echoes of old selves
poetry from the winged muse competition
cool water over pebbles and round sounds of owl hooting. summer’s stars teach me yearning. the window of the eye frames many worlds. a spilling of existence, echoes of old selves drifting across the ink-scarf of night. Saraswati Nagpal
my apartment is smelling delightfully of jasmine. i am filming (in the awkward and novice way a newbie films) a poetry video to accompany one of the poems in my forthcoming collection, ‘Drench Me in Silver’ (Black Bough). of course, strings of jasmine had to be part of it, as did classical dance, which i’ve been fortunate to practice since childhood. crafting in film, a medium i am definitely clunky with, makes me pause often and interrogate my creative process, that unique blueprint of our expression.
last week, Martin Kennedy Yates shared his creative process with us in an eloquent interview here. and our submission window for our themed issue “BIOPHILIA” continues to invite crafted wonder for our EIC Jai Michelle, and contributing editors, Victoria Spires, Marcelle Newbold, and Vikki C.
as many of you know, we run a monthly writing competition, the winged muse, for parts of the year. today, we are reminiscing on the winning poems since February and celebrating these wonderful poets again. the inspiration for these poems was often an artwork, and these can be viewed in the newsletter linked in for each poem. in those newsletters, you will also read the lovely commended poems from each month’s competition entries.
February's winning poem by Paul atten Ash was inspired by our ekphrastic prompt: "Harpy" by artist, Valerie Hammond. PORTRAIT OF MY DAUGHTER AS A HARPY after Valerie Hammond’s ‘Harpy’ (ink on silk, 2024) Paul atten Ash I feel these days without you as if my heart is bleeding out, hear your dust-voice ebbing now, “Wherefore tear’st me thus?”, a young soul snared, held hostage, lost to life’s overwhelm. Bird-girl as open wound, your insides a wood of suicides, ghost eyes keening sad songs on repeat, all colours turn to rust, your girl-bird gaze fixed firmly to the haunted forest floor. In this quietude, such lorn beauty, becoming woman as if becalmed by all the grief in the world—spent claws that clutch at the smouldering air, wings mantled over burning trees. One day I will ask you for a feather, so that I may fashion a quill to scratch out some crimson-inked truth—a child’s trust in their father, say, skying up like cinders into the night. Now I know why you can no longer look me in the eye, because you see beyond the blind horizon like a falcon at dusk, the future a maddening gyre that sends you into freefall. But every time I said, “Everything is going to be okay …”, it was out of love, yet you felt it like some false oath, the husk of a promise—so, my harpy, carry me off, I accept my fate. Over the smoking ashes of our cities, let us fly you & I, down through, lead me into the vanquishing pit of Tartarus, leave me to the Furies’ wrath, for I failed you little bird.
Oormila V. Prahlad, our winner for March, responded to the competition’s theme of “tides”. THE WATER BEARER Oormila Vijayakrishnan Prahlad I first learned to float in a sliver of sea so hemmed in by the arms of dunes, the waves were benign creases stripped of their feral power. No fury, no tumult of sand or brine, or glassy mists like over the oceans where my father learned to hold his breath until his lungs were forced to flower into gills. I glided on slipstreams of linen green, my days long and languid, sunlight tingling on my toes, each ray teasing rings upon the expansive calm. One night when I was five, I dreamt of a torrential deluge, of waking up in a whirlpool that clutched my hair by its roots. My merman father swam to the depths to brush the dream salt from my locks, whispering a grace of protection in my ear. I saw his palms leak light—his face lambent like the velvet petals of water hyssops, as the wavelets surged around him, heavy with prophecy. Years later, I left the calm of the horse latitudes, and waded in one breath into the wildest current. Never once did I fear the belly of the tide, Never once did I look to the shore for succor.
April’s winning poem by Sarah O'Grady was inspired by the ekphrastic prompt: “The Weeping Man” by artist, Ise Celior IF HE ONLY HAD A HEART Sarah O’ Grady Tin man tears rust his joints, lock-jaw his flight. A loose heart rattles in the timpani holloways, a cantle of lost love taps gently from the drum. He is a legend pulsing through these woods. Barbastelle bats echoing off his frozen axe will be lost without him. Fallow deer and fox circle where he stood steadfast, only the weasels revel as he creaks away, lubricated by hope. In the brume, bramblings find his funnel roost replaced by willow, salicylic sap fluent in new green veins. Hart’s tongue curls for all the creatures who miss him when he leaves.
May’s winning poems by Ryan Hooper and Wendy Howe were inspired by “From Dark Seeds” by artist, Jenny Lloyd. WHAT NEVER ROOTED Ryan Hooper The echo of what never rooted folds inward into loam, soft with rot, like forgotten prayers exhaled through teeth of dust. Socketed hollows search far and wide for a seam of light where wheat-breath once clung. A hand breaks through griefskin. Black mirrors curve into their own hush as tar petals sleep in knitted pores. The day decays— still, absent. Decomposing fruit begins to bend into questions. They lean in to listen: low metal songs of ripening death thread the air, and old wounds reopen across the garden. Drifting shadows pause. And still—the bloom. The one you were told would never strike, never stir, never bleed again— is here now, in this Stygian theatre, rooted in ruin and calling out to something that dares to answer.
THE ORCHARD Wendy Howe The gold apple feels moist and smooth. Her fingers rub the fruit as if to touch the skin of a ripened womb. Along the grass, her dress floats like cream just separated from the fog; and as she kneels both season and girl shine unblemished in this orchard north of the river where fish swim tangled in algae that stains the water red and coal mines where the skeletal track trembles as trains pass carrying freight and memories of a smudged landscape -- her mother knew too well She once said that bones buried there echo the fate of many who gnawed on seeds of desperation, felt blight blackening the petals of each lung.
many thanks to all who have contributed to the winged muse competition this year. if you enjoy our free newsletter, you might want to read EIC Jai Michelle’s monthly newsletter, exclusive to paid subscribers. a paid subscription also gives you access to monthly write-alongs, a quarterly book-club gathering, and curated submissions lists each month.
thank you for reading and savouring great poetry with us!
until next time,
Saraswati and Jai-Michelle
read about today’s artist:
Karen Pierce Gonzalez is an award-winning, intuitive artist. To date, 70+ of her images (assemblage, hand-painted natural elements, photographs) have been published in a range of literary journals/magazines; seven of them as covers. A 2022 National Arts Program (USA) feature artist, her mixed media assemblage pieces have shown in several Pacific West Coast galleries and museums. She is also an award-winning prose and poetry writer who lives in the San Francisco Bay Area.