The Winged Moon Magazine
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The Winged Moon Magazine
Issue Four 'Passage'
note from the editor:
the curve of a distant planet. the distance between two hummingbird’s beaks. apples falling into the basket of ground. the severed road has been mended and all barriers broken by the tide. seawater rushes in carrying relics - remnant of crane flight. a wild foal dead on the path. the way that silence clings to the liminal, to wings, to boats. pulling seasons to their end and beginnings. mythological and familial love and loss. the way that light is. the way that time is. these words are waves.
this issue is about all that passes, each writer and artist has shared their own singular vista of this theme. we welcome you all onto this passage with no doors.
final flight Christian Ward Twilight: the cold wing-flight of the crow, finch, owl, and hawk. Air sculpts feather to bone, light particles glisten like dew at speed. The landscape is reduced to common nouns. This is poetry being written in the hinterland between spaces, between places, between states. The boundary is snagged in a bird's throat like notes caught from a stray song, markers to guide those neither here nor there. silence Agrene Bouwman Silence rises like water see how it bends around the human frame the spine a bamboo flute listen out for His name, it quivers against the reed. Silence of the land behind my tongue the path there, a flight of birds they cannot land, nowhere is the ground immovable. Silence of the cords in my throat a scream extinguished for years the buzzard was my name I was his sound. how many heartbeats have I counted? in the whirl of the wind I lost them my name, the name of my blood, and their wild manes I carry them like skin. here, now, my arms are spread my breath, theirs and we whisper across the water silence. was there a day without time? her song in our lap we combed her hair to silk we carried her over the water. it is because we sank it is because all has sunk before the sinking it is because of Silence time unravels.
last rites on the path Jai Michelle Louissen by the sun’s audience, hawthorn stand forward swallows fly low in woodrush and sedge caught between black hips, their gleam of falling kingdoms, arrowed darkly the lake drops out of sight four fold the eyes, empyrean the soil, i enter swallowed by hoof trail and afterlife and foal of vertiginous field the whiteness of mane, sonnet of sea gold remembers the watering hole and the wold the parchment lifting.. a coracle stretches across unmoving water pointing downward to the fall, to an absence of light to the steep chill liquid, visible, then gone. birches the most tender Julian Mann Birches the most tender sighers A fine porcelain broken, And a woman in the dream Said oldest wooden church. If this passage is Like to an unheard music We are like exquisite pilgrims, Faith flings us back sweetly. Upon the road early Sheppey once heard the road is long Kneeling, the side of King Harry’s The bee digging its moss Weeping, the side of King Harry’s Weeping when our hearts were strong The badge is travelling mind Within the vigil lights of Alban Is the redeeming vision of the road And shadowsick is a holiness. Birches the most tender, I think will be an early autumn. autumn rising Beth Vermander Oak seeds soak in sun showers on a wooden ledge, on a mason jar, light tendrils of roots entwined, roaming only to roam back upon themselves, to free the cinched threads of summer. Do you recall, after this yellow season, long and lucent, how soon night falls in September? Or the sweet sour song of pearberries, overripe now, blackening; a cool whistle across the gleaned fields, a subtle ode to mending?
song of wheat
Anni Rannisto
Rustle of fern,
cowberry
stem tremble,
someone’s reverie between the branches
lingers briefly—
moves
past the threshold
of conifer-sea shifting into vastness,
there, where a careful crane
crouches
amidst wheat worth of boundless eye,
notices
a stranger nearby—
unfurls into a bouquet of syllables
cleaved
from the soil’s secrets
The stranger gasps—
takes a few steps back
and vanishes into the gloaming.
The crane and the man
now scattered
into different passages.
