the stolen poem winter 2011 by The Stolen Poem

The stolen poem winter 2011

Bruce C Mitchell – Mystic Lady – Marian Webb – Yolanda Mora – Skuld – Rebecca Kylie Law – Sean Reddan – Maurice Bartels – Aydan Kilinç.

The Stolen Poem

Winter 2011

Sean Reddan

Bruce C Mitchell

Mystic Lady

Marian Webb

Yolanda Mora

Translations

Rebecca Kylie Law

Maurice Bartels

Aydan Kilinรง

Skuld

7, 54, 63, 105 3

Witchcraft and sorcery

by Skuld.

♦Ð♦

SEAN REDDAN

3, by Sean Reddan

decade girl

her sunglasses were cape town style resting on her forehead not an easy way to stare into the light but easy to see, easy on the eye

sun chaser dressed in 70's denim bangles and a surfer tat was a decade girl a lover in all seasons as the shore rises to greet slipping, sliding, sea sand feet

children of the revolution came out of the beat box and that took us back but we swore never to return to littlehood, destitute girl next door was a princess and we danced, we prayed

but neither of us had reached divinity yet and the pictures in our lockets were the gods around our necks heave and sigh and your adolescent breasts

and we pillaged your brother's stash his herbs and albums and other trash and smoked matches when desperate sucked in the sulphur at the strike it was a wonder we didn't die just got drunk and got high life and at a blink, the night

and babe i haven't seen you for such a long time and babe remember how we cried and held hands and laughed in our desert town hideaway so gone, it takes me back years

but girl you haven't changed still a tomboy, how we fought but you gave me your jackie mags pride of place amongst stolen memories and i read about the jam, generation x and the pistols too

and i recall you said they were cute but i had my eyes on bowie on your wall lips on teenage kisses, blown but too close to look and comfort and ears on the impending storms in your floyd and tull albums, yeah

never a tear, never to cry i'll see you in years to come again, girl decade girl and we'll talk about another time another place and we'll know, we touch and we know, we'll remain

her sunglasses were cape town style lowered now reflecting water and memory not an easy way to stare into the soul never to be alone but a silhouette, as we walk away, walk away

isolation 12

february (for stacy anderson welch) i give you these words that is all i can do you’re invincible you never happened those things to you you’ll still fly, you know you can’t be defeated by routine wheels of circumstance they don’t turn and twist anymore even though they may on the wings of a mare remind you of once it is through a haze of daybreak that positive things radiate and then the pincushion of pain subsides and deflates although it cries your name often your hands beat it away your arms hold on tightly to breath your heart screams integrity brilliance your temple

is strengthened through battle hardened tangible desire for the now and strong power lust for life which is always like the rain and air, alive

like bodies is it the bones at the side of the road the silent and ageing stones that stop you from stopping that hold your stare as you hurry past is it the knowing that once they held a man erect in a war torn world is it the knowledge that you could be staring into the future the way you read about the past and how it often becomes dark and cold overnight when the candles are left in neat rows and stacks like bodies in a morgue of compassion and nobody moves or speaks just to stay warm in fear comforted by doing nothing wrong comforted by doing nothing at all

like a knife i pick up the pen heavy like lead i circle the knuckles on my right hand in black i have a red but i used it all up on my left wrist like a knife mere ink yet the lines remain i change hands and with my right i cross out all flesh scars leaving only trembling angry intense white scarred, hurt, tears welling up blue veins that don't run metaphorically but literally to the heart, with my fist i hit the wall i might break a bone or two but i write with my left hand, right? and i spill blood 16

poetess your anguished countenance rises from the makeshift pages and remembers through my eyes the stanza i am on a funeral song a hymn to lost love and days verse of time twine a stay without end unrhymed incomplete your arms of times past reach over and cover my tears my fading eyes nod and acknowledge comfort of a sort looking backwards i realise that if the blade which penetrates your writerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s wrists doesnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t offer blood it must mean that you are immortal and that your words still gush through chapters waiting to be born and then could you let me into your sad confessions as a living poetess

could you turn wine into water if i was dying of thirst and pierced by vestiges of history unclaimed by scribes reaching in the virginal now when you get down on your knees to praise the gods of eternity celebrated poets victors of the fountain pen sipping from their ink would you still act like a lady and if you did my friend would you still be unknown?

