Impish by Mary Franklin

29 Sunday May 2016

Posted by three drops from a cauldron in poetry

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britain, brownies, fairies, folklore, Mary Franklin, poem, poetry

Impish

I am covered with curly brown hair and I wear
a brown mantle and hood. Small and wrinkled
I hate being seen, work only at night, disappear

at sunrise. My chair is by the kitchen hearth
though no one sees me sit there, after I’ve swept
all the floors, churned the butter and earned

my bowl of porridge and honey. Then it’s time
to rest in the dark poky hole I call home
high in the attic. These Yorkshire folk are fine

but once a Norfolk owner set out new clothes
for me. The cheek of it! Didn’t he know
I’m a brownie, working because I choose?

I caused milk to sour and pulled blankets
off his sleeping children before I vanished
in a huff with an ample supply of candles.

Mary Franklin has had poems published in various journals including Iota, The Open Mouse, Ink Sweat and Tears, London Grip and Three Drops from a Cauldron, as well as several anthologies, most recently by Three Drops Press. She lives in Vancouver, British Columbia.

Thorn Inc. by Fanni Sütő

28 Saturday May 2016

Posted by three drops from a cauldron in poetry

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Tags

contemporary, fairytales, Fanni Sütő, modern, poem, poetry, princesses

Thorn Inc.

The tower was dark
and tall as your tales,
the glass shone smoothly
on the black window scales
and at the top freedom lay
dead.
When Rose entered the building
she was glowing with hope:
“Work is money and money is life”
so was she taught by an ancient midwife
along with sweet tales
of princes and knights
but it all turned out to be briar red lies.
All princes were gone.
And the fools who remained
were not for her taste.
In the claws of the workdays
Rose began to fade
From nine till six, five days a week
her life was as bleak as a computer screen.
Money she has.
But her life is leaking
in drops of blood like from a wound
bitten by the teeth of a spindle.
Please rewind.

What Rose wanted: she got.
Now she wants it undone.

Fanni Sütő is a writer, poet, dreamer who believes in fairy tales even if they are dark, disenchanted and deconstructed. She writes about everything which comes in her way or goes bump in the night. She has been published in Hungary, the US, the UK and Australia. Website: www.inkmapsandmacarons.com

Hephaestus by David W. Landrum

27 Friday May 2016

Posted by three drops from a cauldron in poetry

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David W. Landrum, gods, greek mythology, poem, poetry

Hephaestus

Forget the forms the poets
have hammered me into,
the shape their molten words
have cast for me,
the soot hexameters,
the pyrrhic twists,
and lies, limp spondees forged,
making me halt,
twisted, setting my lame identity.
The list is long
of goddesses who loved me,
my limbs, my stance,
my body, which the poets
say is disjuncture.
Aglaea, youngest of the Charites,
lay down in my embrace.
Good Repute, Acclaim, Prosperity
were our three children
(Eucleia, Eupheme, Euthenia)—
hardly the offspring of a misshaped troll!
The slender-thighed Cabeiro,
sweet nymph, and ravishing,
chose my love; and Aetna,
the swarthy huntress of strong arms
with black hair covering her shins
and beauty wild and raging as the sea
has loved me ages on.
I am misnamed “game legs”
and “hobbling god.”
The slight limp that I have
from when Zeus threw me out of heaven
(I was readmitted soon)
is much exaggerated.
Yes, I made the net—but more
to rid myself of witless Aphrodite
than to express chagrin.
Ares can have her as far as I’m concerned.
My works are fair,
my limitations none.

David W. Landrum‘s poetry and fiction have appeared in journals in the US, UK, Canada, Australia, and Europe. His novellas, Strange Brew, ShadowCity, The Last Minstrel, and Le Cafe de la Mort, are available through Amazon.

Fern by Dennis Trujillo

25 Wednesday May 2016

Posted by three drops from a cauldron in poetry

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Tags

Dennis Trujillo, magical realism, nature, plants, poem, poetry, summer

Fern

The new houseplant is in love
with me. At first the signs
were subtle—her energy field

intensified when I came near,
enough to raise goose bumps
on my arms, or her scent wafted

across the room to caress me
when I fell asleep reading.
But last night her coquetry

reached a new height—I rose
at a dark hour for water;
as I slipped past her moonlit space

fronds brushed my waist
with a tenderness that made me
shudder, each leaflet like lace

against my skin. I climbed
back to bed and felt her breath
on my neck like a green flame.

