wytchcroft

stalker sequel

2009-12-14T16:29:22Z

Reading Tarkovsky’s diaries once again, it’s interesting to me to read that at one stage he considered a sequel to Stalker. The proposed continuation would see the Stalker turning into a messianic figure, forcibly dragging people to the wishing room. Can, Tarkovsky wonders, people be thus bullied into happiness?

The stalker would become a ‘votary’ and ‘fascist’ (Tarkovsky’s labels).

Of course, this idea was not pursued – perhaps Andrey realised that such contradictions are already implied within the thematic narrative of Stalker. Best to leave the resonance and the questioning to the audience…

Such a concept, especially the religious dimension show the great difference between Tarkovsky and the Strugatsky brothers, of whom he notes, amusingly, that one is very clever and the other very… hardworking. Before quickly catching himself, ‘Well, things are not as simple as that’. Both men he describes as likeable and their relations seem to have been good.

As for Tarkovsky himself, as for his diaries, I remember why I have not read them in so long; the man and his own story seem encompassed by the Zone. A man should live in isolation, he notes, close to animals and nature. And yet, such is not the case for him. He is close only to the telephone. Isolated by distance he frequently misses his loved ones intensely.

The diaries as a whole, as a piece, as a story – revolve around waiting for that dreadful phone to ring; to give the green light to a project, to vindicate his work, to allow him freedom, travel – or to summon him at once before the Committee, the critical Party of whom he has such regular nightmares. Communication so often breaks down, attempts to organise filming and its logistics, or even simply a stay with Bergman, that the phone (or the letter) becomes entirely untrustworthy and unreal.
The emphasis that the diaries place on this cannot be accidental – the phone (in all its forms) becomes the God that Tarkovsky wrestles with and defines himself against – never quite answering that most Bergmanian of questions; what is worse, God’s silence or the terrifying realisation of His voice?

1 for the 9

2009-12-09T21:35:10Z

John Lennon - I sat Belonely:

I sat belonely down a tree, humbled fat and small.
A little lady sing to me I couldn't see at all.

I'm looking up and at the sky,
to find such wondrous voice.
Puzzle puzzle, wonder why, I hear but have no choice.

'Speak up, come forth, you ravel me', I potty menthol shout.
'I know you hiddy by this tree'. But still she won't come out.

Such softly singing lulled me sleep, an hour or two or so
I wakeny slow and took a peep and still no lady show.

Then suddy on a little twig I thought I see a sight,
A tiny little tiny pig, that sing with all it's might.

'I thought you were a lady'. I giggle, - well I may,
To my surprise the lady, got up - and flew away.

the end

Welcome to planet Birthday!!

2009-12-07T18:19:42Z

knight to queen's pick-up phwoar

happy birthday Betsy!!

Lover of wild and sensitive robots
poet of dancing planets and space

space
the space between the Earth and the Heavens
between us all, individual
or recalculated 1 + 1 = a mess of quantum possibilities!
the space between a man and a woman
a human and a monkey
a monkey and a robot
a smile and a heartbreak

each poem sheer joyous rueful wounded music
with a brain of steel.

rock on Betsy - here's to ya! :))

zelda

2009-12-07T08:01:50Z

- and she was, i remember with a migraine sensitivity, blinding;
a light like a strobe flashing celebration of the self,
she was her own Macy's Day parade, her own mad May Day...
and men twisting down like confetti at her feet,
like the money on Wall Street,
men raining from the sky
like they did in October 1929.

..................................................................................................
this was originally posted as a comment to an entry by shoelace09, so thanks go to her. :))
thanks to rebeccawllde for a musical conversation that reminded me to dig out my ruby throat album, it fits. cheers, Bec':))

kindness

2009-12-04T06:09:52Z

"Then it seems that thou dost repent the folly - but not the sin. Not the act but its uncovering"

The voice of the nun was soft and her figure half shadowed.