Mother and Son

wireless you move frequency to frequency satellite to satellite bar to twist twist to turn turn to jive shimmy to techno ballads left out like an unobserved star child hopeful to find playing in your ears an earth melody a simple love song but even the static coming from the impersonal speakers between breaks between beats is out of tune wireless breathless from inaction but sore heels you scan the chairs for a non-pair and pick up an empty seat out of the groove and shy now a timid warrior on the dance floor of loneliness a lifetime of nights spent in routine you look down you look away afraid of anybody breaking your heart

with an unfamiliar touch a look of mistaken identity and then walking soon to be rejoined by a set of fixated limbs back into the distant music distorted inviting so warm disregarding the slow kiss moves the laughter the expressions so warm playing on another planet you only visit as one you finally get up to leave, there's a radio whispering your name and a pair of slippers at home

Second reflection

sean reddan is a self-taught visual artist, writer, photographer and spoken word artist. from south africa originally he now lives in ireland, where he has been for the past ten years. sean paints mostly with acrylics, but also does collage and uses other methods including watercolours and recently oil paints in his artwork.

his paintings have been called energetic, bold, colourful and spiritual. this is also reflected in his writing which ranges from social observation to personal reflection. currently sean is writing his second novel and looking for a publisher for his first. he is also hoping to publish a few collections of his poetry. www.facebook.com/seanreddanartist www.myspace.com/seanreddanartist

BRUCE C MITCHELL

Ola Patricia Mazuela

1. A beautiful house concert last night, but from my seat, with the violinist between you and me, and after listening to you on your CD, your voice was sadly backgrounded in that room arrangement.

Your voice and the harmonies it brings stood out on the CD in ways I missed in the live room. Every room is different, and it is difficult it get it right for everyone. Dale with whom I work once did a computer program to virtually duplicate the sound from an orchestra stage as it would be distinctly heard in any seat. I imagined it might bring new integrity to seat pricing for concerts, where you could pick the mix of experience you wanted and pay for that. But more importantly, you could learn the aesthetic you really enjoyed and go where it existed. No such thing yet.

You did an excellent job with mixing sounds on the CD that balanced everyone's contributions.

For me, the CD is a great permanentization of the experience of the night, adding in your voice strongly, and also the flute where breath as well as vibes sing with you.

---

You may wonder what happens to your audience as it listens. I had no idea what songs you would sing when I arrived and was completely surprised to hear your presentations of Violeta Parra and Atajualpa Yupanqui.

The spirit of their simplicity, and the integrity of engagement with human experience they sought to convey in movements of voice and guitar were faithfully and evocatively amplified by your instrumentation and voices. It was great to hear.

The effect was so strong, this morning I woke up thinking or was it dreaming- in Spanish. I was surprised. I have not spoken Spanish much in 30 years. To wake up in Spanish reliving a conversation with Abel in the break, was a huge surprise. The words were running in the semiconsciousness of mental dawn. I knew there was a recording capacity in the iPhone, but I had never used it. I grabbed it and recorded the attached file, which I just transcribed into print -with some corrections- here below. Though these words focus on a conversation between

songs, your performances were autentico, como los ojos de Atajualpa, "lleno de gratitude"..., como dij贸 Abel.

Recorded while still half asleep1st draft of a morning memory-

---

Subject: galopa - Sin Fronteras' first CD

Me Dij贸 El Guitarista de Sin Fronteras --entre Canci贸nes

Estuvimos en la cocina sala de comidas charlando comiendo palabras como alimentaci贸n de la mente, del espiritu, bebiendo una bebida typico de Chile, de pisco, sour, sweet and intoxicating, like the words de los musicos Violeta Parra y Atajualpa Yupanqui, amigos del guitarista Abel, en espiritu.

Y el me dijó que vió Atajualpa en el You Tube, Charlando de la historia suya. Salió de Argentina como un caballo galopa hacia el mundo, estuvo buscando lo que puede ser, y encontró una fiesta en un hogar de la ciudad de Paris, donde se tocó la guitara solomente al gusto de la gente, y habia una persona allá, que se llama Edith Piaf, quien dijó. "Que clase, que calidad de guitara."

Y ella construyó una oportunidad de tocar en el publico, en 1948, depues de la Guerra Mundial segunda, cuando el pais de Francia todovia estaba el centro del estilo de arte, y la reputación mundial de Atajualpa Yupanqui creció de este momento, fuera del pais, fuera de la tierra de Argentina, el sabor de que es en la lengua de sus canciónes, lleno de un sabor nativo, como el pisco de Chile, ron y limón intoxicante, un sabor de sentimientos complex, (como se dice "complex?" like layers of consciousness?)… con la pena, y las aspiraciones de Violeta Parra en la canción de la vida, "que me ha dado tanto," el sabor de la tierra, el sudor de la gente y la sangre, y las aspiraciones de amor y libertad,

y las aspiraciones de los musicos de ser la lengua, la boca, de la gente, aspiraciones como me dij贸 Abel, que creci贸 a vivir en los ojos de Atajualpa Yupanqui en la cinema de You Tube, lleno de gratitud a Edith Piaf para la oportunidad en 1948, que naci贸 solomente de la calidez de la musica suya, lleno del espirtu y de la vida propia de los campos de Argentina.

