folktober – Dorset Ooser

One of only two known photographs of the original Ooser, taken between 1883 and 1891 by J.W. Chaffins and Sons of Yeovil

The masked one

Look at me in the street and you will see a man as ordinary as can be. You see nobody, nothing of any consequence, no reason to trouble yourself about me. Day and night are such strange characters. It’s not just the absence of light, you know. Though it helps, of course.

Glance upon my countenance tonight and you shall see a god who you will worship if you look at him at all. I guarantee you will not look too closely. You fear that I can see into your soul, strike you dead, or dumb and blind. To cast your eyes upon me is by invitation only. Deities choose whom they are seen by. You will know that is not you.

Yet today, did you think twice before you pushed past the middle aged man, dressed in a conservative fashion. Dressed in costume by day. As he changes into another by night.

Which is the mask you ask yourself, and which is not? And well you may.

Oh come, simpleton! You don’t expect me to answer your question, do you?

-©Ailsa Cawley 2021

By way of introduction, one of Odin’s many by-names is Grímnir (the masked one, the hooded one), another is Grímr (mask). As such, he questions the giants, the etins, the Jötnar , interrogating the great unknowables, in quizzing contests for which the wager is the other’s head. An example of this would be Grímnismál.

Grim

Fire on my sword-hand, fire on my shield,
The cold that runs across my mind
Is not enough. Iron-nerves can melt.
Daring to be dead already may dull the fear.

Immense, the etin imitates the sky.
Knowledge comes from nothing, knowing void.
Thought waits on motion, memory on both.
Odin is the stillest thing, stays curious.

“By what name is it known, among the nine worlds:
The fear in every heart? First among the Jotun,
If you have wisdom words can carry.
Speak so you are heard. Spit is Kvasir’s blessing.”

“The fire is afraid of falling away.
The ice fears inertia; Etin-kind, understanding.
The Vanir make a villain out of virtuous thought.
While the Aesir have no fear, but annihilation.

“Men fear leaving the middle-way,
Women fear their words of command.
The elves fear the other will be lost.
The dead fear nothing: doom is assured.

“Now I have named it, next is yours:
Speak out, hooded one, what holds your fear?”
“I will tell you when tomorrow comes –
This dread, like you, lying dead at my feet.”

-Math Jones 2020

Dorset Ooser

I’m a mask. Two holes for eyes where there
are no eyes. Inside these small spaces is a
larger place where a brain would be where
thinking would take place and a tongue to say

what comes to mind, instead I’m emptiness.
When you wear me I don’t have your brain,
tongue, but you are different more or less
from when you don’t wear me, you’re not the same.

I have horns and a moveable jaw. When
you speak through me, I don’t speak. I always
say nothing. You have all the words to bend
to thoughts I never have. These word ways

are a mystery to me. How am I
speaking now? I’m only a mask. So why?

-Paul Brookes

Bios And Links

-Ailsa Cawley

has been writing stories, poems and verses since she was a child. 
It’s not always what is considered poetry by some, as she isn’t a lover of sweet, schmaltzy rhymes! 
She is currently writing her first novel. A psychological thriller with a paranormal element, and she hopes to bring out a poetry collection one day! 
She lives on the Isle of Skye. While some of her poetry is written from personal experience, others are written from her slightly dark and twisted  imagination. 

Wombwell Book Reviews Schedule

Monday 25th October “When Flora Sings” by @RoyallMargaret Margaret Royall,

Monday 1st November “Photovoltaic” by @philonotis Sarah Watkinson,

Monday 8th November “In The Taxidermist’s House” by Marion Oxley,

Monday 16th November “Waldeinsamkeit” by @liamporter92 Liam Porter,

Monday 22nd November “Samara” by @grahammort Graham Mort

Monday  29th November “A Window of Passing Light” by @KerryDarbishire Kerry Darbishire,

Monday  6th December “That’s Not A Fishing Boat, It’s a Giraffe: Responses to Austerity” by  @IMcMillan Ian McMillan,

Monday 13th December   “The Water Engine” by  @SeaGoatScreams Ankh Spice,

Monday 20th December “Traumatropic Heart” by @S_sanDarlington Susan Darlington

Monday 27th December “Subruria” by Mark Antony Owen

folktober – Mordiford Dragon

Only extant picture of dragon on Mordiford Church

Guess what I saw this morning?

