Tag Archives: fairies

Red Potion Spotted by Susan Taylor

11 Saturday Jun 2016

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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 Tylwyth Teg by Susan Taylor

03 Friday Jun 2016

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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.

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.

Impish by Mary Franklin

29 Sunday May 2016

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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.

Not Good Enough for Heaven, Not Evil Enough for Hell by K.V. Skene

04 Wednesday May 2016

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Not Good Enough for Heaven, Not Evil Enough for Hell

while their glamour …
+++Can make a ladye seem a knight,
+++A nutshell seem a gilded barge
+++A sheeling seem a palace large
+++And youth seem age and age seem youth …

and the hidden children of Eve
live in the ripple of sunlight on grass, in
branches of trees, under
ancient earthworks, hollow hills,
forts and barrows
and on Lammas Tide and Hollantide
they parade a cats-cradle of paths
criss-crossing the countryside

throughout the crepuscular hours –
small bits of consciousness, spirits, shadows
shaped by tomfoolery and terror
etch what’s soon to be …
+++moonlight and mystery did this
+++moonlight and music
+++laughter and tears

still unclear
still cold and cruel and bloodyminded
still here

and someday we’ll be old enough to start reading fairy tales again.

Quotes by Reginald Scott
C. S. Lewis

K.V. Skene’s work has appeared in Canadian, U.K., U.S., Irish, Indian, Australian and Austrian magazines, most recently in Crossing Borders, (Canada), Acumen, REAL (USA) Obsessed with Pipework, Envoi and Orbis Her latest chapbook,Under Aristotle Bridge, was published this year by Finishing Line Press (USA).

Fairies by Hugh McMillan

30 Saturday Apr 2016

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Fairies

The moon is a dull blade
and everything beyond
the pond of street lamp
is gone except two blue lights
swimming: maybe a house in the hills
or a 737 coming home to Glasgow,
or then again fairies.
It doesn’t look more
than half a mile,
worth the soaking
when I burst into the circle
and they slowly turn
their hard little faces to me
white and beautiful
in the light,
like dolls.

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.

The Life Cycle of a Tooth Fairy by Andie Berryman

22 Friday Apr 2016

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The life cycle of a tooth fairy

You think after twenty teeth
that tooth fairy is done with you?
On the day that you were born
the snowdrop, the tulip, the rose
bore a fairy,
your fairy,
some might say a guardian angel.
They learn just as you do.
Once you dispose of imagination,
drummed out of you by institutions,
the fairy is slumbering
until it feels passion.
That first person who broke you heart,
awoke the fairy.
When your brain went numb,
and your heart went cold-ish,
that was the fairy mending it.
When you felt pleasure at feeling nothing
when seeing the heartbreaker again,
that was the fairy’s reward.
The fairy sometimes takes a long time fixing things
as the brain and heart are intricate.
You feel your heart beating, your brain blurring,
that’s the fairy doing maintenance.
The fairy grows with you
and soon (with luck) you outgrow each other.
The fairy has taught you how to fix yourself
and so is obsolete to you
but not to the world.
From you, they have learned how to fix the fabric of the world,
and that is what they do.
Sewing, mending and rendering
the fabric of magic on which this world depends.

Andie Berryman believes that magical creatures are the same as us, always learning.

1826 by Helen Vivienne Fletcher

23 Wednesday Mar 2016

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1826

At four years old
he couldn’t speak,
couldn’t stand.

She watched him,
the word
changeling
hiding just behind
her lips.

She bathed him
in the Flesk.
Once.
Twice.
On the third time
the water filled his mouth.

She swore she had only
been trying to drive
the fairy
from him.

Helen Vivienne Fletcher’s poetry has appeared in online and print publications. She’s recently turned her hand to writing for the stage with her first play How to Catch a Grim Reaper, for which she was named Outstanding New Playwright at the Wellington Theatre Awards. She also writes for children, and is a previous recipient of the WCBA New Pacific Studios residency. She lives in Wellington, New Zealand where she teaches creative writing classes for children.