----What thou lovest well is thy true heritage. - e. Pound bioSer humano, como usted, de agua, carbon y la hydrogena, pero diferente, mas viejo, de otra continente, lleno del espiritu del viente, sin saber el razon porque, pero creo en la importacia de cada vida. De dos meters, y 200 kilos. Ojos de humo, y dedos de calidez.

bruce ----------------------Buoyed by the dreams of long forgotten intellects jiggling in the synapses of new brain cellsin the long-nurtured tweaks of yet un-cracked genetic codes-

the hunter, Curiosity, rides attentionâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s horse of pure energy out into the weather of time

MYSTIC LADY

Vintage obscure and new poems Its vintage, old obscure, out of vogue, out of view, once it was brand new , made just for you, haute couture, hard to procure hand made with fur pearls and gold Beautiful and bold then it was sold, now its getting old love for its grown cold. Picture a perfect postcard, of your favorite star, once all the rage, She was on the front page, painted for you to desire an image for you to acquire, a pin up you aspire too her beauty you admire. Now shes been dropped, cropped

photoshopped her ink has faded away into a shade of Dorian Gray hiding old marks of sticking tape her corners have become wrinkled & creased admiration has ceased, she has been replaced by a younger face, fading away into vintage today its old obscure, you remember once,when it was newer..... October 2011 mystic lady

Worker ant 21st century ant , she wears the pants, and the implants, wears the heels, strikes a deal, skips a meal, in a tall building, in a glass office , in a bank, she wears the pants. Shes pretty in the city looking down on you, and all the things youll never do. Shes sky high, living a designer life style, takes a pill to makes herself sterile, wearing black and grey everyday, her biological clock it ticks away. 17th October 2011

A rush of new life, Mid way into mid life, one last opportunity, for time that is ticking quicky time that has passed so fast, To renew what went to waste, in youthful haste, Its in your fate, to find a new mate, a new car, a new life, a new wife a flowing rush in mid life, a second chance, a romance , one last dance a chance to sow new seeds, a chance to leave a legacy, new fruit from your loins, for your family tree, its a subconcious survival of the fittest, a chance for a new life, in mid life, you feel a new lease of life......a rush in mid life. 17/10/2011.Mystic lady

Great Indian butterfly legend. In pursuit of leisure, eternally divine pleasures, love happiness health hope, follow it lets follow,

this legend is what you hold. Could we capture this dream, chasing shadows , chasing screams, looking in between moonbeams impossible it seems, ancient fables of old, daydreams retold, when so many choose to loose hope, follow it lets follow, this legend you told. Lotus blossoms,sunshine gold underneath temples rivers flow, living for the laughter of future children, to wash away past demons, lets catch him and make a wish, elusive butterfly a legend a trick just a story from an ancient wordsmith, is this butterfly just a myth if you find him catch him quick....make a wish, In eternal happiness you will live, But the butterfly is just a metaphor for you to reclaim your life once more lost days of your youth, relive, revive, repair, explore so many loose their way, living out busy days, for wealth status and money , create the best from your realive remain in positivity, respect all of humanity , then you have captured your great Indian butterfly. 17 /10/2011

Into the void Enter the void,the buzzing noise fall into the abyss looking for a new kick cold nights sweating then needle pricks, sell your body for another fix, and lay down like the dead a corpse amongst the addicts poison death kicks sucking at your breath like a passionate kiss, enter the abyss falling downward into spirals hungry for more , black hole head down, in a bottomless pit , the adders hiss & spit, looking for the next never ending hit enter the abyss food addict bulimic or anorexic, swallowing food then bringing up vomit afraid of flesh curves and skin, feed your hatred within , control an empty heart a bitter poison a bitter pill, an empty bottle an empty thrill, caters to your broken will, at a price that is right for a while, years will fly by, your flying high, over cliff and skies at a hundred miles until you reach the end of your journey , and enter the void ,enter the abyss into the snake pit, looking for the next kick . 17/10/2011 Mystic lady. 35