The grizzled man in the room with her could hardly bare it. He turned his face away, not wanting to remember, not wanting those images that her words conjured in him, uncovering… a bare shoulder like a sliver of the moon, a parting of fabric and flesh, a parting of trees and bushes and an uncovering then of them both; The face of his King, of his friend, uncovered – and, with a silver flash of sword-metal, a parting of all.

Here and now, his eyes refused to focus, but the quiet authority of the voice was more than enough, he could see all too clearly.

The woman nodded; a slow tilt of her head.
"You think - that in reminding you of this, I am... unkind?"

The man said nothing. He moved his hands in a vague gesture, letting them fall upon the top of his shield where it lay propped against a wall, as incongruous in its way as him.

The nun was still looking however, with those level dark eyes, still speaking in her plain and unhurried way;
"You have come here for that, truthfully, haven't you, to find not shelter but comfort - you wish to confess, to unburden yourself and feel, what, Tenderness?" Her own hands were folded neatly across the front of her raiment, and they did not move, "Kindness?"

And still the man, the gray haired knight, could say nothing.

She answered for him, implacably.
"You seek kindness - like a child, but you cannot yet be as a child, you have not confronted your self or your sins - and I am not here to hide them from you. Do you think that is cruelty - am I unjust?"

The man kept his silence, what was there to say? No/one had spoken to him in this manner before - indeed, people never spoke like that to anyone.

Not even Guinevere. She had been - she was - so young. Her tongue had been like a starling, a song of the morning, the sun and the scent of wild roses.

And few words.

And Lancelot was a man who distrusted words. He spoke so often with his sword, with his lance.
Words confused him.

When they had ridden into the morning mist together they had spoken with their bodies, conversed with their hands, their fingers, their eyes.

Words...

"You are a romantic..." The nun said. "Love is much more than that. And kindness too."

To him, kindness, just a word... he had never sought further than the elements that he could hold, no matter how abstract; honour, faith, placed into his hands like a chalice and placed there by a King, a King.

And they had sat together round His table, as a family.

It felt like an age ago, suddenly.

"The battlefield was always easier for you I suppose?"

Good God, this nun - this nun!

He turned back from his shield. "The battlefield?"
His ears prickled at distant metallic sounds, his nostrils flared and his throat caught at the familiar tastes and odors of blood, sweat, dirt and horse manure. Screams.

And now his hands were pushing at shadows. "I am the battlefield," he said.

If Lancelot hoped such finality would mean an end to the conversation, he was wrong; He the battlefield? The nun would not stand for that. "No," she said, "Brave Sir Knight, you are just a man, even as I am just -"

"A woman?"

"Just a nun."

"Just... Hmmm, is it just I wonder?" His voice was as rusted as an old scabbard.

But the nun looked at the floor, and Lancelot realised he was answering the question she had already posed. She looked up when he did not continue, his lumbering form frozen. "You - the battlefield, yet you live," she pointed out, "while your King sleeps under a hill, or so they say."

"Under the sod... yes - under a hill? Well..." he considered this, his eyes again seeming to look off to some other point, somewhere beyond the walls. "Perhaps", he said finally.

"Or an island - we have been told too that Arthur the King rests in Avalon."

Now it was Lancelot's bullish head that lifted, nodded backwards, "A pagan belief surely?"

“I did not say I believed it,” the nun replied, “the question is; Do You?”

Lancelot was surprised, the nun was making him angry – he thought he was beyond that, beyond any feeling almost, except simple fatigue. But looking at the neat figure, the saintly garb and her face taut and composed, the hair hidden under a wimple, he felt, yes, anger.

But why? Because he even had to ask such a question, and of himself, he Lancelot, a man driven by his calling, as she was, a knight who did not deal in confusion and doubt. And who feared the fact that this diminutive figure might be right.

“What?” he asked.

The Nun gestured, her slender white hands tracing the contours of the rough stone cell, the bare walls lime-coated, without decoration save a vague design, some intertwined roses in crude relief, weathered almost in appearance one with the stone.

