Red Potion Spotted by Susan Taylor

11 Saturday Jun 2016

Posted by three drops from a cauldron in poetry

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

britain, fairies, fly agaric, forest lore, magic, poem, poetry, shaman, Susan Taylor, toadstools

Red Potion Spotted

That I appear more real than reality
is a party trick –
take my red hood furred over with white

That hood or veil is a useable asset
to shrink away concealing
the enormity of my magic

That to introduce magic
realises every path diverges
and comes back together presently

That to be pulled over by time
and stopped in our tracks
is the purpose of now

That being to fly
agaric, symbolic, shamanic,
entrancing the fairy ring

That to meet and eat with me –
the mayhem within these spotted bells
changes all perception

That to change proportions
is sure sign our appearances
are deceptive

That I appear more real than reality
is a party trick –
take my red hood furred with white

Susan Taylor has a penchant for scattering sparkles from other worlds over her audience. She was described at last month’s Poetry island at The Blue Walnut in Torquay as the Fairy Godmother of the South West poetry scene! She recently headlined with her partner, Simon Williams and ace folk singer, Si Barron at Teignmouth Poetry Festival in March.

The Dry Month by Margaret Holbrook

10 Friday Jun 2016

Posted by three drops from a cauldron in poetry

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

britain, folklore, Margaret Holbrook, poem, poetry, solstice, summer, tradition

The Dry Month

Come cut the wood, ready for Solstice.
Light the bonfires, watch the leaping flame
strengthen our sun at its height.
This is our longest day.
The standing still of the sun.
Litha monath,
when the sea is calm and the breezes gentle,
when Midsummer Eve beckons.
A time of ritual and feasting,
when scattered rose petals conjure
up a lover with the dawn,
when any rose picked at sunrise
will have six months of perfect life.
This is June. Sera monath.

Margaret Holbrook grew up in Cheshire where she still lives. She writes poetry, plays and fiction. Her work has appeared in several anthologies and her poetry has appeared in magazines including Orbis, The Journal and The Dawntreader.

One for Sorrow by Alison Lock

03 Friday Jun 2016

Posted by three drops from a cauldron in poetry

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

Alison Lock, britain, folklore, magpies, poem, poetry

One for sorrow

Black, white,
crossing our path,
a swatch against the grey-green
of leaves, branches, sky.

I worry

––searching for another––
a pairing, a joy.

But today, is a sad day.

Alison Lock‘s poetry and short stories have appeared in anthologies and journals in the UK and internationally. She has published a short story collection, two poetry collections (Indigo Dreams Publishing), and a fantasy novella (Mothers Milk Books). She has an MA and is currently studying for a PhD in Creative Writing. She is a tutor for Transformative Life Writing courses.http://www.alisonlock.com/

The Tylwyth Teg by Susan Taylor

03 Friday Jun 2016

Posted by three drops from a cauldron in poetry

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

britain, fairies, folklore, poem, poetry, Susan Taylor, Wales

The Tylwyth Teg

You stand by the rocky wall,
composed as you look
over tree tops to the inlet,
one of a fair haired people
who is able to read change
in the air reflecting water.

You leave more
than a little of self behind.
The swing boats of sea whisper
Remember in an older tongue
than your dark haired mother speaks.

She holds back for a moment
that floods through her time.
Over there
on your invisible island, she senses
the significance of your calm.

When she finds The Tylwyth Teg
in an old book,
she writes this down.
It is in her words
but she hopes you will understand.

Note – Giraldus Cambrensis wrote of the Tylwyth Teg in the 12th century;
These men were of the smallest stature but very well proportioned in their make. They were all of fair complexion, with luxuriant hair falling over their shoulders like that of women.

Impish by Mary Franklin

29 Sunday May 2016

Posted by three drops from a cauldron in poetry

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

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.

Cordelia in Prison by Jennifer A. McGowan

01 Sunday May 2016

Posted by three drops from a cauldron in poetry

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

britain, Jennifer A. McGowan, legend, poem, poetry, women

Cordelia in Prison

She is left a moment. Footsteps recede.
She can hear nothing familiar—even
the voice of her father a corridor, a world
away has a foreign lilt, a wind
from a place she has never seen.

Silence. Then metal approaches, swing
by clank, and the key turns. The locks,
she notes, are well-oiled here, do not
protest. There are terse-faced men who nod
but do not speak; who slide the rope out hushingly.

She had always known it ends in death.
She tries not to choke or sob, but go
quietly, as in stories. It is difficult.
The men turn away. Is she offending, again,
by saying nothing? She rattles. Grows wings.

Commended in YorkMix 2015 and first printed on their website.

Despite being certified as disabled at age 16, Jennifer A. McGowan has published poetry and prose prolifically on both sides of the Atlantic, including in The Rialto and Pank. She has been shortlisted for the Bridport Prize and been highly commended in many competitions. Jennifer’s chapbooks are available from Finishing Line Press; her first collection, The Weight of Coming Home, is from Indigo Dreams Publishing. Her website is http://www.jenniferamcgowan.com .

Seven by A. Gouedard

18 Friday Mar 2016

Posted by three drops from a cauldron in Uncategorized

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

britain, folklore, magpies, poem, poetry. A. Gouedard, superstition

Seven

One for sorrow.
Time is borrowed.
Lost and broken by our fears
All our dreams will fly away.
When we know our days are few
We treasure all we have by this,
No time to waste in bitter tears,
The years will pass us soon enough.

