witching hour

*poem published in Coven Poetry, 2021.

at witching hour

she enchants the sky,

binding the stars with her elder wand

when the moon drips on her tongue,

she breathes into her bones

and her spirit spills through her nostrils

she jolts to the sky

where she unfolds;;;

she erupts in rolling thunders,,,

slides constellations through her hair,,,

tangles herself on rays of sun,,,

                        and blossoms into all-encompassing all-pervading awareness

           she surrounds all penetrates all upholds the galaxy eternal she is endless

                        she is ALL THAT IS

                                               …………………………………………………………………..

when the charm fades, her skin tingles

as she is drawn back into her flesh

in which she crashes with beautiful violence

her essence melds into her figure, sliding through blood vessels

her spirit curls between her fingers

her soul swells inside her mouth

and from ALL THAT IS

she becomes

A MICROCOSM

A FRAGMENT OF THE WHOLE

image credit: Tithi Luadthong, shutterstock.

(on the night the witch was born) or (solaris) by Téa Nicolae

on the night the witch was born

her grandmother oiled her infant body

with poppy’s milk. as the concoction gently swirled

into the blood pouring from her mother’s womb,                           

her grandmother adorned her bare head

with flower garlands and carried her

into the woods. toes dug in damp Earth,

sacred chants glued to her lips,

the elderly witch drew in the Moon                           

and lifted the child to the Heavens.                   

the Divine Enchantress descended

before them, bracelets around Her ankles,

silkily playing her flute. She licked

Her index finger and placed it between

the new-born’s eyebrows, breathing

magick and abundance through her core.

with tender fingers,

the Enchantress weaved the web of her life,

as the maiden, the mother,

the matriarch and the crone

tangled themselves in her eyes.

the Moon, waxing and waning,

poured light on the crest of her head

and the Divine Enchantress sowed her heart

                                             with golden thread.

*poem published in volume XI of Skye Magazine. to me, it holds two titles: ‘on the night the witch was born’ and ‘solaris’.

🌙

i adore this poem poem & the illustration that accompanies it! it opened my final year collection of my undergraduate degree – an occult lyrical project entiteld ‘Hymns ot the Divine Enchantress’, which was centred on illuminating the female esoteric experience. it is so moving to me to finally see it in print! thank you so much, Skye Magazine!

Skye’s beautiful illustration:

and the poem’s original moon format.

🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙🌙

I, Lalla

🕊 kneeling at the cradle of the skies and the seas,
she prays with her hips
and she asks the Earth for forgiveness. 🕊

~ these are my favourite lines from an ending poem belonging to my final year project: a devotional collection about the feminine mystique. while writing it, my greatest influence was Lalleshwari, who also is my favourite poetess. i’ve been fondly thinking of her today as i revisited my poems. from her collection “I, Lalla”:

🌙 Wrapped up in Yourself, You hid from me.
All day I looked for You
and when I found You hiding inside me,
I ran wild, playing now me, now You. 🌙

🌙 As the moonlight faded, I called out to the madwoman,
eased her pain with the love of the One.
‘It’s Lalla, it’s Lalla,’ I cried, waking up the Loved One.
I mixed with Him and drowned in a crystal lake. 🌙

🌙 I wore myself out, looking for myself.
No one could have worked harder to break the code.
I lost myself in myself and found a wine cellar. Nectar, I tell you.
There were jars and jars, and no one to drink it. 🌙

i aimed to emulate her character into the female voice i created: an embodied woman devoted to the supranatural, whose esoteric experiences were deeply personal, imperfect and feminine. 💜 Lalla (or Lal Ded) was an enchanting Kashmiri mystic and saint, who created the prominent style of spiritual poetry known as “vakhs”. she wrote heart-wrenching, devotional poetry to Lord Śiva, who she was enamoured with. she wore nothing but the tresses of her long hair and lived the life of an ascetic: she renounced all worldly possessions and would wander, bare, sharing her wisdom and teachings. some lauded and worshipped her, some threw rocks at her, but she paid no mind. she wrote:

🌙 They may abuse me or jeer at me,
They may with flowers worship me.
What profits them whatever they do?
I am indifferent to praise and blame.
Can a few ashes a mirror befoul? 🌙

^ i wish to tread through life so wildly. 🩰😊 excited to share this collection of mine with you in the (far) future, when the time is right. 💜

me treading through life coyly in portugal, where i hope to relocate one day. i have kept adding photos to this website, although i never thought i would do that at first. but, i don’t know, i feel vaguely nostalgic, times are changing quickly, i’m growing out of my mermaid hair… and there is longing inside of me to share, to connect, as i am, clumsy and … lost… and me….

Hymn to the Bearer of Life by Téa Nicolae

Hymn to the Bearer of Life

Humming for Grace,

my blood spills out of my veins

to sing Her lullaby.

Humming for Grace,

my tongue thirsts

to curl Her name.

Humming for Grace,

my bones humble themselves

for Her mouth.

Humming for Grace,

my flesh draws the map

of Her wisdom.

All there is

and all I am:

a lotus flower

at the feet of the Divine Enchantress.

As a drop of rain falls into the sea

and a grain of sand drips into the desert,

I am birthed from Her womb,

and to Her womb I return. Blessed be the Earth

that binds us as One.

💜 published in the anthology “in which poetry breathes life”, 2020.

🕊” i wrote this poem for my experimental poetry module in my final year as an undergrad, when our tutor (Polly Atkin!) invited us to view poetry as spellcraft. this exercise, along with my research into spiritual poetry at the time, inspired me to dedicate myself to constructing a lyrical, metaphysical female gaze – much needed in literature, imho.

🕊 the sales for the collection “in which poetry breathes life” were donated to WHO’s covid-19 response fund, and the compiled works explored poetry as an outlet to navigate through the uncertainties of 2020.

🕊 you can purchase the anthology here:

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Which-Poetry-Breathes-Life-NaPoWriMo/dp/B088N3WS58

🕊 “Spells are poems, poetry is spelling.” ~ from the introduction of the anthology of Occult poetry edited by Sarah Shin & Rebecca Tamás, entitled “Spells”.

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