“Well it seems to me that you seek still what Arthur already has, a tomb, a place of rest, of earth and stone – or Merlin, was he not trapped in such a fashion, and by a woman?”

“Lady, I”-

“Sister, I am a nun, Sir Knight.”

“Your pardon Sister”, Lancelot was not one to forget the chivalric code, at least in manner, though once more he shook his head. “But it is thou that hast forgotten, I was in a hermitage before Arthur was in the ground, and my absence was entirely temporary or at least…” He halted, the conversation had become circular – the nun was bound to ask why, and to repeat what she had said before about the simplicity of battle. He didn’t want that and again he held his hands up to ward off her admonishment.
“I came then because I was called,” he said.

The nun’s face gave no sign, no reaction.

“It wasn’t…” He hated to be made to talk so. “I did not ride for Arthur – nor even for, for HER, but for the Land, for duty, because I was needed to do what was to be done. It was simply a…” He spread a hand out, touching the cool face of the wall, letting it absorb his weight and support him. “It was a” –

“Kindness?”
..........
thanks again (and apologies) to chalissa for starting me on a 'virtues' kick.
thanks to aliasse and the unicorn for listening in. :))

hjärtan öppen till älska och mörker...

2009-12-03T02:06:33Z

tack själv till sonia walter -
tack själv nina kinert!

...

nina kinert live

charity

2009-12-01T17:56:22Z

The Abbey was secluded, lodged in the heart of a moat and with the edges of the circling English woods on one side and high forbidding hills on the other. There were many rooms, restful and candle lit. There was the sound of a slow bell and prayerful singing.

Clutching his side, Robin (late of tree-top mansions, Sherwood Forest and now of no fixed abode,) gave a mournful sigh. His right arm slipping down and dropping the bow it held.

There was a clatter as the Longbow hit the floor.

"Suddenly," said Robin, his dark eyes so often brooding and fierce but now troubled and cloudy, "suddenly - I'm not half the man I used to be."

There was a moment of sad, reflective silence - and then Robin's friend and companion, the musician and poet Allan-a-Dale, (available exclusively from the Dale-a Poets series of fine recordings) plucked a suitably pensive lute string;

"Suddenly," he sang in his well known way, "I'm not half the man I used to be... there's a-"

"Oh for God's sake!" Robin yelped.

Allan felt the crushing paw of his colleague ‘Little’ John coming as if from nowhere to clamp across his mouth.

But Allan had the reflexes of one skilled and experienced in the art of tomato dodging, and thosee reflexes served him now as he ducked.

"Philistines!" he cried."I'm just ahead of my time!"

"This," Robin said, mustering all the fire left in his veins, "is supposed to be MY TIME!"

Allan blinked, "Oh yes, so it is. Sorry boss."

The giant John Little moved further into the room, out from the heavily shadowed doorway. He wanted to curse, for the doorways and ceilings were so cramped that his head now held more eggs than a swallow's nest.

But remembering his manners he refrained.

Instead he settled for clouting Allan as he came past and saying to Robin.

"Can I help Robin?" He wiped his bearded chin with a thoughtful mallet-like hand.
"Whatever thou wishes I shall endeavour to provide, for I have always been your strong right arm and it seems you need me still."

"You can pick the bloody bow up for starters," grumbled Robin leaning now like a cripple upon his quarterstaff.

John did as asked but his brow was furrowed. "What ails thee Robin? Is it the old wound still?"

Robin considered this. "Hmm... what ails me?" He paused for dramatic purposes then shot out a trembling hand to point to where a small figure sat quietly on the edge of the bare bed.

"SHE ails me!" he cried and his voice cracked.

"That 'nun' - that... Marion - Marion my one true love - has poisoned me e'en unto death."

John's eyes widened in shock and he stepped over to the sitting woman. Marion made a slow circling motion with her hand. Her voice, as John remembered, was low and pleasing.

"Nuts," she said, "completely fuckin' nuts."