Yet for a fleeting moment,
they both shared something in the godlessness
of sound,
heard the same song of wheat,
of sinew,
of omniety—
each ruin-lit melody
sung for unbrokenness.
afloat: Bri Stokes Her armour is onyx and turmeric— amber-breasted calling card of Venus, hovering over and into white blossoms puckering against Meyer lemons, vibrating with the lull of summertime, dappled in perfumes of sunset, leaving pollen on domed mouths of ivory petals and invoking the old psalms of hedge-magick: here, She divines parallel realities and private realms of dew and dawn. She hums out the heat and sop and hunger of transience. Rhythms of creation unveil before Her like shifting silk in shell-pink solitude. Finite thing from the centre of Europa. the way was clear Sun Hesper Jansen The wormhole in those roots was so achingly obvious. Let’s climb through, you said, and we became what we must to enter the Elsewhere realm. Settled, we could dispense with the frippery of flesh. The scratches on our limbs, imbricated, our movements small and subtle—language surrendered to chemistry. No morning or night touched that place, just a tremulous electric dusk, full of dangerous questions whose answers bite. You and I belonged there but we could never stay, no matter how many anchors we hooked into the starry soil. Light always gets in. Pries its way past the wards on our lashes— a traitorous passage over the optic chiasma. I knew, when we woke, we’d feasted too much on our languid oneness, pernicious as fairy food. After one last gaze at one another, we closed our eyes. As if it would last, the retinal echo of the woods we were.
persephone nightswimming Kate MacAlister a seven century prelude to tell my story how I once sang of picking virginflowers and the ground splitting into a downward kingdom of dark and gold the freefall calling to the m o o n and the wild (within) my wiseblood hands feeding the jewelfruit to the land of the living, stained red with spring once i woke in the fold above the throbbing starless sky - the veil tearing apart fingers and palms safe and sacred between my beloved’s lungs. one wing still beating quietly - we made our bed and lie in the shuddering river witness to each others loneliness harboring storms and rescuelight the dawn of seasons changing brings a bleed of rich dimensions spilling over my thighs we were too in love to live to die war around heaven Daniel Lockeridge My portal is by Aurora’s game— Indistinction loves me, but not, for each unique witch holds on like the familiar, last cabin of cloud. Already hot with loss, they douse I who need their cauldrons of doubt— petals vast as the very first sound: a witch tilting back my head, I think it was. Breathe in Her Nature, was their emblem, which was etched into my wind chime-palm, just before they ran into war around heaven; that was the last time I saw part of my anger. Aurora returns only because she’s lost, and sometimes they swipe at their queen, like stems at their own buds, and I…. And the only elixir is in my palm of euphony. the birth of seraphine Seraphine Saintclair I step into blue light And shimmering snakes whisper Poems of flame around My wrists and head, as With a face half deer, half dove My past name dances her story Into the sky behind the sky And then I bloom the electricity of The winged, the nameless As I take my pulsing world into my hands And shape it into a song of Selenite butterflies
towards the still Sandy Cove and Poulpie — I travelled all the way here in the humus I drink of the nourishing, amniotic juice of the soil I’m unfolding in it, little by little Soon I will take root and cling like a mighty vine And already I’m rising from the ground and blooming Gathering up the air and shouting out to the peaks of my ancestors Here I am, among my own kind Rooted, my arms reach for the sky The rhythm of the adagio carries me through the seasons, the rains and the tempests A never-ending music to which my body and limbs freeze But towards the light I must rise Mother, Earth, release me! Cut my vine! The storm broke my trunk, blowing me on its dizzying journey I have crossed so many wondrous roads, Flying over the forests of my fellow creatures and the great shimmering lochs, And ever since then I’ve been following my path, carried on the living waters An everlasting roar of foaming rapids splashes my face and my shaking limbs My drifting wooden body begs for a truce Water, release me! Let me rest! — You are talking about being freed, you beg the river to extract you from these streams Is your mind so obscured that it can’t see the shape that these perpetual flows gave me? I must admit that my body may not be the most attractive It no longer even looks like what I really am It faded away, rigid, static, darkened and icy Because I am a descendant of these mountainous heights, magmatic and rocky A worthy successor, watching over his kingdom All these years as proud as a guardian, even more frozen in the ground than candles in the sky I am a landmark for the moon and the sun Permanently stuck in a limping motionless, wet and muddy, steep and traversed Yet I am not drowned in loneliness. Sometimes a dragonfly lands on me She carols some old folk songs for me with her wings At dusk, naiads charm owls while swimming into phosphorescent waves Souls pass by and trample me to cross the torrent, I remain here for them Then children have fun ricocheting my kind Today, you came to meet me In the midst of a turbulence, looking for rest And I, in my endless lethargy, hunger for life Life is a star whose glow is you You are passing by the point And the point passes me by Yet, even though I know I am just a numb and stony crossroad, I want you to take root near me So I could try to feel Both the wistfulness of memories being born, And the delight of an impatience that ignites then perishes forthwith May my dreams could find the sparkling strength To grow me legs out of deer antlers and a heart out of bird songs And one sweet dawn with you, I am sure I will know the meaning of my words — I thought I was uprooted But fate has guided me to you Sentinel of the mountains and woods I’m gripped by you, sliding to the shore I am born again, by your side metanoia Christopher Warren On approach, passing street lights dim and sputter out like candles. It follows, invisible and invincible. Signs point to no outlets. There are, in darkness, no coincidences— every day’s a birthday.
