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Three Drops from a Cauldron

Three Drops from a Cauldron

Monthly Archives: April 2015

Cwmmy Crab by Myfanwy Fox

29 Wednesday Apr 2015

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Herefordshire, Myfanwy Fox, orchards, poem, poetry, Wales, Welsh border

Cwmmy Crab

i

A stitchwort shift, a bluebell shawl,
I’ll cast aside in dancing;
hart’s tongue moist, fox gloves tall,
blossom frail, confetti fall,
I’m eager for the asking.

           For I can call the fat cuckoo
           from Broomy Hill to Dol-y-Cannau;
           smooth frogspawn for my lover’s pillow
           down in Dinedor’s dells.

ii

Eels easy slip damp meadows soft;
barn owls ghost, unseen;
badgers dig for brooding wasps,
scatter paper, fluster moths,
to feast upon a queen.

           For I can see fey gloworms beckon
           along faint tracks from Leinthall Starkes,
           sisters beyond coiled adders’ bracken
           down in Llangarron’s valley.

iii

Haws and rosehips; rain-jewelled hedges;
sloes darken tangled thorns.
Breathe deep, tread light; flame leaves now pledge
renewal fed by little deaths,
a rich bed to keep you warm.

           For I can hear the insects scurry,
           as hedgehogs feast in Beggars Ash.
           We’ll harvest truffles, juicy berries
           down in Hoarwithy hollow.

iv
Burning apple wood, sweet-smoked bright,
you’ll naked wait my coming.
Beyond Imbolc flames, snow drift white,
beyond paw-tracked path, moon’s icy light,
I’ll rest my ceaseless roaming.

           For I can waken dead that lie
           beneath the crust of Sugwas and St Weonards;
           whispers linger, deeds gone by
           down in Kymin’s cwm.

 

*this poem first appeared on the Ledbury Poetry Festival Apple Orchard page.

Myfanwy Fox is a biologist who now manages a charity shop on the Malvern Hills. Her poems have been published in anthologies and magazines including The Morning Star, Ink, Sweat and Tears and many others. She is a regular at Malvern’s ConFab Cabaret and has read at Ledbury Poetry Festival, Swindon Poetry Festival, Worcestershire Lit Fest and other events. She blogs at myfanwyfox.wordpress.com.

Pythoness by Jennifer A. McGowan

26 Sunday Apr 2015

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goddesses, gods, Greek, Jennifer A. McGowan, mythology, poem, poetry, sisterhood, women

Pythoness

You never really get used to the taste
of laurel leaves, you know?
That hard green bitterness
which leads to ecstasy, divinity,
and a steady income.

The first time I sat on the tripod
suspended over the chthonic rift,
I said You must be joking.
Never so uncomfortable, and the cloying smell!
Now, said the elder,
you see why we rotate.

Years later, hair unbound
and eyes streaming—my first time in public.
In front of me, two bodies all scraped knees
and clasped hands, asking
How can we conceive? We all fall still,
listening for words.
I chew another wad. Eyes stare and hope.

And then I get it. You don’t
put your ear to the ground for a sun god.
We’re here to listen
for the roots Daphne sprouted
when she escaped, burrowing down to Persephone,
who understood. Their knowledge
cracks the earth, becoming steam
no male sky can carry.

This is our secret.

Another secret is that compassion can mingle with truth.
I look at the twining hands.
Words come.

 

First published in Acumen.

Jennifer A. McGowan obtained her PhD from the University of Wales. Despite being certified as disabled at age 16, she has published poetry and prose in many magazines and anthologies on both sides of the Atlantic, including The Rialto and The Connecticut Review. Her chapbooks are available from Finishing Line Press, and her first collection is forthcoming from Indigo Dreams Publishing. Her website can be found at http://www.jenniferamcgowan.com.