"Harlot!" yelled Robin. "Even in the holiest garb you cannot keep the coarseness from your vipers tongue!"

Marion jumped to her feet. "And who taught me such manners eh?" she snapped. "YOU i seem to recall, for and I was but a maid, and delicately so, till you in your manly shirt and tights, enfolded me in your arms as I walked the ferny brae. Remember do you, your soft impassioned words? "Alright darlin' we Saxons don't hang about, so how about my place for a quickie? I am Robin, the hooded man - I put the Long in Longbow and I never miss the target heh heh... Let's get it on, and don't believe that outlaw nonsense, I'm a charity worker really." “

Robin shook his head. "You see how she has turned against me? When our union was blessed even by the Lord Herne himself."

"You mean that drunk bloke in the deer outfit?" Marion stopped to recall. "Actually he was alright. Antlers," she giggled, "That's something you don't… ahem - every day."

Robin's face was deathly pale. "You see?" He gurgled, and turned his face to John, imploringly. "You are all I have left John, I am surrounded by the shadow of death and the touch of the Devil."

John held Robin's shoulders, keeping the proud outlaw on his feet as he moved to gaze pensively out the window at the countryside beyond.

But John was clearly shocked (again). "Robin”, he asked, "Where are the others? Where is Will Scarlet - and where is Much the Miller's Son? Surely they were here?"

Robin looked at the floor.

"Ah," he said. "Well... a little rouble there I'm afraid." He looked up once more into his old comrades eyes. "You'll help me with this bastard bow, won't you John?"

Little John looked across quickly to Marion who nodded and made a motion with her hand to demonstrate being shot full of arrows.

Alan A-Dale waved his lute, which was indeed pieced by two feathered shafts.

Naturally John was very much alarmed - though he was running out of facial expressions to show it.

Robin meantimes had slumped again, murmuring deliriously. John shook him - gently.
"Robin! Tell me - what can I do?"

The once hooded man looked up at his worried friend. "Ah," he said. "Death is close my friend and never have I needed your loyalty more."

John nodded.

"Take my sword," said Robin, "and throw it in the lake then reporteth back what thou seest and I will know if you have done as asked." He patted the big man's arm.

"But..." John said, and he flashed a look across to Marion again.

"Delusions of grandeur," Marion mouthed back.

"But..." John repeated, "My Lord, you don't have a sword - or a lake, that was King Arthur. You have your bow and a moat. I could chuck it in that if you like," he added helpfully.

Robin considered and seemed to come back to himself. "My bow is too small, " he said "I have need of yours - for where the arrow lies I wish my body buried... but my arrows are not going far enough into the greenwood."

"Or at all," muttered Marion.

"Harlot!"

"Time for your medicine my love," she said, dodging quickly past and out the room.

John meanwhile was struggling, "But you re not dying, my Lord - merely resting from age and injury."

"No!" Robin cried. "The cold hand of the tomb is upon me - I must depart." He looked angry now, snatching the great bow from the shoulder of a surprised John.

"I dunno," Robin groused, "I have to do everything myself!"

And so saying, the bow went SNAP! An arrow whizzed around the room as Alan and John dropped to the floor as fast as lightening.

"Aha!" Robin said delightedly, "You see? I - oh bolloks -"

There was a sudden hush and then finally a splash.

Slowly John and Alan got to their feet, turning to stare at the empty place where Robin had stood. "Well..." John said finally, "that's one less job to worry about."

"Aye," nodded Alan.

They turned once more as they heard Marion enter, her dainty hands clasped around the neck of a wine bottle.

"Did you really poison him?" John asked bluntly.

"Well," Marion smiled, "Why don't you boys join me upstairs for a drink - and find out for yourselves?"

.....................

