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Three Drops from a Cauldron

Three Drops from a Cauldron

Tag Archives: history

It is thought that Ireland became an island at sometime between 10,000 BCE and 5,700 BCE… by Deirdre Hines

16 Wednesday Mar 2016

Posted by three drops from a cauldron in poetry

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Deirdre Hines, folklore, history, Ireland, magic, myth, poem, poetry, ritual, wolves, women

It is thought that Ireland became an island at sometime between 10,000 BCE and 5,700 BCE…

but long before that tectonic wave birthed our
original origins, the packs tracked us

on scent-marked ancient oaks, forest mulch, ogham stones
grew ears like Charon the better to hear the howl-

girls gathering baskets of wolfsbane dream journeyed
in red coats searching Shewolf wisdom down within

by entering an opening in stone, slipping
deep below, embracing the darkness in the light:

raising muzzles starcrooning packbonded place
sharing the lore around turf fires in ringforts,

the lore of all the blue and green living things
pairing She wolf to She who chose to walk the lone path

through shifting, rustling leaves brushing against dream doors
carved from cedar, oak, iron, silver, timber

the bridges between this world and the next arrive
at places that no-one had ever been before-

the places of white starlight, green waterfalls
blue expanses, rocky white-tailed eagle cliffs-

are places that we all have hidden deep within
where leafwindstone play symphonies of memory

of She wolves hunting in rhythm to the drum
that beats out time in time and out of time to send

wolfsong across the seasons of the ages
as harmonics to sound in times of discordant

when all the wolves will have forsaken the land
and been forsaken in their turn-

when all the fishes will have drowned in waters
dirty and contaminated by fiscal balance-

when all temples to trade will have been blown down
by guardian ghost wolves believed extinct-

When professional wolf hunters are back once more
to collect the bounty on all our heads-

only then will they return to huff,puff and blow down
doors bolted shut against She Wolf dreaming awake

the need to feed the heart, to drink the blood body
only then will deficit dissolve away to reveal

the scent of black timber wolf written on your skin
marking packs of wolves met again to sing

old bone back to life on re-remembered Wolf Road
two syllables singing one word, spelling out “greenheart”.


Deirdre Hines is an award winning poet and playwright. Her first collection of poetry, The Language of Coats was published by New Island Press, and includes the poems which won The Listowel Poetry Collection (2011). She has had new poems published in The Lake, Deep Water Literary Journal, Screech Owl, Abridged, The Bombay Review , Your One Phone Call, deadsnakes and The Derry Post. Click on the Youtube link at http://www.deirdrehines.com to hear her read some poems.

Tituba by Meggie Royer

20 Sunday Dec 2015

Posted by three drops from a cauldron in poetry

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Tags

folklore, history, magic, Meggie Royer, poem, poetry, Salem, usa, witch hunts, witchcraft, women

Tituba

It was I, Your Honor. I who left the marigolds
in the sheets of her bed, the mice in her morning milk.
You can call it witchcraft if you like.
But when the horizon broke open into yolk,
she was better for it.
She ran for the trees, through poplar and oak,
dress waving like all her dead children.
She was gone from him, I’ll tell you that.
What I do was never spoken of.
Just my darkness, how far I was willing to go.
Your Honor, she wanted to flee and not be led,
world red before her without blood,
husband in her doorway with an ax.


Meggie Royer is a writer and photographer from the Midwest who is currently majoring in Psychology at Macalester College. Her poems have previously appeared in Words Dance Magazine, The Harpoon Review, Melancholy Hyperbole, and more. She has won national medals for her poetry and a writing portfolio in the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards, and was the Macalester Honorable Mention recipient of the 2015 Academy of American Poets Student Poetry Prize.

Fragments by Helen May Williams

25 Sunday Oct 2015

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archaeology, civilisation, Demeter, Helen May Williams, history, Iron Age, mystery, myth, poem, poetry, Vix

Fragments

… not nearly … evidence for activity …
in … Demeter Sanctuary … there is in …
… difficult fragments … chance strays.

… many more fragments … pottery datable …
significant … types of vessels once thought to be …
… relief bowls with long petals. The link between …

… long-petal bowls … over forty years ago:
. . . in … older part of … there was
not a fragment of a bowl with long petals. But a few …

… only a few fragments that seem to be post … 473.
… Sanctuary was dormant … at least one hundred years …
it was necessary to discard great amounts:

… surface, mixed fills … large body fragments … like …
undatable sherds (shards) … those … large dump fills
… intrinsically important sherds from insignificant contexts …

… decorated … imported fragments were retained
Yet only one fragment … found in the Sanctuary …
same vessel … is still very fragmentary.