We Could Be Merpeople (Just For One Day) by Anna Percy

25 Saturday Apr 2015

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Anna Percy, David Bowie, mermaids, merpeople, poem, poetry, reclamation, rivers, urban landscape

We Could Be Merpeople (Just For One Day)

When our pens fail take me with you to the canal,
I will tell you where I hid the tails a fin secret
for just such an occasion when we were at an low ebb
we will make beds of discarded shopping trollies
bouncy balls will be our erratic pearls
wear crisp packet tiaras and beer can finery,
we will sing haunting songs under bridges
taking the rattle of train tracks as our bass
make flutes from bent piping
lure those who are lost to join us
with our beautiful off key music
and as the sun sets we will shake off the fading scales
clamber back to land on unsteady feet

 

Anna Percy, Manchester based poet/events organiser/workshop facilitator, has been writing poetry for performance and publication for a decade. She has an MA in Creative Writing from the University of Manchester, is part of Stirred Poetry, a feminist collective. Her first full length collection was published by Flapjack in 2013: Livid Among the Ghostings. The first film she saw at the cinema was The Little Mermaid and her lifelong obsession with Bowie leaks into poems.

Morrigan by Ann Cuthbert

24 Friday Apr 2015

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Ann Cuthbert, Celtic, crow, Ireland, Morrigan, myth, poem, poetry

Morrigan

Lugh’s son, you know me now that it’s too late.
You would not take my love, scorned the power I offered,
failed to see through my disguise.

Slippery as eels, I tricked you, tracked you down.
Though you blessed me, I cursed you – croaked to the heavens
‘Let him be emptied of the guts of courage!’

Thigh deep at the ford, iron tang of heart’s blood in the air,
I washed your clothes, scoured your armour.
Still you did not see me; thought that I spoke of another.

But now, your eyes are fixed on me,
until I peck them out . Wings flap their hollow triumph,
claw feet clutch you in a last caress.

 

Ann Cuthbert writes poetry, short stories and travelogues – mainly for her own amusement although she has had several pieces published both on line and in print. She has recently discovered that she enjoys performing her poetry for live audiences.

Heartwood by Lee Prosser

22 Wednesday Apr 2015

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fairytale, folklore, forest, Lee Prosser, poem, poetry, witch

Heartwood

Gloom laden paths lay
Black tongues, black hearts
Caged within beech and birch
a cabin of bones awaited

The forest belongs to her each crow cried
Plants and life, suns and moons

As night slighted the dusk, she was waiting
Plans fell as leaves as she revealed:
Neither potions, nor spells but tinctures and salves
Beauty and radiance, flesh not bones

Stopped dead by a hush of her lips
Feeling her life as she pressed in, disarming
as I fell captive to her skin

How bright glows the night, when held tight as bark
An axe need not splinter, when given a key

 

Lee Prosser nestles himself in a West Wales village that avoided becoming a reservoir. He has had work accepted in Haiku Journal, Tanka Journal, Crowsfeet and in a forthcoming anthology by Forward Poetry. He regularly attends spoken word events in South and West Wales and is co-host and organiser of the Tin Plate Poets monthly music and spoken word event.

Charming by Claire Walker

19 Sunday Apr 2015

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Cinderella, Claire Walker, fairytale, modern, mundane, poem, poetry

Charming

Imagine her surprise if one day she looks
at her feet and finds only one heel.
Observed when water seeps
through from murky pavements.

The volume of her heart will rise:
He will save her. Any moment now.
Arrive to free her from dirty laundry.
She’s running
an errand this morning:
‘Oi, get some cigarettes’.

When she notices how long she’s been standing
pavement – bound in the rain at the One Stop,
she’ll realise the sting:
the missing shoe is not made of glass
and her mirror hangs mute on fairness.

 

Claire Walker‘s poetry has appeared in various print and online magazines including The Interpreter’s House, Ink Sweat and Tears, And Other Poems, Snakeskin and Kumquat Poetry. In June 2014 she was runner up in the 2014/2015 Worcestershire Poet Laureate Competition.

Riding Hood in Blue by Oliver Newman

18 Saturday Apr 2015

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blue, culture, fairytales, history, Oliver Newman, poem, poetry, red riding hood

Riding Hood in Blue

After the forest
she came to a clearing …

muddy waters,
not a neat mammal in sight;

tracks in the distance,
so she went down to the crossroads,

tried to flag a ride
from this new-looking ’62 Chevvy.

Howlin’ Wolf
playing on the all-transistor –

It must be 1963
she thought to herself

as she scrutinised
the driver’s eyes, nose, and mouth.

