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Three Drops from a Cauldron

Three Drops from a Cauldron

Tag Archives: sestina

People’s New Clothes by Yi Wu

23 Wednesday Sep 2015

Posted by three drops from a cauldron in poetry

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emperor, fairytales, new clothes, poem, poetry, reimagining, retelling, sestina, Yi Wu

People’s New Clothes

Long ago an emperor ruled his realm
Of citizens in awe of elegant fashion,
And his generous soul made passion bloom
To give most flowery clothes known to sight.
Revered as father who has to rear
Ten thousands children to be wise,

He loathed to be said otherwise,
Cherishing unity on this realm
As greatest legacy of his career.
A declaration in most regal fashion
Soon came to all citizens’ clearest sight
To seek most able men fittest for loom.

In no time the good news went on to loom
Over people’s eyes, no time to ask whys.
All given free hats at the sacred site,
The most upright and colorful, the realm
Celebrated in such merry fashion
And decorated chariots front and rear.

The hats, glistening with feathers at rear,
“Quite splendid”, he said, “but it’s only gloom
For hearts built in unpatriotic fashion,
As lacking love for country is not wise,
And stupid men are banned from, on my realm,
Enjoying beauty of hats with eyesight.”

They thought the hats had magical insight.
The truth kept men’s words behind their rear –
No one could see any hats on the entire realm.
Shame of disloyalty began to loom
Over the depth of their minds – it’s wise
To keep things in a reticent fashion.

Rejoiced, he issued one more item of fashion –
A pair of trousers most pleasant to sight,
Visible to only the chaste and wise,
With red dye and golden seams so rare.
“The empire’s weavers, the empty loom,
Start work to cover body’s nether realm.”

The realm’s most humble who knew no fashion
Instead wore his heirloom into gravesite
Where his wife, with bare rear, asking whys.

 

Yi Wu is a poet based in Brooklyn, New York.

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.

Ganymede by Bethany W Pope

12 Sunday Jul 2015

Posted by three drops from a cauldron in poetry

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Tags

Bethany W Pope, Ganymede, myth, poem, poetry, retelling, sestina

Ganymede*

My ten-year-old brother was obsessed with God.
You see, our Dad was a preacher. Each bird
That flew was a symbol for the mighty
Hand of the Lord. Day didn’t think about love,
Saw only duty in the Gospels. The boy
Needed shaking up – or else he would fall.

Even preacher’s kids take trips in the Fall.
Veering through the emu-farm, Dad spoke of God.
Every so often we paused to let the boy
Reach through chain-link and stroke one of the birds -
Creatures very like the dinosaurs we loved;
Higher than we were, with fingered wings and mighty,

Angular claws. Their necks were also mighty,
Nearly as long as Day’s torso. He fell,
Giggling, when one large male lovingly
Exposed the blue hollow of his throat. A god,
That lightning-trickster, wore the mask of a bird
(High-flying eagle) to kidnap a boy.

Everyone on earth knows about that boy,
Young and gold-gleaming, that even mighty
Overgods lusted for. That numinous bird
Never wavered. His squirming plunder never fell.
Lust drew the boy to the home of the god.
Young men are often the prime prey of love.

So. Everything has happened before. Love
Hauled his body over the fence. The boy
(Incredibly frightened – of sin; of God)
Felt the remnants of an ancient strength, a mighty
Terror, press him to the needled ground. Falling,
The thought passed, ‘This is my Pentecost.’ The bird

Hacked and thrust – his voice throbbed like a drum. The bird
Emptied his feathered glory, his store of love,
Into my brother’s left pocket. He fell,
Replete, into a stupor while the boy
Sobbed. What happened to Ganymede when mighty
King Zeus tired of that offering to god?

Incredibly, this brush with the Bird-God
Never made Day frightened of love. The boy
Saw might and myth, reclothed, and did not fall.

 

(*This is an acrostic sestina. The acrostic reads, ‘Myths never change, they only shift their skins.’)

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.

Ever, After by Mab Jones

16 Saturday May 2015

Posted by three drops from a cauldron in poetry

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Tags

addiction, almost sestina, fairytale, Mab Jones, poem, poetry, retelling, sestina, Snow White

Ever, After

Imagine Snow White with her colors mixed up:
eyes black as coal and lips white as snow,
hair red as the rose that blooms in the glass,
that once filled her throat: the color of stop.
Her bracelets are scars, her necklace a rope
of clear plastic beads that look just like tears.

Seventeen years but her body’s fresh snow
marked by deep tracks, by the burn of the rope
she pulls to bring the shy vein singing up
like a river from the arm, to fill the glass
with its red plume, via the needle that tears
at the flesh. She has no power to stop

using, or being used. They bind her with rope
and sit there like kings, commanding her tears,
music to them as they move mounts of snow
through trumpeted notes. They beat her up
and laugh, laugh again, when she begs them to stop.
And after their play, her face in the glass:

eyes black as kohl from the swift-flowing tears
that only the needle’s puncture can stop.
with sharp steel she’ll prick the thin vein like rope
and swoon into a blank of television snow,
the static that storms behind the glass
at transmission’s end. Turn the volume up:

silence. How quickly the needle can stop
all sounds, as if she’s been laid under glass;
can, with its cold point, stem the hot tears
and, with the same touch, slice the slick rope
that binds body and mind. Strings of patched up
memories, thought threads, buried beneath a snow

drift. The grim reaper’s ticking hour glass
momentarily mute. She’d never wake up
if choice was hers; if she could bring full stop
to this mortal world of blood, sweat and tears
and remain a princess asleep in the snow,
pulled to her casket by the tight rubber rope.

A fairy-tale fuck-up, she tells snow
white lies sometimes to the glass: that she’ll stop,
soon. A rope that she clings to; that easily tears.

 

*(Previously published in Parthian anthology Ten of the Best, and Nonbinary Review in the USA)

Mab Jones is “a unique talent” (The Times) who is known mostly for her satirical verse, which she has performed all over the UK, in the US, France, Ireland, and Japan, and on BBC Radio 4. She is also resident poet in the National Botanic Garden of Wales, and a writer of plays and prose. www.mabjones.com

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