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Three Drops from a Cauldron

Three Drops from a Cauldron

Monthly Archives: August 2015

Mortifications of the Flesh by Jennifer A. McGowan

30 Sunday Aug 2015

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Christianity, Jennifer A. McGowan, legend, Mary, mothers, myth, poem, poetry, retelling

Mortifications of the Flesh
after Colm Toíbín

Every mother has a crown of thorns.
Here is mine: my things of which I am ashamed.

++++++I could not teach him to admire his father.

++++++I could not keep him from arguing with his elders.

++++++As he got older, he adopted a fake posh accent.

++++++I did not like his friends, or understand them.

++++++I could not bear to hear them laughing after midnight.

++++++I could never make him wear his hair neatly.

There are a few more.
Like how I feared for my own life.
Like how I turned my face from him.
Even more, like when seeing his suffering
the soldiers paused, how I snapped.
++++++“If you’re going to do it, do it,” I said.
++++++“For the love of God. Here, you dropped a nail.”

 

*First published in Prole.

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 was published in June 2015 by Indigo Dreams Publishing. Her website can be found at http://www.jenniferamcgowan.com .

 

Becoming the Norm (Heroine Alley III) by Sarah Ghoshal

29 Saturday Aug 2015

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beast, beauty, fairytales, Heroine Alley, poem, poetry, retelling, Sarah Ghoshal, sequence

Becoming the Norm

What if life
were that Twilight
Zone episode and you
were the ugly one?

Would he have your
pity, your pious
acceptance of the
peculiar?

He could read,
spend his days
smelling like daisies
and punch.

He could open
the windows wide,
inhale the outside,
find peace

in the buzz of the
dragonfly.

 

Sarah Ghoshal‘s poetry has been published or is forthcoming in Arsenic Lobster, Reunion: The Dallas Review, Empty Mirror, Red Savina Review and Broad! Magazine, among others. Her chapbook, Changing the Grid, is forthcoming from Finishing Line Press. She earned her MFA from Long Island University and teaches at Montclair State University. Sarah lives in New Jersey with her husband, her ten month old daughter and her dog Comet, who flies through the air with the greatest of ease.

Medusa in the Mirror by Susan Castillo Street

28 Friday Aug 2015

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Medusa, myth, poem, poetry, strength, Susan Castillo Street, womanhood, women

Medusa in the Mirror

Early one morning I look into my mirror,
see a woman, all in all,
reasonably well-preserved, though at this hour
definitely not at her best,
eyes puffy with sleep,
the mark of a pillow on one cheek,
hair flying wild around her face.

I was born alone
live alone
alone will die.

Look upon me if you dare
feel feet legs breasts brain
turn into granite cliffs
where eagles soar.

My eyes are embers
My head seethes with writhing vipers.

 

*First published in the author’s collection The Candlewoman’s Trade, Diehard Press, 2003.

Susan Castillo Street is a Louisiana expatriate and academic who lives in the Sussex countryside. She is Harriet Beecher Stowe Professor Emeritus, King’s College, University of London, and has published two collections of poems The Candlewoman’s Trade (Diehard Press, 2003) and Abiding Chemistry, Aldrich Press, 2015. Her poems have appeared in The Missing Slate, The Stare’s Nest, Nutshells and Nuggets, I Am Not a Silent Poet, Snakeskin, Literature Today, York Mix and other reviews. She is a member of three poetry groups: 52, Goat, and Slant 2015.

The Eye of the Nightmare by Andrew Shields

26 Wednesday Aug 2015

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Andrew Shields, dreams, folklore, myth, night, poem, poetry, sky, stars

The Eye of the Nightmare

In the eye of the nightmare,
the sky was a carpet of stars.
I marathoned by the Great Bear,
lay down for a rest beside Mars,

and waited for rain and wind
to scatter me awake.
My eyes opened; my arms felt pinned;
my calves and hamstrings ached.

The storm picked up outside,
in a dawn of cloudy light.

 

Andrew Shields lives in Basel, Switzerland. His book Thomas Hardy Listens to Louis Armstrong was published by Eyewear in June, 2015.

