Poetry

New Eden

When I saw you creeping in the grass,
I knew at once, with just a glance
exactly what you were and were doing.

Painted red and sitting there
barefoot child, without a care,
yes-oh-yes, I know that you need something…

For I have come from a far off land
and I have brought my merry band,
of men who haven’t seen a girl since last Sunday!

But if you find my lot too lively,
we can sit and talk of ivory
and where your city sleeps inside the jungle.

Yes, take us to your far out tribe,
show us where your people hide,
it’s oh-so-far past the time of our meeting!

And the wild creatures you have here,
strike my men as passing queer,
full of meat, that tastes just like our salvation!

We will dance and pray to heaven
that your souls can be forgiven
of all the sins you didn’t know you were committing.

And if your streets are paved with gold,
we will not make the journey home,
we shall stay and make this place our New Eden.

Yes-oh-yes, with blood and sweat,
we will make this our New Eden!

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News

4 Poems 2 Magazines

I’m lucky enough to see four of my pieces published this month.

The first “Scheherazade” is a re-telling of 1,001 Nights featured in the latest issue of New Myths and can be found online here. 

The rest are three poems over at Neon Magazine, “Going Under” “Heir” and “Belasis & Hastur“. The entire issue can be downloaded for free here, however do I encourage you to purchase a physical copy or make a donation, they’re a great magazine that supports authors and consistently delivers interesting fiction to its readers.

Thanks for reading!

-M.

 

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Poetry

Fairy Pieces

*

A fairy piece
is a variant or
combination on
the established chess tokens,
such as the Princess,
the Sargent,
and the Knightmare.

They are used only
in unorthodox chess,
where you might try
to force your opponent
into checkmating you
and in programming,
where a computer might
know over a thousand
unique pieces.

*

In 2012,
five hundred new
fairy tales were unearthed
in Regensberg, Germany
originally collected in the 1800s
by Franz Schönwerth.

He was highly respected
by The Brothers Grimm.

But while they weaved
romance into their stories,
Franz remained a historian,
his tales giving us a rare look
into the lives and times
of those who told
these stories first

*

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle believed
the Cottingly fairies existed
and attended seances
held in a magician’s parlor,
he was even friends with
Houdini, for a time.

Arthur was convinced Harry
truly had some mystic power
and the illusionist was
never able to convince him
it was all just a trick.

*

Bridget Cleary fell ill
in the spring of 1895
and after several
worsening days
a priest was sent for.

Her husband was blinded
by grief and refused to believe
this woman was actually his wife,
and convinced himself that
she had been replaced
by a changeling.

With nine witnesses present,
her father and husband
poured urine onto her skin and
forced her, pleading
into a roaring fireplace.

They hid her body in a ditch
and went home to hold vigil,
so that the real Bridget
might come home.

To this day, in Ireland
you can hear
schoolgirls singing:

Are you a witch,
are you a fairy,
or are you the wife of
Michael Cleary?

*

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Poetry

Color Into Noise

Up until the 1990s,
they let the peacocks
roam the grounds here,
temperamental as they were,
they would follow you
around the courtyard
and through the gardens.

The birds would
come and go
as they pleased,
flying between
the estate and
the nearby woods,
densely forested
though they were.

In the summer,
you could hear
them out there
most nights,
boys calling out
to the hens,
translating all that
vibrant color into noise.

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Poetry

Secret Santa

I didn’t know for sure
until last Christmas Eve,
when earth and sky
shared the eerie twilight blues
and all the people seemed to glow
with rosy cheeks in
soft bright sweaters.

I was wearing
that tired black dress,
looking down at my children
and up to their father,
dressed up for the kids
as reward for being good.

They cheered
when they saw him,
Santa! Santa! Santa!

But maybe he is
too good of an actor
or not good enough,
because when I saw him
in that red costume
and white beard,
I realized what I was missing.

That night he was
a different man,
or at least
different enough
from the one I knew.

Here was a happy guy
the giving type
always kind
not afraid of a few drinks.

He was everything
my husband wasn’t.

And that was when I knew.

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Poetry

The Winter Fox

I caught a fox inside my
house one morning,
his winter fur a flash
as he was running
down the wooden floors
and steps and past
the sleeping children,
’til he led me to a room
that I had long forgotten.