… imported … red-figured kraters … a few additional fragments …
… in … dining rooms or dedicated as votives …
The findspots of fragments are not always revealing.

… numbers of cups … Demeter Sanctuary … staggering.
… a ritual toast … drunk and then … cup discarded.
Large coarse-ware vessels … in almost every area …

ritual … use of wine or water … joining sherds … pottery
… a few intrusive Roman fragments … the Demeter Sanctuary,
a very small fragment of Etruscan bucchero.

krater fragments from … site … typical animal frieze …
… cavalry scene … hand of a more ambitious painter.
… chain of dancing women … Archaic fragments …

… few uninventoried Attic fragments survive)
a new decorative technique, outline style, in different shapes;
it may have reference to cult practices.

… special group of vessels, mostly kraters, … use … Demeter Sanctuary,
… relatively short span … time … most now so fragmentary … extant painting …
indecipherable … vessels in the original state … very …

special vessels for cult purposes … served the needs …
representation of … abduction of Persephone
was repaired in antiquity, attesting its importance.

attested by many fragments … a variety of styles, shapes, and sizes …
… has a handsome … in added red and white; the krater was …
It cannot be determined … large, finely made, and probably …

… All fragments from any usable or significant context were retained . . .

 

Helen May Williams is Associate Fellow in the Department of English and Comparative Literary Studies, The University of Warwick. She is completing an edition of memoirs by her late mother, who worked at Bletchley Park and for E.C.I.T.O. Her poetry has been published in a number of small press publications since the late 1970s, including Hearing Voices, Horizon and Raw Edge, I Am Not a Silent Poet and the collection, Bluebeard’s Wives, Heaventree Press 2007.

Bucchero by Helen May Williams

10 Saturday Oct 2015

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goddesses, gods, Helen May Williams, history, Iron Age, mythology, poem, poetry, pottery

Bucchero

His mother at her potter’s wheel . . .
charcoal mixed with clay . . .
moulds the figure of a Kore
moulds the figure of a Kern;
applies each to the still-wet krater . . .
waits and watches it bake.

. . . Baked.

His mouth devours sweet flesh . . .
the one-handled vessel . . .
always refilled . . .
poppy-heads infused with blood . . .
black hellebore . . . digitalis . . .
deadly nightshade . . . a dull red light . . .

Her mother at the clay oven . . .
. . . charcoal for intense heat . . .
shapes cakes from the last goat’s milk,
honey and barley flour;
moulds two knob-figures on each . . .
waits and watches them bake.

. . . Baked.

She shakes the winnowing basket . . .
discards the chaff, gathers the fresh grain . . .
fresh-ground barley meal
moistened with honey
mixed with green chickpeas . . .
. . . on the fire . . . remembers the dead.

Her mother ‒ or is it his? ‒
holds out the winnowing basket,
filled with warm cakes,
white poppy-seeds, sage,
emmer-wheat, barley,
unwashed sheep’s wool.

. . . Baked.

Her mouth . . . his mouth . . .
cakes hold the fire’s intense heat . . .
layers of honey, goat’s milk cheese,
coarse pastry, cake . . . melt.
Wine . . . a fig and walnuts.
. . . the winnowing basket cradles a new-born child.

He sees: still-burning, half-baked fragments . . .
he stumbles . . . seeks the dull-red light . . .

 

*Bucchero ware—the national pottery of Etruria, of a uniform black, neither glazed nor painted, but decorated with figures moulded separately and applied to the pottery. Essentially a two-handled basket, the liknon could be used to carry anything, hence its secondary function as a cradle.

Helen May Williams is Associate Fellow in the Department of English and Comparative Literary Studies, The University of Warwick. She is completing an edition of memoirs by her late mother, who worked at Bletchley Park and for E.C.I.T.O. Her poetry has been published in a number of small press publications since the late 1970s, including Hearing Voices, Horizon and Raw Edge, I Am Not a Silent Poet and the collection, Bluebeard’s Wives, Heaventree Press 2007.

Falisar Square by Matthew D. Laing

25 Friday Sep 2015

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folklore, history, Matthew D. Laing, poem, poetry, witch hunts, witches

Falisar Square

She’s a sinister evil wretch, putrid and rotting. Tangled and matted
locks flowing from a beaded head with eyes too close; a colour too deep.
Dirt and filth pluming into the humid air as she traverses worn stone
into Falisar square- drawing gazes and childish murmur. Fibrous roped noose
fastened to a cart of angry oxen , two that is. Whip crackles against her pale,
yet coal covered back leaving gashes and scars flowing streams of scarlet.

