, always pacing at the edge. There is something so familiar, so comforting about learning this apparent duality to her being. Are we not all paradoxes ourselves? For Issue 4, I want you to find answers of your own to this question. Show me the two sides of who you are. Tell me about how you survive, how you thrive, how you are both darkness and light wedged together in this earthly body. Go beyond the barriers of genres; pierce through the mind of Persephone and tell me about the parallels of who she is to who you are. Give me truth rooted on mythology. Tell me about her secrets by telling me yours. In the midst of your own chaos, your own underworld, rise and conquer. May your reign, your mystical words bring these bleak spaces, these blank pages back to life.
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EostreI don’t know about you, but Spring is my favourite time of the year. I love the colours, the smells, the air, and the hopefulness it conveys.
Eostre, the Germanic goddess of spring and dawn, is one of the most well known symbols of the season and is known by many names: Eastre, Ostara, but most now know her as Easter. Easter is a holiday we generally associate with Christianity; however, its origins can be traced to the Anglo-Saxon Pagan festival held in Eostremonath (or April), which was held in Eostre’s honour. Eostre would bring with her the migratory birds and the soft winds, she would awaken the trees and flowers from their slumber, and she would encourage the chickens to begin laying their golden protein-rich eggs by comforting them with longer days and warmer light. Today, we honour her with our chocolate eggs, floral garlands, and rabbit symbology. While our traditions have changed over the years, the one constant is our celebration of the new life Spring gifts us. For this issue, I will be looking for tales that are fresh, hopeful, and bright. I want to read stories that make me want to celebrate life in all its glorious colours. Corn MotherAtina, Selu, Corn Mother, First Mother—different tribes speak of the woman who first taught them the way to plant and harvest corn. With many variations in the story, one steadfast facet of the story is this: the Corn Mother gives of her own body, makes sacrifices to provide for those next to her, and teaches them ways in which they may continue the tradition. Sacrifices are not unknown to folx in any way related to the traditionally feminine. The violence following in her story is also nigh on unavoidable, as it is in most women’s stories.
There are two versions usually depicted; in one, the Corn Mother is an old woman who produces grain by rubbing her body. When the secret of the food the tribe has consumed is revealed, the tribe accuses her of witchcraft. Some stories say she gives her consent for the tribe ending her life, but before her death, she provides instructions on how to treat her body. Grains sprout from her, around her, where she has lain. In the other version, she is a young woman marrying into a hungry tribe. The production of corn in this version is also considered ‘disgusting’ and condemns her from society. A cross-section of the sacrifices, policing of bodies, and general violence femme folxs of any background face, Corn Mother’s story should be presented as the complex story it is, faults and all. Especially, when the perseverance and strength of the Corn Mother is also such a universal story for every woman I have ever known, whether they’d describe themselves as such or not. EostreThus far the themes of Cauldron Anthology have been a little on the violent side. From valkyries to sphinxes to Izanami, the women in the stories have been men-eaters and death goddesses. In Issue 4 I wanted to take a small break from that and draw inspiration from other places. Afterall femininity and womanhood have many faces, and there’s no one way to be a woman. My thoughts led me to thinking of the seasons and the goddesses that watch over the different times of the year, and thus I decided to bring Eostre to the table when my editors and I were discussing the new themes.