Dennis Trujillo from Pueblo, Colorado, is a former US Army soldier and middle/high school math teacher who happens to love poetry. He now resides in Korea and is employed at Shinhan University in the city of Dongducheon. He runs and does yoga each morning for grounding and focus and for the sheer joy of it.

The Rose and the Nightingale by Susan Taylor

22 Sunday May 2016

Posted by three drops from a cauldron in poetry

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birds, flowers, folklore, nature, poem, poetry, Susan Taylor

The Rose and the Nightingale

Rosa Rugosa,
how long has she lived
behind our house?

Her perfumed bodice,
magenta, the colour
of artistry,

make up, one off;
no other living thing
quite her shade,

no other perfume,
so sensational
in its occasion,

its thrill, like hearing
someone playing a piano
in an upstairs room.

Two ancient bushes
of Rosa Rugosa,
deep-rooted in our ground,

reminder,
of an old fashioned healer
making good works here.

She has drawn
time’s veil to one side,
and is dancing in

the Rosa Rugosa.
How long has she lived
behind our house?

Prior to piano,
virginal, harpsichord,
this is the story,

a nightingale, in love,
settled down to sing
in a flair of scent

from her perfumed bodice,
magenta, the colour
of make belief.

Later, a priest came
through the woods in the dusk,
called by the voice

not of nightingale,
but a singular lady
playing piano.

It is recorded
in neighbourhood memories
how he wooed her,

gowned and hooded,
stepping out on new moon nights,
presuming secrecy.

When we arrived
the agent’s tale was that
all the upstairs floors

were pinewood gifted
from the Abbey down the valley
of the holy brook.

We make our bed
on this pine which creaks
of high romance:

the lady pianist
wore Rosa Rugosa,
while out of the wood

crept a night wanderer,
a buck who was called
up the running stream

by a nightingale’s voice
touching the plush
of forbidden dream.

Rosa Rugosa,
how long has she lived
behind our house?

Her perfumed bodice,
magenta, the colour
of artistry.

Susan Taylor lives on Dartmoor and tries to capture its wildness in her poetry as much as ever she can. Her two most recent collections are The Suspension of the Moon and A Small Wave for your Form from Oversteps Books. She co-edits South West poetry journal, The Broadsheet with Simon Williams and runs Café Culture, a monthly cabaret of spoken word and music in Thrive Café, Totnes.

Persephone Descends to the Underworld by Chariot by Hugh McMillan

21 Saturday May 2016

Posted by three drops from a cauldron in poetry

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Tags

greek myth, Hugh McMillan, poem, poetry, sexuality, women

Persephone Descends to the Underworld by Chariot
(After the painting by Carlo Francesco Nuvolone)

Don’t despair sisters,
this is the bit I like the best,
the hot breath and hooves,
my chiton streaming in the breeze.

We’ve hung about half-naked
in the woods all these weeks
and believe me, the sap has risen.
He has his hand on my round belly

but the season for cakes is over.
Look, snow on Mount Helicon:
I go to my bed of coals
and there won’t be much sleeping done.

Hugh McMillan is a poet from South West Scotland, an award winner in several competitions including the Smith/Doorstep Pamphlet Prize, the Callum MacDonald Prize and the Cardiff International Poetry Competition. His Selected Poems were published by Luath Press in September 2015.

Temptation in the Water by Joanne Key

20 Friday May 2016

Posted by three drops from a cauldron in poetry

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Tags

folklore, Joanne Key, legend, myth, poem, poetry, sea

Temptation in the Water

Human woman we have seen you, far out
on the rocks, pining for a distant shadow.

Come closer. Dip a toe in. Trust.
After all, we are no strangers to disaster.

We are born into shipwrecks
and listen to the constant moan of the deep.

We understand why the tide pulls back
from the shore. It’s the way of things.

Nothing more. But we have also seen
the black heart of water, how it scars

like falling rock. Yes, your fear of loss
is ages old and endless as the ocean,

but remember this - our world is tuned
to the sounds of downed planes and drownings,

the prayers of mourning mothers. We know
by heart the sorrowful shanty of the dead.

