Three Drops from a Cauldron ~ Issue 12

Three Drops from a Cauldron Issue 12 February 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 Marieloue)

Three Drops from a Cauldron Issue 12 / February 2017 Night Creatures by Charley Reay Hecate by Jennie Farley The Harness of the Winds by Kathryn Metcalfe Sineann by Clifton Redmond Cape Anne Earthquake by Elaine Reardon Widow’s Island by Norman Klein Biddy and the Young God by Paul Brookes Last Night of the Year by Patrizia Villani Pan by Gareth Writer-Davies From Bordesley Street Diner by Sarah James The Blue Fairy Book by Sharon Phillips How to cross the desert by Bethany Rivers

Night Creatures The night creatures were my teachers Stepping softly through the kitchen, hidden in the dark There are more places to haunt than graveyards.

Now and then we were spotted by a small child – Still strong in the sympathetic magic of imagination.

More recently there have been incidents where older folk Slipped into that sympathetic state by something Other than magic, have tried to film us on smartphones, Not knowing that my family cannot be seen In mirrors or lenses until, playing it back The blank screen makes a question of their sanity.

Sometimes I try to imagine what it must be like For day creatures made of flesh, and blood and hair To cross the border of the dawn and view the world In blinding light. I must be satisfied to see The sun rise on a TV screen, and imagine it a window.

Charley Reay

Hecate Sometimes I scare myself. When arsenic bubbles blow from my mouth people flee, when I up-raise my long-fingered palms they beg for my blessing. By night I travel the woods, snakes looped around my wrists, my black polecat at my side catching stars in his mouth.

I nod to the full bright moon, and let loose my balls of light to strike the knuckled stems of corn so that they grow to twice their length, then set to work scything circles of energy and burn, seen at dawn as molten snow.

I have special gifts. I rearrange the strange to create a lexicon of spells for good or evil, comfort or revenge. But when I trespass the hidden corners of men’s hearts, I see such pain and tears that no amount of magical malarkey can heal. Even so, I’m often found at the crossroads stone waiting for those lost souls, and holding out my bag of tricks.

Jennie Farley

The Harness of the Winds Maybe I wanted to be found, earth giving up my charred bones, not meant to be forgotten.

My shroud of moss torn away.

Earth giving up my charred bones, reluctantly, had no choice.

My shroud of moss torn away, baring me to the vast sky.

Reluctantly, had no choice, I didn’t want to look into the beyond, baring me to the vast sky, above the moors where I belonged.

I didn’t want to look into the beyond, the beyond looked into me.

Above the moors where I belonged, saw the high white pillars.

The beyond looked into me.

I witnessed the future, saw the high white pillars, heard the threshing of the air.

I witnessed the future, the harness of the winds, heard the threshing of the air.

Telling such things can see you burned.

The harness of the winds.

Witch! Punishable by death, telling such things can see you burned.

Reduced to ash and bone.

Witch! Punishable by death, maybe I wanted to be found, reduced to ash and bone.

Not meant to be forgotten.

Kathryn Metcalfe

Sineann She must have called out to him, taken a liking when he stood on the stones of a weir on the Slaney.

Sineann, singing the soft music of herself, glaring up through her coppery beauty; distracted him from the collocks, eels and trout that hovered.

She didn’t ask for his mobile number or a light or a fag, or a night on the town but dragged him into her trickling trance and they danced together in the silence.

When they found him, washed out, the empty packet of cigarettes - floating, broken bottle of Jameson, his wallet, abandoned, useless to him in the otherworld.

Clifton Redmond

Cape Anne Earthquake Strong Puritan measures judgments against frivolity and paganism snaked into each household and held on tightly to what was regarded as God's law until the earth that held them could no longer uphold this structure earth unlaced her corset strings untied her boots and began to dance unheeding of everything aside for the need to break restrictions earth rumbled awake danced down chimneys churches to the last steeple trees swayed to the percussion deep in their woody bones they pulled back their roots from the searing heat they tossed their leaves in the scorching winds The worshippers held on they fell flabbergasted frightened Who has never sinned Who has never danced

Elaine Reardon

Widow’s Island “Remember this year’s visit with Ben and Wes, Carrie? How they rowed all afternoon to get here in that borrowed boat loaded with gin?”