Temperance

2009-12-01T01:44:49Z

and she says,
as the rain hits the hospital steps
"this is as far as anyone gets"

i'm smuggling in blood oranges and cigarettes
for Madeleine

Madeleine
mad, mad
mad, mad
Madeleine

shaking a fist
and the ice slips from her fingers

Madeleine
mad, mad
mad, mad
Madeleine
i'm a model, she says
of temperance

Madeleine
i've been
smuggling in
blood oranges and cigarettes

to that place
that takes my breath
away
watching those white ghosts in uniform
calling her forth
calling her forth
to perform
for them
she walks that line
she walks that line
so steadily

walks like a child
into their arms
those welcoming arms

when i pulled her from the water
the ice was slipping
from her fingers

and i'm standing on the steps
with a desperate gift
of cigarettes and fruit
and the heavens are opening wide

like a parachute.

nimue

2009-11-30T02:59:59Z

and Nimue is she who diligently waits at waters side,
to feel the rippled coming of the tide
whose skin and bone and blood divide
with every oar stroke
dreaming

she's singing
to the stranger
sailing in

to lift the curse of waiting

a lake like liquid silver
midnight's mercury
her fingers cold as steel

she is Nimue
waiting.

chastity

2009-11-29T01:31:29Z

Two re-worked folk songs on a theme:

The Handsome Kitchen Boy:

It's of a married Lady as you must understand
She slipped from court to follow
Her true love through the land

She dressed herself in peasant rags
Or so it does appear
To work as a squire and kitchen boy
And serve well for a year

With fingers pale and delicate
And hair all in a curl
The others often smiled and said
"He looks just like a girl!"

But eating of her good Knight's vittles
Her colour did destroy
And her waist did swell poor pretty girl -
That handsome kitchen boy

Meantimes against the enemy
Her gallant love did plough
One night among his soldiers came a fearful
Flurrying row

They tumbled from the grassy bank for
Their sleep it did destroy
And they swore about the groaning of
The handsome kitchen boy

"A doctor please a doctor!" the kitchen boy did cry
"The time has come I am undone
And I will surely die!"

The doctor of physick he comes along
A-smiling at the fun
To think a brave knight's squire should have
A daughter or a son

The soldiers when they saw the joke
They all did stand and stare
The child belonged to none of them
They solemnly did swear

But the Knight he stands a tremble
With a sudden dreaful fear
For it's no more Beaumains, kitchen boy
But beautiful Guinevere...

Then each man took his tot of rum, and drunk success to trade
And likewise to the kitchen knight, who was neither man nor maid
Here's hopin' the wars don't rise again, our brave men to destroy
And here's hoping for a jolly lot more like the handsome kitchen boy.

A Maid that's Deep in Love:

I am a maid that's deep in love
But, yes, I can complain
I have in this world but one true love
And Lancelot is his name

And if I do not keep my love
I'll morn most constantly
Still I'll wend and follow him through
The lands of liberty

Then I'll put up my curling hair
Men's clothing I'll wear on
I'll sign to be a squire or such
My keep I'll work for free
And deligiently follow his horse
Through lands of liberty

One eve, dark as a raging tide
As we were going to rest
The Knight cried out "farewell my squire
I wish you were a maid!

Your milk white hands, your rosy lips
They are enticing me
And I wish dear God with all my heart
A maid you were to me!"

"Then hold your tongue dear Lancelot
Such talk is all in vain
And if your soldiers find it out
They'll laugh and make much game

For when we reach fair Camelot
Some prettier girls you'll find
And you'll laugh and sing and court with them
For courting you are inclined."

It was not three days after
Our train to the castle came -
"Adieu my loving Lancelot
And never seen again.

For once I was a squire on horseback
But now I'm a queen at the court
So adieu to you and all your men
With you I'll ride no more..."

"Come back, come back my own pretty maid
Come back and marry me
I have ten thousand pounds in gold
And that I'll give to thee
So come back, come back my own pretty maid
Come back and marry me!"

"Oh no good Sir, that cannot be
as my Arthur we'll betray
our love like fever in the night
must fade with coming day..."

"Then i'll get me to a hermitage!"
And he's gone and far from me
And i am now become a nun
In the land of liberty.

