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I'm doing 30 days of a spirituality, witchie, whathaveyou blog. If I like it after 30 days, I'll do another 30.
https://witchandworld.wordpress.com/2018/08/18/not-toughing-it-out/
https://witchandworld.wordpress.com/2018/08/18/not-toughing-it-out/
NaPoWriMo 2018 Day 9
Apr. 24th, 2018 02:15 pmDark purple swirling
in the cauldron,
with the air of cinnamon rising.
Grape juice spiced,
lapping widdershins
over low orange flames.
Chant ladled in
along with rind,
and sugar to further sweeten
the spell.
How to know the right moment,
when the potion is set?
Images come and go
in the liquid:
dolphin diving,
swimming.
When it rises, first in imagination,
then in steam,
we drink from a silver chalice,
asking Apollo for inspiration.
Dear Real Toads, and others:
DreamWidth has made it impossible to comment on my posts, unless you join DW, so I understand how frustrating it is for you to not be able to join the fun here. Nevertheless, when I have a moment, I am reading your posts.
Apologies that this poem is so late to the party. The lead-up to my book launch is crazy, and my time is being stolen by book gypsies, family gypsies, and short story gypsies.
in the cauldron,
with the air of cinnamon rising.
Grape juice spiced,
lapping widdershins
over low orange flames.
Chant ladled in
along with rind,
and sugar to further sweeten
the spell.
How to know the right moment,
when the potion is set?
Images come and go
in the liquid:
dolphin diving,
swimming.
When it rises, first in imagination,
then in steam,
we drink from a silver chalice,
asking Apollo for inspiration.
Dear Real Toads, and others:
DreamWidth has made it impossible to comment on my posts, unless you join DW, so I understand how frustrating it is for you to not be able to join the fun here. Nevertheless, when I have a moment, I am reading your posts.
Apologies that this poem is so late to the party. The lead-up to my book launch is crazy, and my time is being stolen by book gypsies, family gypsies, and short story gypsies.
NaPoWriMo 2018 Day 8
Apr. 9th, 2018 01:21 pmRhyme scheme: a, b, c, d, e, f, g, f.
Rhyme... ugh. Well, okay.
Making Magic Anywhere
Herbs to strengthen, boost, clear:
into the tea egg, into the cup.
Colour comes to the boiling water.
I stir counter-clockwise
to follow the sun's path.
Later, herbs into the garden bed
with the wish to bless and nourish.
My vegetables blessed, and well fed.
Thanks to any Real Toads reading. I'm sorry DreamWidth makes it so darned difficult to comment if you're not a member. I am reading your poems, inbetween madly proof reading my new book, and preparing for its launch.
4 stanzas? No hope. I'm thankful I got this skerrick.
Rhyme... ugh. Well, okay.
Making Magic Anywhere
Herbs to strengthen, boost, clear:
into the tea egg, into the cup.
Colour comes to the boiling water.
I stir counter-clockwise
to follow the sun's path.
Later, herbs into the garden bed
with the wish to bless and nourish.
My vegetables blessed, and well fed.
Thanks to any Real Toads reading. I'm sorry DreamWidth makes it so darned difficult to comment if you're not a member. I am reading your poems, inbetween madly proof reading my new book, and preparing for its launch.
4 stanzas? No hope. I'm thankful I got this skerrick.
NaPoWriMo 2018 Day 7
Apr. 9th, 2018 01:10 pmThis prompt is a photo: Self Portrait by El Lizzitzky
Hand to eye coordination develops in the young.
I watch my grandchildren conquer catching a ball,
picking up toys, then spoons, then grains of rice,
willing their hands to push a pencil
where they want it to go.
A newer skill of my own:
point my index finger,
and will myself to see
light stream forth.
I turn in a circle.
The energy spreads out, above, below
until I am within an egg.
None of flesh shall pass here,
as I work a sigil into being.