Telling the Truth (Heroine Alley II) by Sarah Ghoshal

23 Sunday Aug 2015

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Cinderella, fairytales, poem, poetry, princesses, Sarah Ghoshal, sequence

Telling the Truth

I am not who
you think I can
be in your palace
with your dreams
of tomorrow.

When I run, things
are lost – shoes,
birds, hope.

And baby, I feel like running.

You’ll figure it out.
I’ll become a soft
memory, tiny in your
recollections, an
imposter in a blue
dress. You’ll become
a ruler to be respected,
maybe feared, maybe
laughed at with your
shoulder pads and your
slicked back hair.

In another world, I’ll
bake pumpkin pie
for myself and sweep
nothing. The mice and
I will stop dreaming.

Sleep will become routine.

 

Sarah Ghoshal‘s poetry has been published or is forthcoming in Arsenic Lobster, Reunion: The Dallas Review, Empty Mirror, Red Savina Review and Broad! Magazine, among others. Her chapbook, Changing the Grid, is forthcoming from Finishing Line Press. She earned her MFA from Long Island University and teaches at Montclair State University. Sarah lives in New Jersey with her husband, her ten month old daughter and her dog Comet, who flies through the air with the greatest of ease.

You can get there by candlelight by Jane Røken

22 Saturday Aug 2015

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folklore, Jane Røken, legends, pirates, poem, poetry, travel

You can get there by candlelight

I wanted to return to that place,
the sly little hideout in the golden nook
of Dead Man’s Cove, where Saracen pirates
would come to parley with soul agents
from foreign lands (well now, me hearties,
shall we trust yon snaggletoothed Cazique?)
— and then off they’d go, hell for leather,
leaving behind only their bloodied
readymoney: the smell of fresh-tarred rope
and baked bananas.

I wanted to return to those spaces
yet to be conquered, the Afghan helium fields
out there, their feral glow feeding on ghosts
of brigands, hawkers, gamblers everywhere;
and to watch ribbons of dream vapours rise,
a sultry steam of consciousness from the deep
dark bog down there. Zanzibar, Ashkbaatar …
a romantic rainforest ditty, a reflection
of the shadow of a whispered rumour —
who’s in cahoots with whom?

Cast the dice, roll the bones.
How many miles to Babylon?
Which way to Casablanca?

 

Jane Røken lives in Denmark, on the interface between hedgerows and barley fields. She is fond of old tractors, garden sheds, scarecrows and other stuff that will ripen into something else. Her writings can be seen in many very different places, most recently Antiphon, Jellyfish Whispers, Lowestoft Chronicle, Snakeskin, and The Stare’s Nest.

The Glaistig by Maggie Mackay

21 Friday Aug 2015

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folklore, ghost, Maggie Mackay, poem, poetry, Scotland, Scottish, spirits

The Glaistig

We please her at the gloaming by the pond
with a pool of milk in a millstone cradle
not warm at all or scorn-boiled.
Solstice, all seasons, each generation.

We flatten against the standing stone
never knowing how she might appear,
always in her favoured green, plaid wafting in Atlantic surge,
or what her mood might be, grey or blue or gold.

We wait for the wailing or the tricks or her
fixing on our scent. Dragonflies and moths
hover on her heartbeat. Deer dart into the ether,
a distant fiddler strums a jig through the indigo.

 

*Originally appeared on The Open Mouse / Poetry Scotland, April 2015

Maggie Mackay, a Scot with wanderlust, a love of jazz and a good malt, has been published in All Write Then’s anthology Still Me…(www.pewter-rose-press.com), was the winner of the Writers’ Circle Anthology Award 2014, and has work in various publications, Open Mouse, Ink, Sweat and Tears, Bare Fiction, The Interpreter’s House ,Obsessed with Pipework and The Lake with work forthcoming in The Screech Owl. She is at Manchester Metropolitan University taking an MA in Poetry, and is a co-editor of Word Bohemia (www.wordbohemia.co.uk)

The Dane & The Saxon by Miki Byrne

19 Wednesday Aug 2015

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legend, Miki Byrne, myth, Norse, pagan, poet, poetry, Saxon

The Dane & the Saxon

In a wind-swept marsh. Under pinking skies of a waking dawn.
A Saxon Lord meets a Danish Jarl. Far from his land
of dragons and ice. Shield music roars. As the kings of slaughter harness chaos, ride it like a warhorse. Their kins-men and oath-men gather behind. Hate in their hearts, fear in their bellies. Yet these men,
with fire-flecked eyes, keep fear held back behind the fence
of their teeth.

