‘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. 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).
oddly deformed into heart-shaped suitor’s rose bud As I wandered the windswept hills I chanced upon a timeworn redoubt Cloaked in a brooding bramble veil Clutching its secrets tightly within From behind whose dour shoulders Emanated a soft, mellifluous voice Like the expectancy of springtime But the walls were tall and barbed Engrailed with the cruelest thorns But the Orphean tones of the voice Compelled my captivated thoughts To see who was ensconced therein So, I fought past the wicked thorns And scaled the treacherous height And when I reached the top at last I gazed down into a secret garden Where you waited amid the flowers Smiling as if you had expected me atop the rock wall dripping with bog water the Frog Prince NOTE: Unitalicised text is the work of Edward Cates. Italicised text is the work of Anna Cates. About the authors:
The late Edward Dana Cates (2/23/69-11/12/23) was a disabled househusband and writer/poet from Seymour, Indiana. He attended George Fox University and served on Deviant Art’s literature committee, where he acquired many mutual fans and friends. The original versions of his poems are fully illustrated a viewable at his online gallery: https://www.deviantart.com/barosus/gallery. 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. Doth write to thy heart's content- dare I,
Maketh thy nation a safe place to speak. Command thy people I beg thee, Doth not rede then; "How to love a nation thee?" Bestow upon us the key, Maketh thy people free. Mouths turn'd mute whilst hearts grown cold, stoned in fear.a Grace- Sire! Feel us thy people, See us thy people, Pity! Hath not? All this but a plea, For a soul shall perish lest free, Mercy- Sire! ---- *Note: My heart sings through letters. When everywhere is dark & silent - birds have slept in their nest, men have gone to the heaven, sky has been covered by the black cloud with little ashes, animals have taken a rest from hunting, eyes have left the watching mouthes have stopped the talking, legs & hands have hidden their appearances, noises are no where to be found, talk to me then _ I will be waiting for your call beside the river Where I could hear your voice like that flow of water Let us meet in the night, when we could hear our voices loudly & clearly. About the author:
Imam Sarafadeen is a Nigerian poet and writer with a passion for poetry and other literary genres. His works centers on grief, love, and nature and his works have appeared and are forthcoming in Poetry Soup, Baskadia, Words Rhymes & Rhythm, Sychronized Chaos, Academy of heart and mind, Poetry Planet and elsewhere. Sarafadeen is currently studying the English Language at Usmanu Danfodiyo University, Sokoto, Sokoto State. Nigeria. He is Imam Sarafadeen on Facebook and 11bamikale on both Twitter & Instagram. Let us hold men in our hands to feel their rough edges between our fingers, and massages their temper before we misunderstand. let us have them submit to our attention and call that moment the vibes, so their inner voice will speak through puffing cigars and the smell of intoxicated pores through thick skins. let us speak to them in silence since they already know the meaning of that word but not in the shape and form of poetry, let them know that giants cannot crush the rain with bare hands or sweep away the river with their lashes. let them know that it is ok to empty the soul in front of the universe for all to see and release the clogged tunnel in their veins, let them know that petals bleed when no one is looking but birds and butterflies will know. About the author:
Fadrian Bartley is a creative writer from Kingston Jamaican, his poetry is available in journals and online web magazines such as mixedmag.com. Pif-Magazine. The-horrzinemagazine.com Bloodmoonrising.com, and Festivalforpoetry.com. Fadrian is currently pursuing his degree as a freelance writer, his inspiration comes from within and continuously opening new pages to begin a new chapter. |
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