The power of my hands to create,
the power of my eyes to see
what is unseen,
the power of my mind to hold it all.
My granddaughter grabs an egg-shaped crayon
made for her little hand,
and dashes it on paper.
Her own sigils,
telling the world she is here
in colour and depth.
We make our magic
with mind, eye, and hand.
Hand to eye coordination develops in the young.
I watch my grandchildren conquer catching a ball,
picking up toys, then spoons, then grains of rice,
willing their hands to push a pencil
where they want it to go.
A newer skill of my own:
point my index finger,
and will myself to see
light stream forth.
I turn in a circle.
The energy spreads out, above, below
until I am within an egg.
None of flesh shall pass here,
as I work a sigil into being.
The power of my hands to create,
the power of my eyes to see
what is unseen,
the power of my mind to hold it all.
My granddaughter grabs an egg-shaped crayon
made for her little hand,
and dashes it on paper.
Her own sigils,
telling the world she is here
in colour and depth.
We make our magic
with mind, eye, and hand.
NaPoWriMo Day 6 2018
Apr. 9th, 2018 12:59 pmMadly catching up on prompts from the Real Toads mob. Day 6: Today, let’s travel back in time, to feudal times in China, which began with the Xia dynasty in 2070 B.C., ending with the Revolution of 1911. In those times, girls and women, whose feet were usually bound, were oppressed, often living circumscribed lives of isolation.
In the Hunan province, peasant women developed a secret language of female writing, called nu shu. A young girl was matched with a lifelong best friend, or soul sister, called her laotang, with whom she communicated by letter.
Sometimes these messages were inscribed on fans, which were passed back and forth. It was not until the 1960’s that this secret language of women drew the interest of the authorities and scholars.
The story of one of these captivating relationships is told in the book by Lisa See, and the film Snow Flower and the Secret Fan.
Our exercise is to write a poem in the voice of another: in this case, the voice of a woman living in feudal times, addressing her laotang,
Or,
Write from the point of view of any living creature. The canvas is wide. Amaze me!
Sister, across the valley,
sister across the river,
sisters all spread through the land,
I write this in secret,
so that when the townsmen come for me
they won't think to burn the wooden stakes
that hold up my runner beans.
I will be gone to the stake,
to the wooden door laden with stones,
the ducking stool and the ice-riddled pond.
They know of me,
but none of you.
They will burn my broom,
but it has new straw.
Find the old in with the goat;
you will know it by touch.
It will sing to your fingers.
My shadow book is scratched
onto stones beneath the oak.
My cat is in the forest,
but comes to the sound of spoon on dish.
Find them, sisters,
find them, keep them.
Keep yourselves safe.
Burn these stakes to be sure.
Stay silent, as I will be
after today.
Many thanks to those reading, even if DreamWidth makes it difficult to comment. Be assured that I'm reading your poetry, inbetween madly proof reading my new book, and preparing not only for the launch, but travel shortly afterwards. Thankyou, Toads.
In the Hunan province, peasant women developed a secret language of female writing, called nu shu. A young girl was matched with a lifelong best friend, or soul sister, called her laotang, with whom she communicated by letter.
Sometimes these messages were inscribed on fans, which were passed back and forth. It was not until the 1960’s that this secret language of women drew the interest of the authorities and scholars.
The story of one of these captivating relationships is told in the book by Lisa See, and the film Snow Flower and the Secret Fan.
Our exercise is to write a poem in the voice of another: in this case, the voice of a woman living in feudal times, addressing her laotang,
Or,
Write from the point of view of any living creature. The canvas is wide. Amaze me!
Sister, across the valley,
sister across the river,
sisters all spread through the land,
I write this in secret,
so that when the townsmen come for me
they won't think to burn the wooden stakes
that hold up my runner beans.
I will be gone to the stake,
to the wooden door laden with stones,
the ducking stool and the ice-riddled pond.
They know of me,
but none of you.
