Extracts from Issue I



Witch            Alchemical Art        And Finally...

 

Witch

Fiery deep red hair flows like a bonfire
Plaids of black linen
Shadow the agile limbs
Of womanhood’s darkest secrets
She glances round
Her green eyes switch
Like a flash across her mascara
The paint of mystery
He surveys half-hungry
But made more alive than ever
Her white, pale white skin
For this is how it has always been
Her secretive dark mysticism
His desire from the material world
To understand
And therefore crush her womanhood
She looks
But does not betray her thoughts
He fantasises a love he cannot have
For she is woman
Whose red fire will blaze in passion
Underneath the stars
When the moon is full
And paints black the brown trees
And when she loves
She will scream and scratch
And kill the very essence
Of this mortal man
Who gives his tender love
For she is guilt
Drowned and drowned again
And burned, burned in her fire
For she will rise and rise
She, the unknown
Will stir in every man
Fear and lust of the night
He turns his attention
She gets on like all women do
And they quickly forget
This meeting of mystical and material worlds

Brendan Moohan


Alchemical Art

I have danced the steps of pity’s woeful tune for too long
Now as the sun’s warm rays fade from my face
And inner anguish replaces my once calm gaze
No tearful laments do I cry
Or dream of how sweet it is to die
But can only think, ‘I had to try!’

This world is an artist’s easel and we the paint
Splashed on canvas at random
Or as part of a greater design
To express that inner joy we call love
Whose velvet touch enlightens us from above
And lets us know how unique we are
As precious as the brightest star.

I have passed beyond my wildest dreams
As my soul ascends to heaven
My body sinks into the black earth
Until the sun’s heat consumes the atoms to the core
A new truth is born to task the imagination of man
And bend his mind into a bow
That shoots forth an arrow
To eternity.

Jim Sinclair


And Finally …

Once the last poem has been
written, read and hidden away
in the pages of a virgin diary
I will reclaim the Rights of Man:
Life, Liberty and the Long Lie,
free of words at last.

My sleep will be dreamless
and the ache of moonrise,
it will pass unheeded.
Let me wake to a silent dawn,
perfect as a white page,
and, should I see the sunset,
let it be in wordless wonder.

No longer will I play the poet,
the one-eyed cat bewildered
by a beelzebuzz of flies,
I will lay waste the garden,
build a concrete paradise
and dance
to the rattle of dead poems.

I would make a desert
and call it peace.
But why should I pour
good sweat after bad
in this poison orchard?
Let it fester to jungle.
I will snap the chain
slip the leash
make the break
now.

Two steps beyond the wire,
I heard the call
and I slunk back
to pick up spade and hoe,
rake and reaping-hook,
pen and workbook.

Poets
aren’t those
who make poetry,
they’re those
who need to
knowing
you don’t
escape this lady;
she escapes you.

Mike Dillon