There was a dragon
in the valley, curled
like a white cat:
each scale a pearl;
each breath a cloud
of soft white silk –
’til the whole valley
was a bowl of milk –
as the sun brightens
with the coming day,
such dragons fade.

-Sarah Connor

Day 19 – “Sin Eater”

Picture from https://www.eatsleepliveherefordshire.co.uk/the-history-of-sin-eaters/

Purge

And if it were, as I had prayed,
I’d come away and taken
just a portion of your suffering,

lodged like a barb between my ribs,
or something sly and leathery,
teeth sunk in my neck;

and there had been somehow just
a moment in the storm where
a dove might fly, might call;

and if it had been like that other time,
the demon face in night, laughing
as it thumped into my heart,

taking me instead – I’d drowned it,
like a pig, with tears,
as stories taught to do –

if it had been so, this second time, then
I think the thing that lodged was
only what could find a home. It

was mine as well. Echo thrown
of anguish. I’ve carried it, from you,
from me, and now…

I must prepare a bath. I
shall not drown it this time.
Rather, let it go cleanly into rain.

-Math Jones 2020

The Sin Eater

I am never hungry, unlike so many. Never do I go without humans around me. I am always clothed. 

Yet, I am looked through and receive instructions on where to go, what to eat. I have certainty of the place I will go after I die. 

Unlike you my path takes me to Hell. Repent I hear you call. Except the sins I carry are with me, staining my soul as we speak. I eat and richly, sometimes. It all depends on how much of a confession meal was called for. The food I’ll eat on your behalf so you can get to Heaven. Because I listened to your sins, that nobody knows but me, I will slip into Hell stained forever with your crimes. You will dance in Heaven while I burn. So this sumptuous meal before me could be of a rich man’s table. Some haunch of venison and sweet meats. Rich fruits and wines. The palates of a gentle lady, today. A chunk of bread and bowl of broth tomorrow. It all tastes the same. 

Don’t raise your eyebrows in disbelief. It all tastes of ashes. For I feel myself slipping away day by day. 

Outside of your home, as inside, nobody speaks to me the living, breathing, sin eating ghost. I wander the streets ignored. No one will turn their head in my direction, offer me a smile, or say hello. 

They seem to think I’m both a blessing and a curse. As such their fear of me is palpable. Head’s turn away from me, eyes dart away. They think I can see inside their soul. That my gaze will strike deep into them. I will somehow know their darkest secrets. Some of them have dark things to tell. Some of which I know already. Nobody talks to me, that’s forbidden. But, I listen, I hear everything. I know exactly what people do when they think nobody is watching. 

So, as I wander the streets a living, breathing, cursed ghost I am shunned. Ignored by the people I may have grown up with, had life been different. But life is something not everyone has. Existence is for those of us without choice. 

I wear a band of metal around my neck so everyone knows who I am. I receive messages under cover of darkness. Go to this person who wants you now. Eat their sins so they may make their journey in peace. 

The so called great and good are among the worst sinners. But while there are those like me, condemned and desperate, they will go to their final rest free of their misdeeds. However big. So they believe. I know to say such things is heresy. It’s not as if I live a life of luxury. No husband will ever be mine, no babe will suckle from my breast. 

And still I have harmed none in my poverty. I simply listen, eat and smile. Digesting darkness and debauchery that is fed up with the meal and yet it touches me not. I know what I do is looked upon with disdain. 

Will I need a sin eater, when my time comes? No. Will their sins qualify me for Hell or Heaven. I no longer believe it is the case that listening and eating coats me in guilt. 

But they shall find out when they pass. My voice would not be heard even if I spoke. 

-©Ailsa Cawley 2021

The Sin Eater

As you die I’ll feast on your “Thou shalt nots.”
My fried chips is your Lust for another.
My boiled egg is your Envy of others lot.
Roast beef is your Thieving from your brother.

This lean bacon is your Pride. So proudful.
These baked beans are your endless Gluttony,
Laziness your job, turnip your Slothful.
Salt and pepper Wrath forever angry.

Thankyou to your family and friends pence
and free meal of bread and ale. The rest dream
I dreamt myself with each mouthful. Have sense
shun me now. Your dead Heaven bound serene.

I’ll heft these inside myself. Pale Hunger
my constant friend for a short while longer.

