Three Drops from a Cauldron - Issue 13

Three Drops from a Cauldron Issue 13 March 2017 Edited by Kate Garrett Poems copyright © 2017 Individual authors Issue copyright © Kate Garrett

Cover image is used under CC0 Public Domain license. (via Pixabay user LisaRedfern)

Three Drops from a Cauldron Issue 13 / March 2017 The Rose by Elaine Reardon South Dorset Ridgeway, March by Sharon Phillips Winterlight by Kaddy Benyon Prehistoric Shrew by Dennis Trujillo Fallen Angel by Terrence Sykes Beast by Jennie Farley Pearls by Bethany W Pope Two Dutch Men in a Boat by David J Costello Three Roses by Noel Williams Cailleach and Bride by Ann Cuthbert My Pet Cyclops Escapes by Stephen Daniels The Odd Looking Man in the Green Velvet Coat

by Stephen Shirres

The Rose The rose reflects in the stag’s eye. Held close drops of blood fall onto crimson petals, mix in salty tears, onto the waiting goddess. The stag raises his head, sniffs the air.

Pine needles crackle under his weight.

Perfume rises.

Elaine Reardon

South Dorset Ridgeway, March Time is different here the grass remains dry winter yellow when green freshens the valley below brown fields sprout white flints shuffled up by earth’s long rhythms on the path ahead dark figures approach the burial mound.

Sharon Phillips

Winterlight Afterwards, I bathed in winterlight – lolling in her copper tub, my eyes raised high to the blackening smoke hole gasping the last of my spirit’s wanderings. I soaked until bloated stars shrank back to invisibility and a woozy sun lumbered above the horizon to spread its pale fingers around birchbark pots of buttermilk, cloudberries, runes. I curled myself by her stove, fingercombed my drying hair, every so often lifting the kota’s flap to watch her scry the ice; to listen to her winter tongues twist ancient songs around the milky reindeer feeding on lichen, moss, fistfuls of salt.

Kaddy Benyon

* A kota is a tent-like nomadic dwelling used by Saami reindeer herders in Northern Finland.

Prehistoric Shrew Finally, after years of archeological endeavor, I find on my tenth dig the shinbone of a prehistoric shrew encased in a layer of red shale like a rusted cutlery utensil.

That’s all—no skull, ribs, tail.

I expect a celebratory kiss from my professor with eyes like Egyptian glyphs and who led us to this desert passageway near Qom—but she frowns and says: Is that all there is?

Turns out we were all wrong.

A Celtic scholar revealed that the artifact was a magic wand from an primeval species of fairies that flourished during the early stages of the Pleistocene Period.

Dennis Trujillo

Fallen Angel Plummeting from the sky azure no Icarus was he – no Aegean for miles watching him tumble – casting my eyes & seeds into the field in which I labored mere mirage – falling fowl brother seeking escape searing sun & stench of sweat stumbling as I attempted aid halo – broken wings – shattered speaking in tongues unknown rigging branches – dragging body into illusive shade & shadows thirst came upon me temptation drew me I wet his lips – a kiss my soaked shirt sleeve his parched mouth salty as the sea should he have sought Gabriel – trumpeted Mary – annunciated Jacob – wrestled I have read legends of angels on high who watch over me perhaps he flew too low perhaps merely lost his faith

no longer capable of flight would he live or die angelic chorus – proclaim or cry awakening at dusk abyss of time closing few feathers scattered birds sang bitter-sweet songs

Terrence Sykes

Beast When he lumbers out from behind the dark curtain into our living-room, visitors stare. They see huge crouched shoulders roped with hair, bovine brow, blubbery scowl: a monster in leather armbands and thudding boots.

I don’t need to close my eyes to see a prince. He calls me princess and my heart melts. His hands are paws of gentleness, his kisses sweet as plums. In the morning our bed is rich with the scent of warm ripe musk, Every night I pray that when I die I will be lying in the blessing of his arms.