Knowledge from the forsaken tree You whisper all these forsaken tales to me..... eyes closed ,eating knowledge from a secret tree, the rest of the world is blind and happy, not me, warnings fall onto deaf ears, whilst the intoxicated crowd cheers jeers, they clap hands to all things fabricated like puppets to the puppeteer . Home truths hidden inside, heavy to carry heavy to hide, Pretend you are doing just fine, holidays and a glass of wine its just another pantomime. Dont care to know,dont care to say" I told you so," Ive been there before,a while ago, its a whirldwind of lies, so close your eyes paint it all beneath a daydream disguise, how long until you once more despise, "All these fairytales have gone wrong " you sigh, then you wonder how I became wise. 17/10/2011

MYSTIC LADY

I live in North Yorkshire UK with my lovely husband and three gorgeous children,I am a self taught artist and a published poet. I love to paint in my spare time though I donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t have much ,I paint as a hobby sometimes selling the odd piece for charity.I believe in world peace,and abolishing global poverty and helping childrens charities.I believe in celebrating the beauty of nature through art, preserving the planet and caring for our future,which I believe to be the up and coming new generation of children in ALL our colourful world. I intend to publish my art and poetry in a combined book format some time in the near future! At the moment I am selling of a few of my pieces for the Africa drought DEC charity, via ebay All pieces/poetry are copyrighted. Any of my paintings on these pages can be easily reproduced by me in any size canvas so just ask. http://mysticalart.webs.com/

Thestolenpoem

winter2011

These believers

subconscious

By Yolanda Mora

MARIAN WEBB

Dream of a cherry stone Now shadows appear under the arc of your cheek. Under the scaffold where you walk, I follow gathering courage to greet you, years having passed before you pass this way. A cherry stone splinters between my teeth, the meat eaten, the juice consumed, red shreds cling to the kernel. A concrete stack looms over the dusky street, the sky eclipsed. Your cherry-bright face was round and sweet, your eyes nut-brown, now dim under the scaffold where we pass. These years I've never seen you walk where I walk under the arc of your cheek, the sky eclipsed. I slide between the cracks in the pavement under the children singing.

Dream of yellow hair Butter and sun, a yolk in a glass castle, the yellow of all good gold, your halo spun from your skull streams out over the crowd like that song you're singing. Lyrics older than ages iridesce like fingerlings escaped into air, your strings tuned to lovers lying low under stone. Low under stone the lovers sound the high, fast flame that burned them. Touch it â&#x20AC;&#x201D; it chills. Clustered under earth in earth-brown shells lie the nymphs how many winters under the roots of trees? The lovers' voices sing: you and me, we never were old, though they sacrificed us. Together we possess the courage of gods. Low under stone hear us singing in eternal love. Your golden hair the colour of Easter, a resurrection in a glass cathedral, echoes voices older than ages. From the roots of trees, from earth-brown bulbs clusters of blue-bells teem.

Dream in which we drive all night All night she drives. She will not stop. She drives down the night highway. My feet wrapped in gauze are soft as my pillow. Her hands clinch the wheel. She stares down the white line lusting after distance, craving a destination. My feet are dressed in gauze that loosens and falls. Where are we driving in the small hours, mile beyond mile beyond the white line? The sun too far away to rise lies lost beyond the Earth's slow rolling. Where have you driven me down the night highway? I want the brakes on. I'm not ready for speed. What line have we transgressed? I've no yen for scenery. I see only unexceptional spectres in lack-lustre colours. I've circumambulated days on feet too tender for the highway. My waves crest at low tide. I'm unable to fly. And how can I walk back in the pitch black? This gauze is torn to pieces. Oh, don't despise me. Get me some shoes! Tell me there's pleasure beyond the minute-hand sweeping the morning. Tell me there's pleasure beyond the slow drift of stars. Tell me we'll be dancing before dawn in heavenly cities lit in neon and incandescent dust.

Dream pyx Will it open on the inside within a screen an eye beams into a box within a box within a tree in the underworld the dream stuff seeps little drips slipping between my riddling fingers drip, dripping dropping down between my thighs, my knees, my ankles into storm waters churning under the guttering stars into the fetid humus under the crumbling canal into the rivers drifting in the myrrh of leaves.

Snake speak Under my pillow a box locked, the key swallowed. In my skull the vervain drills holes to let midnight in. Come with a quince, a honey apple gold as a coin, sweet as the sun. My sting shouts, my six wings keen, my shimmy shrunk, my scathing butterfly. Clairaudient audience come for your laurel at the laurel cleft, a python in its hole. Under my skin the pyre has leapt. My glimmer spiels the ruins. The cock-eyed shutter snaps. Obsidian needle. Inviolate wax.

SAND

Whatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s your language? Do I speak it? You curse me and drive me out. You exorcize me. You rule a kingdom peopled by your hurt self. Your severed members were scattered to fourteen winds. Who gathered them from sand? Who moulded a herm, adding her spit, and sent it everywhere? I picked it up one day in the street where it fell. The grains litter my eyes. The hurt recedes.