untitled Julie Stenton Out of the corner Of my eye I see the sun Softly streaming Through the window It grows brighter Until shadows appear On the wall Diagonal stripes Various thicknesses I think that I might be here To notice tiny shifts In my surroundings Once still A change in the light Becomes meaningful The appearance of a shadow changes the course of my entire life lantern Richard Davidson Daughter is iron her uncommon blue lips whisper a half smile . Father bites down on the madness . which is the poetry. The familial bolts frozen can be sheared off in one heartbeat. The lanterns though still mark the way home.
free passage Kerry O’Connor When we fall through the cracks in the floor we may become separated (Hands slipping through fingers) with nothing to hold onto we may feel lost for that iota eternal. We may lose our grip on the air as we fall we may experience the void (Either inside or beyond our bodies) of free passage and struggle for breath while experiencing a loss of foundation. I want to reassure you that I will be there with you when we gravitate (Coagulate and particular) towards the brink of immolation. But there is no guarantee we will meet again. is it possible to love the body Ashley Mezzano Is it possible to love the body of Thesus’ ship as it changes twice to prevailing winds and salty ocean rot? It has swollen in size the past decade. When did its mast grow that much higher, separating its lookout and its engine until neither captain or boy recognize each other, distance too great, for even hand signals. exodus MaryAnne Bernardo We never did speak of it The incident that lead to the silence The old laughs retired and a pool of blood between us The sun setting the earth on fire, like the Tuesday my Mother passed Makes me wonder why people hate rain When you didn’t believe me I became silent My body turned inside out More blood and the salt Of tears stinging my eyes Scarlet Call your doctor Monday you said It'll be fine You don't know for sure Nothing was fine And I did know And I've never felt so alone Because it didn't really happen for you I think I lost a part of myself that day and you were so far away
who can say who I belong to
Kira Lyonet Collins
Girl wing
in the clover light, mist like a river winds
String quiet thoughts into pony braid, twined with
spins in the long grass till falling with the dew
Arms outstretched can’t hold the whole world
I am my mother’s daughter
Why is this my name
I don’t know how I’ll ever
get the old concord grapes to thrive, and
parasitic vines constrict the sassafras tree which glows, a medieval icon
My great-grandfather’s maple tree out the back kitchen window is dying
Who can say if anything belongs to anyone
Only if it is loved
Only, if you find me useful
You’ll have to let me go
There’s frost on the pond,
the November sun is caught in the tree lattice again,
brooding ball of a thousand candles
Plumes of horse breath beneath cold starlight
I’ll wait for spring but the trees won’t wake up
Where once was scintillating leaf shade is now
bare light. Exposure. The world turns haphazardly—
my compass is broken, needle spinning
Black mud
Black on the map.
My cathedral has drowned
Who can say who I belong to
The forest is my mother
i am the ghost of a translucent moth
Howard Young
In winter to feel such beauty as I cannot bear
Aching in the half clothed light of pulsing greens
Redacted in heard shadows from corners of distant suns
No such stuff as I heard this morning will
Flow down the constancy of the elder stream
Rowing bark and twig, wailing in the eddys,
Eternal Revolutions in time,
Gnats hover like it is summer, gasping at the cold dew
And the footprints, the muds are rich puddings
To be eaten, bitten like worm holes amongst the crows
Wave the hand and they are beaten back,
In teasing mock-shy dances of group solitude.