“I do, Blanche. That was their ninth visit.”

“Arriving bone weary from touring the ruins of family,” “But leaving refreshed, wouldn’t you say, Blanche?”

“Most certainly, Carrie, and remind me again dear– what was it They called the island?”

“Widow’s Island.”

“I love that. Don’t you?”

“Yes, it speaks to our patience.”

“And hints at the risk they take to join us.”

“They are gentleman, not like that bunch that grounded their yacht and expected us to put them up for a week.”

“Asking us how we get our mail.”

“Expecting a free ride with our blue boys.”

“Like gulls wanting something for nothing.”

“And not getting the hint when we mentioned that Ben and Wes always bring gifts.

“And enjoy a turn in the garden, dealing with the weeds, and harvesting the sage and the chives.

“We love the fun of making a little list while waiting in the parlor for them.”

“Then moving to the porch swing to watch them ride the tide in …”

“Like ancient mariners…”

“Men who survive on their merits.”

“That’s why we ask them back.”

“That and the fact they know enough not to ask to stay.”

Norman Klein

Biddy and The Young God You have planted fresh delight in these eyes that sprout visions again, as when I was a young girl.

You have breathed through my cold embers, and stroked warmth into this thin skin.

My face has plumpness and reddens, as your hands find flesh for my angled skull.

My limbs no longer bare begin to dress themselves with buds and colour for your lustful eyes.

Perhaps these changes are only in your eyes, and this puddle reflection may be false, a false Spring.

Paul Brookes

Last Night of the Year Great spirits of the cold North assembled troubled humans from Odin’s white yew tree through death carving on their soul the runes of knowledge, repeated in dark rows to instruct the loyal heart into powerful, heroic deeds.

The world has changed now into diluted night and runes into symbols of mere fortune-telling, crumbs of fate for ancient, bloodthirsty gods.

Beware then most, when the moon is full: do not split your heart among the roads not taken, do not spill your blood onto the sacred trees only to divine your destiny, you could receive the answer, and have to live accordingly.

Patrizia Villani

Pan ugly as sin what is it about Pan, that gets the women the great fornicator has a reputation as long as (your) arm and to go unseduced would be a real knock to a girl's confidence Pan the cloven footed excuse for mis-behaviour the one too many the soused toe in the honeybee glebe of clover stratagem tied with silk ribbon are sprung (like unsung melodies) upon the psyche bodies tender with hunger a bitten tongue sucked better what is it about Pan, that gets the women stealing skinned with the boney pelts of rabbits

from one room to another supple as swords, coiled like vipers

Gareth Writer-Davies

From Bordesley Street Diner I tell him I’m not hungry, watch as he orders a full cooked breakfast, then wipes his plate clean.

Its whiteness reproaches me.

But there’s things no magic spell can fix, things only one of us knows, yet. I suggest we walk and talk, but my thoughts are a black cat’s silent howl, a crow’s caw softened to fragile sigh, as we turn onto a path of dead leaves, next to the unsettled river, and a gashed silver birch holding the winter sky steady. Steady words at first, then faltering, fast, falling like bubbled-cauldron sparks…

My hand in his, not his in mine.

In the brambles, a witch with twig hex, lurking beside the shadow that she’ll leave behind.

Sarah James

The Blue Fairy Book after Andrew Lang The girl reads as they comb the nits from her hair. Her mum. Betty from upstairs.

The mannikin tore himself in two. Red Roses by Yardley is thick in the air. Snow White was quiet and helped in the house.

Toads came out of the saucy girl’s mouth.

The women tell each other tales. The girl wonders where they get their stories from.

Someone had a breast took off and a man turned into a beast. His wife saved up for years to leave, but she still comes back to cook his tea and wash and iron his clothes each day.

A good deed brings its own reward, said the fairy to the king. Betty thinks up her shopping list while her husband’s doing it. It don’t take him long, she says. When the bear came close, his skin fell off and showed he was a prince. A girl has been found in the bath. She’d cut both wrists.