(quick fic) Patience

2009-11-27T01:37:29Z

The sea at least is honest; it's the land that lies.

Gazing out from the soft slope at the edge of a red sandy cliff, Daniel could barely see the listing ship and could not make out the granite teeth that had abused her so cruelly.

The sun was beginning to rise, reaching out to touch the shadows of the cliff-base, between them they slicked the Sea with red.

"Really, t'aint but a mercy we'll be doin'..."

The wind of the night had dropped, and though a breeze still sang through the spines and spikes of grass about his feet, Daniel could hear the low voice clearly, from close and behind. The man speaking was as broad as his accent, Samson he was called and never a name more fitting.

Daniel gave a half nod, shifting his hands in the wide pockets of his oilskin. "If it were such a mercy Sam then we should be about our business already by now." He turned slowly to face his grizzled companion.

"Patience is a virtue," the man said.
He was staring at Daniel with hungry but level eyes, like a mastiff waiting for the chain to be struck off.

"'Tis almost dawn and who will tell tales then eh? No one to be blamed for anything, our little lights can't be held responsible now, can they?"

Daniel was glad he had no eyeglass to see the flailings onboard - though he'd be more than close enough before long. He ran a hand up to the wild gorse of his hair. "Mercy is it?"

Truly, Samson was not in the mood to humour the milk-blooded likes of young Daniel, but he was content to do so since in a few minutes all this mealy moping would be forgotten and the two would be tramping through the surf like men, men with a purpose, men with a duty - to their people, their wives, and their homes.

"Do you not see Dan," the man rattled off his words in a well practiced manner, "it's always about mercy - take the Sea... she's merciful to us, we have a need and she delivers. Or if you like, you could say God's will is merciful - as Father Adrian does. We are grateful after all, aren't we - aren't you?"

"Aye..."

"And it's the law -who's to question the mercy of the law eh? What comes in comes in. It's right for us - and right for them big city folk, those that run the line."

"And those poor men?"

"We ease their suffering lad - better their time ends quick and painless." Samson had pulled a heavy club from a linen bag slung over his shoulder. An odd fluting sound cut through the air, cut across their conversation. "There be the whistle lad, time to move them jelly legs of yours." Samson turned away to trudge down the descending path to where it met the dunes. The boys would have a boat on the other side and ready.

"Mercy..." Daniel said again, and to himself.

But Samson had good hearing, for he turned about suddenly and pointed his club accusingly at Daniel's lanky frame.

"And let no man call us Wreckers," he yelled.

hu-me - ?

2009-11-26T02:17:55Z

she brushes back her sleeves with a doctor's ease
clasping the documents to her knees
she's moving in rhythm
to the swing of the train

hardly moving at all
she's pulling the cord

it's the click of a heel
the flick of a fringe
some kind of humility
pressing in on her

did she get that job?
did the interview go well?
did the snarls of the ambulance
give her something to sell?

and that old Spanish bell
tolling her gone
a ripple in the fabric of tomorrow
could be the latest fashion

she's difficult to read
and it's hard to believe
she could be invisible
as she brushes back her sleeve
with a doctor's ease

and it doesn't hurt her
to leave

some kind of humility
pressing in on her

up the escalator
and down again
she's moving in rhythm
to the swing of the train.

this is riffin' off from chalissa's post on the 7 deadly sins
and thanks to daysofjune for inspiration as well :))

me and my charms...

2009-11-23T18:47:37Z

well i'm officially single again.
been waiting on the party line a while and got it today.

six years aint too bad i guess, c'est vrai.

c'est la vie. sail on.

... as through a glass, darkly

2009-11-22T02:09:36Z

.
and compare with Bergman.

floods

2009-11-19T09:26:03Z

ha! of course the upside to living down in a valley is the excitement of floods!

currently the local school is shut, flooded, and both roads in and out are closed and under water.

yesterday the river and canal were determined to have some fun on LAND
and, as usual, everyone stuck betwixt (like your intrepid wytch reporter,) was out and about and going "gosh! excitement!" - actually kinda fun.