-Paul Brookes

 

Bios And Links

-Math Jones

is London-born, but is now based in Oxford. He has two books published: Sabrina Bridge, a poetry collection, from Black Pear Press (2017), and The Knotsman, a collection of verse, rhyme, prose and poetic monologue, which tell of the life and times of a C17th cunning-man. Much of his verse comes out of mythology and folklore: encounters with the uncanny and unseen. Also, as words written for Pagan ritual or as praise poems for a multitude of goddesses and gods. He is a trained actor and performs his poems widely.

-Ailsa Cawley

has been writing stories, poems and verses since she was a child. 
It’s not always what is considered poetry by some, as she isn’t a lover of sweet, schmaltzy rhymes! 
She is currently writing her first novel. A psychological thriller with a paranormal element, and she hopes to bring out a poetry collection one day! 
She lives on the Isle of Skye. While some of her poetry is written from personal experience, others are written from her slightly dark and twisted  imagination. 

Folktober – 17 “Queen of Elfthame”

From Thomas the Rhymer (retold by Mary MacGregor, 1908), “Under the Eildon tree Thomas met the lady”, illustration by Katherine Cameron

The Queen of Elfthame.

They believe me deluded or evil, yet I know what I saw. Who I saw. Look at them, at all of you who think I made a tale up to walk away from trouble.

Do they think me so stupid as to think that I should live after the words I spoke, and another committed to paper? I am learned in the herbs and you would come to me with your ailments, for your babies arriving, your people departing this would. Book learning, I have no knowledge of. I weigh by eye, measure in pinches and other means.

When you were taught as I was taught, you learn quickly and well. A scholar is not something applied to me, but I’m not a stupid person either.

You, yes you. Why try and pretend you weren’t there? Aye I was the one who came away scarred. Forgetting my learning for a short while. The pain was too great to leave my bed, and yet….

When you have learned at the hand of her, when the gaze has been upon you, that place gets in your very blood. Bleeding a person makes no difference either. She is deeper in me than anything in my lifetime.

I have glanced upon her, vaguely. To look into her eyes can mean your end. How I wish I had done that anyway. Surely it would have been a better end than this?

They keep saying name this one, Alison. Point that one out. Which person told you to do something. Have you met the De’il Alison?

Of course I have you fools. I’ve met him. I’ve danced and made merry. At her behest I learned the herbs to heal. He is not the Grand one you fools are afraid of. It’s a woman I tell you. The Queen of Elfthame is who you should fear. Christsonday is your feared one, yet he has not the power, unless she gives him the right to it.

I Alison, have told you several times and further you torture me. Gasps surpressed when you saw the ribs under my shift, misshapen at her order. A reminder of her power. Yet, still you fear a dancing man. A marionette.

©AilsaCawley2021

Bios And Links

-Ailsa Cawley

has been writing stories, poems and verses since she was a child. 
It’s not always what is considered poetry by some, as she isn’t a lover of sweet, schmaltzy rhymes! 
She is currently writing her first novel. A psychological thriller with a paranormal element, and she hopes to bring out a poetry collection one day! 
She lives on the Isle of Skye. While some of her poetry is written from personal experience, others are written from her slightly dark and twisted  imagination. 

Peg Powler

Photo from Wikipedia

The Siren

Some say don’t look at her. But I’ve been here for three nights and she’s done me no harm. Nor will she. Wrong, all of them, I tell you. 

Tomorrow I go back to sea and I won’t be able to see the maiden for a while. I know she can’t come aboard, that’d be bad luck. Wouldn’t it? 

I’m away three weeks. That’s a long while for a body to not see what he’s become used to. 

I was on the shoreline the other night. And there she was. Watching. A light coming from I don’t know where but it’s a reflection of whatever it is she stands on. Except I can’t see what it is. 

Well, I’ll be honest I’m not exactly looking too closely. But it’s got to be a lamp. Like it’s not nothing she floats upon. Even if it looks like it. 

I’m not as afraid as my shipmates, my uncle, father, brothers. If I told them I was seeing a beautiful woman they’d think the devil was in me. Or that a siren was in me. From what they say these sirens are ugly, with octopus tendrils for hair and dead eyes. 

That’s not my maid at all. She’s beautiful. Perfect. Don’t tell my wife, she’ll only say my heads been turned again, by a bit of pretty. I’m doing nowt wrong, am I? Watching. She’s putting herself on show, when nobody’s there. 