They will burn my broom,
but it has new straw.
Find the old in with the goat;
you will know it by touch.
It will sing to your fingers.
My shadow book is scratched
onto stones beneath the oak.
My cat is in the forest,
but comes to the sound of spoon on dish.
Find them, sisters,
find them, keep them.
Keep yourselves safe.
Burn these stakes to be sure.
Stay silent, as I will be
after today.
Many thanks to those reading, even if DreamWidth makes it difficult to comment. Be assured that I'm reading your poetry, inbetween madly proof reading my new book, and preparing not only for the launch, but travel shortly afterwards. Thankyou, Toads.
NaPoWriMo 5 2018
Apr. 9th, 2018 12:46 pmToday's prompt, courtesy of Real Toads in Imaginary Gardens is to do with weather.
Halfway around the world,
morning becomes yesterday's afternoon,
winter to summer,
Wombat State Forest exchanged
for Stonehenge in rain.
The women invoking Earth, Air and Fire:
serious, focussed, full of intent
to make this a peak holy experience.
Aussies all, chilled in the English dawn,
that we can't see anyway
because grey cloud lets down grey rain
onto grey bluestone,
brown ground.
I laugh, a crazy woman
for I am the Water quarter,
and it invokes me
down my neck,
into my boots,
inside my glasses,
a torrent cheerfully washing me clean
of any illusions that I am in charge.
"Water, well, here it is!" I shout,
to the disgust of all
who have come for this moment
inside the stone circle.
They stretch their senses to the limits
to feel whatever the sarsens have for them,
while I bend at the waist
(creating a waterfall off my rain-hat)
and lick the nearest standing stone.
It tastes of moss and the past.
Thankyou to anyone who is reading this poem. I didn't realise how difficult DreamWidth made it to comment if you weren't a member. Sorry. But rest assured that I'm reading your work (inbetween madly proofing my new book of short stories, and preparing for its launch in May), if you're with Real Toads. Thanks again.
Halfway around the world,
morning becomes yesterday's afternoon,
winter to summer,
Wombat State Forest exchanged
for Stonehenge in rain.
The women invoking Earth, Air and Fire:
serious, focussed, full of intent
to make this a peak holy experience.
Aussies all, chilled in the English dawn,
that we can't see anyway
because grey cloud lets down grey rain
onto grey bluestone,
brown ground.
I laugh, a crazy woman
for I am the Water quarter,
and it invokes me
down my neck,
into my boots,
inside my glasses,
a torrent cheerfully washing me clean
of any illusions that I am in charge.
"Water, well, here it is!" I shout,
to the disgust of all
who have come for this moment
inside the stone circle.
They stretch their senses to the limits
to feel whatever the sarsens have for them,
while I bend at the waist
(creating a waterfall off my rain-hat)
and lick the nearest standing stone.
It tastes of moss and the past.
Thankyou to anyone who is reading this poem. I didn't realise how difficult DreamWidth made it to comment if you weren't a member. Sorry. But rest assured that I'm reading your work (inbetween madly proofing my new book of short stories, and preparing for its launch in May), if you're with Real Toads. Thanks again.
NaPoWriMo 2018 Day 4
Apr. 4th, 2018 05:00 pmWhich Witch?
I am one of the three
who trod Macbeth's blasted heath,
although these days,
it's the Australian couch grass
dry under me,
and my cauldron contains fire,
not toe of dog,
which I know, as an educated witch,
is hounds tongue, pest species of plant.
I am the one from the gingerbread house,
but mine's disguised by brown brick,
and red tile roof.
My oven doesn't work,
and it would be quite a job for anyone
to climb onto the stove,
wedge inside, and bake till crisp.
I eat fat little books,
and lie in wait for story ideas to trip past
after being lost in the suburban streets.
I am Willow who makes the world over,
letting a curlicue of magic into the Bible belt,
and tie-dye drift past the nursing homes.