Marian Webb lives in Melbourne, Australia and writes poetry. Previously, her work has appeared in The Stolen Poem and Antique Children. She is a co-editor of this issue of The Stolen Poem

by Skuld.

SORCERY These poems began as 'cut-ups'. I picked the oldest English words I could find, put them in a box, then drew some out at random.

Ancient scapes I Hum the sow’s sweet, salt sweat, whose tooth mills mild warm hazel wax, listens to wasps swarm, licks kin. II First a crane flies from hub to high marriage. A thousand baked roses strike my mouth, my bowl beneath. Wading I hear the frost’s fang break, listening for my kind’s sweet wealth, wanting the loose meat of trees. The lilac thinks the emerald borrows magic. A deaf stick. A dry reed.

III Strike — listen to the flood furrow silver. Live fast — see the hurdling hare. Time is the camphor wine of kin, an apple on a door, a dry beech by the mere. The grain hoard driven to the turf’s brow, The oven-haunted fare glows and blasts. IV Who greets dusk leading to sky with leather axle will listen to a lode of six sweet diamonds. Goose, hen, owl and seed brush the low wind, hear the twigs gale. A team of hinds harries day, lacking a shrine for the weaned kid. A horde flows in the music goad.

V Weave with yarn, work in gold, a cold fish. Wind waves an acre of grain, frost-baned. With twig of timber she binds her nest, 58

then seeks a stream to soak a flint-head in. The resin howls. A girl harries the checkered, evergreen helm. Her gait wanes.

Ancient fables I The laundry borrows a goose, the hound nearby. A herring’s helm hears the tame crow. Wealth blows lank, fearing its stack, in thorns find a father’s bane, anguished. Caravans hull the earth in ten columns. The old daffodil is well. Sedge crosses the dairy. II The elf loves the pelt the light comes from. The film of his ragged knee wishes for an eye whose shelled bark may spur the mare. III Ether’s twin clears the harvest, relinquishing the well-known riddle. 59

Down must the queen be called, peppered across God’s wind, the evergreen diva on the far hoarding. IV The daffodil mouth felt the bait. The raven, slowed, barks at neck and hoof, listening to summer’s last sky. A hooked worm on the wing, a fang shines. V Dare a bird among wit’s gates at worm-hole an hour, grain by a shrine, borrow a goose emerald or call a diamond whole?

Home a lithe nest, the blade shafts left. The raven grieves the child. Her apples lead to gold. On lax gorse raw feathers glide.

Divinations I Dense water laughs. Live milk burns. At the sun’s pole a flint breaks meat with a daffodil. II The rag of a night-star thwarts a bead — May tanned old beech-leather fasten its pelt to the daughter’s silver rood. (That last column matters.) Seeking caresses the moon in a garden bakes a fin.

III A woolen clarion rose on a linen stand teeming with nails, a timbre learned in love, heckles the town's voided, barking nib. A star's warmth weaned of foul blood, wooden beads and lithe goose quartz does to lode the bower's salty wash. IV I cook wolf twigs, but low hoofs buck at the stairs of the ice maze. Five genies stitch honey-bread, Elves dig an arc owed. (Ponder the frost's will.)

V Yesterday’s shadow is a bee in amber. An arc of linen wakes the man, listening down mazes for the mind’s hall of a thousand tumults. Day is a cat’s hide high on a mast. (Bake dairy and hazel.) VII The quick of my bed soothes my mouth-wish, lacking a lion. My nose welcomes a garden of hazel. My flower-dough is moonsome.

By MARIAN WEBB

by Skuld.