The Other Fey Folk by Kate Holly-Clark

07 Saturday Nov 2015

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The Other Fey Folk

So.
Mab and Titania have come back
again
sweeping their long robes
and long hair
regally through the halls
of imagination—
And Oberon and Nuada
battle through the dreaming nation
Nimue dances again by
the shore,
and Bluebell and Tansy
gossip once more,
dreaming lazily through the summer’s
sunny afternoons
and the little folk are
collecting milk and hiding
car keys as well
and have completely eclipsed
poor Tinkerbelle.

Her hair and her skirts
too short and too cute
her story too kind
for the goth-dreaming youth
her socks are not stripy,
she carries a wand
and somehow when Mab
blew back into town
she convinced folks
they were beyond
the simple story, the empty shell
made of Barrie’s Tinkerbelle.

The Lady of the Lake
now ventures up upon the land
and dances with the dryads
to the latest hip fey-folk
band and over in the corner
unasked, undancing, ignored for
her bright and childlike cheer
left without so much
as a randy satyr’s wink…
poor Tink.

The naiads are weaving lilies
into each other’s hair,
giggling over sailors and pretending
Tinkerbelle
isn’t even there.
The twelve year old sister
stuck at the prom—
her hair is too short
and her dress isn’t long
and embroidered
with the latest in Celtic-Brown
design
Unfashionable and childish and left
once more behind.
The willow-girl is whispering and
casting sideways glances
and the music grows more wild
and dark in the dancing
dell.

Poor Tinkerbelle.
Her wand grows dim, her light
grows faint. Her every move
a pain and trial.

Tinkerbelle. Out of style.
Except for those of us who can
be six again,
and love her for her bravery
and her cheer,
and her little singing voice, and her
curls in a short cap—
for her unfashionable dress
and her wand, so cliche—
I won’t ask that you believe
in fairies.
Just Tinkerbelle.
And clap.
Just for today.

 

Kate Holly-Clark is a professional storyteller, artist, and poet living in NH.

Remember by John Alwyine-Mosely

21 Wednesday Oct 2015

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Remember

if you want to dance for fairies
under a splash of stars

you have to stand table high
and be brave in the dark

or be bent back old
and see night as a friend

for in between,
you say, how foolish

while they smile with the moon
untroubled

 

John Alwyine-Mosely is a poet from Bristol, England who is new to poetry but not to faeries or myths. Recent work has also appeared in Stare’s Nest, York Mix, Clear Poetry, Nutshells and Nuggets. Ink, Sweat and Tears, Street Cake, Screech Owl, Abbreviate Journal, The Ground, Aphelion, Uneven Floor,The Lake, Morphrog and Yellow Chair Review. His website can be found at http://publishedpoems.wordpress.com.

Glamour by Kyle Cooper

13 Saturday Jun 2015

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Glamour

Time passes differently here. It’s dark, and the tables heave with the weight of fine food and drink; strange liquids in strange colours, red haunches, exotic sweets. Do not eat or drink anything. The city is full of fey. Familiar foxes cross the streets as a cabal of three shriek past in a black carriage. The horses are sweating on their plinths, and beautiful kelpies beckon youth from dark doorways, their teeth pointed and appetites sharp. Any prince you kiss tonight may wake up a frog tomorrow morning, but that will be the least of your worries. In dark parts, poisoned princes pummel raw head and bloody bones. Heroines light spoons, sending changeling children chasing up chimneys. A vast dragon sighs underground, sending warm air up through tube lines, while bogeymen bellow ‘Brownie! Brownie!’ at night cleaners, and bearded fauns wallow melancholic on the last bus home.

By tomorrow morning, all this will be nothing but broken pumpkins and rats. But time passes differently here, and there are no breadcrumbs to be found that lead away from heavy iron doors, slamming shut in the night.

 

Kyle Cooper reads, writes, walks. He has recently completed a Masters in Literature and Modernity and has been scribbling for some years now. He has been published in The Cadaverine, Ink Sweat and Tears and Brittle Star, and he reviews for Lunar Poetry.