F1.1. Cat Sidhe
F 2.1. Wild Man (Woodwose)
F 3.1. Bloody Mary
The Muster
[F2.1 Wild Man (Woodwose)]
In the end, they had to release him. Torture, flattery, spit and coin bounced equally off his bristled back: tan as an acorn, coarse as a teasel.
He could not say who his father was, nor why he had been in the Baron’s bounds. Nor how he learned to swim like an otter, melting instantly into the water. Nor leap like a stoat, twisting dementedly up an invisible stair. Nor monster like a mink, slaughtering pheasant, spraying clods of bird brain over the snow.
He could not say anything and only looked at the shaft of light leaking under the door. On the wall hung Jesus, looking up at the same. The first time they beat him, he barely noticed, but tracked a black mouse bulleting by.
The doctors came in with several syringes which broke against his wiry fur. The priest came in with a book and beads and the prisoner fondled the strung black seeds. Exorcisms and blessings were dropped like dark cloth over his eyes.
He stayed awake. And when nothing came and the weeks drew on and the madhouse stayed full, they carted the sack to the woods and loosed the neck.
He flew through the thorns and leaves, pausing to hiss. His scat was a skinny coal figure-of-eight.
-Kirsten Irving
Sidhe-riding
She flies you through the powder burn
of blasted night. She asks you where:
you have no direction but away, and so it is
that you and the switch-rider leave day’s weeping
wound to lake. She points out the seep-
red shores below, how sunrise, sunset
cup brackets around the hole: the first equation
to solve. The answer undoes you. Bones of mice
and birds rattle from the broom, a swept midden
of offering, and somewhere your body hears rain
on a roof. I once told a child braced for dark
how to trade their skin for catness: eight times a-wish
is the charm. I once told an adult who lived
despite their child: your ninth life still awaits.
Your pilot’s twin lanterns gleam in the dark. Her fur
leaps with a static of stars, their sum impossible to take.
-Ankh Spice – 1/10/22
Woodwose (This was inspired by 2.1 Woodwoses)
The forests are deep and green
Where the Woodwoses walk
The trees are tall and old
Where the Woodwoses walk
The paths are overgrown
Where the Woodwoses walk
Go to the woods, child, and see
The Woodwoses are tall men
Wrapped in hair from head to toe
Their eyes keen, their hair long
Their arms are knotted and strong
And they are tall, child. You’ll see
They carry a large wooden club
That sits on their shoulder as if
It was born there, you’ll see
And they fight the dragons
They wrestle the lions
And they frighten the evil spirits
That come there, you’ll see
If you go to the forest, child,
That’s what you will see.
But be careful, small child
If you walk in the dark forest
If you look for the wild men
If you happen to be
What the Woodwoses see
Their club is not meant to maul
Just scale and fur and tooth
Sometimes their fancy runs
To something softer and more sweet
Something like you, child
If you go into the forest today
And if you a Woodwose spy
Then watch for their keen eyes
Their rippling limbs and hard club
Because if they spy you there
Pale limbs quivering, fear rising
Wide eyes beckoning, screams climbing
They might snatch you into their arms
Oh yes, Child, they would snatch
And take you away deep into the heart
Of the old, dark Forest
And there, deep in the dark
Where we cannot spirit you away
You would be the feast, child
As the Woodwoses gather
Around a burning hot fire
And they dance together
Singing their old songs
Perhaps they would drape
Themselves in the skins of their prey
The Lion, the Dragon, and the Child
And we would mourn you forevermore,
My dear child, tears falling silently
So don’t go into the forest, Child
Not today, Not ever. Not alone.
-Eryn McConnell
Be Afraid (F3.1, Bloody Mary, Pantoum Form)
You scoff. Say it’s merely folklore,
no fears from a mythical tale,
but away from the mirror, gaze at the floor,
beware the world’s thinned veil!
No fears from a mythical tale.
you say. But don’t light the candle,
don’t say her name, don’t watch for her image pale–
don’t yearn for what you cannot handle.
You say, “but don’t.” Light the candle
I will. There’s a dare in the air, and to it, I thrill—
don’t yearn for what you cannot handle.
I can. Yet suddenly I feel a chill.
Still, I will. There’s a dare in the air, and to it, I thrill–
until I don’t. Bloody Mary in the glass, I can’t—
I can. Yet suddenly I feel a chill.
I see her pass, I hear her laugh, rant, chant–
until . . . I don’t. Bloody Mary in the glass! I can’t.
But away from the mirror, gaze at the floor—
though I see her pass, I hear her laugh, rant, chant.
You scoff. Say it’s merely folklore.
-Merril Smith
On halloween look in the glass, Your future husband’s face will pass
am I the man in your mirror?
did my face look familiar when we met?
was that the shock I saw?
I lived behind a mirror once
nothing I saw was me
I felt like shards, triangular, sharp
had been glued together into
my face, mended, yet
still, on the floor.
