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Three Drops from a Cauldron

Three Drops from a Cauldron

Tag Archives: death

Book Review: Kshanti by Wendy Stern

24 Wednesday Aug 2016

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

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book review, Buddhism, death, J.S. Watts, life, poetry, spirituality, Wendy Stern

A Three Drops Review

Kshanti by Wendy Stern

[Reviewed by J.S. Watts]

 

Kshanti by Wendy Stern (and published by Poetry Space) is a posthumous collection. Continue reading →

The Song of Syrinx by Bethany W Pope

04 Friday Sep 2015

Posted by three drops from a cauldron in poetry

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Bethany W Pope, death, Greek, love, myth, Pan, poem, poetry, reeds, sestina, sex, song, Syrinx, wild

The Song of Syrinx

Once, the Great God Pan fell in love with a nymph.
Running to meet her (she was slender as a reed,
Goddamned beautiful) lust rose in him with great force.
Fleeing from his own desire, he hid. The song
Death sings can sound an awful lot like sex.
Cut down by carnality he crouched in a shrub, pithed.

‘Cut the stems at an angle to preserve the reeds.’
Once she learned the knack, mother sent her alone. A song
Death made for her played in her blood, pervading her pith.
Running by the riverbank, she never thought of sex;
Fleeing the lovers her mind made up. The force
God gave to love is too much for man, woman, or nymph.

Gods aren’t good at staying out of sight. Songs
Cut off mid-note when they reveal themselves. Her sex
Flees from aggression; and Pan is ugly to nymphs.
Once he saw she would not have him, he tried force.
Running fast, tongue out, panting, his penis straight as a pith,
Death (of a kind) in his eyes, he crashed through the reeds.

‘Death’s coming for me, Papa, or unwanted sex.’
Gods can be fathers – hers ruled the river. Force
Ran through him like the current. Even a reed,
Cut off from the root, would blossom for him. A pith,
Once touched, became a wand. He struck her with it. Nymph
Fled from her form. She grew leaves, shifted with a song.

Fleeing to the tide, Pan thought, wont halt my force.
Death itself would fail to stop me. I can’t be pithed.
Once he had scoured the river-muck, he began a new song.
Gods have certain powers. This chant was made to find a nymph.
Cut off from her old form, this new-made reed
Ran with light. Her leaves glowed golden, revealing her sex.

Running to her, raging and thwarted, Pan pulled out her pith.
Fleeing the rage of the River-God, he stole the dead nymph.
Cut off from her roots, heart-hollowed, useless for sex,
Death seemed to win – but Pan had a plan for the reed.
Gods can bring beauty from sorrow, make pain into songs.
Once, Pan blew into a reed. The sweet music was forced.

Not even Gods can run from Death. A nymph did, once.
She fled from forced sex, became a reed. She sang – pithed.

 

*This is a mirrored sestina.

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.

 

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.

Reaper by Nikki Robson

14 Friday Aug 2015

Posted by three drops from a cauldron in poetry

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Tags

death, garden, legends, myth, Nikki Robson, plants, poem, poetry, seasons

Reaper

Starlit in the garden
she holds the Hand of Christ,
debates disintegration
of liver, kidneys, spleen;
behind locked gates
are planted dreams.

Opiate delusions
dilate and fascinate –
she blossoms at her fingertips
slips her hand in Ladies’ Glove,
numbs the edge with Hemlock
rising feet-first, part by part.

This belladonna
who’ll unbeat your heart
threads Rosary Pea and glory be
as penance for her reaping,
bitterbows to monkshood
on the gravel path to hell,

quicksteps to the Angels’
Trumpets, tells the truth
as it should be, sups the soul
of the Host in a mistletoe kiss -
seed-dreams winter
to an oak-strong spring.

 

Nikki Robson is from Northern Ireland and now lives in Scotland. She holds an MLitt in Writing Practice and Study from the University of Dundee. Her poems have appeared in journals and anthologies including Ink, Sweat and Tears, Under the Radar, The Dawntreader, Split Screen and Double Bill.

 

The Gatherer by Lesley Quayle

11 Saturday Apr 2015

Posted by three drops from a cauldron in poetry

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Tags

death, folklore, Lesley Quayle, poem, poetry, reaper

The Gatherer.

He leaves no tracks
in fields laid flat by winter,
this way and that
over bare, black soil,
pulling his coat closer
to fend off the cruel wind.
He carries a dark lantern
and a scythe, a sack slung
lightly, rolled and tied
with thin twine.

He moves like fog,
quiet and cold, and each night
field mice, rabbits, voles,
freeze in his wake, hares shiver,
bats and owls retreat
to barns and steeples
as he steps into the air.

The old ones tell of the Gatherer,
come to rob you of your light;
he’ll say he’s a young man but,
if you dare to meet his sloe-black
gaze, you’ll see what he’s seen –
a thousand snows, a thousand, thousand
moonless nights, the wheeling stars
dissolving, bearing witness
to his harvesting eyes.

He’s the ragged shadow
hung, fluttering, between
darkness and glass, the shapeshifter,
night-visitor, come to steal day,
to erase the shining ledge of morning
leaving only endless sleep.

 

First published The City Fox and Aesthetica.

Lesley Quayle is a poet, author and folk/blues singer currently living in the wilds of rural Dorset. Her latest collection – Sessions – is published by Indigo Dreams Press.

To the Grimm Grandmother by Natalie Easton

03 Friday Apr 2015

Posted by three drops from a cauldron in poetry

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Tags

death, fairytales, family, Grimm, loss, Natalie Easton, poem, poetry

Natalie Easton is somewhere in Connecticut, reading a book of poetry by Sharon Olds or Mark Doty. She battles depression and anxiety, attempting daily to out-metaphor both illnesses. Her work has appeared in such publications as Rust + Moth, Foundling Review, andtinywords.

 

Black Shuck Prowls Tonight by Alan Blyton

06 Friday Feb 2015

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Tags

Alan Blyton, ballad, black shuck, death, dog, east anglia, england, folklore, poetry, spooky

Black Shuck Prowls Tonight

The woods are still and silent,
All birds have taken flight.
No creature ventures above the ground,
For Black Shuck prowls tonight.

The trees are hushed and frozen
And the bushes hold their breath
As a cold breeze blows and a shadow falls
With the stink of fear and death.

Along the forest pathway,
Pads a shape as dark as pain,
Green glowing eyes and dripping jaws,
That no man could restrain.

And in the nearby village,
An icy sense of fear.
The silence screams the message,
That danger’s drawing near.

No one goes near their windows,
No curtains even twitch.
The streets are dead as a stone grey corpse,
The sky as black as pitch.

Was that a growl I heard outside?
A sound of panting breath…
I dare not peep for just to see
Means swift and certain death.

For if his gaze falls on you,
‘S too late for fear or dread.
Just catching sight of that hellish hound,
Means you’re already dead.

So clasp your hands together,
And drop down to your knees.
Beg God to bring the morning,
And hope he hears your pleas.

Till then bolt up your windows,
And pull your blankets tight.
For in the gloom, ‘neath a blood red moon,
Black Shuck prowls tonight.

 

Alan Blyton was born in Cambridgeshire and now splits his time between London and the fens, where he occupies himself as an actor, writer, musician and entertainer. He has a special place in his heart for the macabre and has been fascinated with ghost stories and spooky folklore ever since he can remember. He is currently working on a collection of horrible poems for children.

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