The making of bats

The making of bats
is an act
that must take place
in the darkest of spaces;
no full moon,
no starlit skies.

Instead shadows and coal,
Silhouettes and pitch.

Hand to heartwood,
whisper wishes to the owls,
pray they take them, swift winged,
to the goddess of the night.

If you are blessed,
hear the sky fill with wingbeats.

The making of bats is a gift,
goddess given,
not a right.


If you haven’t already, take a look at my post on spontaneous generation and read about some of the ‘recipes’ that were believed to create animals prior to the 17th and 18th centuries.  You’ll realise that my own recipe isn’t that unbelievable!

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The making of a witch

Summon the queen of death.

Split open the sky.

Scratch at constellations

‘til stars fall

to sand; petrified

lightning – her wrath.

 

There was a storm once

– long forgotten –

the night threw flames

and set the galaxy alight.

Here lie her eyes;

Deep, mysterious, dancing.

 

Look for old stone stacks,

Moss covered, lined up on paths that are not passed

– her unmoveable will.

An ancient mountain.

 

Find the place where the tide

rips over scorched limestone

and quartz.

Buried below is her heart.

 

Listen to the trees,

the whistle of the leaves.

Hear her.

 

In fog, shapes slowly transform.

In the making of witches,

earth turns to flesh,

stones turn to bones,

and fossils to blood,

under the pressure

of oppression.

 

To know her is to hold a storm

in the cup of your hands.

 

To love her is to offer your heart

to smouldering ashes,

knowingly.

 

Do you give it?

If a mama bear gets angry, imagine the Mother of the Mountains…

The Mother of the Mountains

If a mama bear gets angry, imagine the Mother of the Mountains.
Mess with Her children, She’ll dust off an avalanche;
step out of line, She’ll realign your bones.
She’s a blue-eyed beauty,
and the mountains have their Mother’s eyes: deep lakes.
Gaze into them, you’ll see their thoughts like fish –
quick schools, slow rainbows – look deeper,
and you’ll learn to dream like a stone.
What does She feed them? Rain for breakfast.
Anything else? She peels them the sun for lunch.
And at night? Big helpings of quiet,
then the Mother of the Mountains sings them to sleep with snow.
The trees are Her grandkids; She brings them birds to play with.
Whenever it’s their birthday, She gives them an owl
’cause though She’s a blue-eyed beauty, She’s still kind.
Even soft  . . . even fragile . . .
Wolves howl to Her to show their gratitude. What about you?

Rob Carney

I love this way of looking at the mountain, a true deep personification, the mountain as mother, as provider and as oh so loving.

*  *  *

If a mama bear gets angry, imagine the Mother of the Stars.
Mess with Her children, she’ll scatter white hot embers
and comets that burn
slowly
making Icarus seem like the lucky one.

Step out of line, She’ll set Draco on your trail.

She’s a wild eyed goddess
and the stars have their Mothers smile: radiating luminosity, intensity
burning bright.
Daring you to look and
punishing if you try.

What does she feed them? Diamonds and moon dust,
meteorites and wonderment.
She picks planets as though they were grapes,
offering them out as treats.

And at night? She drapes the sky with lush black velvet
then the Mother of the Stars steps back into the wings and lets her lovelies shine.

The milky way hides her grandkids as they grow;
She brings them tales from the cosmos, millennia old,
to fuel their fires and light the sparkles in their eyes.
Whenever it’s their birthday, she gives them pencils of sunlight
to practice joining dots into constellations.

Down on earth, eyes heavenwards, owls gaze in awe and gratitude.
What about you?

Campanula

          When I grow up, I want    |     When I grow up, I want
to be a campanula, growing     |     to be a campanula, self
tight to rocks     |   sufficient, hard, persistent
to stones     |   resistant
to walls.    | resistance.

         Spreading and reaching     |   Reaching and spreading
into the crevices of the     |  roots creeping though
humanmade world.      |  cracks in domesticity.

Patiently establishing myself;    |    Weakening structures
dainty, delicate lilac petals     |   forcing a new perception,
– miniature stars.   |  a new perspective.

When I grow up, I want
to be a campanula, a paradox.
Lover and fighter.
Darkness and light.
A fairy-flower-wall-tumbler.

And no one to expect any less from me.


I struggled with wordpress formatting this.. I tried all sorts but it wasn’t playing friendly with me… The first three stanzas are two columns, side by side, the left column is aligned to the right so they butt up against each other.  I’ve used |’s to separate the sides.

No One Is British

No one is British

On an island that has only existed

Eight millennia,

 

In a world that was born

Over four and a half

Billion years ago.

 

No one is British

In a land with a muddy,

Rain sodden history

Of raiders and invaders,

Of settlers and leavers

 

Rome took a chance

And Rome took charge

Then Rome retreated.

 

Not the first

And not the last

To dip a toe

In this archipelago.

 

Picti and Scotti and Attacotti

Preyed upon the shores.

Ravaged and rampaged

Looted and left.

 

In need of a place

To replace

Lost homes, Saxons and Angles

and Jutes showed up.

Desperately colonising

A nation of future colonialists.

 

No one is British.

On an island that has only existed

Eight millennia.

 

Keep your racism.

Keep your hate.

 

No one is British,

Not even you.

Roses and Castles

Roses and Castles is the name given to the artwork which adorns the barges of the canals.  Traditionally it is made up of bright flowers and pictorial scenes, including but not limited to castles.  Similarly, images are not limited to roses and daisies, marigolds, pansies, primroses and many other species can be found.  Diamonds, compass patterns, crescent moons, scrollwork and painted borders are all used along with bold, vibrant colours.  Cottages, churches, rivers, lakes and even lighthouses are all depicted to build up images of romantic landscapes.

Whilst the origin of the roses and castle art work is unknown, it became popular at a time when canals were starting to be less lucrative.  One theory is that, as families had to move in the barges full time, the women were trying to make them feel cleaner and more homely and turned the dirty boats into something they could be proud of.  Polished brasswork and woodwork shone and dazzled and every available surface became painted in flowers and romantic scenes.  It was a decorative form of art and appeared on everything, from the boat itself to the harness of the horse.

It took root when many other traditional crafts were dying out, no longer valued in the age of industrial revolution and perhaps it is this novelty that means it survives today.  There was a pride amongst the boat owners and the artwork, with it’s rich colours and cheerful designs, possibly provided an antidote to the drab age of industry.

There are similarities in the style of art to that of the folk art from Scandinavia and Germany and echoes the elaborate caravans of the gypsy culture.  But regardless of why or where it started, the roses and castles style has become eponymous with canal life and it’s hard to image a barge without the iconic paintwork.

Roses and Castles

Down by the towpath

Rests Halcyon Days

Nose to nose with Blue Moon

Whilst Drifter floats away.

 

Roses and castles

Daisies and chapels

Abound on the waters

Of Leeds Liverpool canal.

 

Layers of green and layers of red,

Interlaced with paint as close

to gold as you get,

clothe narrowboats with daydreams.

 

Scenes of happier times?

Of richer days?

Or art to bring romance

To the industrial ways?