Witches & Keepsakes

Incantation image by Ann Milovidova

First Mentor Poem

After He Called Her a Witch
SUSAN LUDVIGSON

Source: poetryfoundation.org

"The Orange Seller" Enrique Serra (oil on canvas)

Writing Prompt #1

Tell me about a witch, a bruja, a magical person.  OR, tell me about getting even.  Write a poem or a free write for 10 minutes. Ready? Go!

Second Mentor Poem

Keepsakes
RODDY LUMSDEN

Aerial view of Ushuaia from Martial Glacier, Tierra del Fuego SOURCE: steppestravel.com

Writing Prompt #2

Write about a keepsake. 
OR
After a hardship, tell me, what did you do to recover?  Where do you go to recover?

For Discussion

Louise Glück has just won the Nobel Prize for Literature (Oct. 2020), so I wanted to feature a work in our discussion session that is a perfect standout for this week's theme as well, "Witchgrass." 

Witchgrass
​LOUISE GLÜCK
​Something
comes into the world unwelcome
calling disorder, disorder–

If you hate me so much
don’t bother to give me
a name: do you need
one more slur
in your language, another
way to blame
one tribe for everything–

as we both know,
if you worship
one god, you only need
one enemy–

I’m not the enemy.
Only a ruse to ignore
what you see happening
right here in this bed,
a little paradigm
of failure. One of your precious flowers
dies here almost every day
and you can’t rest until
you attack the cause, meaning

whatever is left, whatever
happens to be sturdier
than your personal passion–

It was not meant
to last forever in the real world.
But why admit that, when you can go on
doing what you always do,
mourning and laying blame,
always the two together.

I don’t need your praise
to survive. I was here first,
before you were here, before
you ever planted a garden.
And I’ll be here when only the sun and moon
are left, and the sea, and the wide field.

I will constitute the field.

Source: apoemaday.tumblr.com

Listen to the poet read "Witchgrass" here.

The New Yorker has referred to her as a "Whisperer of the Seasons" in this lovely article, exploring how Gluck returns to "seasons, our oldest metaphors," in order "to divine the texture of our inner life." 

This isn't the first time PoetryBones has been inspired by or studied Louise Glück; see her appearances in the PoetryBones  Supernatural Experiences and I Killed for You sessions, featuring "All Hallows" and "Gretel in Darkness," respectively.  

Lastly, I appreciate M Ayodele Heath's analysis of "Witchgrass" here.

Another witch poem --  a compendium of all the things said of witches, the things believed, accused, even organically embodied, simply by being female -- in other words, perhaps, the feminine mystique.  Do you recognize the many historical allusions? 

​The Witch
ELIZABETH WILLIS

A witch can charm milk from an ax handle.
 
A witch bewitches a man's shoe.
 
A witch sleeps naked.
 
"Witch ointment" on the back will allow you to fly through the air.
 
 A witch carries the four of clubs in her sleeve.
 
A witch may be sickened at the scent of roasting meat.
 
A witch will neither sink nor swim.
 
When crushed, a witch's bones will make a fine glue.
 
A witch will pretend not to be looking at ber own image in a window.
 
A witch will gaze wistfully at the glitter of a clear night.
 
A witch may take the form of a cat in order to sneak into a good man's
chamber.
 
A witch's breasts will be pointed rather than round, as discovered in
the trials of the 1950s.
 
A powerful witch may cause a storm at sea.
 
With a glance, she will make rancid the fresh butter of her righteous
neighbor.
 
Even our fastest dogs cannot catch a witch-hare.
 
A witch has been known to cry out while her husband places inside her
the image of a child.
 
A witch may be burned for tying knots in a marriage bed.
 
A witch may produce no child for years at a time.
 
A witch may speak a foreign language to no one in particular.
 
She may appear to frown when she believes she is smiling.
 
If her husband dies unexpectedly, she may refuse to marry his brother.
 
A witch has been known to weep at the sight of her own child.
 
She may appear to be acting in a silent film whose placards are
missing
 
In Hollywood the sky is made of tin.
 
A witch makes her world of air, then fire, then the planets. Of
cardboard, then ink, then a compass.
 
A witch desires to walk rather than be carried or pushed in a cart.
 
When walking a witch will turn suddenly and pretend to look at
something very small.
 
The happiness of an entire house maybe ruined by witch hair
touching a metal cross.
 
The devil does not speak to a witch. He only moves his tongue.
 
An executioner may find the body of a witch insensitive to an iron spike.
 
An unrepentant witch may be converted with a frttle lead in the eye.
 
Enchanting witchpowder may be hidden in a girl's hair.
 
When a witch is hungry, she can make a soup by stirring water with
her hand.
 
I have heard of a poor woman changing herself into a pigeon.
 
At times a witch will seem to struggle against an unknown force
stronger than herself.
 
She will know things she has not seen with her eyes. She will have
opinions about distant cities.
 
A witch may cry out sharply at the sight of a known criminal dying of
thirst.
 
She finds it difficult to overcome the sadness of the last war.
 
A nightmare is witchwork.
 
The witch elm is sometimes referred to as "all heart." As in, "she was
thrown into a common chest of witch elm."
 
When a witch desires something that is not hers, she will slip it into her glove.
 
An overwhelming power compels her to take something from a rich
man's shelf.
 
I have personally known a nervous young woman who often walked in
her sleep.
 
Isn't there something witchlike about a sleepwalker who wanders
through the house with matches?
 
The skin of a real witch makes a delicate binding for a book of common prayer.
 
When all the witches in your town have been set on fire, their smoke
will fill your mouth. It will teach you new words. It will tell you what
you've done.
​
​Source: poetryfoundation.org