Brooding oaks weep for their leaves
Lost children fallen from their arms
As the oncoming snow of futures past
Onto shot grasses grown lush
Longer cousins are husk browned and seedless
Skeletons leaping about the marshes
Forlorn hiding, spirits of an old and dusted idea
The way the nettles retreat from the spring offensive.
You threw your brush at this scene
Painterly, loaded with water, draw out the colours
Together, drawn in the living and the dead, wet on wet
Until you make abstract images from the howl of life and death
Rich grass and dead leaves are matching colours
Held in place by sepia and grey, mulled waters and the sky.
In this world berries are wild commas in a repeating story
A poem to write upon the earth, as you walk
River words flow effortless from shaking lips
Muttering stories waiting to be told
Or splash unused upon the page, left in notebooks
Ideas moisten the earth, like artists try.
Rains falling like dusty net curtains mantle the hills
This path I walk is a line of old text
In an ancient language, read on, please
If you walk back its all screens and jars of problems,
Here you will throw your watch away
And scratch your time in the rocks and stones
A dissolved life, walked gently into the stream to float away.
I am the ghost of a translucent moth,
Seen from the corner of a waking eye
A sight that reminds me who I really am. 
untitled Melanie Hess I am a waning moon cloistered by age and circumstance a shadow on the retinas of strangers who don’t know what to make of me so they make me up a mythical creature soldering memories into stained glass harvesting seaweed for tea the saline in the bottom of the cup predicts my hereafter: An Abalone sky means fair winds and a favourable current two spoons and a bowl of She-Crab soup in my wake kālī-Maa RS Kendle Swallow me. Like fish bones My life Sticks in your throat, I am done being used. Passed man to man. My skin blackened Under so many hands. Frenzied, I dance on the inert bodies Of all who stand in my way. Devotions to the lady of time. Destroyer of ego, I take refuge in your arms, Smell the perfume of your hair. Mother of the downtrodden. I wish to follow in your footsteps Set the world a-tremble Unleash my hair, My fury. I welcome your arrival. Lay out hibiscus petals Roll my eyes, loose my tongue. Relinquish myself to you. I swallow so many men. Absorb, alchemise abuse Rise stronger, Hardened by years of battle. Man is a many headed hydra I keep severing. Yet more grow back in their place. Toothless mouths snap like touch-me-nots. I count out the names of my slain Bloodied dead on a rosary Remind myself How far I have come. It’s been half a lifetime now And I still stand. Shaken roots stand firm In dissolution. Beloved mother I wish to follow in your footsteps But my feet are bound.
changing skies
Michael Fuller
On a changeable day, the sun can play tricks
with the eyes: the glare outruns the senses—
nullifies them with brooding umbrae
to leave them blind to their surroundings.
Murmurs roll off the horizon—ominous clouds
that channel hostile waves to harbour;
the froth of flotsam and waxing detritus
hurl to the walls, clinging with fervour.
But as each cloud wisps above, a blow
stiffens the face and exchanges a glance
offshore: allowing the eyes to refocus
to clarify the shifting seaforms.
As the bands alternate out to sea,
they cast distinction of rough and smooth;
a glint of gold soothes each wave
as the sun appeases its haloed crest.
Anchored by the knowledge that it shall pass,
the shade refreshes and settles the senses:
ready to bask in unburdened skies
and lighter against the gloom.
in the golden hour Emma Conally-Barklem You hold me like a silkworm Spun gossamer cradling As a heart sours with life’s cares You catch me in hedgerows Gnarled hawthorn bower Stoat scurry And eye bright In the golden hour time Claire Booth Time hangs like a seed pod In the first light of Helios, In the last light of purple. Time unhems herself As she passes through The river of joy, The spit of rain And the cochenille sun. . Be kind as she gallops Through the camel's needle Like a flushed rose. Be kind as she moves Through the sands To other worlds As she dances inwardly And exhales.
