harpy, carry me off
the winged muse competition winners
crimson sky, serrated. faces in clouds bear the weight of old scars. the gaze is turned inward. shadows wrestle with the light of fireflies. kestrels sift twilight from a lake. as storm winds gather, we are every wing and talon. we are the water’s mercy, and the gale’s incessant howl. Saraswati Nagpal
february has flown past, and for me it has been two rewarding months at the winged moon; finding my rhythm with the weekly writing and curating of all the wonders from or inspired by HINTERLAND. Jai Michelle and i have so enjoyed reading the evocative and inspiring entries to our monthly writing competition the winged muse. this month’s anticipated reveal devoted is to five responses to our visual prompt and in our edited micro magazine, below.
this month’s visual prompt was the artwork “Harpy” by award-winning American artist, Valerie Hammond, whose work can be found in several private and public collections around the world. we are thrilled to announce that the overall winner of the winged muse competition this month is Paul atten Ash with writing that is both original and vivid and tucks the reader into the feathered heart of fatherhood. thank you Paul, for sending us this beautiful work.
heartfelt congratulations to Paul who will be receiving a three month paid subscription to this magazine, which includes bonus writing from our EIC, submission recommendations, monthly write-alongs and our new book-club gathering.
here is his poem along with our other commended poets
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. TRANSMORPHING Özge Lena In seven nights she will burst into nothing. Now all alone in a cream coloured void, a wound like creature, a word hunger like no other. Soon you will meet her in the neon gloaming, after the ruby ache of not writing for a long winter, frost flowers in your heart. Her low wings will be closed, sharp claws pointing down and down, some frozen sadness on her pale face. Sunset’s vermilion beams will bleed into your lungs as you hold her by hair, unfurl the ribbon to tie it around your neck, to see your freedom knotted in its silk, and breathe life into her mouth. You will watch her unfold her wings wide, talons will scratch the soft air when she cloaks you tight until you morph into a harpy to write a septet poem in red ink. THE BIRD WOMAN'S SOLILOQUY Wendy Howe When the spring willow was in bloom and impearled with dew, I sang between its branches., part woman and part bird. Unlike others of my wild species, I was born smaller with the face of a sorrowful saint and voice melodic as water trickling over the moss-strewn rocks awakening fish to spawn and brothers to write their morning psalms on the forest grounds of Bangor Abbey. And one of the young monks who looked upon me, did not show fear but fascination with my beauty and beastly form. I had no arms but wings and claws to stalk prey -- a huntress of men and mammals, but he knew I was different. Earth’s divinity dissolved within my bones. Mist sheathing the woods in sheer coolness, wind atomizing the scent of moist blossoms or dawn turning the sky to pale gold , a few stars fading like the spots of a fawn. He felt all of this and more in my singing. My eyes pleading with The Goddess ( in her white mound of clouds ) to become human and feel my hand on his heart saying; I’m yours, love me as you love nature, but nothing happened. And he turned away diminishing my presence on calfskin. His reed held firmly as he wrote: The sparrow sings in a fine tree, a fountain of green weeping. Yet I didn’t weep gusting into flight. The gale my shadow. BIRD ALISON Frances Gapper You think you know someone, then you discover you don’t really know them at all. Winged and beaked, they’re scarcely recognisable. Alison had been a gentle soul, but Bird Alison was harsh and cruel, tearing into him. Sex hopeless, terrible – she’d said this and other negative things about their relationship, before flying off. CONSEQUENCES Sarah O' Grady The celestial sphere is higher than a Bald Eagle perch. Katabatic winds could wildfire and desiccate dictators. Fury can shift stars. Fates shall spangle in Aello’s wake. Storm swift she circles, shaping landforms, her chinooks splintering all his arrows in time. When she stops to inhale, a lonely dove will have dropped the olive branch.
we thank every writer who responded to the winged muse prompt this month, and we invite all our readers to stay tuned for the next prompt (coming up next week!) which will be thematic rather than ekphrastic, as we open submissions for the winged muse competition for March.
thank you for reading, sharing and participating in our community. we would love if you would leave a comment for the poets and perhaps share here on substack or beyond.
Saraswati and Jai Michelle
read more about today’s featured artist here:
Valerie Hammond maintains a fluid artistic practice, distinguishable for her organic approach and deft interaction with different mediums. In all of her work, there is play between the material and the immaterial, the physical and the spiritual: the dichotomy between what is seen and the sensation it provokes. Valerie’s work can be found in both private and public collections such as the Walker Art Center, the Library of Congress, The Fine Arts Museum Houston, The Progressive Art Collection, the Fidelity Collection, the New York Public Library’s print and drawing collection, The Chazen Museum, The Madison Museum of Contemporary Art, The Grand Palais Museum, Paris and the Getty Museum. She is a recipient of numerous awards and fellowships, and has exhibited in solo and group shows nationally and internationally.
Congratulations to Paul for his wonderful poem, and to everyone selected in the response to the artwork.