I am Sabrina,
endlessly learning, studying,
but there are no aunts I can apprentice to,
only books, libraries, and the internet.
I have been Maiden, and Mother.
I am Enchantress.
I am Wise Woman, Healer,
Seer, Shaman.
I dance the world into being,
write it true,
set it free to Become as it will.
I have held newborns, labouring mothers,
the dying, and the dead.
Too many roles to name,
to conjure to a list.
I am a wind chime,
each facet ringing in turn.
I am one of the three
who trod Macbeth's blasted heath,
although these days,
it's the Australian couch grass
dry under me,
and my cauldron contains fire,
not toe of dog,
which I know, as an educated witch,
is hounds tongue, pest species of plant.
I am the one from the gingerbread house,
but mine's disguised by brown brick,
and red tile roof.
My oven doesn't work,
and it would be quite a job for anyone
to climb onto the stove,
wedge inside, and bake till crisp.
I eat fat little books,
and lie in wait for story ideas to trip past
after being lost in the suburban streets.
I am Willow who makes the world over,
letting a curlicue of magic into the Bible belt,
and tie-dye drift past the nursing homes.
I am Sabrina,
endlessly learning, studying,
but there are no aunts I can apprentice to,
only books, libraries, and the internet.
I have been Maiden, and Mother.
I am Enchantress.
I am Wise Woman, Healer,
Seer, Shaman.
I dance the world into being,
write it true,
set it free to Become as it will.
I have held newborns, labouring mothers,
the dying, and the dead.
Too many roles to name,
to conjure to a list.
I am a wind chime,
each facet ringing in turn.
NaPoWriMo 2018 Day 2
Apr. 3rd, 2018 03:43 pmOnly a second to transform my own image
from odd girl
to witch.
Books unlocked her from the oven,
the cupboard, from the deep, dark woods.
She took my place in suburbia,
a cauldron for belly,
a hearthfire for heart,
a spitting black cat of a mind.
I Became,
spell by spell,
now that I had a name to call myself;
a regard for the Moon that went beyond
astronomy and science.
As the natural and unnatural world grew my backbone,
shaped me curved and sharp,
so those old Phoenician and Aramaic slopes and bowls
gave me what I’d hungered for:
a label, an understanding, something to believe in.
from odd girl
to witch.
Books unlocked her from the oven,
the cupboard, from the deep, dark woods.
She took my place in suburbia,
a cauldron for belly,
a hearthfire for heart,
a spitting black cat of a mind.
I Became,
spell by spell,
now that I had a name to call myself;
a regard for the Moon that went beyond
astronomy and science.
As the natural and unnatural world grew my backbone,
shaped me curved and sharp,
so those old Phoenician and Aramaic slopes and bowls
gave me what I’d hungered for:
a label, an understanding, something to believe in.
NaPoWriMo 1
Apr. 1st, 2018 07:21 pmFirst
Hard to say where;
choose your own beginning,
calendar, moon phase, zodiac,
or when day and night are contracted cold and even,
and plan your year from there.
My year kicks off in football season,
Aussie Rules in July,
a blue and white striped scarf.
On my altar, the black and white
of time in balance.
From now on,
longer days, the sun closing in,
ground softening ready for seed.
A cold winter of reading,
my own mind-field seasoned
and ready for the coming water-flow
Spring of words,
as the black candle burns to a nub,
and I add a fresh white taper to the holder.
Hard to say where;
choose your own beginning,
calendar, moon phase, zodiac,
or when day and night are contracted cold and even,
and plan your year from there.
My year kicks off in football season,
Aussie Rules in July,
a blue and white striped scarf.
On my altar, the black and white
of time in balance.
From now on,
longer days, the sun closing in,
ground softening ready for seed.
A cold winter of reading,
my own mind-field seasoned
and ready for the coming water-flow
Spring of words,
as the black candle burns to a nub,
and I add a fresh white taper to the holder.