Bios for Issue Four (in published order) Kasiani is a US based artist. Her work has been exhibited in Brussels, London, Paris, as well as Portugal and Brazil and can be seen on Instagram @kasiani_tales. Christian Ward is a UK-based writer who has recently appeared in the Rappahannock Review, South Florida Poetry Journal, The Dewdrop, Dodging the Rain, Wild Greens, Mad Swirl, DipityLiterary Magazine, Impspired, and Streetcake Magazine. Agrene Bouwman is a sculptor and writer from the Netherlands. In both disciplines she examines various aspects of transience and how the awareness of that transience influences the human condition. The last few years her devotion has turned increasingly to writing. She is currently working on the last stages of a novel and a book of poetry. IG @the_tale_of_xu_wei Jai Michelle Louissen is the author of one poetry collection, A Vision of Orchids. You will most find her on moor tops, unabashedly hugging trees or swimming in bird song and perhaps even all at once. She is the editor of The Winged Moon. @bornonadarkmoon Julian Mann is 31, and from rural Bedfordshire. I work as a barista during the day, and spend my free time walking, reading or writing. I have a particular interest in early Christian history in England, perhaps informed by my spending time in the local ancient church as a child (my parents being church-wardens). I would say that T.S. Eliot is the strongest influence on my writing, perhaps followed by Geoffrey Hill and James Wright. Beth Vermander @bethiewrites is a Michigan girl who enjoys reading, writing, and nature (especially the Great Lakes). She is also the proud dog mom of Henry, a sweet and sassy Cocker Spaniel. Lucien Stanfield is interested in moments of perceived special significance; moments of the sublime. His Instagram handle, @spasmodic_tricks_of_radiance, is a phrase from a Sylvia Plath poem, Black Rook in Rainy Weather, where she sees sunlight hitting her kitchen table and experiences it as both miraculous and an invention of her own longing. Lucien is a psychotherapist specialising in relationships and also runs an Arts and Health charity in Central London. Anni Rannisto is a Finnish poet and the author of ”Moonbeam Sentinels & Sunbeam Forgettance”, a poetry collection that was published in February 2022 by Time Is An Ocean Publications. Some of her work has also appeared in poetry journals, such as Free Verse Revolution, Scissortail Press and Humana Obscura.You can find her on Instagram under the handle @reveries.of.atlantis Bri Stokes is a writer, editor, producer, poet and curator. A native of Los Angeles, she is a student of journalism student at UCLA, and is deeply passionate about social reform and the work that must be done to build a more humane world for women and femmes of color. Her most recent curation work is the 2022 group showcase, “POLARITY: The Tension of an Emerging World,” which featured art, installations, performances and media from nearly 30 artists in the Los Angeles area and beyond. @bri_stokes_writes Sun Hesper Jansen (she/they) is a poet and writer from Madison, Wisconsin, who works in the darker genres of fantasy, science fiction, and magical realism. Her poetry collection Fairy of Disenchantment was published in 2023 by Indie Blu(e) Publishing. You can find her on Instagram @sunhesper. Kate MacAlister (she/her) is an author, feminist socialist activist and founder of the multilingual community arts project Stimmen der Voices of Rebellion. She has studied Creative Writing at the Manchester Writing School under Carol Ann Duffy. Her works have been published in journals and anthologies all over the world. Daniel Lockeridge is a twenty-nine-year-old Australian who has self-published two collections of poetry as well as a collection of meditative reminders. Approximately a year ago he started his Instagram page – @danlovepoetry – which has allowed him to expand on his love for writing free verse, especially romantic poetry interlaced with nature themes. Seraphine Saintclair is primarily a poet, singer/songwriter and photographer but she enjoys creating in other mediums as well. In her work she especially loves to explore the worlds of her emotions and the mystical. She has self-published six books of poetry and is working on new poetry collections, as well as an album of music, a novel, and multiple projects involving her photography. On Instagram she is @seraphinesaintclair. Conny Borgelioen is an odd seabird, living on the Belgian coast. She has a Sisyphean rock called chronic fatigue syndrome and works part-time in a social grocery. Her writing has appeared in Tint Journal, Kaleidoscope, Rogue