The Witch is embedded in our minds as the figure of nightmares, coded as a metaphor, an association. She is one of us only in touch with the supernatural and in possession of otherworldly wisdom. As such, Witches have historically provided a perfect canvas for projection of human pettiness, fear of the unknown and the all-encompassing mystery that is woman. Along came film, extending a powerful outlet for visual re-enactment of our collective imagination, and viola  —  the Witch has form, shape, a broom, a cat, warts, a hut, crystal ball and whatnot. The figure is now embroidered in imagery, and her universal presence is as fiercely visual as it is elusive.

Sonja Baksa

Witch! Witch! She is a Witch! ?

Web of Dreams

March 5, 2019

She wove a web of dreams
made of love and sex
trapping his heart to the spells
of witchcraft brewing
in the dark cauldrons
of the forbidden realms
hidden within the colours
of seduction swirling
in the magic of her eyes

his blood was poisoned
with a desire for the hands
he would never hold
his soul infected with a longing
for a heart he would never touch
helpless to burn in a love
he could only feel

a love she would never see

or touch

or know

and he lays trapped
in her web of dreams
forever lost
to the charms and spells
of her magic and witchcraft

helpless to the madness
of the rhythm of voodoo
drumming and beating wildly
under the bones of his ribs
his heart burning
for the song of her name
both forever and never hers

Akira Chinen

Cast a spell –

February 24, 2019

If I had the power, I’d cast a spell to make the bastard jack off on the hour every hour regardless of his location; and then have him eat wasps for tea on Sunday.


December 11, 2018

Cursed black heart,
Cursed gold heart striped with black;
Thighs and breasts I have loved;
Lips virgin to my thought,
Sweeter to me than red figs;
Lying tongue that I have cherished.
Is my heart wicked?
Are my eyes turned against too bright a
Do I dazzle, and fear what I cannot see?
It is grievous to lose the heart from the
Death which tears flesh from flesh is a
grievous thing;
But death is cool and kind compared to
This horror which bleeds and kindles,
These kisses shot with poison,
These thoughts cutting me like red knives,
Swift rider on the clashing clouds,
Ruler over brass heavens,
Mighty ruler of the souls of men,
Be merciless to me if I mistake this
As I will be merciless if I learn a bitter
I burn green oil to you,
Fresh oil from fair young olives,
I pour it upon the ground;
As it drips I invoke your clemency
To send a sign.
Witches are moon-birds,
Witches are the women of the false,
beautiful moon.
To-night the sign
Maker of men and gods.
To-night when the full-bellied moon
swallows the stars.
Grant that I know.
Then will I offer you a beastly thing and
a broken;
Or else the seed of both
To be your messengers and slaves forever,
My sons, and my sons’ sons, and their
sons after;
And my daughters and theirs throughout
the ages
For your handmaidens and bedfellows as
you command.
How the white sword flickers!
How my body twists in the circle of my
Behold, I have loved this woman,
Even now I cry for her,
My arms weaken,
My legs shake and crumble.
Strengthen my thews,
Cord my sinews to withstand a testing.
Let me be as iron before this thing,
As flashing brass to see,
As lightning to fall;
As rain melting before sunshine it I have
wronged the woman.
The red flame takes the oil,
The blood of my trees is sucked into fire
As my blood is sucked into the fire of
your wrath and mercy,
O just and vengeful God.”

Body touches body. How sweet the
spread of loosened bodies in the coil
of sleep, but a gold-black thread is
between them. An owl calls deep
in the wood.
Can you see through the night, woman,
that you stare so upon it? Man,
what spark do your eyes follow in
the smouldering darkness?
She stirs. Again the owl calling. She
rises. Foot after foot as a panther
treads, through the door—a minute
more and the fringes of her goat-
skin are brushing the bushes. She
pushes past brambles, the briars
catch little claws in her goat-skin.
And he who watches? As the tent –
lap flaps back, he leaps. The bearer
of the white sword leaps, and follows
her. Blur of moonshine before —
behind. He walks by the light of a
green-oil oath, and the full moon
floats above them both.
Seeded grass is a pool of grey. Ice-white,
cloud-white, frosted with the spray
of the sharp-edged moon. Croon—
croon—the wind in the feathered
tops of the grass. They pass—the
witch-white woman with the gold-
black heart, the flower-white woman
—and his eyes startle, and answer
the bow curve of her going up the hill.
The night is still, with the wind, and the
moon, and an owl calling.

On the sea side of a hill where the grass
lies tilted to a sheer drop down,
with the sea splash under as the
waves are thrown upon a tooth of
rock. Shock and shatter of a golden
track, and the black sucking back.
The draw of his breath is hard and
cold, the draw of the sea is a rustle
of gold.
Behind a curl of granite stone the man
lies prone. The woman stands like
an obelisk, and her blue-black hair
has a serpent whisk as the wind lifts
it up and scatters it apart. Witch-
heart, are you gold or black? The
woman stands like a marble tower,
and her loosened hair is a thunder-
shower twisted across with lightnings
of burnt gold.

Naked and white, the matron moon urges
the woman. The undulating sea
fingers the rocks and winds stealthily
over them. She opens the goat-skin
wide—it falls.
The walls of the world are crashing down,
she is naked before the naked moon,
the Mother Moon, who sits in a
courtyard of emerald with six black
slaves before her feet. Six—and a
white seventh who dances, turning
in the moonlight, flinging her arms
about the soft air, despairingly lift-
ing herself to her full height, strain-
ing tiptoe away from the slope of
the hill.
Witch-breasts turn and turn, witch-
thighs burn, and the feet strike al-
ways faster upon the grass. Her
blue-black hair in the moon-haze
blazes like a fire of salt and myrrh.
Sweet as branches of cedar, her
arms; fairer than heaped grain, her
legs; as grape clusters, her knees and
ankles; her back as white grapes with
smooth skins.

