• Personal Essay

    Rites Of Passage – Part 4

    By Gaia Woolf-Nightingall Part 1, Part 2, Part 3 “If we walk far enough,” says Dorothy, “we shall sometimes come to someplace.” -L. Frank Baum The dark skyline of frenzied trees bowing and swaying in the quickening winds was my first vision of the Forest of the Glen of the Downs, Co Wicklow. It was the early evening, the twilight hours, and I had just walked the four-mile road from Kilpedder, where sat the first organic farm in Ireland, my place of work. It was a part of Ireland that was imbued with an old-world rural charm, a feeling that Dublin city, only an hour’s drive to the North, could no…

  • Personal Essay

    Rites Of Passage – Part 3

    By Gaia Woolf-Nightingall Part 1, Part 2 An idea formed in my mind, I needed to leave a piece of material on a tree branch as a gift, and so, I ripped a piece of what was, in all honesty, a random piece of cloth from the dress and tied it around one of the lower branches of the tree. As I did so, I gave thanks to the spirit of the tree for guiding me to this sacred and beautiful place. Now, as is the case with any tale worth telling, the news of Fionnuala’s and my discovery began to spread. The land itself was owned by a wonderful…

  • Personal Essay

    Rites Of Passage – Part 2

    By Gaia Woolf-Nightingall Part 1 In my dream, I had envisioned a little wooden chalet, and flowing adjacent to the chalet, winding off into the indiscernible distance, was a small, clear stream. From its source flowed out a vibrant little Spring, gently rising up from the ground in the likeness of an ancient water Goddesses, in-state and awaiting an audience. At her head grew a gnarly ancient Elder tree, which kept a careful watch over the court. With my dreaming eye, I had drawn closer to the Spring, and as I did so, and without warning, up from somewhere deep within the Elder tree at its head leaped, a dark silhouetted…

  • Personal Essay

    Rites Of Passage – Part 1

    By Gaia Woolf-Nightingall “Who in the world am I?’ Ah, that’s the great puzzle!” -Lewis Carroll. I was always fascinated by the elemental forces that whirled daily around my body. The sting of the Winter winds, as they whipped past my cheek, the cool touch of the Spring rains as they poured down from the sky and soaked through my long hair. The healing warmth of the Summer Sun and the gentle caress of the Earth beneath my feet. These were the things that filled my childhood with joy. The Elements were my friends and my guides as I traveled, far and wide, on daring and intrepid adventures, through boggy cornfields…

  • Poetry

    Rhiannon

    By Carole Weave-Lane Upon a moonbeam the Goddess Rhiannon Stood upon the wings of birdsong Enchanting the rocks in the mountain to part Liberating the wild herd Silver flanks and manes flyin’ Hooves that pounded with ghostly precision Silver on the wind   Wild  their eyes, tails broomstick stiff Frothing at the mouth, Galloping down the mountain side Through the hamlet of sightless dreamers Snorting sea spray in the wind Silver on the wind.   Padding on the black rocks so sharp Leaping into oblivion Captured by the seas so wild  a cauldron of seething ribbons As  Rhiannon flew amongst them   Drifting upon birdsong Becoming one with the herd…

  • river
    Poetry

    The Water by Morrigan Hunter

    As I rose for the first time in an eternity and Ambled out my door and felt the warmth hit my near translucent skin and begin to heat it The smothering heat engulfed me and I struggled to breathe, short of breath from lack of activity I worked my way trudging toward the side of the river to escape the sun into the shady portion of the bank. As I reached the river bank I inhaled the smell of thick air tinged with marine life. It hung heavy in the sticky humidity. I leaned over and decided to peer down, And I found that as I gazed into the murky…

  • girl with paint on her face
    Poetry

    Wood by Ruth Humphreys

    Fear on the edge of creativity Love on the edge of danger A plaiting of ideas, fears, loves It is the same here Tell me what is your story? What is it you need to express? What is it you want to share with the world? I see you humans, you can not disguise it Keep creating, keep writing. It keeps you alive. Share poems stories throw paint at the walls. Feel the deliciousness taste the words, sharp, sour, sugar coated, bitter, gall We are alive in this moment. Go to the garden, smell the soil, rub it between your fingers Bring it inside, add water, place your hands in…

  • Salmon jumping in a river
    Poetry

    Bloodroot

    By Charlotte Hussey   I ride on the back of a salmon, listening to the swish of the overhanging branches. They rush by rustling overhead, to the slap of his tail against water. He slides, rippling between boulders and plunges us upriver. Choppy waves lap the limestone banks, their echoes filled with the susurrations of not-quite-human voices.   I ride on the back of a salmon, breathing in the raw mud smells, the rot of drowned logs and spent amber leaves, the watery scents of floating reeds and grasses, and the pitchy odor of a brush fire on the near bank. Out of its billowy smoke, a figure drifts towards…

  • woman sleeping on a bed of flowers
    Poetry

    Gwydion Makes Leu a Wife

     By Charlotte Hussey At dawn I drop armfuls of leafy plants, buds on slender stalks, frail, scented blossoms, hundreds upon hundreds— into a vat of river water.   I stir from edge to center, chaos to order, watch sunlight reflect off the pin-wheeling liquids, ridged with tiny waves, like crimped, opening petals.   Slowly the vat’s surface settles, gathering to it the colors of field, forest, and pleasure garden to seed some small, fleshy thing, not of father not of mother, in the cooling mash.   The full moon pours down into her creamy folds as into the cobwebbed veils of a mushroom. “Woman, woman I have summoned you here…

  • Tree at river embankment
    Poetry

    Rhiannon’s Throne

    By Charlotte Hussey It stands primly at the pond’s edge, fashioned from the salvaged boards of a damaged canoe. Its back rises up so high that any pair of sagging shoulders, any spine, if leaned against it, might straighten like those of some proud queen; stripped of all adornment, its seat waits empty, bluish with shadow.    Its wavy grains, opened by the seas, suggest stretch marks, or muscles pulled thin and apart in agony. Rocks, sands have scraped gashes, as did the bony claws that reached through the blackthorn hedge to steal the just born Pryderi from Rhiannon, asleep and bloodied on this her perilous throne.   Elegant reeds bend…