I associate hypnosis with magic and witchcraft. The greater your hypnotic and imaginative power, the stronger your magic. Religion i collective magic. Since its origins witchcraft has not always been aligned with collective religion. For that reason it has a bad reputation, the word has bad connotations. In the old days, the C h u r c h c o u l d n ’ t h a n d l e h e t e r o d o x r i t u a l s , p r i v a t e ma g i c , I associate hypnosis with magic and witchcraft. The greater your i d i o s y n c r a t i c b e l i e f s . P e o p l e w e r e v e r y i n s e c u r e . If t h e B i b l e a n d Ih ya ps snooctiiact ea nhdy pi m n oa sgiisnw a gwi ec r a, nt dh ewsit rcohnc rgaefrt .y To hu er m g raegaitce.r Ryeol ui gri o n i s a ti itvhe mp o church dogma were not universally received as literal truth - the h n da gi im h ei t cs thrcor na fgte rh aysonuor tmaal gwiacy. sRbeel iegni o n i s c oy lplne cottiivce am c .a gS i n ca et i vi tes poorw i geirn, s t w underpinnings of reality could be kicked out from under the frail ca o l i lgl ne ce tdi vwei tmh acgoi cl l. eScitni vc e ri tesl i o g iroi gni.n Fs owri ttchhactr ar ef ta shoans intoht aas l w a abyasd b e e n minds and morals of the populace – the result, madness anarchy! ar el ipgunteadt i w l eoc rtdi v he arse lbi agdi ocno. nFnoort at ht iaot nrse. aIsno nt hiet o h al ds ad abyasd, t h e o ni t,ht hc o e lw Now, reason and science are like an orthodox belief system that has rCehpuurtcaht i coonu, ltdhne’ twhoarnddhl ea sh be at edr oc od n o l dg idc a, y s , t h e o nx or ti taut iaol sn,s .p rI inv atthee ma won out, mostly, over religion. Often, rational, scientific thinkers C u rs cyhn ccroa ut ilcd nb ’etl iheaf sn.dPl ee ohpeltee rwoedroe xv reirtyu ai nl ss,e pc ur irvea. t If e ma i dhi o t h eg iBci,b l e a n d are very threatened by intuitive, 'magical' thinkers. Rationalists are icdhiuorscyhn cdroagt imc ab w e lei er ef s n . oP te oupnliev ewres rael l yv erreyc ei ni vseedc uarse .l i If t e rtahle t Br ui bt hl e -a nt hde scared of losing their reason. I believe sensitive people can receive cuhnudrecrhp idnongi nmgas w l dt reur tthh e- ft rhaei l o ef rree anloi tty ucnoi uv el dr s ba lel yk ircekceedi voe du ta fs r loi tme rua n telepathic impressions. When people hear voices – what is that? I u d edrspai n n n gosr aolfs roe fa ltiht ye cpooup ludl abcee k–i ctkheed r o mni n dim e suutl tf,r omma dunneds es ra tnhaer cfhr ya i! l 63 think when a schizophrenic person hears bad voices, s/he might m i nwd,s raena sdom t hce pa o u xl t ,b eml iaedfnseyssst ea m n d tahna at rhc ha sy ! No n oa rnadl ss o c ife n r ep ul ilkaec ea n– ot hr tehroeds o actually be infested with bad entities. Science tries to makes sense o N o no satnl yd, soc vi eenr cree lai rgei ol n i k. eOafnt eonr,t rhaotdi oonx abl ,e lsicei fe ns yt isftiecmt htihnakte hr sa s w oonw ,o rueta, s m what’s going on by describing brain chemistry, and offers anti-

I associate hypnosis with magic and witchcraft. The greater your hypnotic and imaginative power, the stronger your magic. Religion is collective magic. Since its origins witchcraft has not always been aligned with collective religion. For that reason it has a bad reputation, the word has bad connotations. In the old days, the C h u r c h c o u l d n ’ t h a n d l e h e t e r o d o x r i t u a l s , p r i v a t e ma g i c , i d i o s y n c r a t i c b e l i e f s . P e o p l e w e r e v e r y i n s e c u r e . If t h e B i b l e a n d church dogma were not universally received as literal truth - the underpinnings of reality could be kicked out from under the frail minds and morals of the populace – the result, madness and anarchy! Now, reason and science are like an orthodox belief system that has won out, mostly, over religion. Often, rational, scientific thinkers are very threatened by intuitive, 'magical' thinkers. Rationalists are scared of losing their reason. I believe sensitive people can receive telepathic impressions. When people hear voices – what is that? I think when a schizophrenic person hears bad voices, s/he might actually be infested with bad entities. Science tries to makes sense of what’s going on by describing brain chemistry, and offers antipsychotics ... But then, exorcism is a risky business. I read witchcraft books. I like the tables of correspondence, e.g. the planet Venus corresponds to Friday, copper, roses, pink, love, relationships. These tables are like lists of aesthetic values received by the emotions and senses, that circumnavigate the rational mind. If your body and heart believe something more strongly than your rational mind, then it happens, despite your rational mind. I found out that Charles Bukowski’s epitaph is ‘Don’t try.’ I thought, the part of the mind that tries, is the rational, directing mind. Willpower, reason, selfeffort are good ways to stay organized if you can manage them, but magic comes from ‘left-field’, when you allow your nature to flow in its course. To write a poem, or work a spell, you access the deep mind. Will is there - to create focus so all the psychic energies go towards an intention, whatever that might be. Perhaps it is possible to bend things out of shape this way, to make a lot of trouble, if y o u w a n t t o . T h e B u d d h a s a i d : " A s a b e e c o l l e c t s n ec t a r a n d d e p a r t s without injuring the flower, or its colour or scent, so let a sage dwell in his village." I like this saying. To me it means, be gentle with the culture around you. Perhaps this is the best way to stay out of trouble. If that’s what you want. 64

