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Three Drops from a Cauldron

Three Drops from a Cauldron

Tag Archives: love

zeus by Anne Mild

24 Wednesday Feb 2016

Posted by three drops from a cauldron in poetry

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Anne Mild, gods, loss, love, myth, poem, poetry

zeus

you rolled into my life like
late-summer thunder
tossing my hair
and breaking my limbs

shocking me with the suddenness
of your smile

i wanted only to cut a lemon,
squeeze its sourness on
the ragged-cut edges of the leaves
to keep the world from turning brown.

but tomorrow kept stealing moments from us
and you were gone
just as sudden as you came

leaving only the rising scent
of blacktop after a heavy rain
and me,

wishing you would have been here
for my spring.


Anne Mild is a twenty-something student with too many notebooks and not enough quiet. She likes alpacas, her pug, and space. In her spare time she works towards earning a graduate degree in History and making the perfect soup.

Ariadne in Married Life by Stephen Bone

21 Sunday Feb 2016

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Ariadne, disappointment, greek mythology, love, marriage, poem, poetry, Stephen Bone

Ariadne in Married Life

The spiral, serpentine,
the classic unicursal. Since Crete
he’s grown a passion for such things.

Each evening finds him silent
at his board, an endless perfecting
of blind alleys, falsely hopeful paths,
his dog Daedalus – in the name of Zeus! -
curled by his feet.

While in my corner – all lovesickness
cured – I embroider with my flashing needle
the dear bull beast as I remember him. Snap
silk thread between my teeth.


Stephen Bone has been published in various journals in the UK and US. His first collection In the Cinema was published by Playdead Press in 2014.

Fitch by Maggie Mackay

31 Sunday Jan 2016

Posted by three drops from a cauldron in poetry

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childhood, eerie, haunting, loss, love, Maggie Mackay, poem, poetry, shapeshifting, stories

Fitch

In my midnight I unhook the dust-framed painting,
a childhood spook, a haunting, a fur mask,
and suddenly there’s a polecat,
her coat a silkscreen print, soft as her starlit complexion,
the dark patches blotted. She is our solitary hunter.
From the gloam of a sand dune, out of oils,
she slouches. Musk charges the room.

She is my mother, returned to seek out
her ghost husband, reclaiming him,
he, who was always leafing in libraries.
She drags him by the scruff of his neck,
flicking her tail in the scramble over rockery and log pile.

By dawn she is back in the kitchen,
wielding an iron, as a wife might, pressing office shirts.
I rise to the taste of the polecat’s low mewling to her mate.


Maggie Mackay, a Scot with wanderlust, a love of jazz and a good malt, has been published in All Write Then’s anthology Still Me…(www.pewter-rose-press.com), was the winner of the Writers’ Circle Anthology Award 2014, and has work in various publications, Open Mouse, Ink, Sweat and Tears, Bare Fiction, The Interpreter’s House ,Obsessed with Pipework and The Lake with work forthcoming in The Screech Owl. She is at Manchester Metropolitan University taking an MA in Poetry, and is a co-editor of Word Bohemia (www.wordbohemia.co.uk)

Shade by Kathryn King

24 Sunday Jan 2016

Posted by three drops from a cauldron in poetry

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Tags

Kathryn King, lore, love, nature, poet, poetry, sex, usa

Shade

A leather-booted man took apples
from the trees –
two bushels from the drops alone.
At noon he wandered home.

He wiped pomace from his hands
and sat with me an hour
then off to tend the calves a week newborn,
mend fences, hone the scythe,
and seek the hired man.

With dinner-time and dusk we lit the lamps,
our noses pinched with kerosene –
and lay ourselves in feathers and in down,
tired to the marrow, shadowed,
sweet between the sheets.

The sky flushed red when I awoke,
my hands and face smudged grey
with ashes from a name I can’t recall.


Kathryn King is a sometime artist and poet living in south-central Vermont. The natural world in all its various expressions is probably her greatest love, and the intricacies of human nature one of her greatest fascinations. She carries a short list in a shallow bucket - mostly it reads, ‘Shouldn’t you be outside?’

To Sail Again by Chris Jones

04 Friday Dec 2015

Posted by three drops from a cauldron in poetry

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Tags

Chris Jones, legend, love, poem, poetry, sea, shipwreck

To Sail Again

A broken ship lists on restless surf
Its prow cut by black mocking waves
Its hull is all splintered and riven
Its crew all long captured and slaved.

Tendrils of Neptune drown in her bilge
Long due a watery grave
Blinded, spent, relinquishing life
It slips beneath rapacious waves.

I know of a broken wreck resting in pain
Wishing that things had all stayed the same
Still the same picture but in an old frame
A gold medal runner now hamstrung and lame
A man-eating tiger, whipped, beaten and tame
Once mighty and proud now shackled in chain
A novel unfinished the author insane
Lying in silence in destitute shame
Looking inward to shoulder the blame
Searching for peace to silence the pain…

…but to no avail.

