towards her

new writing by contributing editor, Vikki C

Towards Her: A triptych by Vikki C.

‘Towards Her’ forms part of a body of work conceived during a sojourn away from the rote of daily rhythms. During this time, I traveled a wilderness, both urban and pastoral, occult yet strangely idyllic. The emotional weather which culminated was more than mine alone, continuously informed by genius loci, animism and dream logic.

To wander free of time constraint yet be attuned to its gaze—in mirror lakes, rain-glazed monuments and the opaqueness of a city’s ageing windows—the richness of an interior landscape began to unfold, probing at architectures of selfhood, heritage and our innate connection with the natural and posthuman realm. What evolved, draws on experiences steeped in myth, desire and immutability. Rather than fixate on specific locales, the work communes around a sensorial pool of culture and memory where the quotidian elevates to the sublime; where experimentation and chance blur borders, arousing intricate passages towards the heartland.

In an age of discontent, when it is easy to succumb to futility and ennui, I have tried to wake and live by wonder. To choose intuition and offbeatness as resistance, and art as an active covenant in a divided world. Thank you Jai Michelle and The Winged Moon for inviting me to contribute to this vital creative dialogue. Each season, we arrive vulnerable and unprepared. But we continue in awe, as we must, between ruin and revival. Where language and life coexist—so close—they share the same endangered skin.

Let us travel there once more.

— Vikki C., Contributing editor, The Winged Moon

Lana A artwork

Solstice, Santorini caldera

In crossing, I reach who I must become,
knowing so much thrives without flowers,

struggling against the steep, before
the great rift where strangers still crave heat. 

There are fewer winters ahead
than behind now—even less of us after dark.

It's the earth that tilts away from the sun,
you say—as you turn your face from me.

(But, I still want that axe of warmth 
that steadies me—even when I’m happy.)

How a god with festivities in mind
might come searching for me on my thin boat of ice.

I guess the openness is what I really need.
Lungs heavy with eucalyptus, a prodigal return.

How far we could go together
guided by a victory of geese,

flying towards the sheen you call home.
This ascent is what women were made for.

A place to lose our footing, end on all fours—
an em dash of deer, a monologue of beasts,

before clouds desert us as salt-licked—
the stranded eventually sliding back to meet us.

This day like tomorrow—a mouth 
closing, both theatre and ordinary.



Inside God’s Marginalia

My concern for the landlocked is knowing they’d look back, mark this page as futile—a cold sunset lagging behind language and its reprieve. The sceptic of hybridity cancelling the show, fearing such fluidity triggers another great flood. In a humid bistro, a mantis rubs its legs keenly by the window ledge, claims the blue hour as its kingdom. Curiosity leads a tourist to photograph this eclipse of boredom as the waitress records what was harmony long before humans listened. A drunken artist sketches the praying creature, before throwing cheap wine over the canvas and naming it “free will”. 

From a safe distance, I too will write of first world problems. Because there is dessert for all at this table, where grace is the preferred code for resistance. The way a night unbuckles and the slant of rain evokes lovemaking. No one can translate such pleasure, nor do they protest. Yes, it troubles me to title it. As any sacred indulgence, the altar carried away on seafoam, a body that assumes more than one position per dream, or just a hand reaching for what we think we need. This isn’t a poem about roots that eventually lead back to you. My concern is for the word “territory” where there should be only dust and witness. A small legend about passing through with flowers, held in waiting arms.


devotion blues

i cannot be in two places, as a woman
at church & also home keeping a lover 
from a cold spell, our ribs an atria
bending flame into distance.
when i practise an étude a city rises 
between loss and rescue,
the invisible lines sometimes light
as if God is devoted to my fingers.
in those moments sound silvers
as a river through the heart
in this land poor execution gutters
something is lost rationed elsewhere
like where God wasn’t when i fell
behind the shade of dying elms
when the young were abandoned
their wings clayhewn hardened by fire
when God was out of breath
& couldn’t extinguish the blaze.
Hell has a way of distracting us.
if we shared faith around like bread
would we hunger, having less?
is this a poor metaphor to swallow
in the liminal where tables turn to catch the sun?
even God divides his attention a little
to split as incense spread through a far temple,
its long, blue beams knocking in a crosswind.
we’d finally lay our heads in after-rain
listening to each instrument played
just as intended.

thank you to Vikki, for her writing and for her time at the winged moon, now coming to a close. please, if you feel to, send her a comment and let her know how you enjoyed the writing.

until next time

Warmly

Jai Michelle