‘Downe in the bottome of the deepe Abysse/ Where Demogorgon in dull darknesse pent,/ Farre from the view of Gods and heauens blis,/ The hideous Chaos keepes, their dreadfull dwelling is’ from The Faerie Queene by Edmund Spenser. She’s finding the pattern in empty packets of crisps across the living room floor. There’s a river running through a valley between mountains of pizza boxes, a waterfall over rocks of scattered shoes. She’s not going anywhere but here is the world in miniature. One day (soon) she’ll gather it all up, put it on a boat and sail this Italy and the Alps all the way to the tip. Then the room will be the Gobi desert, lizards hiding away during the day but chasing spiders and scorpions throughout the night. She doesn’t feel ready for that yet, adds an empty sweet wrapper. She knows you can’t step in the same river twice, and as soon as the river meets the sea, there’s a reckoning. First she’ll watch how silver foil glints in the midday sun. About the author:
Hannah Linden has struggled with depression and anxiety most of her life. She’s a survivor of multiple traumas, including the suicide of her father when she was a child. Her poetry explores many kinds of impact from mental health challenges and she is particularly interested in the way trauma, and the experience of marginalisation, is explored in folklore and fairy tale, in both negative and positive ways. She has a Northern working-class background but, for many years, has lived in ramshackle social housing in Devon. She is widely published and, most recently, won the Cafe Writers Poetry Competition 2021, and was Highly Commended in the Wales Poetry Award 2021. Her debut pamphlet, The Beautiful Open Sky, (V. Press) was shortlisted for the Saboteur Award for Best Poetry Pamphlet 2023. X: @hannahl1n
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Beauty is a simple passion, but, oh my friends, in the end . . . —Anne Sexton Do not doubt me. Magic mirrors never lie. And do not try to break me. Magic mirrors never crack. But you will reap the seven years bad luck just the same. Controversial though I am, most of what you see in me is just your own reflection. Yet you are more transparent than you think, albeit rippled. Indeed, I am no omniscient god. On some days, cloudy skies shed no color on the waters. And some pools are murky, bogs heaven-laden with frogs . . . In the end, I could barely discern her, the troubled queen, hidden behind her demon, Arabesque. Lightning strikes where it will. I am but an interpreter of shadows. better a mile in ruby slippers . . . red hot iron shoes About the author:
Dr. Anna Cates teaches writing, literature, and education online and has published a variety of books (poetry, fiction, and drama) through www.cyberwit.net, prolificpress.com, redmoonpress.com, and wipfandstock.com. Her full-length poetry collection, Love in the Time of Covid, won an Illumination Book Award. She resides in Wilmington, Ohio with her two cats. The poisoned apple was her idea. She shunned her angel side and hooked up with a demon. In scarlet silks she loitered in the cellar, dungeoned herself like the doomed, whorled up frothy potions, cast spells that stained her dainty fingers black and blue. Yet the princess returned with a prince! After that, nothing I said could appease her. She tried to break me, hurling a wine goblet at her reflection. But when that failed-- for magic mirrors never break just as true as magic mirrors never lie—she threatened to toss herself from the balcony. I summoned a premonition into view: her body, warped and twisted in the weeds, devoured by death like Jezebel’s dogs. “What end could be worse than that?” she snapped and locked the door of her bower. a lover all in green-- the hounds smiling About the author:
Dr. Anna Cates teaches writing, literature, and education online and has published a variety of books (poetry, fiction, and drama) through www.cyberwit.net, prolificpress.com, redmoonpress.com, and wipfandstock.com. Her full-length poetry collection, Love in the Time of Covid, won an Illumination Book Award. She resides in Wilmington, Ohio with her two cats. A road seldom trod takes you somewhere strange. A shooting star, smoking in your hand, lights the woodland path, portends your axe will soon drip blood. Beyond the pine trail bobs a red hibiscus hood-- grasped in her fleshy grip, a wicker basket, wafting freshly baked bread; some would simply huff, “obese.” And yet, you know these miles too well, smell a wolf, suspect his wiles . . . Through the windowpane of the crone’s cottage, a candle flares. You limp forward, confound the old wound, fog up the glass as you peer in. There, mostly covered by a quilt, too, too much hair! That wicked goat! You splinter the door. Your blade flies through the air. Peculiar deliverer, like a fish gutter, so clever, you free her, free her! wood smoke ghosting the tarn hunter’s moon About the author:
Dr. Anna Cates teaches writing, literature, and education online and has published a variety of books (poetry, fiction, and drama) through www.cyberwit.net, prolificpress.com, redmoonpress.com, and wipfandstock.com. Her full-length poetry collection, Love in the Time of Covid, won an Illumination Book Award. She resides in Wilmington, Ohio with her two cats. May I get a boat to send the e-mail