She runs through him with the whipping
of young fire. The desire of her is
thongs and weeping. She is the green
oil to his red flame. He peers from
the curl of granite stone. He hears
the moan of the crawling sea, and
sees—as the goat-skin falls so the
flesh falls….
And the triple Heaven-wall falls down,
and the Mother Moon on a ruby
throne is near as a bow-shot above
the hill.
Goat-skin, here, flesh-skin there, a skele-
ton dancing in the moon-green air,
with a white, white skull and no
hair. Lovely as ribs on a smooth sand
shore, bright as quartz-stones speck-
ling a moor, long and narrow as
Winter reeds, the bones of the skel-
eton. The wind in the rusty grass
hums a humeral-chant sat to a jig.
Dance, silver bones, dance a whirl-
igig in a crepitation of lust. The
waves are drums beating with
slacked guts. Inside the skeleton is
a gold heart striped with black, it
glitters through the clacking bones,
throwing an inverted halo round the
stamping feet.

Scarlet is the ladder dropping from the
moon. Liquid is the ladder—like
water moving yet keeping its shape.
The skeleton mounts like a great grey ape,
and its bones rattle; the rattle of the
bones is the crack of dead trees
bitten by frost. The wind is desolate,
and the sea moans.
But the ruby chair of Mother Moon
shudders, and quickens with a hard
fire. The skeleton has reached the
last rung. It melts and is absorbed
in the burning moon. The moon?
No moon, but a crimson rose afloat
in the sky. A rose? No rose, but a
black-tongued lily. A lily? No lily,
but a pruple orchid with dark, writh-
ing bars.

Trumpets mingle with the sea-drums,
scalding trumpets of brass, the wind-
hum changes to a wail of many
voices, the owl has cased calling.

“White sword are you thirsty?
I give you the green blood of my heart.
I give you her white flesh cast from her
black soul.
Vengeful and cruel Father,
God of Hate,
The skins of my eyes have dropped,
With fire you have consumed the oil of
my heart.
Take my drunken sword,
Some other man may need it.
She was sweeter than red figs,
O cursed God!”

Amy Lowell

The Sabbat Song

October 25, 2018

Sleep is waking, waking sleep
we ride the broom across the deep,
fair is foul and foul is fair
by bee and cat, by hound and hare,
the living die and the dying live
we turn the shears and the sieve,
light is darkness, darkness light
to farers through the mystic night,
up is down and down is up
to seekers of the cauldron-cup,
lords are churls and churls are lords
we leap across the bridge of swords,
birth is death and death is birth
we tread the paths beneath the earth,
Bride is Hag and Hag is Bride
Between the times we rage and ride,
day is night and night is day
for farers on the witching way.

Nigel Jackson
Call of the horned piper

Witch Wife

October 7, 2018

a possessed witch

October 4, 2018

I have gone out, a possessed witch,
haunting the black air, braver at night;
dreaming evil, I have done my hitch
over the plain houses, light by light:
lonely thing, twelve-fingered, out of mind.
A woman like that is not a woman, quite.
I have been her kind.

Anne Sexton
Her Kind

Sweet Spirit Powder Spell

August 26, 2018

To repel evil spirits, while simultaneously beckoning benevolent, kind, protective ones:
1. Grind the following botanicals together to produce a fine powder: frankincense, honeysuckle blossoms, roses, and vetiver roots.
2. Sprinkle the powder onto lit charcoal and burn incessantly, until you’re convinced the danger is over.

Judika Illes
The Element Encyclopedia of 5,000 Spells

shrink unfaithful lovers

June 12, 2018

witch - digital painting by webneel_com (6)

We chant around the grill in our backyard every Friday the 13th to scare the neighbours who told the Homeowners’ Association our violet paint job was garish. We powder newt tongue and kitten whiskers into hangover smoothies. We concoct lipstick out of rose petals and rattlesnake blood. We whisper made-up spells when telemarketers call until they, unnerved, hang up. We zap our router in frustration when the Wi-Fi goes out until it collapses into ash. We zip catcallers’ lips shut. We push fraternity brothers off bus seats with our minds til they sprawl in the aisle. We steal male colleagues’ best ideas from their stress-dreams. We send packages to the news station with dirty lingerie and sex tapes featuring town councilmen who say thirteen women living in a house together must be operating a brothel. We shrink unfaithful lovers’ penises. We stick needles into poppets dressed with our mothers’ grayest hairs to silence their daily nagging calls. We steal our high school rivals’ babies from their cribs and draw bulls-eyes on their dimpled bellies with Magic Marker before returning them unharmed. We laugh over blood orange mimosas. We go on Sunday drives in our gold hearse. We hold hands around the table in the snootiest farm-to-table restaurant in town while other patrons glare at us. We hum spells until their wine glasses shatter. We leave a $666 tip for the waitress as an apology. We trip over to the nearest dive bar with sticky floors. We win every game of pool and darts. We leave men floating helplessly in the air if they try to cop a feel. We return to the backyard and chant, as t-bone steaks and marinated tofu sizzle on the grill. We hope the neighbours are watching.

Anna Cabe

make the show work better

November 21, 2017

Candles and crystals and magic wands are, to magic, what the backdrop is to a stage performer. They make the show work better, and they make the performer feel more comfortable…but at the end of the day, a good performer can make you weep with sorrow wearing nothing at all on an empty stage…

Juniper Wildwalk