But if the power goes, substations round here are notorious, then i may go quiet for a time.

go cat mask!

2009-11-18T22:13:30Z

nina kinert; combat lover...

thanks to the uploader!

archers

2009-11-16T16:11:30Z

This is a very beautiful poem set to music; the lyrics are by Mary Webb author of the novel Gone to Earth and the music is in the old English tradition.

Gone to Earth was later filmed by The Archers (Powell and Pressburger) and starred Jennifer Jones - one of my favourite films.

i've been getting a lot of inspiration from the work of the Archers again lately, (i was lucky enough to study their works at university,) often overlooked is Ohhh Rosalinda!! a light opera which satirizes the post-war machinations, beaurocracy and pomposity of the various powers. The clip is of 'Adelle's Laughing Song.'

i hope you'll enjoy these - i was stunned to discover them on youtube when they were always so rare!

Love me--and I will give into your hands
The rare, enamelled jewels of my lands,
Flowers red and blue,
Tender with air and dew.

From far green armouries of pools and meres
I'll reach for you my lucent sheaves of spears--
The singing falls,
Where the lone ousel calls.

When, like a passing light upon the sea,
Your wood-bird soul shall clap her wings and flee,
She shall but nest
More closely in my breast.

...

sails will run

2009-11-16T05:43:14Z

as the prophets were counted
by the fire
by the feast

all that's fuel and good to eat
swallow the oily taste
of the dreamer's defeat

and the
last man hanging
by the soles of his feet
is singing to the sound of the sheep

singing up down and a westward ho
up down for the wind doth blow
with the silvery tide
leave this darkness behind
come the silvery tide
and the morning

throw those windows open wide
throw the drunkards overboard
catch a good breeze and these sails will run
pull up that anchor to the heavens
draw down that ladder from the sun
these sails will run.
...................................
and this (like the previous) was finished c/o chalissa, with due thanks

the turning circle (for chalissa)

2009-11-15T02:07:47Z

this piece has been frustrating me for aeons as a bit of 'arrows and stars' that fell off and just... lay there.

tonight chalissa inspired the fix and now it's done and here it is.
the last four lines are a quote from an old hymn.
thanks chalissa la muse amuse l'amore :))

The Turning Circle:

dance for me love
he says
in a turning circle

and i'll dance for none but myself
says she

and stepping out
through the wild flowers
the tiny petals, the new green shoots

all the wild flowers
grown around
the turning circle

and it's a white rose
for my honey
and a red rose for my love
and this black rose has turned to gold
shining like the stars above

and it's breathless
and it's magic
all these crazy statues come to life
oh listen to them animals roar

twisting through the turning circle
of your bedroom floor

and she says;

this coat becomes a lion
and this hat a cockatoo
these jeans are like the heron
and this jumper roams like the buffalo

two by two and there ye go
two by two and there ye go
half way round and back again
in the turning circle

she skips away
and into the night

and she's singing;

for its a gift to be simple, 'tis the gift to be free,
tis the gift to come down where we ought to be,

and when we find ourselves in the place just right,
'twill be in the valley of love and delight.
..............................................

Writer's Block: If these walls could talk

2009-11-13T00:14:32Z

Would you rent or buy the home of your dreams if a brutal murder had taken place there? What if you got to live there rent-free? Would you think twice if neighbors warned you that it was haunted?

View 1001 Answers

Surprising as it may sound, I don't actually dream of owning a home in which a brutal murder has taken place, or a non brutal murder come to that.

On the other hand it wouldn't put me off. The neighbours might though.

"Oh ye daft wee Wytch the feckin’ place is haunted I tell ye!"

A blood curdling silence...

Wytch lights a cigarette...

Puff. puff.

Wytch adopts the usual level stare and accent of the Londoner. "Haunted? Pull the other one!"

