the weeping man
the winged muse competition winners, APRIL
in the geometry of objects, teardrops are semi-diamonds. the intersection of desire and regret. sometimes the diminishing of hope, or its abundance. their warmth, a memory of that original generosity, the womb’s salted waters we swam. our sight grows luminous in surrender to fate’s knotted bark. somewhere, a flower blooms in this sudden rain. Saraswati Nagpal
today, we celebrate another month of heart-felt and finely crafted responses to the winged muse monthly writing competition. our muse this month was “The Weeping Man” an art work by French artist, Ise Cellier. For Ise, her favourite medium of thread is ‘a symbol of suture, repair, scar or ligature, a thread that unites, a thread that links each of the stories told in her creations.’ and through her art a portal was fashioned for the writers here to speak on the topic of men, relationships and social conditioning. And you will be thrilled to read an offering by Saraswati herself, commended here.
we are thrilled to announce that the overall winner of April’s writing competition is Sarah O’ Grady her vivid and tender poem that carries us into the woods and the nature of masculinity, a huge congratulation to her.
Sarah will be receive 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 her poem along with writing by our commended poets:
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. ASYLUM Wendy Howe Today he waits to be found. A young man in a landscape carved out of rock and dirt. Buzzards perch on the cottonwood trees waiting to devour something that dies. He looks toward the birds; and tears tattoo his face with grief, reflecting scenes from his past. The alley in Mejicanos, where gang members left him lying between bistro and bodega. His knife wound staining the cobblestones with blood, (already slippery and slimed with moss). The street lamp shining like a dead man’s moon in the distance. And then the crossing into Texas. His feet in carpet shoes treading the heat and hill country. His shadow like shallow water rippling miles into nowhere. The need for asylum pricking his nerves along with briars and antlers left by deer discarding part of their identity. And finally that room in his house where he said goodbye. His wife sobbing into her hands. Her nail polish a pearl mosaic of what lingered. Hours. Pieces of hope as friends planned to hide him on an old ranch far from ICE. The face of his autistic daughter -- a rain lily under glass, preserved in stillness and shedding no emotion. Her small fingers knotting a rosary on a strand of rope. As a father, he watched then looked out the window. The sun sinking into the pit of his stomach. His last day of family life. SEVEN DAYS Patrick Widdess On the first day I cried tears of milk. The local cat population all came mewing and scratching at my door. On the second day I cried tears of wine. I went to a sommelier who identified a vintage so rare he beat two cases out of me. On the third day I cried tears of plasticine. They formed a deep blue ocean on my floor and I watched a plasticine boat sailing towards me until it was capsized by a plasticine wave throwing all its plasticine passengers into the plasticine water. I tried to rescue them, but they got squashed between my fat fingers and thumbs. On the fourth day I cried tears of oil. Protesters surrounded my home, glued themselves to my drive as I tried with all my heart to stop. On the fifth day I cried tears of blood. Everyone did. It seemed rude not to. On the sixth day I cried tears of chicken soup and felt a bit better. On the seventh day a single glass bead rolled down my cheek and into my cupped hand. I trembled as I held it, so fragile and pristine. THE MADONNA IN MY HEART William Doreski The Madonna in my heart feels crowded with medieval notions of the human construct. I weep for her imprisonment but lack the means to free her except by psychic surgery, a discredited procedure no one in my world would dare attempt. I’m overstuffed with décor for which I owe another lifetime of pointless reading Too late to pay that debt. I doubt that the Madonna would want to free herself by exposing me to dimensions I’ve learned to fear. Her bridal innocence shames me because I can’t embrace her as the anima I need to sweep away my excess and stifle this persistent weeping for which no plausible ransom exists. ON ISE CELLER’S THE WEEPING MAN Laura L. Hansen Within the weeping man, with his stitches of gold, and tattered edges, there is a weeping woman, wide-eyed and with an enlarged heart. He weeps for himself, for his wounds and battle scars. She weeps for the whole world, stitches it back together with herself inside, giving her strength from a place unseen unless you look close, close, closer. There she is, a pocket in his throat he has swallowed whole. NOTHING EVER DRIES jared mulhair there is a woman in my throat who only sings the dew from all the blades at hush of dawn after i’ve rained. most palms appraise me in a rush of sun & the bolder ones have more than brushed, have blanketed my roughened face— this weathered charm of oak around a grinning cottage window, my uncomplaining body framing the possibles of a glassy afternoon. yet none have known the underskin, the purple dampness of my deepest rings, my heartwood off the oxygen & hid away from hungry thumbs. this is where the woman sits. her luminous chamber below the ridge of my tangerine hello & clouds of teeth. this is where her song awaits my rarest gift: thirty sapphires on the windowpane. river petals falling through my frame. SHRINE Saraswati Nagpal After Ise Cellier’s “The Weeping Man” These hands were made to gather your blue tears rimmed in sapphire screams of boyhood beaten brutal, the way so many men become men, a blood rite, a steeling, a bequeathing of rage in paternal fire – your cobbled patchwork armour is a skin I have kissed till roses bloom in your wild shoulders. The bowl of my heart was made to gather your sloughing past as my wounds weep and spill in the solace of your chest. The shrine of our love is a mirror: we emerge as firebirds from softened debris of old amber fears.
we thank every writer who responded to the winged muse prompt this month, and we invite our readers to stay tuned for May’s prompt (coming up next week!) which will be ekphrastic, as we open for submissions.
we are also hosting our monthly write along this Friday. a space to write in companionship with other writers and an opportunity to speak a little about our process. if you are interested it is available for our paid subscribers, this, monthly submission lists, book club and exclusive writing, all for the equivalent of 5 euros per month. if you have questions, do reach out to us we are really delighted to welcome you closer into kin.
And for those of you writing and threading nature in your work, we at the winged moon are offering a three week workshop series ‘SELF AND UN-SELF - UNCOVERING BIOPHILIA beginning in late May, we are open for bookings over on our website and we’d love you to come over and have a read here.
thank you for reading, sharing and participating in our community. we would so appreciate if you could leave a comment for the poets here and perhaps share (restack) on substack and beyond.
Saraswati and Jai Michelle
read more about our featured artist:
Ise Cellier is a French visual artist who uses thread as her favourite medium, crafting scraps of fabrics, tea bags and ancient relics from various ages and cultures depending on her discoveries. She spits out a world beyond herself, full of silence and characters with screaming or singing mouths that she says she couldn't express herself. Ise designs little scenes that come freely to life, world-bearers or dolls that hark back to untold origins, hard to identify, a unique folklore that dreams of becoming universal.
Beautiful poems, all of them. But Patrick's poem has a slight edge for me. I love its uncomfortable surrealism.
The responses are always amazing!