To ride amidst the tides of life
To sail the world of love and strife
To thrill, to touch, to wonder how
To shout once more from her grand prow

But this fair fate can never be
The ship now deep beneath the sea
Rotting in the ocean silt
Her cargo jagged visceral guilt

Yet deep in the dark, strife-stricken shell there still remains a flicker - a glimmer of hope…

… a zeal to sail again.


Chris Jones is an accidental poet, obsessed with story and rhyme. He has always written, but has only recently wandered into the wrong types of pubs where he has started to hang around with the right type of poets. He lives in Sheffield.

to the littlest goddess, whose shield is thunder by Hannah Hamilton

04 Wednesday Nov 2015

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goddess, Hannah Hamilton, love, myth, poem, poetry

to the littlest goddess, whose shield is thunder

even when my body has chills from ricocheting off
the deadly frozen icecavern walls of tooearly morning,
3 am, having slithered into a pile of delicate wash
clothing straight from the dryer, piping hot,

my body as wooden
as pinocchio’s and
as smoothflanked as a
sharpened knife’s

with all this skin under skin and childish blood
under wise blood and trepidatious knees quaking from
temperature. even when my body is absorbing change
as merciless as pulling apart helpless hunks of beef,
the tug and resistance of muscle and nicked gullet.

even when
my body

undergoes the carnage of the journey home. even
when dido climbs into the funeral pyre in front
of me, using aeneas’ sword to run herself through
as if she made him use his own hand. even when that
is how i best identify with the way love returns to us.

my love, you were always going to touch darkness,
cut it into smoky-tendriled strips to tie around
your emboldened biceps. my love, you were always
going to bite the jugfanged vipers back and paralyze
them with your pluminfused venom. how young you are

even when my body senses the cadence and coda of
your hoarfrosted uncradling. how cruel for you
to discover the jewels & fulgent gems embedded
in your slender fingers, making everything you hold

shudder with reverence. even when my body is
recovering from the plague of locusts it has
expelled, repeatedly, into the world, it wants you

to know this better than your own name: that some
people shout into the abyss and confirm the abyss,
but when you shout into the abyss, i will emerge
from it. having been resting, dreaming of black
waves and sea monsters flashing lightningbright
beneath them. having been waiting for your call.

even when my body is just remembering
its opalencrusted armour and jungle shrines.
even when my body struggles with its own beauty & truth,

it has never doubted yours
for a single fumbling
second.

 

Hannah Hamilton is a poor college student studying literature in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, who has a beautiful close-knit family and a lot of things to do before it’s time for her to hop on Charon’s ferry and hightail it down the River Acheron.

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

≈ 1 Comment

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.

Emer by Jane Dougherty

02 Saturday May 2015

Posted by three drops from a cauldron in poetry

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

Cu Chulainn, Emer, Irish, Jane Dougherty, jealousy, legend, love, myth, mythology, poem, poetry

Emer

The sun was his face and in his hair,
Honey was on his lips,
And the words he told me were full of love,
As the tree was full of wild rose hips.
But he gave away his honeyed words,
As free as birds on the wing,
For any fair face or laughing eyes,
And there were many to hear him sing.
His face is still as handsome,
And his hair still nets up the sun,
But he found another beneath the waves,
And our loving days are done.

 

Jane Dougherty is a writer of fantasy, retellings of old stories, Norse and Irish, and poetry. She has had a number of poems and short stories published, and has self-published novels and stories. She lives in the south but her heart is in the north. Jane’s blog contains all you could possibly want to know about her: https://janedougherty.wordpress.com/

The Woman Made of Flowers by Robert de Born

01 Friday May 2015

Posted by three drops from a cauldron in poetry

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Blodeuwedd, flowers, love, Mabinogion, mythology, poem, poetry, Robert de Born, Wales

The Woman Made of Flowers

Did they weave a woman? A wife for him, winding
thin stems on a sturdy stone table,
muttering magic, make… legs?
make midriff, make arms
from lily stalks, lain awkwardly
down to draw dainty cuffs
from the tepals, to string the stamina into
fragile fingertips, flowering in Catholic

white…

did they whittle sweet william down
to be the pale pinkish pads under toenails,
deadhead red dianthus, neck
carnations for her nipples, craft
eyes from impossible pale poppies…

red roses for her cheeks, dark tulips for her hair…

Did they weave a wife, a woman for him, whispering
incantations in late answer to his prayer?

He thought they had;

bound her in a bed,
picked her petals to pieces, pared,
plucked out new colours, drew calendars…
loamy soil for the roses

and wire

enclosures.

And then Autumn.

He stood stock still to see

the teasels and the nettles
the yarrow and the campion
the burnets and the knapweed
that spilled themselves sunwards,

as she walked away
like a shadow from sunlight.

Did they weave a woman from the flowers?

No.

I wait,
with my cards, the magician, the fool,
less real than a dandelion’s bristles,
bewitched by wild orchids,
and the thorn

and the thistle.

 

First published on Boston Poetry Magazine.

Robert de Born is a poet and singer who lives in Sheffield with his fiancée, a cat and three trolls. He has performed at events such as the Beacons and Newfound Festivals and his work has been published online and in print.

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