Witch Burn

August 17, 2017

It feels like freedom, sitting next to a grown woman,
squeezed into a corset, blessed woman, crowned in silver and gold,
body-strong as we grapevine in a circle,
body-vulnerable in diaphanous skirts.
We gargle meditatively, our voices vibrating
across each other’s solar plexi.

This witchy thing, inspired by
Druids, ancient and unknowable,
those Roman-fodder, those barbarous,
who never wrote anything down,
who probably practiced human sacrifice,
at their altars under monoliths, but
that’s what all the websites say, in curly-que letters,
like wishing can make it true,
and spell
all at once),
and under that in fine-print,
really brought to you by: a man named Gerald Gardner,
British civil servant who thought one day in the 1950s,
to look at nature and breathe in the moon
and stare at the stars and say yes, okay, yes,
this I worship.

And so we sit pentacle-corner to pentacle-corner,
humming hymns to horned gods
that I don’t believe in,
but the night smells like basil and mint
and the gardenia blossoms
in the desert heat, delicate blooms
that shouldn’t thrive here, but do,
like me, like magic.

Kristen Figgins

pictures of the music

August 17, 2017

You ask me how these pictures are evolved? “They are not pictures of the music theme – pictures of the flying notes – not conscious illustrations of the name given to a piece of music, but just what I see when I hear music – thoughts loosened and set free by the spell of sound.

When I take a brush in hand and the music begins, it is like unlocking the door into a beautiful country. There, stretched far away, are plains and mountains and the billowy sea, and as the music forms a net of sound the people who dwell there enter the scene; tall, slow-moving, stately queens, with jewelled crowns and garments gay or sad, who walk on mountain – tops or stand beside the shore, watching the water – people. These water-folk are passionless, and sway or fall with little heed of time; they toss the spray and, bending down, dive headlong through the deep.

There are the dwellers, too, of the great plain, who sit and brood, made of stone and motionless; the trees, which slumber till some elf goes by with magic spear and wakes the green to life ; towers, white and tall, standing against the darkening sky –

Those tall white towers that one sees afar,
Topping the mountain crests like crowns of snow.
Their silence hangs so heavy in the air
That thoughts are stifled.

Then huddling crowds, who carry spears, hasten across the changing scene. Sunsets fade from rose to grey, and clouds scud across the sky.

For a long time the land I saw when hearing Beethoven was unpeopled; hills, plains, ruined towers, churches by the sea. After a time I saw far off a little company of spearmen ride away across the plain. But now the clanging sea is strong with the salt of the lashing spray and full of elemental life; the riders of the waves, the Queen of Tides, who carries in her hand the pearl-like moon, and bubbles gleaming on the inky wave.

Often when hearing Bach I hear bells ringing in the sky, rung by whirling cords held in the hands of maidens dressed in brown. There is a rare freshness in the air, like morning on a mountain-top, with opal-coloured mists that chase each other fast across the scene.

Chopin brings night ; gardens where mystery and dread lurk under every bush, but joy and passion throb within the air, and the cold moon bewitches all the scene. There is a garden that I often see, with moonlight glistening on the vine-leaves, and drooping roses with pale petals fluttering down, tall, misty trees and purple sky, and lovers wandering there. A drawing of that garden I have shown to several people and asked them if they could play the music that I heard when I drew it. They have all, without any hesitation, played the same. I do not know the name, but – well, I know the music of that place.

Pamela Colman Smith
Pictures in Music
From the Strand magazine, July 1908

17th August

While writing all else around me dissipates, vanishes as if it might never have been. The words I write, all my past experience is then vividly filtered and reborn in the labyrinth of mind – for all creation is fantasy, invention, yet solidly rooted in individual reality. Reality transformed by imagination.


Life is full of imponderables. For instance, how many roundabouts are there really in Milton Keynes? I hear of individuals going out with pen and paper to create a definitive list of them, but each day (or so it seems) the number of roundabouts changes?

Same too with the Hanger Lane Gyratory System: they say 10,000 vehicles an hour pass through this complex London junction – some never to be seen again! Is it possible, as has been suggested, that the planners in designing this, Britain’s “scariest” junction, had inadvertently created a portal to other dimensions?

And, as if that wasn’t bad enough, what the hell were they thinking when they put an Underground station slap in the feckin’ middle of it? Pedestrians trying to cross eight lanes of accelerating traffic have two options – die horribly, or dematerialise and reappear elsewhere…hopefully in the Underground station?

In another time Hieronymous Bosch would have cheerfully included the Hanger Lane Gyratory System in one of his visionary paintings of hell.


I’ve lived in this place at the edge of the moor longer than anywhere else in my life. Yet still it is not ‘home’. I feel strangely disposed here. An exile, if you will. A stranger in a strange land.

So, where then is my home?

Perhaps in a long gone childhood? There are times I feel old friends, shadows now, beckoning to me. But such a return is impossible. Instead I must remain in this chaotic half-world, wandering round the house with my ghosts.

So, is it time to move on? Find somewhere else to live? No way will I suffer in suburban miserabilism. It must be rural, wild – perhaps on a mountainside in Wales?

The Lake district?

And will I continue these dispatches from inside a fractured identity? I don’t know. But it is time to start searching for properties elsewhere.

Although I will miss the Bluebells flowering in the spring in our secret places, those places nearby where we lay and make love beneath the trees –