Under blankets,
wrapped in covers
where I laughed
with my brother
’til a knock came
from the back porch
like the second coming,
so the fox ran to the door
and he laughed as he answered.

And then we were both outside
in the cold, cold forest
the endless paths of winter
stretching out before us
and the fox is running free
on the ground and it’s snowing
and it don’t show signs of stopping
not until the morning
and I think that we can
make it if we just keep walking.

Yes, I know that we can make it
if we just keep walking.

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Essay

Yes Virginia, There Is A Cthulhu

Dear Editor,

I am 8 years old. Some of my friends say there is no Cthulhu. Papa says, ‘If you see it in The Arkham Review, it’s so.’ Please tell me the truth; is there a Cthulhu?

-Virginia Olmsted
115 W. 95th st.
Arkham, MA.

Virginia, your little friends are wrong. They have been affected by the skepticism of a skeptical age. They do not believe in anything except what they can see. They think that nothing can exist which is not comprehensible by their little minds. All minds, Virginia, whether they be men’s or children’s, are little. In this great universe of ours, man is a mere insect compared to the boundless world about him and the whole of truth and knowledge.

Yes, Virginia, there is a Cthulhu. He exists as certainly as the stars, the seas, and the infinite exist. Alas! How dreary would be the world if there were no Cthulhu! It would be as dreary as if there were no Virginias.

Not believe in Cthulhu! You might get your papa to hire men to watch in all the coastlines and volcanic islands on Christmas Eve to catch Cthulhu, but even if they did not see him, what would that prove? Nobody sees Cthulhu. The most real things in the world are those that neither children nor men can see. Nobody can conceive or imagine all the horrors there are unseen and unseeable in the world.

You may tear apart the baby’s rattle and see what makes the noise inside, but there is a veil covering the unseen world which not the strongest man could tear apart. Only fear, fancy, madness, and obsession, can push aside that curtain and view the supernal beauty and glory beyond. Is it all real? Ah, Virginia, in this world, there is nothing else real and abiding.

No Cthulhu! Thank God! He lives, and he lives forever. A thousand years from now, Virginia, nay, ten times ten thousand years from now, he will continue to destroy the heart of childhood.

Merry Christmas Virginia,

Archibald Gilman
The Arkham Review
919 NE Wilbur Dr.
Arkham, MA.

Based on the “Yes Virginia, There Is A Santa Claus” letters published in The New York Sun in 1897, by the real eight year old Virginia O’Hanlon and newspaper reporter Francis Pharcellus Church.

Artwork by Les Edwards

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A Year in The Deepwood

Deepwood: The Unicorn

When I was young,
I sought her
because of her wonder,
that was all that mattered.

When I grew older,
I hunted her
for beauty’s sake,
wanting it for myself.

As a man,
I wanted her
for what she could offer me,
a legend of my own,
immortality perhaps.

I hardly knew what to do,
when I finally caught up
with her, one day at sunset
drinking from a cool, clear pool
in the heart of The Deepwoods.

We wrestled for a time,
but eventually,
I broke her,
tying her to an ancient elm,
with silver rope,
as legend proscribed.

She told me all
the secrets of her kind.

When she was done,
I ground her horn
into my satchel
and drained her blood
into my flask,
through all of which,
she was alive
to preserve potency,
just as I had read
in the ancient texts.

When I emerged
out of The Deepwoods,
I told no one of my kill
and no one laughed
when I quit the hunt,
putting away childish things.

I prospered much from that day,
in my mixing and dealings.

But as an old man,
I see her now in my dreams,
beckoning for me
to join her in the pool,
a dark glint in her eyes.

I wonder what
she wants from me.

I see her sometimes,
even when I am awake,
a brilliant white streak
at the edge of my vision…

But I am too old to be hunted,
aren’t I?

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Poetry

Zoo Dreams (2 of 2)

I don’t remember the wild,
but my mother does.

She won’t talk about
what happened to her herd,
but her left eye,
sightless and milky white
speaks of a cruel world
beyond these walls.

Home to her now means
not having to wander,
to destroy all the time,
or worry about her children
and she says,
that is worth the space.

Though recently,
she does mutter in her sleep,
about the graveyards of Asia…

They are calling out to her,
across oceans
and across instinct,
begging her
to finally come home.

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