Agent, Feral, Babyteeth, t’ ART, and the Emma Press Anthology of Illness. Her first poetry and essay collection Waking up to Thrutopia is out now. Sandy Cove is a published poet and artist from France, an anglophile writer living for art and words. Poulpie is an author, audiovisual artist and musician who takes us to his dreamlike poetic world. He is always in search of a sensitive aesthetic whose architects would be the unconscious and fantasy. Christopher Guarino Warren is a writer and autodidact who lives with his wife and cat in a little home by the sea near Wrightsville Beach, NC. His work gravitates toward meditations on life, love, nature and other metaphysical topics. He's written over 91 sonnets and many hundreds of free and traditional verse forms. Julie Stenton is a writer, poet, and artist agent based in Sydney, Australia. She is the author of the poetry collection, In the Dream I Jump From a Great Height and Land Safely, published by Sunday Mornings at the River. She enjoys sandwiches (chicken), birds (oystercatchers), and shapes (triangles). In a sense, she is already long gone and forgotten, which frees her up a great deal for being alive. @julie.stenton Richard Davidson hails from Sunderland in North East of England. Arriving in the heartland of middle age he reluctantly calls himself a poet in awe of those around him. Sometimes writing about familial journeys and relationships, nature and longing hoping his poetry captures something unique and his voice. Kerry O’Connor is a poet and artist from South Africa. @skylover.arts Ashley Mezzano is a queer and neurodivergent poet and educator based in Jacksonville, Florida. Her debut chapbook, "We Are Creatures of What Has Happened" released in August 2023 and was published by Beyond The Veil Press. When she isn't writing or teaching, she can be found hiking the wilds with her husband or cuddling with her cat, Yoshida. MaryAnne Bernardo is an emerging writer native to Toronto, Canada. A hobbyist photographer, MaryAnne is inspired by the beauty of the natural world around her as well as the complexity and resilience of the human spirit. Her work has been published in the Scissortail Quarterly, Cast Iron Poetry Series " When Fold and Twine" and The Winged Moon Magazine. Manuela Thames is a photographic artist based in Minnesota. She is laughing her own substack called UNDONE on October 5. @manuelathames Kira Lyonet Collins is a dreamer, a mother, a lover of myth and all that is spiral-shaped and story-scented. She is a word catcher and word scribbler,a deep listener and ponderer of the Mystery. Howard Young is a poet, artist and sculptor from the UK who lives in Sussex, near the sea with his wife, family and too many typewriters. His sketch poems are all done on site, by hand and without preparation, The poems are truly spontaneous, written in ink, no corrections. First thought, best thought. @brighton_typewriter_poet Brendan Constantine is a poet artist based in Los Angeles. His poems have appeared in many standards, including Poetry, The Nation, Best American Poetry, Ploughshares, and Poem a Day. Melanie Hess started writing in her diary as a young girl and has written ever since, pausing periodically when life demands her attention. Now retired, she has the time and freedom to write whenever she wants. She has always written for the personal joy of writing and only a few years ago started sharing her work with family and friends, including those on Instagram (@alohamonkey). R S Kendle is a poet from the north-east of Scotland. She holds a BA Honours in English Literature and Politics from the University Of Strathclyde. Her work has been published in several publications, including Feminist Space Camp, Free Verse Revolution, and The Survivor Zine. Her Instagram handle is @rskendle. Michael Fuller is a poet and translator from the UK living in Essex, who tries to bring historical poets from all languages to a new audience on social media. All of their translations are available to view for free on their website, alongside a small selection of their own work. @prontobard Emma Conally-Barklem is a yoga teacher, grief worker, author and poet based in the UK. Her bestselling debut collection 'The Ridings' is out now. www.emmaliveyoga.com Claire Booth has written 4 books of poetry and posts regularly on Instagram @everywordisamemory. Her fifth book " One more daisy til I love you " will be available on Amazon soon
The flow of images and poems is just right. Each one fitting beside the others. This is my favorite issue yet ^.^
A deeply beautiful issue, brimming with pure magic. Honored that my work is part of it, thank you so much.