Human woman, we have seen ourselves in you.
You have the faraway look of the drifter,

the longing of the castaway, the curiosity
of the deep sea diver. It’s in your eyes.

You know danger, feel the heat and hunger,
the thirst. But let me tell you, there is madness

in a love that goes on forever. Rising from
that kind of depth can bring on the bends.

Learn to swirl a universe on your tongue,
taste this life and we will teach you how to filter

out the noise of human need, narrow the distance
between worlds. Come. Swim with us and let us

return you to a time before limbs, a time
of heartbeat and flotsam. Let us show you

how to dive into a slow goodbye, let everything
fade until only whalesong remains.

Joanne Key lives in Cheshire where she writes poetry and short fiction. She won 2nd prize in the 2014 National Poetry Competition and has previously been shortlisted for Poetry for Performance, The Bridport Prize, Mslexia Poetry Competition and The Plough Poetry Prize. Her poems have appeared both on line and in print. Completely in love with poetry, she writes every day and her work is often inspired by elements of fairytale and folklore.

Toad Man by Lynda Turbet

18 Wednesday May 2016

Posted by three drops from a cauldron in poetry

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Tags

Cunning Man, folklore, Lynda Turbet, poem, poetry, witchcraft

Toad Man

They seek me out from fear; I know their need.
Word spreads; my wisdom’s white.
Give me your hand. Cow dung for wounds.
And yarrow, known as staunchweed, stems the flow.
For croup, garlic and honey – or with fennel I can win a maiden’s fancy,
leading her heart to love.
What’s stolen can be found again; the guilty shamed.
At dusk the women come, for pennyroyal.
I know why. Too many mouths to feed, is all.
I can keep silence.

My father was a Cunning Man, and his before,
or Toad Man, as we say.
You kill the toad and let its flesh be stripped by ants,
its bone thrown by night in running water.
The ritual’s passed down: the magic chain.
Here. Take this bag and wear it by your skin.
I know your need, your fear.

Lynda Turbet observes the world from rural Norfolk after decades living and working in Scotland and the north of England, and is now trying to make sense of it all through writing.

Book Review: #FDD017 (Golden) by Rishika Aggarwal

17 Tuesday May 2016

Posted by three drops from a cauldron in Book Reviews, poetry

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mythology, poetry, review, Rishika Aggarwal, Steve Nash

A Three Drops Review

#FDD017 (Golden) by Rishika Aggarwal

[Reviewed by Steve Nash]

Rikisha Aggarwal’s #FDD017 (Golden) is a slim volume of fifteen brief enquiries to Greek mythological divinities. It’s quirky, drizzled with knowing humour, and beneath the intricate surface of the text runs a subtly poignant filament. Continue reading →

Asintmah’s Warning by Nancy Iannucci

15 Sunday May 2016

Posted by three drops from a cauldron in poetry

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mythology, Nancy Iannucci, poem, poetry, women

Asintmah’s Warning

You can cut me back
in bales of disregard with
your sickle hands and saw grin,
but I am persistent. I will keep

rambling towards you, crawling
on all fours like a masochistic girlfriend
who is begging for your attention
hoping, for once, you will see me

for who I truly am, but
those eyes of yours will
roll over blank, mid-bite
like a shark’s eyes as they

have done for centuries in
foolish perceived domination.
I am your breath; I give you
nourishment; you drink from my lips

but I will tell you this: Once worn
and ornery my reedy arms will
shackle your feet through
concrete cracks and pull you down.

Your beard will descend to greet
me like a white flag flaps in defeat;
in time, you will molder in the peat
and your dust will cover the backs

of hypnotic crickets that will detach
your soul in synchronized wing vibrations
in melodies that will scatter and gather
in the thicket then reawaken

a wise raven.

Nancy Iannucci is a historian who teaches history and lives poetry in Troy, NY. She has always been entranced by the mysticism of life and the fine line that exists between our world and the mystical. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in Three Line Poetry, Fickle Muses, Red Wolf Journal, Rose Red Review, Faerie Magazine (FB photography), Mirror Dance,and Yellow Chair Review. She is currently working on her first chapbook.