She does not scream.
The woman they call Witch is from Southgale; north of here,
in the woods-dark and substantial, some say enchanted.
I watch mystified, yet disgusted. A presence of evil going against God,
our Lord, our Saviour, the Cross. I picture a black forged cauldron
bubbling over the sides: a brew of sinister concoction;
of poison; of pagan proportions;
steaming and vile.

I edge near Billy and push forward into the mass of bystanders.
The smell is intense and profound: of earth; of sweat;
of bread and watered ale; of vomit.
Armed guards with spears and halberds guard the wooden platform-
the crest of our king; the flag of our nation rests behind, red and white.
She is approaching. People throw rotten veg at her as she walks;
sounds of the whip cracking amongst screams and cries of disgust,
the thud of cabbage exploding against her left shoulder.

She now stands tied to the stake,
but- then, a child runs up to the guards crying:
“My sister, my sister! She aint no Witch!”
the ginger child pleads as the guard ignores him and shoves him aside.
Relentlessly the child continues:
“She’s only sixteen! She’s playing in the woods is all!”
and another guard picks up the child and carries him off. A torch
is thrust into a pile of dried hay, and a flame ignites,
licking the toes of the Witch.

She does not scream.
She stares at me with judging eyes.
She vanishes.

 

Matthew D. Laing is new to writing fiction and poetry for submission, but has been dabbling in the realms of fiction for most of his life. He is a huge history fan, especially towards historical folklore, and attended the University of Ottawa for history and political science. Presently, he has one poem accepted and on queue with Bewildering Stories.

Riding Hood in Blue by Oliver Newman

18 Saturday Apr 2015

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Tags

blue, culture, fairytales, history, Oliver Newman, poem, poetry, red riding hood

Riding Hood in Blue

After the forest
she came to a clearing …

muddy waters,
not a neat mammal in sight;

tracks in the distance,
so she went down to the crossroads,

tried to flag a ride
from this new-looking ’62 Chevvy.

Howlin’ Wolf
playing on the all-transistor –

It must be 1963
she thought to herself

as she scrutinised
the driver’s eyes, nose, and mouth.

And after her blason
was done, she boarded the machine:

completed the conceit –
because he was nothing like

anyone familiar,
and in these times that was fine.

But her own history
was swelling, like a chorus; unbirthed …

and at the gas station
she opted to continue on foot –

the long grass
blowing in the wind welcomed her,

and so she stood stationary
at the roadside, waiting to be found

relevant.

 

Oliver Newman is a writer from Bristol, UK. A student of Oxford University’s Creative Writing MSt., he obtained his joint-honours BA in English and French. He has worked as an English and Creative Writing teacher in Paris and his short unpunctuated story about homelessness in the city The Man in the Box is published in The Stockholm Review. Presently he is based in London where he is preparing his first collection of poetry.

The Woodland Wether by Kay Buckley

08 Sunday Feb 2015

Posted by three drops from a cauldron in poetry

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england, folklore, history, Kay Buckley, legend, poem, poetry, South Yorkshire

The Woodland Wether
after ‘Lost Lad’ by Richard Furness

As autumn gives up her turn
a lad wonders from home.
Off to find the shepherds out
penning sheep that roam.

“Where are yer Abraham
best cut of me heart?
In spite of all trouble
a couldn’t be withart.”

So his mother wrung out
her tears ‘til folk got together,
and the cry came out,
“Send for our running man, the Wether!”

With light falling and torches
lit like scratches against the black,
a tall thin man set the pace
onto the hill slack.

Night-wet the flat slap
of feet made it to Cut Gate.
Barefoot, the Wether’s soles
scythed sky. His shadow gait

like that of a hare running
in circles at trouble’s scent.
He sprang over Feather Bed Moss
and began to make the ascent.

No stone moved as he ran
across shales of millstone grit,
arching Cranberry Clough
as the hanging clouds split.

Moon scarred light picked
out paths that ran like streams.
He saw the jackrabbit riding
and followed his grey gleams.

In a shallow dip the boy lay
half clothed and shivering.
His hair was twiddled into knots
as he sat there whimpering.

Tending to him like a leveret,
the Wether carefully dried
his face. Soothed him,
until he felt warm inside.

The boy on his shoulders,
framed by the moor,
as the Wether brought him
back to his Mam’s door.

On Margery Hill a cairn marks
the place where the Wether
found the boy. Lost Lad alone
in the peat and the heather.

 

Kay Buckley lives in Barnsley. In 2013 she received funding for a Mentoring Programme run by Writing Yorkshire. Her poem ‘Huskar’ was overall winner of the 2014 York Mix Poetry Competition. Her poems have been published in magazines and anthologies including Butcher’s Dog, Brittle Star and The Darker Side of Love by Paper Swans Press.

Three Drops from a Cauldron is a Three Drops Press publication.

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