The Saxon holds a blade that glints with beauty. Yet it has a heart
of dark blood. The Danes sword holds a spirit of deep greed. They clash. Become one fighting beast. A two-headed monster of blades and armour. They are matched. Time slows in battles simmering heat.
exhaustions embrace allows one final lunge. Each hits home.
The Saxon flies up to his God, the Dane walks with a warriors stride, through the dreaming halls of Valhalla.

 

(With thanks to Bernard Cornwell for his books about Uhtred of Bebbanburg, which inspired this poem.)

Miki Byrne has written three poetry collections, had work included in over 160 poetry magazines and anthologies, and won a few poetry competitions. She has read on both Radio and TV, judged poetry competitions, and was a finalist for Poet Laureate of Gloucestershire. She is active on the spoken word scene in Cheltenham, and began performing her poems in a bikers club in Birmingham. Miki is disabled and lives near Tewkesbury, Gloucestershire, UK.

To Seek, To Strive, To Find by Bethany W Pope

16 Sunday Aug 2015

Posted by three drops from a cauldron in poetry

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Tags

Bethany W Pope, death, life, love, myth, poem, poetry, sestina

To Seek, To Strive, To Find

1.

Long ago, far away, a woman lived
Overlooking a lush green valley. Down,
Very deep in the glen, lived her first love.
Eventually they met, and fell together – before Death
Arrived and carried one into the dark.
This is the story of their time on earth.
Far away, long ago, we slept on soft earth.
I wove white blossoms into your black hair. Life
Revolved, for one moment, around us. Darkness
Seemed farther away than the sun. ‘Slow down,
Then go faster,’ I said, wanting to die.
Sweet agony; the slow-bursting pleasure of new love.
I am called Orphea. You were my love.
Greater beauty than yours this exhausted earth
Has never seen. Conversation faltered, died;
Tongues had higher purposes in this life.
I never paused to listen for more than your name. Down
Spread across your shoulders. Your lips were so dark.
Now, I laugh, remembering the way your dark
Eyes reflected my face, returned my expressions. Love,
Very few mirrors were clearer. ‘Go down,
Explore.’ I said. I meant my cunt, not earth.
‘Return when you are satisfied. This life,
My love, will give us everything before we die.’
Our time was brief after all. It wasn’t long till Death
Reached up and swallowed you into the dark.
Expert on every kind of beauty sweet life
Tempts us with, He knew which treasure to take. Our love
Hadn’t a chance. I found you cold as earth,
Artfully arranged across a clean eiderdown.
No metaphor encompasses my grief. I swooned down,
Landing hard against your beautifully sculpted chest. Death
Observed me, coolly, from a gaping hole in the earth.
‘Oh look,’ he said, his skull-mouth grinning, dark
Knowledge burning in his empty eye-sockets, ‘your love
Is dead. Can your salty tears goad him back to life?
No.’ Death said, ‘I dragged his soul down into the dark earth.
Go get it, if you dare. Haul your love back into life.’

2.

