Street Song by Maurice Devitt

12 Sunday Jun 2016

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Maurice Devitt, poem, poetry, spooky, superstition

Street Song

Step on a line
you marry the devil -
no longer to savour
the candyfloss of grace -
instead
the check-list of sins,
first confession
an easy choice
between murder and omission,
the craving
to beard the bogeyman,
loosely imprisoned
in an upstairs room,
the curious
keyhole of mascara,
the too-loose clip
of his mother’s shoes
and in the corner
a wireless
playing all the best tunes.

The seventh son of a seventh son, Maurice Devitt was abandoned by his evil stepmother and raised in the forest by a poet.

Red Potion Spotted by Susan Taylor

11 Saturday Jun 2016

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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

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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.

Orchardist by Mary Franklin

08 Wednesday Jun 2016

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american, canadian, folk hero, folklore, Johnny Appleseed, legend, Mary Franklin, poem, poetry

Orchardist

A full blood moon beams on the leafy trail
he walks along, carrying a leather bag
full of seeds collected from cider mills.

He sees a clearing, casts handfuls of them
on fallow ground, continues to a roadway,
barefoot, hatless, his tunic tattered, unhemmed,

in need of a wash. Now he raises his hand
to greet a farmer. Good day, kind sir, he says.
Good day to you, Johnny Appleseed.

No cabin door is closed to this slender man,
wiry, alert, blue-eyed, mild in manner,
the planting of apple trees his main concern.

He has a dream that no one should go hungry.

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.

A First Meeting by Claire Walker

05 Sunday Jun 2016

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Claire Walker, fairytales, poem, poetry, wolves, women

A First Meeting

His first sight is a flash of red in his eye line.
He darts for the safety of oak –
so often he plays the hunted,
despite the blade of his jaw.

His sharp eyes settle on the slender girl.
She carries her basket tenderly,
protecting the sweetness inside.
Her mother has taught her to be good.

The plumped dough of the bread and rise
of the cake is not his interest. He imagines her cape
lying fleshless on the grass,
how her skin would feel beneath his claws.

He jumps from his cover, unsure how to strike
conversation. He points to wild flowers,
talks of their beauty under morning sun, asks
why don’t you pick them? She follows his gaze.

Claire Walker’s poetry has appeared in magazines, anthologies and websites including The Interpreter’s House, Ink Sweat and Tears, And Other Poems, Clear Poetry and Crystal Voices. Her first pamphlet, The Girl Who Grew Into a Crocodile, is published by V. Press. Her website is clairewalkerpoetry.com.

One for Sorrow by Alison Lock

03 Friday Jun 2016

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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

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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

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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.

Thorn Inc. by Fanni Sütő

28 Saturday May 2016

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contemporary, fairytales, Fanni Sütő, modern, poem, poetry, princesses

Thorn Inc.

The tower was dark
and tall as your tales,
the glass shone smoothly
on the black window scales
and at the top freedom lay
dead.
When Rose entered the building
she was glowing with hope:
“Work is money and money is life”
so was she taught by an ancient midwife
along with sweet tales
of princes and knights
but it all turned out to be briar red lies.
All princes were gone.
And the fools who remained
were not for her taste.
In the claws of the workdays
Rose began to fade
From nine till six, five days a week
her life was as bleak as a computer screen.
Money she has.
But her life is leaking
in drops of blood like from a wound
bitten by the teeth of a spindle.
Please rewind.

What Rose wanted: she got.
Now she wants it undone.

Fanni Sütő is a writer, poet, dreamer who believes in fairy tales even if they are dark, disenchanted and deconstructed. She writes about everything which comes in her way or goes bump in the night. She has been published in Hungary, the US, the UK and Australia. Website: www.inkmapsandmacarons.com

Hephaestus by David W. Landrum

27 Friday May 2016

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David W. Landrum, gods, greek mythology, poem, poetry

Hephaestus

Forget the forms the poets
have hammered me into,
the shape their molten words
have cast for me,
the soot hexameters,
the pyrrhic twists,
and lies, limp spondees forged,
making me halt,
twisted, setting my lame identity.
The list is long
of goddesses who loved me,
my limbs, my stance,
my body, which the poets
say is disjuncture.
Aglaea, youngest of the Charites,
lay down in my embrace.
Good Repute, Acclaim, Prosperity
were our three children
(Eucleia, Eupheme, Euthenia)—
hardly the offspring of a misshaped troll!
The slender-thighed Cabeiro,
sweet nymph, and ravishing,
chose my love; and Aetna,
the swarthy huntress of strong arms
with black hair covering her shins
and beauty wild and raging as the sea
has loved me ages on.
I am misnamed “game legs”
and “hobbling god.”
The slight limp that I have
from when Zeus threw me out of heaven
(I was readmitted soon)
is much exaggerated.
Yes, I made the net—but more
to rid myself of witless Aphrodite
than to express chagrin.
Ares can have her as far as I’m concerned.
My works are fair,
my limitations none.

David W. Landrum‘s poetry and fiction have appeared in journals in the US, UK, Canada, Australia, and Europe. His novellas, Strange Brew, ShadowCity, The Last Minstrel, and Le Cafe de la Mort, are available through Amazon.