Monthly Archives: May 2015

First Find Yourself a Leprechaun by K.V. Skene

31 Sunday May 2015

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First Find Yourself a Leprechaun
(or one-shoe-maker)

he was told, all leprechauns know where secret gold is hidden
and with some of that gold he could buy serious books,
scholarly books and soon know everything. So he listened
for the click of a hammer in the hedgerows

until, as luck would have it, he spied a leprechaun. Seizing him
he wouldn’t let go until … There’s no need for force,
grumbled the little fellow

and led him to a mouldering hill fort
where the ground glittered with gold pieces.
Take what you want but quickly for when the door shuts
it shuts forever.

He grabbed handfuls, filled pocketfuls, heaped hatfuls, stuffed shirtfuls
and piled it outside and was about to return for more when –
Wham!

The door slammed shut. The leprechaun
gone. But he was rich. Rich enough
to buy new books and used books and out-of-print-books and rare books
and antique books and illuminated manuscripts and maps and folios and

a first edition first printing of Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone.

 

K.V. Skene’s has appeared in Canadian, U.K., U.S., Irish, Indian, Australian and Austrian magazines, most recently in The Maynard (Canada), Contemporary Literary Review India, The Saving Bannister (Canada), The Stony Thursday Book (Ireland) Obsessed With Pipework and Freefall (Canada) Her publications include Love in the (Irrational) Imperfect, 2006, Hidden Brook Press (Canada) and You Can Almost Hear Their Voices, 2010, Indigo Dreams Publications (UK). Currently, she lives and writes from Toronto, Canada.

The Green Man by Allen Ashley

30 Saturday May 2015

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The Green Man

You’ve seen him on pub signs, of course:
a country-dwelling, jovial chap.
Today he’s been rendered safe:
follow him across the road.
He’s the smiling bearded face on church walls
but we’ve known him longer than we’ve known
           the Church
           or Christianity
or other mystery cults from the Middle East.
He’s there in jack o’ lanterns, jack of shadows,
Pan and Robin of Locksley;
every heroic British man-jack;

Follow him across the river and into the trees;
don’t look back.

We draw him in clothing – ragged trousers.
hand-sewn jerkin – but really we
know he would most likely frolic
unclothed
with nymphs, dryads and Wiccan priestesses
coyly described as “sky clad”.

See him grinning at our mortal concerns.
He is laughing at those who equate him
with the Horned One, The Beast, Old Nick.
Too many in these days think in black and white
and he is green. Fertile, virile, abundant…
Forgotten
almost
but due for rebirth.

Allen Ashley’s latest book (as editor) is “Sensorama: Stories of the Senses” (Eibonvale Press, 2015). He recently guest-edited the online magazine “Sein und Werden”. He is the judge for the British Fantasy Society Short Story Competition. He is also the co-author of “Dreaming Spheres: Poems of the Solar System” with Sarah Doyle (PS Publishing, 2014).

What princesses do by Holly York

29 Friday May 2015

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What princesses do

Not just any princess, mind you
but a real fairy princess from back
before it was all monetized
merchandised
who didn’t begin as a princess
at all-just a girl
reaching for perfect at school
at home making her bed and not
teasing little sister
too much.

Someone will notice
the godmother will come
the prince will come.
She will be crowned.
Even though she’s too tall
and has scabs on her knees

With silver foil and cardboard
She is crowned.

What do princesses do?
Dad, handing her a scepter
he has lovingly
fashioned with plywood scraps
from the floor of the workshop
replies
Princesses rule.
And she does,
sitting straight in her little girl chair
smiling at subjects invisible.
Until.

 

Holly York lives in Atlanta, Georgia with husband Martin and two Doberman puppies. A black belt in karate, masters swimmer and former competitive runner, she is at work on her first collection of poems titled My Knees are on their Last Legs: laments of an aging athlete.

