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S. V. WOLFLAND
S. V. Wolfland's work has appeared
in magazines including: First Offense, Poetry Manchester, Moonstone,
Nightingale, Axiom and Out of Order. Her published pamphlets include:
Salt Circles on Steel Ground and Masques & Mazeworks. She is currently
studying for an MA (taught by Tony Lopez) at Plymouth University. And is also
working on a visual text exhibition – Word in Light, Colour & Form.
OCTAGONALS
Octagonalis.
At each
Quatrefoil
The sacer
Glyph.
At each point
Of the matrix,
Is the sigil
Residing in its
Own circumference.
Navigating the
Soul-compass is
An errant device;
North by north-west
Says celestial arrow.
Palestrina, an
Echo of chime
Sounds, as the
Figures shoot out
Battering with trump swords.
At the moment the
Arrow spins to the
Right quadrant,
Divinatory, the
Gnomon selects a direction.
Co-ordinates on
The parched map
Or radial
Flashes on the vector,
All one to the octagon.
Cold metal star
Of the rayed galaxy,
Equinoctial in its
Refined, idyllic
Severment.
Each interlacing
Icy as a compass point
Exaction of all
Substances, on the
Table of Elements.
Hoping for the
Daystar when
Each gylph
Raises itself,
Absolute, etched
With licit permanence;
Organicity moulding
Into the metals
Branding into
Arcane fusion.
The spheres obsolete
Melted, to reveal
Stand-alones
Rayed around the
Octagram.
Let it be so!
And on that day
Each comet
Shoot with rainbows
In its wake…
BRIARS OF EPIPHANY
The intoxication of this
Mosaic of colours -
Unbelievable, darkly scintillate
Against the silver sky,
A true metal.
And these thorn-rose brambles,
Rich with the bounty
Of wine-coloured fruit,
Heavy with berries
And dark greens
Burnished undergrowth
A latticework of
Tangled curves
Lincoln, burnt-oak,
Interlacements so baroque
So laden with folds,
Mauve velvet couldn’t match it.
A Burne-Jones day,
Delicate peach of sun
Shining and gilded
Through the drifting
Light-dark sky.
Distant and refined,
A last summer flame at
The cloud base,
Hovering beyond
Frosted-glass hills.
Perfect October
Like a gem in a box
As we walk hand in hand
And I wonder what you’d make of it all,
With your skill and eye and paints?
And it seems to me
The air so charged
With tales and spells,
Half expecting
To encounter
Some Wild Hunt
Racing out of the sky,
Or a Dark Age king,
Striding to the appointed time,
An elvish lord
To appear from the oaks...
Or perhaps just you?
When the dusk falls
Under a purple sky..........
ARROWS AND HEARTS
Massive
The plastic, tenuous,
Lies shattered.
The pieces trace a shape
The colour is burnt, an
Opaque black
It does not shine.
Was it ever whole,
Or could we have
Traced the fault-lines?
“Cut along the jagged edge”...
The red shape
Intact, cut from
Glass perhaps,
Or perspex,
Something rich, heavy and strong.
Light flows into it,
It integrates
But does not change direction
Day makes it blaze,
It glints scarlet in darkness.
And on it are etched
Indelibly the symbols
Two
United by a third.
Yet from it a single drop
Is formed, a raindrop
Or a diamond
It accumulates - is it crystal
Or a tear?
The black
Shattered shape
Broken into fragments
Pierced by a bolt:
A maximum velocity dart
Or poisoned arrow?
And the symbol within is
Revealed starkly.
It came out of the blue
Or perhaps the red.
And the crystal
Blooms hugely
Before it also
Drops.
copyright © S. V. Wolfland
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