Life, until now, had always been easy. I
Downed a blood-red glass of wine before I began;
Love couldn’t strengthen me enough. I caught
Death glancing at me askance. His eyes were so
Dark that they drank all light, like a still night sea.
‘Earth is full of doors,’ He said. ‘If you hum,
Earth trembles. Sing, and the hinges shudder open.’ I,
Life-loving, awkward, sang as best I could. Tar-
Dark cracks spread between a yew’s white roots, so far
Down that golden sunlight was swallowed. Into
Death, I went; seeking you in the name of our
Love. Death took pity, lent me a torch to carry.
Love powered it – anyway the flames pulsed. ‘Go.
Earth’s paths all lead to the true centre. You
Die a little with each breath drawn here. The flames,
Life flicker. Hurry, or you’ll never escape me.’
Down I crept, picking my way through the
Dark, over a path paved with white bones. My
Dark road took many turns as it led me back to
Love. I saw terrors. A giant who looked like you,
Down inside a pit of molten gold. Sour
Earth crusted the sockets of his huge eyes.
Life has no place where harpies fly, filthy and free.
Death has many eyes, strong hands. And I’m so small.
Death’s path led me into a chamber full of
Dark figures – rag-covered human forms that
Life had long abandoned. They stood without breath.
Love, you were among them – a face in the sea.
Earth rose like a cathedral, high above that
Down-gazing hoard. They circled in a spiral
Down to a huge black mouth that gaped for them. So
Death pierces the planet, sharp as a shiv:
Earth revolves around this bleak axis. The
Darkness throbbed around me as I searched them. In doom
Love, I found you. Pale and vague, I found you.
Life, my flame, sputtered as I groped for your hands.
I followed you down into Death’s dark land. What
Love drew me from green earth? Your life, grown cold.

3.

I only needed to touch you before new life
Enlivened your slack features. The path that led down
Blazed with light; the bones rejoicing at our love.
Even the pallid shades we left behind, Death’s
Followers, seemed to be grinning with joy. The dark
Opened up as I dragged you back up to earth.
Remember the excitement as the earth
Erupted, heaving us out into our new life?
You seemed insubstantial, fragile, at first. Dark
Oleander leaves showed through your skin. Down
Under the soil, you’d seemed so solid. Death
Released you, and you flickered – the ghost of love.
Laughing, I remembered your body. Love
Overwhelmed me as I led your soul home. The earth,
Verdant and sweet, held no hint of your death.
Expertly, you slid into your clay-cool corpse. Life
Returned, a red flush highlighting your downy
Cheeks. You opened your eyes; so clear, so dark.
And we were happy. Yes. So happy. The dark
Never bothered us again. We fucked, tasted love.
Remember how wonderful it felt to wander down
Enchanting paths where passion-flowers bloomed? Earth
Verdantly blossomed, sharing our joy as well it could; life’s
Enchanted flavour enhanced by a taste of bitter death.
And no, I couldn’t forget the strange way Death
Looked at me; half pity, half scorn. The dark
Holes (where His eyes should be) reflect nothing. Life
Is more than empty delight. So is love.
Mirrors rarely give anything back. The old earth
(So cold) holds answers, and treasures to dig, deep down.
Eventually, I left you. The light that I thought lay down
Lighting your eyes, was my own, sent back. Death,
Fearsome as He is, holds more for me than that. Earth,
Though beautiful, has more to offer than flowers. Darkness
Overtakes us all. We grow tired, and old. My love,
You never had an original thought in your life.
Out there, life waits, blooming with dark wonder. Down
Under the earth, Death lovingly waits, to answer my questions.

 

 

*This is an acrostic sestina cycle. The acrostic runs down the left margin in the first poem, down the right margin in the second, and down the left margin of the third. The acrostic reads, ‘Love at first sight is never more than looking into a mirror. You see yourself. That love must die before your lover can reveal himself to you.’

Bethany W Pope is an award-winning writer who has published several collections of poetry: A Radiance (Cultured Llama, 2012), Crown of Thorns, (Oneiros Books, 2013), The Gospel of Flies (Writing Knights Press 2014), and Undisturbed Circles (Lapwing, 2014). Her first novel, Masque, shall be published by Seren in 2016.

A Game of Trolls by Andie Berryman

15 Saturday Aug 2015

Posted by three drops from a cauldron in poetry

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Tags

Andie Berryman, fairytales, poem, poetry, politics, trolls

A Game of Trolls

Goat curry bubbled in the pot
as four trolls sat down to dinner.
A good day for the neoliberalism slipknot
they carried in their pockets.
Toll for the troll over the bridges of London
numbers typed in as a digital docket.
It wasn’t even worth standing under the bridge
so they outsourced it out to the goats,
promising job security and stable mortality rates,
but, trolls are trolls.

 

Andie Berryman campaigns against the patriarchal construct of the fairytale in all its capitalist forms (especially Disney). Andie writes reviews and sometimes, stories and poems.

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