Jennie Farley

Pearls Once upon a time, there was a little mermaid. Her voice was as sweet as the wind, blowing through a bone. Her hair was the slick texture of the algae that grows on the walls of a neglected fish-tank and it was just that shade of luminous green. Her eyes were black to the edges, and unreflective as tar. Her hands were very soft, very white, and webbed between the fingers. At the ends of the fingers (long and thin, with strong, round knuckles) there were black, tapered claws. Her teeth were strong, and very sharp; translucent as pearls.

The little mermaid was extraordinarily beautiful.

All of the mer-folk agreed that she would be happy and her life would be long.

One day, while she was rakishly swimming through the white-tipped crests of the waves, far above the safety of her kingdom, she spied the black shape of a ship, sailing tall and strong against the horizon. Since the little mermaid was brave (as well as beautiful) she struck out against the hidden ocean-tides never stopping until her shark-scaled flank brushed the beaten boards of the prow.

Looking up, shading her eyes against the harsh light of the moon, the little mermaid found the form of a boy leaning out over the deck. He was using a large horsehair brush to add paint to the worn face of the masthead. He spoke to the wooden woman as he worked, gilding her cheeks, ‘Ah, there you are, my lovely. Here’s a bit of blush, in exchange for lending us some luck.’

The little mermaid plunged, hard and fast, into a new and deeper ocean.

Unable to help herself, unable to resist, she thrust her long torso out of the water and gripped the boy about his lithe little waist, drawing him down with a sharp cry the water extinguished in the space of a breath.

She swam down, far and fast, into the black with her prize, humming gently to herself as the water-pressure deepened, as the boy’s skeleton was

slowly crushed. By the time she reached her home, the body was limp, and quite flattened, though the remains remained glorious things in themselves.

She settled them, gently, into a smooth rock niche embedded in the wall of her chambers. They linger there, still. Every morning, the little mermaid peers deep into those fractured eye-sockets and touches her hair, as though the skull had become, somehow, a mirror reflecting her glory back to her.

Bethany W Pope

Two Dutch Men in a Boat (The Phoenix) It wasn’t the ancients spotted your frozen flame flickering in the firmament or a fiery arrow loosed from a deity’s bow describing your arc of ascent.

It wasn’t dust’s drift that settled your shape like a cinder in a spent grate or a sharp-eyed scholar scanning heaven’s matrix for your presence.

It was Pieter and Frederick looking through night to that point in the dark were your eye leaked its light.

David J Costello

Three Roses The woodcutter lays a white rose on her window’s sill, foaming like linen on the line.

She kisses it. The thorn spills dew dark as trying not to think.

Onto her breast the wolf drops a once-red rose, deep with spit.

Wilted petals spill like coins. Like tears.

Like days.

Underneath her foot lies a rose as black as the dreams of earth.

Winter raises her mouth to the wind under the white leaves of the wood.

Noel Williams

Cailleach and Bride Cailleach lies coiled within her cave, an adder underground.

Her rheumy eye is sealed up close, soiled plaid is wrapped around grey skinny shoulders, scrawny shanks – it hides her wrinkled face – and darkness swells as she exhales while outside, Winter’s lace edges the crags in frosty white, stiff-starches rock and scree and needle-points dry blades of grass, twists trees in filigree.

But ‘little sun’ has risen now, still weak yet one thin beam slips through a crack in cavern wall – sneaks into Cailleach’s dream where Winter’s bonds of iron hold soft limbs of captive earth, where life’s imprisoned underground, no green shoots, no new birth.

Sun tickles at her covered face, it taps on shuttered eye, it strokes the bones of Winter crone.

She stretches with a sigh.

But what is this? The fire is low – no fuel to make a blaze.

She cannot let the bleak months go – ‘Yes, yes, this is the day when I must gather firewood – my power must not wane!

I have to keep myself alive, prolong my bitter reign.’

She wraps the plaid around her head, ties rags about her heels –

‘No time to waste if I’m to win!’ – unhooks the kindling creel and hoists it onto crooked back, grasps tight her staff of yew, then hirples out and down the slope, cold life-blood to renew.

At foot of mountain, huddling, the hopeful villagers pray that Winter crone will stay at home, not venture out this day.