Two for joy,
When dreams come true.
For every sorrow, comes a kiss
And love is found, in simple things.
Profound delight, the way to bliss,
The bursting throat, the leaping heart,
The song of life the blackbird sings.
Bring the rainbows, bring the flowers,
Joy is brief and flies away.
Remember it in darker hours.

Three for the gentle girl I met.
So easily she passed me by.
I never thought to question her
Where she went or even why.
Three times she passed,
Three times she went
And now she’s here,
Before time’s spent.

Four for the boy, now a man
He tries to grow, he tries to know,
He tries to do the best he can
And in the trying finds his strength.

Five is starlight’s silver sparkle.
The moon above shines down on us,
Pulls the tides where waters flow.
Silver rings and ankle bells,
Unicorns and secret spells
Mark the paths for those who know,
In the land where magic dwells.

Six for gold, the loving cup,
The treasure of the alchemists
Wrapped in story,
Ancient rhymes
All the mysteries unfold.

Seven, the secret never told
The one we learn as we grow old
Seven Sisters in the sky
And all the stars mapped out above
Predicting love and harmony
And we so blind we do not see
Eternity may beckon us.

The wise one never knows the answer.
There is no truth in certainty.

A. Gouedard (born 1952), a Bard member of OBOD, writes poetry and fantasy and has a strong interest in Celtic mythology, fairy tales and the tradition of tales within tales. Books on Amazon include The Raven and the Storyteller and The Midnight Lamp of the Fairy Gathering. A poem, Queen of the Horses, (based on the story of Rhiannon) can be heard on the podcast DruidCast Episode 102. Further poetry can be found at https://dreamingpath.wordpress.com

Cnut Raises His Hand by Marc Woodward

19 Friday Feb 2016

Posted by three drops from a cauldron in poetry

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

britain, Cnut, kings, legend, Marc Woodward, poem, poetry, power

Cnut Raises His Hand

Henry of Huntingdon, the 12th-century chronicler, tells how Cnut set his throne by the sea shore and commanded the tide to halt and not wet his feet and robes; but the tide failed to stop. Cnut leapt backwards and said “Let all men know how empty and worthless is the power of kings, for there is none worthy of the name, but He whom heaven, earth, and sea obey by eternal laws.” He then hung his gold crown on a crucifix, and never wore it again.

There at the blowing edge of land
pushed forward in hope, they brought me
enthroned in gold on trickling sand.
The broad sky decreasing; the infinite sea.
Wind whinnying over the Marram dunes
its cold, striating, whiplash tunes.
I raise my hand to the thoughtless sea
where grey waves curl, collapse, build;
come back voracious, oblivious to me.

My throng at last stand quiet and still.
I lift my head, my eyes, I drop my hand:
No sea has stopped at my command.
A wooden cross will wear my golden crown,
while I before a truer King kneel down.

Wanton Agnes by Marc Woodward

16 Saturday Jan 2016

Posted by three drops from a cauldron in poetry

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

britain, folklore, forest, legend, Marc Woodward, poem, poetry, the green children

Wanton Agnes

My glowing pink skin belies me
and I know that glint in your eye:
you’re hoping we might go to bed?
Would you feel the same
if I was pea-pod green instead?

Before the bang and the ringing bells
that chimed us from cave into sunlight:
that’s how I was - and my brother too.
Ah, yes, you know me now?
You’ve heard the gossiped news…

I’m Agnes, the green girl who lived:
I learned to forsake green beans
and to eat your garish food
then watch at the placid mill
as my skin took on your pig pink hue.

My homesick brother did the same
but his heart was always green.
Constant as malachite,
green as the willows
quivering by the wolf pits;

green as loyalty, green with memory,
green as the bright watermeal
that hides newts and frogs
but couldn’t conceal
his bloated pink corpse.

So take me to bed, perhaps make me your wife,
I’ll love you as any pink person might.
But you must know that when I hear
the high bells of St Edmund’s
tolling out bold and clear,

I’ll want to take the cold hand
of my brother’s colourless ghost
and walk where once a way appeared,
down by those lonely traps,
- that stranded us sun-struck and blinking, here.

This poem is based on the legend of The Green Children of Woolpit.

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

In the Deep by Wendy Pratt

13 Wednesday Jan 2016

Posted by three drops from a cauldron in poetry

≈ 3 Comments

Tags

britain, folklore, legend, myth, poem, poetry, sea, selkie, Wendy Pratt

In the Deep

I was a slip of flotsam, a wave held
sea-slap, turning in the deep. We all
were: the selkies, the seals, the birds
knifing into the black, the mackerel
like a silvery weed, the cod bullying
through the dark. We are all the same;
tugged down on the sea’s umbilical rhythm,
breathing the water’s contractions, the roil
and pull of underwater storms, the dappled
pattern, like fish cheek impressions,
on shallow sand. When the waves rolled
I flew beneath them, felt them hold me,
cupped like a hand, felt my place in the dark.
There are no tears in the sea.

Wendy Pratt was born in Scarborough, North Yorkshire in 1978. She now lives just outside Filey. She has recently completed a BA in English Literature with the Open University, is now studying towards her MA in creative writing with the Manchester Metropolitan University and a PhD at Hull university. Her first poetry pamphlet, Nan Hardwicke Turns into a Hare was published byProlebooks in 2011. Her first full size collection, Museum Pieces is also published by Prolebooks. Her latest pamphlet, Lapstrake is published by Flarestack Poets. Wendy is the poetry correspondent for Northern Soul, where she writes a regular column called ‘Northern Accents’. She is also part of the womentoring project. She won the Yorkmix competition and the Prole laureate in 2015.