To knock on the door of the address of the hospital? Goes here and there with the request, the depression And finds a lot of dry pin codes. It gets confused And fails to send the e-mails But starts the journey, the scribble. And none knows what will happen. But I do not go far beyond the fragrance of mother. A rainbow emerges from the blackened sky
My senses are awakened like an explosion of skittles A man calls out to me and says Why are you so shy? I reply I am autistic and I dribble like the river spittles A tall tree trembles as my thoughts triangulate the footpath Theres a cormorant fishing in the river Its wings flap feverishly as if having a bath A group of people walk towards me and I quiver The sign just ahead indicates a bird hide I look out from the hut at the delightful ducks dancing I wish I could be an animal and reside At every corner I walk along there are people prancing To immerse myself in the water blue and grass so green It is my dream to live a life so serene A curse is far more potent than a wish; a mirrored surface, tarnished with regret. You cannot counter misery with bliss when treatment is a thinly-veiled threat. A curse is envy in another guise; a copper-coated weight inside your gut. Sometimes the absence is the greater prize and that which once was open must be shut. A curse can be a masquerade of hope: a shifting silver slither of belief. We are the patterns in kaleidoscopes; we twist and turn to circumvent our grief. Infinity is malice, only worse. A lie provides the kindness in a curse. Originally published as part of the 28SonnetsLater poetry project in 2019.
The clamouring of rooks among the trees reminds me of the sirens on the shore, whose raucous songs were blatant augury, of omens too pernicious to ignore. The scream of sirens on the motorway remind me of the sirens on the shore: a devastating ending to the day. Those birds will seek the car-crash carrion. The scream of sirens on the motorway – a call as bright and clear as clarion – inviting us to seek our own demise. Those birds will seek the car-crash carrion: like Erysichthon, nothing satisfies the calling void. Obsession quantified, inviting us to seek our own demise. The war inside my head is amplified; the clamouring of rooks among the trees. The calling void, obsession quantified, whose raucous songs are blatant augury. Originally published in Fragmented Voices in 2021.
Of course, we knew that they existed – in picture books and fairy tales – but when we finally dredged one up from the depths we were more than a little surprised. She was nothing like we imagined: no flowing golden hair and sun-kissed skin. No silvery voice or wide submissive eyes. No pert little breasts modestly shielded from sight behind a seashell bra. No, she was nothing like we imagined: All iridescent scales crusted with barnacles; matted seaweed-frond hair and a voice like a hurricane. Gills and teeth and spines; more monster than maiden. She was fascinating – but she would never make the cover of a magazine. Still, we lapped up every TV interview, documentary and podcast, every forward-thinking think-piece, and long-form feminist essay. And, when one Saturday morning TV presenter broached the question of her appearance, we held our breath… She said: My body carries me across oceans and through storms. My body can withstand the pressure of five thousand fathoms of seawater and swim for six miles without rest. My body has borne me children and survived the sharks and sea monsters of this world. My body is my instrument; my body is my weapon. My body is exactly what I need it to be. It may not be perfect but I am not afraid of it, because my body is beautiful.” Soon, models were walking the runways wearing artificial gills, and young men and women were saving up to have scales surgically implanted under their skin. Green hair dye sold out in shops and swimming pool salesman struggled to meet the demand. People prayed for gills and teeth and spines. The mermaid – realising that humanity had almost entirely missed the point – returned to the sea. Originally published in Leanne Moden's collection Get Over Yourself (Burning Eye Books: 2020).
The bright colours of a seaside variety dotted on beach huts stretch out behind me. The smattering of rain strives to deter their charm and attraction. Today, thoughts cry. The sand dilutes. With stress, fragments and words from my pen fray. The pavement weeps, and it distracts my eyes. Shoulders knot. The sun collides. The sea falls short. Tomorrow, attentiveness will win. A visit here will champion. Clothes will lead. Colours share. Stages glow. The wind will rejoice. The song will saunter. Loneliness will dwindle. About the author:
Kay Medway works full-time in a library. Kay writes poetry in her free time and had a poem for children in The Dirigible Balloon's Chasing Clouds anthology to raise funds for The National Literacy Trust. |
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