Excalibur Lost by Ron Savory

27 Wednesday May 2015

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Excalibur Lost

Lust breaks free and sheathes the fear
That mortals cast as mothers love
Forever trusting, in dust filled ruin
An angel fills the font with tears
Whispers, gather gloom and colour
Unseen hands caress the hills
Faith and hope betrayal laden
Discover, truth embracing loss

 

Reflecting his eclectic passion for people watching and the beauty that surrounds them, Cross Hands “Tin Plate Poet” songwriter /poet Ron Savory spends his days fishing. Perched upon Bica’s Tooth, amid the silent battle weary cliffs of Llangrannog, he hooks inspiration from the crane skin bag of Manannan. Weaving the glint of universal truths into songs and poems (in time honoured Celtic folk / acoustic blues tradition) he journeys wherever the wind takes him.

Unfamiliar by Sarah Doyle

24 Sunday May 2015

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First Witch: I come, Greymalkin.
Second Witch: Paddock calls. *
                          Macbeth, Act I, scene iii

Unfamiliar

With scale and claw, with claw and scale;
with tail and fur, with fur and tail.
Most ghastly, cherished animals:
I come, Greymalkin. Paddock calls.

Our ancient spirit chaperones,
ungodly to their very bones:
enchanted, feral sentinels.
I come, Greymalkin. Paddock calls.

We may traverse through many plains –
each mistress and her beast remains
conjoined by subtle manacles.
I come, Greymalkin. Paddock calls.

We sense them on the blasted heath,
companions from the realms beneath.
The summoning that so appals:
I come, Greymalkin. Paddock calls.

Macbeth is caught: our mischief, done.
The web of destiny is spun,
and poison drips from castle walls.
I come, Greymalkin. Paddock calls.

Now enmity and havoc reign
within the world of Dunsinane,
we fade to wisps, as brightness falls.
I come, Greymalkin. Paddock calls.

 

* The witches’ familiars: Greymalkin, a cat; and Paddock, a toad.

 

Sarah Doyle is the Pre-Raphaelite Society’s Poet-in-Residence. She has been widely placed and published, with her first collection, “Dreaming Spheres: Poems of the Solar System” (co-written with Allen Ashley), being published by PS Publishing in autumn 2014. Sarah co-hosts Rhyme & Rhythm Jazz-Poetry Club at Enfield’s Dugdale Theatre. More at:www.sarahdoyle.co.uk

 

Daedalus’s Lament by Marc Woodward

23 Saturday May 2015

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Daedalus’s Lament

I was known for my skill,
indeed I built the great labyrinth
- for which they imprisoned me.

So when I made our wings
I made them well, worked the wax,
chose all the feathers carefully.

I didn’t know if it could work.
I knew the theory and some facts,
used all my art and trigonometry.

People forget now that I flew too.
I didn’t just stand and cheer below
to watch Icarus ascend the blue.

I warned him not to get excited.
Not to soar too high,
climb too close to the sun.

I made no promises either.
But now people look at me
as if to say “he killed his son”.

I only dreamed of escape
- he shared that dream with me.
Was I so wrong?

 

Marc Woodward is a poet and musician resident in the West Country. He has been published in anthologies from Ravenshead Press, Forward Press, OWF, and in various magazines and web sites including Ink Sweat & Tears and The Guardian web pages.

How a Mermaid Knows Her Own Mind by Claire Walker

22 Friday May 2015

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How a Mermaid Knows Her Own Mind
(After the Polish folk tale The Mermaid of Warsaw)

You thought you could take me;
net my scales, row my skin to shore;
thought you could make me a gift to a prince,
dull me to a fish on a platter.

Mermaids bloom in full moons.
Look at my eyes: I have the sea’s colour
in me- all its reckless tides
and licking waves.

Don’t be fooled by my tail -
my body curves as a woman.
Its silver song plays out my wishes,
casts the pitch of the spell.

I know you catch the notes in your ears,
no lime can mask your scent.
See how the waves signal you? Come,
wouldn’t you like to jump?

 

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.