At least, I was the only one who seemed to see her after we fished the other week. 

To bed. I sigh, leaving her perfect form and those eyes of amber behind and I hear her calling me to her. I do. As strongly as you would call me from danger. 

The morning dawns rough, but not too rough to sail. Not too rough to feed our families. 

Skies are dark and foreboding. The rest of them living in their old fears. Scared of shadows. Scared of nothing. 

I know as the waves crash that we’ll be fine. I hear it, the singing, and see her eyes as she beckons me towards her. I am so close that I can only go. The last words I hear as I dive towards her are that it’s my fault that we die today. 

I am willing. 

-Aisla Crawley

Bios And Links

-Ailsa Cawley

has been writing stories, poems and verses since she was a child. 
It’s not always what is considered poetry by some, as she isn’t a lover of sweet, schmaltzy rhymes! 
She is currently writing her first novel. A psychological thriller with a paranormal element, and she hopes to bring out a poetry collection one day! 
She lives on the Isle of Skye. While some of her poetry is written from personal experience, others are written from her slightly dark and twisted  imagination. 

Day Fifteen – Cerne Abbas

The Ballad of the White Horse of Uffington

On Chalking Day we gather round
Our White Horse on the hill- o.
We’ve brought our hammers and our chalk
Packed in buckets fit to spill-o.

Each seven years we scour our Horse,
We whiten up his shape- o.
His arching neck, his comet-tail,
Legs striding to escape-o.

He breaks the spell that ties him here
Beside the ancient track-o,
Then gallops free across the sky,
The sunrise on his back-o.

To Weland’s Smithy off he flies
To see the metal mage-o,
Where magic’s forged and iron’s wrought
And flames twist in a rage-o.

The Smith will shoe him, light and strong
Then he’ll be on his way-o.
He’ll gallop free across the sky
Till sunset ends the day-o.

We’ve scoured our Horse and made him new
We’ve smashed the chalk and spread -o
We’re tired but happy and we know
He’ll guard us in our beds-o.

He is our Horse upon our hill,
To keep him, our endeavour.
Since ancient times he’s shone for us.
He’ll stay with us forever.

-Ann Cuthbert

 

The White Horse of Kilburn

Not calved in chalk hillside
like its southern cousins
by which it was inspired,
but sandstone. An illusion,
though not as you’d think.
Motorists on the A1 were not fooled,
nor passengers in trains to Scotland
and the North. It could have stayed
a grey stallion or beige mare,
but instead must be covered
with limestone from the distant Wolds
from where you can see it
on clear days. The work of a local
businessman and a schoolmaster,
did they imagine how hard
it would be to whitewash or paint,
that it would have to be hidden
in wartime, masked from German bombers?

We walk to its head
not to admire it, but rather the view
from the bench at the top of
the steps, strangely not spoilt
by power station chimneys.
In summer we may
pick bilberries along the way.
There are always gliders,
once a display of birds of prey,
and very often people we know.

-Peter J Donnelly

A Cerne Abbas Giant

Once fully clothed, a cape over my left
arm whose hand carried a head by its hair,
a knobbly cudgel in my right I heft.
Soon my carried head and cape is not there.

And someone carves an erect appendage.
First a stubby thing then made to include
my belly button. I reflect this age.
My chalk refreshed regularly. A prude

I can’t be. Once they hid, tried to get rid
of this added bit. Now all is brightened.
I’m cared for, watched over, weathered, In spit
and shine, folk climb me, perhaps enlightened.

I’m what you make of me, you fetch yourself,
and all you’ve been through, your wealth.

-Paul Brookes

Bios And Links

-Ann Cuthbert

writes and performs, usually with the TWP (Tees Women Poets) Collective. Her work has been widely published both online and in print, most recently in The Alchemy Spoon, Dreich anthologies, Amethyst Review and Green Ink Poetry. She was also recently Highly Commended in the 2021 YorkMix Poems for Children competition. Her chapbook Watching a Heron with Davey is published by Black Light Engine Room Press. She tweets @Ann CUTHBERT5.

-Peter J Donnelly

lives in York where he works as a hospital secretary. He has been published in various magazines and anthologies. He recently came second in the Ripon Poetry Festival competition.