For if she does not stoke her fire, she cannot live for long, then darkness cold and hunger bold will weaken, light grow strong and warmth and fecund life return.

But wait! There’s news Tam brings.

‘I saw her stooped back in the grove – she’s fire-wood gathering!’ ’What use is blackbirds’ flirting now?

Or snowdrops’ quivering heads?

We thought them signs that Bride would come – our hopes are unpicked threads.’

Yet in the grove, the search for wood is almost at an end.

Dusk gathers faster than the crone – she cannot see to bend to pick up sticks – she must go back.

But freezing fog creeps near.

‘Where can I go for shelter now?

No welcome for me here.’

Their hearts are shut as tight as doors – she must keep stumbling on.

Through driving sleet, she sees a gleam of light, hears raucous song.

With one last might, she lifts her staff and smites the oaken door.

It opens wide, she staggers in, falls fainting on the floor.

Oisin and Gionn laugh aloud.

‘What baggage have we here?

Throw her back out into the night.’

But Diarmuid does not jeer.

‘She’s old and helpless, let her stay beside the fire a while.’

‘You’re getting soft, old man,’ they scoff, then shrug, and with a smile they nod consent and settle back to drinking and to jest then off to bed the warriors roll, their unexpected guest left lying feeble on the floor – but through the night she creeps into the bed of kind Diarmuid who, when the daylight seeps through wicker shutter, wakes to find no crone lies at his side but round and soft and burgeoning the longed-for springtime Bride.

Ann Cuthbert

My Pet Cyclops Escapes When I collected you from the shelter, I didn’t realise you would struggle with depth perception. I named you Sykes and showed you where to sleep.

Together we bought an abandoned warehouse just behind our home that I filled with dry hay, a forge, your favourite snacks, all the cheese I could find, a few easy to catch lambs, and our most irritating neighbours.

The first few days I tried to make you feel at home and keep you entertained.

To my surprise your favourite film was Krull which you would watch on repeat, firmly squeezing my torso when it got tense.

At the same point on every viewing I’d see a tear flee from your eye and a smile grow with each clearing blink.

I see now that you preferred the sadness and in this found your comfort.

I sit down to watch our film alone these days, rewind and re-watch our favourite scenes, push the tears away from my eyes.

I just wanted to see you happy, know that this home was better than the place you were before.

Stephen Daniels

The Odd Looking Man in the Green Velvet Coat “Look Daddy.” Alice pulls me towards the centre of Carroll Park where, in the middle of the standing stones, is a grand, golden carousel filled with ivory horses, two abreast, each with perfect make up. Sitting on the edge of the platform, his feet don't touch the ground is an odd looking man in a green velvet coat.

“How much for a ride?” I ask him.

“For you, a single gold coin.” He snatches the pound coin from my hand and he bites into it. Alice hides behind my legs with a squeak.

“Select your steed.” The odd man steps back. Alice dashes to the closet horse with a silk blue mane. I help her onto the scarlet saddle and get on behind her. The tune starts up. We are off: up and down, round and round.

Alice squeals with delight. I enjoy her happiness.

“Your daughter's mine. She didn't pay.” His words slither into my ear.

A flash of green velvet, again and again as we go round and round. I hold Alice closer. The turn of the carousel reveals him.

“Have it. Have it all.” I throw all the money I have at his feet. A ten pence coin bounces into his face. I've never heard a noise like it; pain being pulled apart by rusty hooks. He claws the silver disc from his face leaving the Queen's image branded into his skin. With a snarl he disappears, along with the carousel. Like a character in one of Alice's cartoons we sit in mid air for a moment before gravity takes over. I make sure I am between her and the hard ground. The impact stuns me.

“What happened Daddy?”

Hugging Alice I say, “I don't know sweetheart, I don't know.”

Stephen Shirres

Writers Elaine Reardon lives in a small corner of the forest in Massachusetts. She has worked as a holistic health practitioner, a environmental educator, and a special eduction educator. Elaine also teaches meditation and relaxation techniques to people of all ages.