 

Fianna! by Fiona Russell Dodwell

20 Wednesday May 2015

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Fianna!

through winters spent watching ‘round fires not your own
keep silent your stewardship, never be found

though hip-deep in mud as spears fly at your brow
stand firm unhurt; be unblemished; don’t frown

though nine ride through forests to tear off your braids
you leave them untied; you leave them unbound

though crisp twigs and dry leaves, they crackle and split
run leaving no trace; run making no sound

though skittish and deer-like you flit over land
inhabit a burrow; inherit the ground

though the clans fight with fervour, and you are their bait
stay in between – both divide and surround

though the pain is too much as you race through the briars
pluck the thorns from your feet without slowing down

though their disbelief weakens you, and could confound
leap clear over giants; slide around clowns

though the mountain is wet and cold mist clouds the pass
yet see it all clearly; don’t slip; take the crown

these trials are hard, they would fox your best hounds
but carry this off and your people won’t drown

 

Fiona Russell Dodwell is from Fife and lives in the Fens. She has had poems published in IS&T and Earthlines (online). She attempts to write from the ‘felt’ sense, and explore how text contacts body and environment.

Now by Rachael Clyne

17 Sunday May 2015

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Now

NOW NOW. NOW NOW
chants the rook, NOW NOW
to the other nuns that never left
and the bass throat throb

of raven winging northwards
to the alpha omega place
the place of before the beginning
beginning of the end.

We wait for these convent ruins
to speak. Snails sleep the day
on ledges of orange granite,
dark slate, curtained by fern and toadflax.

When I leave, a drop of this nectar
goes with me in the phial gathered
from such places; like landing on Zakros
from Egypt, that step to the offering room.

I knew it at once, only three thousand years
since I placed my foot there
announced a wish for knowledge
and all that went between – as nothing.

How I long for another such nothing,
the chirrup of temple birds,
sparrows that hug the walls of
Phillae, Minoa, Menajdra, Iona,
the honeyed hum of their bees.

 

Rachael Clyne lives in Glastonbury. Her new collection, Singing at the Bone Tree, concerns our search for the wild self and won Indigo Dreams’, George Stevens Memorial Prize 2013. Rachael belongs to both local groups and the online poetry group, 52 Anthologies: Book of Love and Loss, The Listening Walk. Magazines: Poetry Space, Stare’s Nest, Interpreters House, Domestic Cherry. Collections: She Who Walks with Stones and Sings. www.rachaelclyne.com

Ever, After by Mab Jones

16 Saturday May 2015

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Ever, After

Imagine Snow White with her colors mixed up:
eyes black as coal and lips white as snow,
hair red as the rose that blooms in the glass,
that once filled her throat: the color of stop.
Her bracelets are scars, her necklace a rope
of clear plastic beads that look just like tears.

Seventeen years but her body’s fresh snow
marked by deep tracks, by the burn of the rope
she pulls to bring the shy vein singing up
like a river from the arm, to fill the glass
with its red plume, via the needle that tears
at the flesh. She has no power to stop

using, or being used. They bind her with rope
and sit there like kings, commanding her tears,
music to them as they move mounts of snow
through trumpeted notes. They beat her up
and laugh, laugh again, when she begs them to stop.
And after their play, her face in the glass:

eyes black as kohl from the swift-flowing tears
that only the needle’s puncture can stop.
with sharp steel she’ll prick the thin vein like rope
and swoon into a blank of television snow,
the static that storms behind the glass
at transmission’s end. Turn the volume up:

silence. How quickly the needle can stop
all sounds, as if she’s been laid under glass;
can, with its cold point, stem the hot tears
and, with the same touch, slice the slick rope
that binds body and mind. Strings of patched up
memories, thought threads, buried beneath a snow

drift. The grim reaper’s ticking hour glass
momentarily mute. She’d never wake up
if choice was hers; if she could bring full stop
to this mortal world of blood, sweat and tears
and remain a princess asleep in the snow,
pulled to her casket by the tight rubber rope.

A fairy-tale fuck-up, she tells snow
white lies sometimes to the glass: that she’ll stop,
soon. A rope that she clings to; that easily tears.

 

*(Previously published in Parthian anthology Ten of the Best, and Nonbinary Review in the USA)

Mab Jones is “a unique talent” (The Times) who is known mostly for her satirical verse, which she has performed all over the UK, in the US, France, Ireland, and Japan, and on BBC Radio 4. She is also resident poet in the National Botanic Garden of Wales, and a writer of plays and prose. www.mabjones.com