His dead wives were lined up by the walls.

Dried blood darkened the floor. She’s in a world of her own, says her mum. God knows what’s going on inside her head. The girl dreams as they comb nits from her hair.

Red Roses by Yardley is thick in the air.

Sharon Phillips

How to cross the desert (Based on a Sufi story) The puddle asked the shepherd how to cross the desert – he cupped her in his hands but she fell through his fingers The puddle asked the camel how to cross the desert – he said he would carry her but she slipped off his back The puddle asked the cactus how to cross the desert – he said he would drink her so she sped away Then she asked the wind and he said let yourself evaporate

Bethany Rivers

Writers Charley Reay is a writer and spoken word artist from the Lincolnshire Fens.

She is currently based in Newcastle Upon Tyne, where she has lived for almost a decade. Her poems have been published by I Am Not A Silent Poet and Writers Against Prejudice. She is also a regular performer on the North East spoken word scene including feature sets at Stanza, Babble Gum and Poetry Jam. 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.

Kathryn Metcalfe has been previously published in anthologies and magazines.

She is an original member of the 'Mill Girl Poets' who wrote and took their show about the lives and history of the Paisley mill workers to the Glasgow West End Festival 2013 and Edinburgh Fringe. She founded and runs a Poetry and Spoken Word Open Mic night in a local coffee shop.

Clifton Redmond is an Irish poet, a member of The Carlow Writer's Cooperative. He has had poems published in various literary journals both in Ireland and Internationally.

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.

Norman Klein has an Iowa MFA in fiction and published 12 stories in lit mags and anthologies last year. He has taught in Boston and Chicago, edited for PLOUGHSHARES, and now fights with a novel in the back woods of New Hampshire.

Paul Brookes was poetry performer with "Rats for Love" and his work included in "Rats for Love: The Book", Bristol Broadsides, 1990. His first chapbook was "The Fabulous Invention Of Barnsley", Dearne Community Arts, 1993. He has read his work on BBC Radio Bristol and had a creative writing workshop for sixth formers broadcast on BBC Radio Five Live.

Patrizia Villani lives in Milan, Italy. She teaches English at UniversitĂ Cattolica.

She writes in two languages. Poems in English have appeared in Agenda (UK, 2002) and Conjunctions (website, USA, 2003); poems in Italian in several poetry journals and a few anthologies. Her published work includes Conversazioni Necessarie (Raffaelli Editore, 2011, foreword by Roberto Mussapi), and Sulle Tracce dell’America (Moretti & Vitali, 2016). The poetry collection Uncertain Geographies is awaiting publication.

Gareth Writer-Davies has been Commended in the Prole Laureate Competition, the Welsh Poetry Competition and Commended in the Sherborne Open Poetry Competition (2015), shortlisted for the Bridport Prize and the Erbacce Prize (2014). His pamphlet Bodies, was published in 2015 through Indigo Dreams and his next pamphlet Cry Baby will be published in 2017.

Sarah James is a poet, short fiction writer, journalist and photographer. Her latest collections are plenty-fish (Nine Arches Press) and the Overton Poetry Prize winning sequence Lampshade & Glass Rivers (Loughborough University).

A short novella, Kaleidsocope, is published by Mantle Lane Press later this year.

Her website is at www.sarah-james.co.uk and she is editor at V. Press, poetry and flash imprint.

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.

Bethany Rivers' debut pamphlet, Off the wall, from Indigo Dreams Publishing came out in July 2016. Previous publications include: Envoi, Obsessed with Pipework, Clear Poetry, Cinnamon Press, Fair Acre Press, Bare Fiction, Picaroon Poetry, The Ofi Press, I am not a silent poet. She has taught creative writing for over ten years, mentors writers, and runs poetry inspiration and healing days. www.writingyourvoice.org.uk

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

‘Cape Anne Earthquake’ by Elaine Reardon was first published in the author’s chapbook The Heart is a Nursery for Hope (Flutter Press, 2016).