"No, no, I’m telling ye it's -"

Wytch stomps inside to call the men in white coats and abandons all PC propriety.

"Get these fuckers out of here and make it snappy!"

Three weeks later and a moaning comes through the house...
uhhhhhhhhhhooooooooooh oooooooo uuuuuuuh...

"Do you bloody mind, I’m trying to hack up my lungs already, it’s bloody six a.m. push off!" Koff! Hack!

A slow rattling of chains accompanied by squishy footsteps...

"But don't you see, yonder phony Scottish neighbours were right! For I was horribly murdered upon a Whitsun eclipse when -"

"Like I give a monkey’s. Can it, Marley - unless you can make yourself useful."

"But I was foully wronged and -"

"And what? You want counselling? I charge for that! Why the 666 do you want to offload now?"

"Well... I... I – I… uh, actually it does seem a bit lame, thinking about it, what with being back from the dead and everything. Now you've made me lose my self esteem - I’m angry!!"

Angry rattling of chains and flailing ectoplasmic limbs.

Wytch leaps up, hair on end.

"Do... that - do that... AGAIN!"

Spook obliges. Wytch's pupils dilate.

"Oh... My... God... that's... grrreat!" Rushes off to find sampler. "I think we're onto something here!"

Three weeks later and the album is rush released to great acclaim for it's haunting melodies, ghostly vocals and entrancing pop hooks.
Wytch is smug.

"Natasha Khan I’m coming for YOU!"

Jumps on horse and gallops into the mire.

"Oh bollocks. bloody.. mire... glug, glug."

THE END

.........................................................................

oh by the way i do actually live in a house where the owner kicked the bucket.

it happens.

life's what you make it

2009-11-09T20:55:15Z

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hobbit hole or hovel??

2009-11-08T22:21:22Z

Well my place, my country maison du wytch or possibly Bag End, or possibly Wyts End, is - as you would see for yourself if unlucky enough to visit -
messy.

Very messy.

Very, very messy.

Messy raised to the power of at least eleventy one.

In a nut shell; not an easy clean, hard to tidy, tricky to maintain. Somewhat resembling this:

but y'know, rural.

So of course i am grateful and gobsmacked to have spent the evening watching my Italian friend work wonders around my token efforts (i may have washed up). She would say; "I'm bloody good i am!" and she'd be right - although i believe my exact words were; "You are a masochistic sucker HA HA HA!"

But i am truly thankful if somewhat startled to realise i have carpets, walls, floorboards and bookcases! WOW!

I should take advantage of miracle working chums more often!

Koff! Seriously, though - thanks V! :))

fireworks 09

2009-11-07T23:15:38Z

fishing for taxis in a lunar pool
jumping on the line
split by the night

a silhouette diving
struggles for purchase
the air at street level
split by the rain

tumbling from the library
among the bikes and cars
it's like a fairgound tonight
she says

split by the fireworks
she shoulders it
she's soldiering on...

and me
i live in the country
where the fireworks trail the valleys
lighting the way from the rocks to the moors
with tiny stars

and bonfires re-enact the smoke
of those old mill chimneys
now fallen and drunk
like famous dead writers

who slipped on the rocks half concussed
stumbling home from the lodge
split by the night
split by the rain

and the fireworks.

two rockets for bonfire weekend!

2009-11-07T18:57:23Z

hope you enjoyed them!

they

2009-11-06T00:02:01Z

When they came for her
at the knocking gate
did you give her away?
or did she fade...
... like a radio wave

you're too stubborn
you're too stubborn for that

oh whisper a pardon
these impossible saints
with their heads on a plate
listen to those ghosts
at the knocking gate

surely you're too stubborn for that
too stubborn
to

fade
like a radio wave
give that dial a twist
you must try to resist

too stubborn
not to

live

you must try to live

winds will come
as is their way
banging at the city gate

don't give her away

live

like a radio wave

oh don't give her away

live.

........................................

that was the last of 3 linked but tangential pieces.