And after her blason
was done, she boarded the machine:

completed the conceit –
because he was nothing like

anyone familiar,
and in these times that was fine.

But her own history
was swelling, like a chorus; unbirthed …

and at the gas station
she opted to continue on foot –

the long grass
blowing in the wind welcomed her,

and so she stood stationary
at the roadside, waiting to be found

relevant.

 

Oliver Newman is a writer from Bristol, UK. A student of Oxford University’s Creative Writing MSt., he obtained his joint-honours BA in English and French. He has worked as an English and Creative Writing teacher in Paris and his short unpunctuated story about homelessness in the city The Man in the Box is published in The Stockholm Review. Presently he is based in London where he is preparing his first collection of poetry.

Rolling by Seth Crook

17 Friday Apr 2015

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folklore, ghosts, haunted, poem, poetry, Seth Crook, trains

Rolling

A ghost train screeched to a halt. Out of track.
Stood there in the Old West for an hour
until a passenger in the dining car asked,
Why does a ghost train need real track?
Which seemed like a good question, so
the train started rolling again through the fields of corn.

Elsewhere a real train screeched to a halt.
No ghost track, only the usual metal rails.
Stood there in the Old West for an hour
until a passenger also eating breakfast asked,
But why does a real train need ghost track?
Which seemed like a good question, so
the train started rolling again through the ghost towns.

 

Seth Crook taught philosophy at various universities before deciding to move to the Hebrides. His poems appear in recent editions of Envoi, Magma, Gutter, The Moth, Southlight, The Journal, Poetry Bus, Prole, New Writing Scotland, and on-line in such fine e-zines as Antiphon, Snakeskin, and Ink, Sweat and Tears.

The Boatman Considers a Scone by Ron Hayes

15 Wednesday Apr 2015

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Tags

boatman, Greek, myth, poem, poetry, Ron Hayes, Styx

The Boatman Considers a Scone

Centuries upon centuries of oaring
ingrates across this boring river
and finally I’m bored too. Used to be
I’d never notice what they’d wear
or who they showed up with, but now
I’m fascinated with every one.

Yesterday a woman from Hibernia
arrived at my dock holding no coins
but what looked to be a stone. “No,” she said,
“scone,” and immediately I was lost.
What’s a scone? “You eat it,”
she said, and I laughed out loud.

“Might just as well be a stone,” I said
in helping her aboard. Her eyes went
blank as she sat, rigid as an oar,
brought the scone to her lips.
“Scone,” she said, but not to me,
and, coinless, I pushed away from shore.

 

Ron Hayes is a poet and fiction writer from Erie, PA. He holds a Master of Fine Arts from Queens University of Charlotte, and was twice selected as Poet Laureate of Erie County Pennsylvania. His poems have appeared in such places as Fjords Review, Rosebud Magazine, Gutter Eloquence, and forthcoming from The Five-Two. Originally a Special Education teacher, he now teaches History at inner-city East High School where he also coaches football and girls’ basketball.

Ammit by Chelsea Eckert

12 Sunday Apr 2015

Posted by three drops from a cauldron in poetry

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Tags

Ammit, balance, Chelsea Eckert, Egypt, Egyptian, justice, myth, poem, poet, poetry

Ammit

In the marsh I sat on the
chimera, legs criss-cross
applesauce

The gator-head asked me
about my envy

I said, I just wanted my
children’s teeth. O they
weren’t using them yet.
Their lives are so soft.

The second head was lion-
shaped and it rubbed its
teeth together like it
took Zoloft nightly

I said, O I killed ten
thousand birches. That
is not a commandment.

Finally we reached the
sun that bathes in the
middle of the muck and
the hippo head was like
All you stole was the
coat of the gray thing
drunk under the awning
though you were also
drunk and you were also
one month away from
eviction.

She up and curled away
into the distance that
chimera

Her head bobbed on the
water like a swollen
buoyant heart, her six
eyes like palm-sized
coals that burn against
banality

And the sun
drew me in with tendrils
of omni-stuff.

 

Chelsea Eckert is a creative writing undergraduate at San Jose State University. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Phantasmacore, Gingerbread House Literary Magazine, Strangelet Press, and Liquid Imagination, among others.

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