The stubborn doll

Him, fetish feet O like a wedding ring O like a mouth, always orifice Orfidal, O but let me tell yo about Unica when tied up to a bed dismembered por culpa de la fotografia, no desmembrada de verdad sino cortada en la foto, solo el torso. Bellmer, Hans. Un caso aparte, a case of study, surreal sex bondage fetish feet fat in stomac fat in soup, forming a heart with the hands in Unica’s belly. 40 years old or 1940/45? After War. Only the lonely read tons of books as real, faithful friends, i’m not fearful anymore. Doll, I am doing crazy things but i know real crazy people. Books i want, he did that to Books, tied her to the bed, tore open her silk stockings, thin black to see her toes and lick them / For only the lonely want Unica Books to make love to or kind of love or really love her. I’m not stalking him, she said. Books like Sade or Bellmer, obsessions that made Unica so anxious that she suffered a nervous breakdown. When his Aunt died in a car accident & husband did kill her, her insanity grew stronger she grew insane a pasos agigantados, a so gigantic orgasm of his, for only the lonely have these fantasies and i am a believer but not The Believer magi steal fetish minds i devour absorb eat them up i stalk stalk stalk, Now i do this. Now he does that to me And i was so pleased and scared when he talked about dirty minds and spoke to those girls, maybe married women, jealous i cheated him like Joan of Arc the rebel doll oh you are sooo beautiful you should be in Vanity Fair, a fair, love affairs i had je fais anagrams i can’t do, she said, someone’s sewing, is it you. One is emotion wing, see. Sssh U. Y.

Yolanda Mora was born in Madrid (1973), Spain, where she studied Fine Arts. She writes and paints since childhood. She lives now in Madrid and Salamanca. She is one of the editors of The stolen poem magazine.

My own poupĂŠe.

By Yolanda Mora

What happened in Austria? Collage by Yolanda Mora 68

TRANSLATIONS

Artemis Gérard de Nerval

La Treizième revient... C'est encor la première; Et c'est toujours la seule, — ou c'est le seul moment; Car es-tu reine, ô toi! la première ou dernière? Es-tu roi, toi le seul ou le dernier amant?...

Aimez qui vous aima du berceau dans la bière; Celle que j'aimai seul m'aime encor tendrement: C'est la mort — ou la morte... Ô délice! ô tourment! La rose qu'elle tient, c'est la Rose trémière.

Sainte napolitaine aux mains pleines de feux, Rose au coeur violet, fleur de sainte Gudule: As-tu trouvé ta croix dans le désert des cieux?

Roses blanches, tombez! vous insultez nos dieux, Tombez, fantômes blancs, de votre ciel qui brûle: — La sainte de l'abîme est plus sainte à mes yeux!

Artemis (in English)

The Thirteenth returns ... It is again the first; And it’s always the only one – or it’s the only moment; For are you queen, o you! – the first or last? Are you king, you the only or the last lover? ...

Love the one who loved you from bassinet to bier; She whom I alone loved loves me more tenderly: It is Death - or the dead girl ... O delight! o torment! The rose that she holds, it is the Hollyhock.

Neopolitan saint with hands full of fires, Rose with a violet heart, flower of Saint Gudule Have you found your cross in the desert of the skies?

White roses, fall! you insult our gods, Fall, white phantoms, from your burning sky: – The saint of the abyss is holier in my eyes!

ΑΦΡΟ∆ΙΤΗ ΣΑΠΦΩ

Ποικιλοφρον αθανατ Αφροδιτα παι ∆ιοσ δολοπλοκε λισσοµαι σε µε µ ασαισι µεδ ονιαισι δαµνα ποτνια θυµον

αλλα τυιδ ελθ αι ποτα κατερωτα τασ εµασ αυδασ αιοισα πηλοι εκλυεσ, πατροσ δε δοµον λιποισα χρυσιον ηλθεσ

αρµ υπαζευξαισα, καλοι δε σ αγον ωκεεσ στρουθοι περι γασ µελαινασ πυκνα διννεντεσ πτερ απ ωρανω αιθεροσ δια µεσσο

αιψα δ εξικοντο; συ δ ω µακαιρα µειδιαισαισ αθανατωι προσωπωι ηρε οττι δευτε πεπονθα κοττι δευτε καληµµι

κοττι µοι µαλιστα θελω γενεσθαι µαινολαι θυµωι; τινα δευτε πειθω ... σ αγην εσ σαν φιλοτατα; τισ σ ω ψαπφ αδικησι 78

και γαρ αι φευγει ταχεωσ διωξει αι δε δωρα µε δεκετ αλλα δωσει αι δε µε φιλει ταχεωσ φιλησει κουκ εθελοισα

ελθε µοι και νυν, χαλεπαν δε λυσον εκ µεριµναν; οσσα δε µοι τελεσσαι θυµοσ ιµερραι, τελεσον; συ δ αυτα συµµαχοσ εσσο.