I hadn’t dreamed of that smile
at the top of the stair
and thinking the stairs
were only concrete, to be stepped on in sequence,
in simple sequence
and not a tightening promise from behind a mirror.
Ah! and Lapsang Souchong
with Mandarins—
and the child above, waiting.
in æther
-Dave Garbutt (inspired by Bloody Mary)
A Wild Man (Inspired by all three images)
They used to say he was a wild man
but he was no god of the woodlands.
Maybe when young and in the half-light
of a smoky pub he might have resembled
a flirty fawn, the lustre of his short locks
and building site body as muscular
as a prowling mountain cat,
the gleam of his bright eyes
reflecting the bar lights—and perhaps
a girl, after three Bloody Marys
would’ve laughed at his Guinness moustache;
then wiped it off with her finger.
It’s even conceivable
that she sucked the cream
between strawberry lips and he might
have leaned in and she may have
fixed her eyes on his and held her breath.
But it probably wasn’t my mother.
-Gaynor Kane
Mirror, Mirror
Mirror, mirror, on the wall
Will I find someone to call
My partner who is loyal and true,
With everlasting love to imbue?
I hope it’s not the guy to my left
For sure he’d leave my heart bereft.
He’s well connected and very rich
But I think his mother is a witch.
If he at last made me his wife
There would be a shadow on my life.
And, so much more than that
Look what he did to my poor cat!
His brothers, they look very rough
Their bodies covered in all that fluff
So, mirror, mirror send someone please
Just make sure it’s none of these!
-Chris Husband
Woodwose (inspired by 1.2)
I look. Tell myself I am. I go on
A beast stares back at me. I shake myself.
My hand makes beast disappear. Here is
food that flaps on land. A hard stone stops it.
A beast stares back at me. I shake myself
Beast does what I do. Nothing else.
Food that flaps on land. A hard stone stops it.
Is not me. I eat it. Darkness moves. Sharp.
Beast does what I do. Nothing else.
Darkness kills quickly. In light I can look.
Is not me. I eat it. Darkness moves. Sharp.
Light is warm. Like food after kill. Fills space.
Darkness kills quickly. In light I can look.
I look. Tell myself I am. I go on
Light is warm. Like food after kill. Fills space.
My hand makes beast disappear. Here is
-Paul Brookes
Bios and Links
-Ankh Spice
is a sea-obsessed poet from Aotearoa. His work has been widely published internationally, in print and online, and has twice been nominated for the Pushcart Prize. He’s a co-editor at Ice Floe Press and a poetry contributing editor at Barren Magazine. You’ll find him and a lot of sea photography on Twitter @SeaGoatScreams or on Facebook @AnkhSpiceSeaGoatScreamsPoetry.
-Eryn McConnell
is a poet originally from the UK who now lives in South Germany with their family. They have been writing poetry since their teens and is currently working on their second collection of poems.
-Gaynor Kane
from Belfast in Northern Ireland, had no idea that when she started a degree with the OU at forty it would be life changing. It magically turned her into a writer and now she has a few collections of poetry published, all by The Hedgehog Poetry Press Recently, she has been a judge for The North Carolina Poetry Society and guest sub-editor for the inaugural issue of The Storms: A journal of prose, poetry and visual art. Her new chapbook, Eight Types of Love, was released in July. Follow her on Twitter @gaynorkane or read more at www.gaynorkane.com
-Dave Garbutt
has been writing poems since he was 17 and has still not learned to give up. His poems have been published in The Brown Envelope Anthology, and magazines (Horizon, Writers & Readers) most recently on XRcreative and forthcoming in the Deronda review. His poem ‘ripped’ was long listed in the Rialto Nature & Place competition 2021. In August 2021 he took part in the Postcard Poetry Festival and the chap book that came from that is available at the postcard festival website. https://ppf.cascadiapoeticslab.org/2021/11/08/dave-garbutt-interview/.
He was born less than a mile from where Keats lived in N London and sometimes describes himself as ‘a failed biologist, like Keats’, in the 70’s he moved to Reading until till moving to Switzerland (in 1994), where he still lives. He has found the time since the pandemic very productive as many workshops and groups opened up to non-locals as they moved to Zoom.
Dave retired from the science and IT world in 2016 and he is active on Twitter, FaceBook, Medium.com, Flickr (he had a solo exhibition of his photographs in March 2017). He leads monthly bird walks around the Birs river in NW Switzerland. His tag is @DavGar51.
-Merril D. Smith
lives in southern New Jersey near the Delaware River. Her poetry has been published in several poetry journals and anthologies, including Black Bough Poetry, Anti-Heroin Chic, Fevers of the Mind, and Nightingale and Sparrow. Her first full-length poetry collection, River Ghosts, is forthcoming from Nightingale & Sparrow Press. Twitter: @merril_mds Instagram: mdsmithnj Website/blog: merrildsmith.com
Indonesian veterans commemorate victims of massacres by the Dutch army in the 1940s in 2013. The Indonesian experience of colonial violence is often overlooked in the Netherlands. © Adek Berry / AFP
The Wombwell Rainbow 