Sharon Phillips retired from a career in education in 2015 and started writing poems and short stories again, after a break of forty years. She lives in Dorset with her husband, two dogs and two cats and is currently studying for an MA in Creative Writing. Her poems have been accepted by Amaryllis and Ink, Sweat and Tears.

Kaddy Benyon’s first collection, Milk Fever, was published by Salt in 2012. She was subsequently funded by Arts Council England to write her second collection, Call Her Alaska, written during a residency at The Polar Museum in Cambridge. Kaddy is currently editing Call Her Alaska, which is a contemporary re-imagining of Hans Christian Andersen’s fairy tale The Snow Queen. Many of the poems where written during a research trip to Northern Finland.

Twitter @KaddyBenyon Dennis Trujillo from Pueblo, Colorado, is a former US Army soldier and middle/high school math teacher. In 2010 he spontaneously began writing poetry not knowing where the spark came from. Recent selections are forthcoming or already published with Blast Furnace, Atlanta Review, THEMA, 3Elements Review, Three Drops from a Cauldron, KYSO Flash, The Quotable, The Sacred Cow, and SPANK the CARP. Terrence Sykes was born and raised in the rural coal mining area of southwestern Virginia and this isolation brought forth the theme of remembrance to his creations, whether real or imagined. He also does heirloom vegetable research … His poetry – photography – flash fiction has been published in India, Scotland, Spain and the USA. Jennie Farley is a published poet, workshop leader and teacher. Her poetry has featured in many magazines including New Welsh Review, Under the Radar, The Interpreter’s House, Prole. Her latest collection My Grandmother Skating is published by Indigo Dreams Publishing 2016. Jennie founded and runs

NewBohemians@CharltonKings providing regular events of poetry, performance and music at deepspaceworks art centre. She lives in Cheltenham.

Bethany W Pope is an award-winning writer. She received her PhD from Aberystwyth University’s Creative Writing program, and her MA from the University of Wales Trinity St David. She 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 collection The Rag and Boneyard was published this year by Indigo Dreams and her chapbook Among The White Roots was released by Three Drops Press last autumn. Her next collection, Silage, shall be released by Indigo Dreams this year. Her first novel, Masque, was published by Seren last June.

David J Costello is a widely published poet. His prize in the 2015 Welsh International Poetry Competition followed his outright win in 2011. He was also a prize-winner in the 2015 Troubadour International Poetry Competition.

His latest collection, No Need For Candles, was published in September by Red Squirrel Press. www.davidjcostellopoetry.com Noel Williams is co-editor of Antiphon (antiphon.org.uk) and associate editor of Orbis. He mentors other writers, reviews for magazines such as The North and Envoi and was Resident Poet at Bank Street Arts Centre in Sheffield, his home town. He publishes internationally and has won a few prizes. His PhD was on the word “fairy” in lore and literature. Cinnamon Press published his collection Out of Breath in 2014. Website: noelwilliams.wordpress.com Ann Cuthbert’s work has featured, both on-line and in print, in publications such as The Linnet’s Wings, Three Drops from a Cauldron, Word Bohemia, Ink Sweat & Tears and The Black Light Engine Room. She is one of Darlington’s Bennett House Writers and, with the Tees Women Poets, enjoys performing her poems for live audiences. Her latest publication is the pamphlet, ‘Watching a Heron with Davey’, from The Black Light Engine Room Press.

Stephen Daniels is the editor of the Amaryllis Poetry and Strange Poetry websites. His poetry has been published in numerous magazines and websites, including The Interpreter’s House, Ink Sweat & Tears, And Other Poems, Obsessed With Pipework, The Lake. His forthcoming Pamphlet ‘Tell mistakes I

love them’ will be published in 2017 by V. Press. You can find out more at www.stephenkirkdaniels.com @stephendaniels Stephen Shirres is a charity fundraiser by day and a writer by night (often late into the night). He has been published in magazines around the world and chairs the West Lothian Writers Group based in Livingston, Scotland.

Previous Publication Credits ‘Beast’ by Jennie Farley was first published in the author’s collection My Grandmother Skating (Indigo Dreams Publishing, 2016).

‘Three Roses’ by Noel Williams was first published in Danse Macabre.