Eostre is the Germanic goddess of spring, and she is celebrated during the month of the Spring Equinox. For me Eostre brings up memories of gardens and the starting of vegetables in the early months of the year, the goddess inspires me to think of new beginnings and different paths of life. How does she inspire you? In Issue 4 of Cauldron Anthology we’d love to see more art submissions. What does spring look like where you live? How does the thought of new beginnings inspire you? We would also love to see some short essays in this issue. How does Eostre compare to other spring goddesses? There are so many unique perspectives that can be explored in this theme and we can’t wait to see your submissions. They think it’s like plucked barge strings heaving gorges, though sound lands nowhere. Blood, poking through poultry leather. All that is left is calyx to burn in the sun and take its lazy drift down the Styx, or Milky Way. About Timothy TarkellyHe has an MA in Theatre (Drama Therapy) from Kansas State University. His poems have been featured by Whisper and the Roar, Paragon Journal, Lycan Valley Press, Aphelion, Poets & War, and Fourth & Sycamore. He works for a non-profit that serves survivors of domestic and sexual violence. Social media links: https://twitter.com/TimothyTarkelly To read more check out Cauldron Anthology's Issue 3. She (the woman found impossible to describe, bombastic if it weren't for her blades, their severed targets and crimson sheen) found love in a victim. Her gilded instruments and metal trays be damned, though they cried and called for damage, she bled with her lips and gave her heart to a man she could enjoy for a few minutes. About Timothy TarkellyHe has an MA in Theatre (Drama Therapy) from Kansas State University. His poems have been featured by Whisper and the Roar, Paragon Journal, Lycan Valley Press, Aphelion, Poets & War, and Fourth & Sycamore. He works for a non-profit that serves survivors of domestic and sexual violence. Social media links: https://twitter.com/TimothyTarkelly To read more check out Cauldron Anthology's Issue 3. If Saul’s turn had been so dark, then how was his crown left gleaming? If Endor’s witch had been so stank, with blemished skin, nose bent to hell, her fingers, plague-wrought lances, then how could his posture have held the weight of guilt on top of royalty? Of shame balanced on the stones of religion? She had to be beautiful. She had to be long and bent over cauldron to take him in and scream her rites of ambition, envy, passion. She had to be ready to squeal his title (king) and name (blasphemer) to make him melt and see the whole of Hebrew future as mere dice to be cast and lost into missioned poison. About Timothy TarkellyHe has an MA in Theatre (Drama Therapy) from Kansas State University. His poems have been featured by Whisper and the Roar, Paragon Journal, Lycan Valley Press, Aphelion, Poets & War, and Fourth & Sycamore. He works for a non-profit that serves survivors of domestic and sexual violence.
Social media links: https://twitter.com/TimothyTarkelly Coalesce, on surfaces dried for gathering, to break bread and penance and ask for a cleaner robe. Acid, poured in chalice heart and swallowed to break a bond forged in tradition. About Timothy Tarkellyhas an MA in Theatre (Drama Therapy) from Kansas State University. His poems have been featured by Whisper and the Roar, Paragon Journal, Lycan Valley Press, Aphelion, Poets & War, and Fourth & Sycamore. He works for a non-profit that serves survivors of domestic and sexual violence. Social media links: https://twitter.com/TimothyTarkelly To read more check out Cauldron Anthology's Issue 3. Earlier this month we started a flash fiction contest with the hopes of putting the winning pieces into Issue 3. Unfortunately we were not able to do that because of a lack of entries. So we are extending the deadline till March 27th, the deadline for Issue 4. To remind you the guidelines for a flash fiction entry are simple. There is no official theme, but we'd like you to stick to mythology that inspires you as a woman and feminist. We would also like the flash fiction to be no longer than 1,000 words, but it can be as short as a sentence.
We can't wait to read your stories! Deep in the forest beyond the devil’s gate residing in a cavern where none can abide Misshaped faces, gnarly hands, hollowed cheeks, hair a tangled mass of twigs, leaves a stench to all be damned Come full moon three scour the land in search of nightshade, jimsonweed to make a stew for some young lad unbeknownst to their dastardly deeds Cowering around the melting pot hunched, stirring, an ominous chant In moonlight’s glow, bathing within a magical stream where cackles transform to a lyrical song, skin now smooth, soft as a baby’s bum, hands gracefully slender void of knots, mangling menacing claws Each dressed in satin, lace, velvet robes flowing perfumed locks about gentle face pouting lips, fluttering lashes, rounded hips gleefully stepping out into the night, to the village where lusty men drink their fill, eyes affixed for a pretty wench to enter their sight A lute plays merrily as the crones ascend Spying a ravened haired strapping youth alone in a darken corner, nursing his cup gliding towards him the crones take a seat Laughing, jesting, drinking through the night then towards the forest edge, kissing his face his brow, into the woods they lure him on upon reaching the cauldron, forcing him in Watching as he transforms to a plump pig tossing in carrots, potatoes, thyme, dancing about, anticipation, a delightful feast, their chops drip saliva, eyes sparkling in the night And when he was cooked, divided him up ripping at flesh, chewing at bone until he was no more About Aurora M. LewisRetired in 2009. That same year I received a Certificate in Creative Writing-General Studies from UCLA, with honors. My poems, short stories, and nonfiction have been accepted by The Literary Hatchet, Gemini Magazine, Persimmon Tree Magazine, and Tinderbox Poetry Journal, to name a few. To read more check out Cauldron Anthology's Issue 3. |
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