APHRODITE (in English) Shimmering-minded, deathless Aphrodite, daughter of God, trick-weaver, I beg you, don't oppress me, don't harass with grief, Lady, my heart.

But come here if ever before hearing my voice in the loam you listened, and leaving your father's house of gold you came

yoking your team, and fine, quick sparrows brought you over black earth, whirling wings thick from heaven through mid-ether —

swiftly they arrived. You, though, o blessed one, a smile on your deathless face, asked what now has happened to me, why now am I calling?

What do I most wish to bring about in my mad heart? Whom now do I persuade and draw into your love? Who, o Sappho, wrongs you?

For one who flees soon will pursue and if not take gifts, rather will give and if not love, soon will love though she's unwilling.

Come to me and now loose me from harsh anxieties, all that my heart desires to accomplish, accomplish. You yourself be my ally.

Translations by Marian Webb.

REBECCA KYLIE LAW

the waves october, melbourne, a conversation, I tell you king: ornaments, my small ruin, the atmosphere skirted. a resting place like low tide, summer, morning the ship docked. unmoving weight, fair and blue sky, all aviators, us, beauty and beast, fabled, somnambulant through light: if our hearts could beat evenly, thrice! roosters and weather vanes, did-ger-i-doo, the wind & silver triangles lullaby, sleeping, white clouds, dreams, city trees, boughs and boughs. * ah, bliss, eternity, thanksgivings. anzac in radiance, some war met & you, king, listening. 81

SEAGULL DULL

Dull my eyes, dull my hair, dull my smile, my lips. Dull, duller my woman hips, my woman legs, my feet, dull tonight and dull tomorrow, dull my kind-hearted soul. Dull to you and dull to mankind, dull in moonlight, dull in day, dull my breasts, my neck, my arms, dull my wordsas dull the frills of my dark blue skirt & dull my navy blouse, dull the blond, dull the softness, dull the sex of me you dream.

Dull my scent, dull my cheeks, dull my thoughts and feelings. Dull is to me as you are to another woman, as I am, only, to him. 82

HEARTHEART-BEAT II.

In the deep blue of ardent waters, the turquoise glints and takes the sun and the arc of brightness falls to a dive, to one body of ocean that storms. A tumultuous mythos breaking in salt, vast comforter whose sirens call out and retreat, mortal, to gods and muses: flesh-coloured nymphs, clear brilliance of surface, verses, lives and us, my love, among the seas, while histories develop its substance, mythologise its worlds of mermaids and kings because in the depths of that lyrical odyssey, spears of light pierce a jewel like wisdom.

Rebecca Kylie Law was born in Melbourne, Australia in 1971. She graduated from RMIT with a Fine Art degree in Sculpture in 1996. In 1997 she completed a Graduate Diploma in Creative Writing at Melbourne University. She was short-listed for the National Short Story Competition that same year. Rebecca took time off from her studies and worked full-time whilst pursuing an interest in writing poetry. In 2004 she graduated from the Post-graduate diploma in English Literature at Melbourne University with a thesis major in poetry. She took time off again from her studies to work and continued to write poetry. From 1997 to 2004 Rebecca published her poetry, short stories and drawings in several university journals. In 2011 Rebecca graduated from a Masters in Creative Writing at Melbourne University with a thesis major in poetry. She received second class honours. Rebecca intends to continue her interest in writing poetry and will be Artist (Poet) in Residence at Montsalvat in May, 2012.

MAURICE BARTELS

Maurice Bartels,

from Germany.

AYDAN KILINÇ

100

Aydan K覺l覺n癟 was born in Eskisehir, Turkey. She graduated from Hacettepe University Faculty of Fine Arts Department of Sculpture in 2007.

101

102

103

by Yolanda Mora.

104

by Skuld.

Editors: Yolanda Mora and Marian Webb

105

Yolanda, by Aydan Kilinรง

Please send your comments and submissions to: thestolenpoem@planetmail.net

Love to Anke!!!

Thestolenpoem

winter2011