Throwback Thursday: A Tale of Two Witches, By Shannon Connor Winward

It’s Halloween week, so naturally, Throwback Thursday has to be a witch poem. This goes all the way back to 2012, and is filled with charm and magic. You’ll love it! The link is here.

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Image is “The Witches Frolic,” by Arthur Rackham.

Throwback Thursday: Bride Gift, By Shannon Connor Winward



Editor's note: Shannon's poem intrigued me and that's what made it one of the October winners. Is it based on "The Princess and the Pea"? I think so. The description is certainly enticing. Addition, 2020: I still stand by my original point. And I would note that Shannon continues to build a stellar career. Here’s her eponymous blog.

 

Tithe every household a wagon of chaff

and a goose

bring me a ship of the finest linen

call up an army of seamstresses, weavers

and carters

woodsmen to fell the forest.

My Liege, employ the kingdom.

 

Bid them make the scaffolds mighty

(and sturdy)

let it rival the tallest castle spire

build me a tower

layer by layer

straw, ticking, down and silk.

 

Send your armada to escort me across the ocean

raise me up in a litter of gold

borne on the backs of champions

lay me down under a canopy of stars

and promise me Heaven.

 

I will give you my hand

my fidelity, benediction

coronation in the circle

of my arms

 

I will give you my body

sovereignty

in my hills and valleys

my flesh, my womb

I will give you sons

   and daughters

you will never be forgotten

nor forsaken.

 

I will give you solace

at day’s end

I will soothe your weary bones

forgive your sins, my dear one.

I will give you my heart

and a home

 

but first

you must pass

a simple test:

 

lie with me

in this tower of ambition

under the gaze of angels.

 

I will feel it

if you have hidden

even the smallest doubt

I will sense it

if your harbor

the merest kernel of a lie. 

 

Your thoughts

are as plain to me, my King

as the view from our marriage bed

the palm of the earth

open, her fingers

 

tickling the shore.

From here a boulder

is a pebble

a pea

Sire, lie with me

and if you do not love me

I will know.

 

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Image is “Sleep,” by Simeon Solomon.

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Shannon Connor Winward's poetry and fiction have appeared widely in such venues such as: Pedestal Magazine, Strange Horizons, Flash Fiction Online, Enchanted Conversation, Illumen, Ideomancer, and various anthologies.  Her poem, “All Souls’ Day” was nominated for a 2012 Rhysling Award.

In the Rain House, By Shannon Connor Winward

In my dreams, the moon of mother's eye

splits and cracks, a river swells against

the branches of her lashes

and when it breaks, I wake up gasping.

It rained again last night. It froze today

my roof sagging with a drop of it

round and heavy as my head.

The grass stuck together, white, jagged

protesting my grunts and kicks, my need

to carve a door.  The afternoon rain

sloughed it clean again, but I am cold, cold. 

Summer is a ghost.  The birds

don't sing to me, the flies and beetles

have all gone; no chirrups, no roars.  The stream

has belched over its shores, and the rain

keeps coming back, thrashing petals

from their necks, knuckling across my leaf-

shadow floor.  I have worn

through my lady slippers, my gown

mother's careful stitches fray and shiver

my worry chokes and croaks like toad words

mud in my throat. It's time

to go.  Go where? The rain

will crush me, it will turn to snow. 

The sky is huge, the field is vast

a rough, shorn sea—I will be buried there

unless the owls find me first. They ask

when will I feed them, when will I crawl

from this house—it won't stand

forever; it yellows, it rolls

on itself, the honey brittles.  I will starve.

Oh, Mother, I am afraid. I miss my little

brown walnut bed, tucked and rocked

in your warm breath, your scent of bread.
Do you think I left on purpose?

Do you pray for me? Do you mourn?

Do you thumb shut the window?

Do you sift the barleycorn?

Do you imagine me here, stuck like hoarfrost to what

I cannot change?  It will rain, and I will drown.

The rain keeps coming down.

I used to row in circles round my basin pond.

My thoughts go round in circles.

I once rode the wild current

crossed the world

lashed to a butterfly.  He was my friend.

Now he's gone.  If I had wings, I would have

caught him, I would soar home, but I have only

these tiny feet, and Time is monstrous.  It marches on.

The rain stomps autumn beneath its heel

and winter is rushing in behind

with its ice and fear, its crystal pain. 

But to hell with tears, to hell with rain. It's time to go

go soon.  I'll lasso the moon; either that or die here

with all her wishes, all her dreams of me.

Shannon's bio: "My poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Analog, Gargoyle, Pedestal Magazine, Strange Horizons, Gingerbread House, and past issues of EC, among others. My poetry chapbook, Undoing Winter (Finishing Line Press, 2014) was nominated for an SFPA Elgin Award.  I am also a staff writer for Pop Culture Madness and a poetry editor for Devilfish Review."

A Tale of Two Witches, By Shannon Connor Winward, Feb. Honorable Mention

With my head in my hands

I lamented my plight -

an open tome before me

and nothing to write.

“Sister, take my hand,” you said.

“This is something you should see.”

You led me from our forest house

into a maze of trees

 

We flew through hazel , ash and birch

holly, oak and thorn

over fields of barley, wheat and rye

root vegetables and corn

past the farmsteads and the crossroad inns

and down the merchant’s trails

through the gate and the cobbled streets

of the City of FairyTales.

“Look, Dearest, how they toil,”

you laughed as we set down

on a rooftop in the thick of it

this busy, worried town.

“Look at the cinder girl, with sisters cruel!

Look at the cobbler, childless and old.

Look how the miller’s daughter weeps

for straw that won’t be gold.

 

See there, an orphan, bereft

with only a cat for a friend

and there, a lad with a pocket of beans

and a family to tend.

Look how sad, how poor, how droll!

Even their royalty frets!

for children, for power

for princesses in towers

 

for princes with impossible tests.

One Queen dies, another plots

the King mopes on this throne

while his kingdom rots

tell me, Sister, have you ever imagined

a place so boringly tragic?”

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” I asked.

And you grinned.  “Let’s give them magic.”

 

“You sing for water,” I said,

“I’ll awaken the earth.”

“You call the wind, and I’ll summon fire,”

you replied with mischief and mirth.

 

“Come spirits, come sprites,” we beckoned

“come sigils, come totems and charms

come sisters of moonlight, brothers of wood,”

we cackled and strode arm and arm

down chimneys , through storefronts

side-streets and stables

wells, bridges, balconies

and wealthy men’s tables

 

trailing fortune and curses

enchantments and wishes

here glamours, there goblins

and serendipitous kisses

 

turning peasants to nobles

and nobles to beasts

giving voices to cats

and crashing King’s feasts

east of the sun

and west of the moon

within and without

magic bestrewn

over all the land of Fairy

that dull little place

now a kingdom of wonder

hope, wisdom, and grace.

And returned, then, we did

giggling and giddy

to our cottage, our haven

just two doting biddies

 

with our cats and our cauldrons

and our head full of glories

racing each to our tablets

to write down the stories.

 

 

Shannon tells us: "My writing has appeared in such venues as: Pedestal Magazine, Strange Horizons, Flash Fiction Online, This Modern Writer [Pank Magazine], NewMyths.Com, Ideomancer, The Magazine of Speculative Poetry, and the anthologies Twisted Fairy Tales: Volume Two (Wicked East Press), Jack-o’-Spec: Tales of Halloween and Fantasy (Raven Electrik Ink) and Spec-tacular: Fantasy Favorites from Raven Electrick Ink. "

Image by Paul Delaroche has been altered.