Work In Progress: Bled From Epona’s Wounds

Right, so I’ve figured that I should post works in progress here. Mainly for two reasons really, as follows:

  1. Many of my works don’t get finished. I suffer from intense writer’s block, and often I’ll have an idea, write a few lines, and have any source of inspiration completely vanish from me, perhaps it’ll help me to actually write about the conception of topics and posting the few lines that I have. So, perhaps I can keep up a ‘work in progress’ section of this blog.
  2. It means I can keep my blog active in between actually finishing poems.

So, as it says above, my working title for this work is ‘Bled From Epona’s Wounds’ and generally it is about bad harvest, drought, and the starvation, misery and general terror that comes with that kind of occurrence.

Who is Epona? She is a Celtic goddess, one who was actually appropriated by the Romans also to an extent. The main attribute of hers that I focus on is fertility (though, that is not the only attribute of hers), and especially the fertility of the Earth, as opposed to futility of the human. Why do I use a deity? I think it works well when used in a historical backdrop, as I intend to do, and worship and veneration really do fascinate me.

My thoughts behind the working title based around Epona’s position of a Goddess of fertility. I wanted to have her name in the title to cement her centralisation to my concept. I was going along the lines of ‘Epona’s tears’ at first, but I thought that the blood of Epona is a much stronger metaphor. Imagine the blood of Epona imbibing the Earth and rendering it barren. The blood represents some kind of curse or offense to the goddess, and therefore tainting the land with her displeasure. That’s how I came up with Epona bleeding into the Earth and rendering it barren; I am trying to work with this concept.

This is what I have so far;

The sky burns amber but the Earth is red.
peppered with veils of dust in galliard.
No life can grow in fields of bone;
no life can thrive when rain does hide
behind a cloudless blanket of sky.

After this, I’m kind of stuck. I’m not sure of what direction to take it in. Obviously I’ve outlined the drought and the famine of the situation, but what now to expand upon and how to do so is yet to be revealed to me.

Any comments will be received with intense gratitude and virtual hugs.


All Of My Old Poems Are Posted!


That took a while, but all the poems that I could extract from Tumblr and everywhere else that I had stored them are now on here, so everything you see from here on now will be completely new!


Although, I don’t write a lot anymore. I find it rather difficult. But I will try my best to post as much as possible. It means a lot that people have already started liking the poems I’ve posted and following my blog. Thank you so much! I’ll try to keep it updated as much as I can! 🙂


Asphodel Meadows

I used the concept of part of the Ancient Greek Underworld as a metaphor to describe my own feelings at the time. Those who had lived unexceptional lives, were believed to be sent to the ‘Asphodel Meadows’ – a rather banal place. I saw this as somewhat comparable to my own life. I was asking myself, ‘what was I doing?’ I couldn’t think of anything exceptional that I had done, or that I could possibly do.

I was delivered unto a place of grey.
All I could do was to sit on the dry grass
and reflect on what had made this my home.
It wasn’t by choice that I lived so ordinarily;
in the vale of years I remained uninspired.
No creation to my identity,
nothing synonymous to my name.
Not a dent was made
on the clay model of lifespan.
No handprints left from efforts to press down,
just the puddles of raining ink that I had spilled.
Through pleasantries, I found no ascension.
To be polite, is to be enveloped by time.
Becoming a grain of sand, one for the mound,
without a notion to change.
What I dreamt to express, the words refused to orchestrate.
instead, every meaning and feeling eluded me.
Now it’s too late,
for I am bound to a constant.
I harvest grain, only for it to rot from birth.
I walk under trees, but no leaves will fall.
I long to flow forgetfulness into my mouth,
and let Lethe, oblivion’s patron, rebirth my soul,
lest I linger here, burning in monochrome.
I preserved ambition into the afterlife.
But I’m trapped by stone peaks,
in this arid valley.
I dream of the Elysian;
the sunshine gold that I stretched too far for.
Only the notorious achieve the prize,
And the mediocre inherit a static land.
Surrounded by spectres that I do not identify with,
They mourn, and themselves become mist.
I don’t belong to the haze,
but it has me, and I dissolve into white smoke.
I become one among the dull trees,
swirling with the dust on the ground.
Even when it was Earthly air that I breathed,
I acted the role of the scenery.
Never finding the voiced half of my thoughts,
and always being swayed to a direction.
Like a river of opinion.I was a tiny stone,
being ground to salt by the louder pebbles,
and integrated into the scream.
I was shouted down.
The Elysian Fields are full of loud voices.

Wildlife In Symphony

I remember exactly where I was when I wrote this. There is a lake on the campus of my university, and I was sitting in a pavilion that overlooks it. I was drawn in by the beauty of that spring day, and how all of the elements of nature seemed to work together to produce this fantastic landscape. Sounds and sight, it all captivated me.

Intermittent croaks from the toad on it’s pad,
humming a foundation for nature’s symphony.
Bobbing beneath a weeping willow’s way,
as the tendrils brush the flowing azure away,

The midday birds trill their sweet soprano,
in a swirling sequence of sunlight’s song.
The heron patrols as lord of the lake,
an occasional alto for the song’s sake.

The reeds and rushes writhe in rhythm,
and rustle in a present percussion.
But when the wind whirls with the leaves,
outshone is the song that reeds weave.

Silent spiders silk spins a sack where I can sleep,
soothed by the sways and sweeps of the symphony.
As I find myself woken to the warmth of the wild,
why does sentience suddenly seem so vile?

Spider Silk Stars

This poem is something of a reflection of myself but I also believe that it is a reflection of society and it’s expectations in general. We dress up ambition and encourage it as much as possible but then refuse to talk about the pit-falls that may come with it. There are some that achieve their dreams, but it’s undeniable that some don’t get to do what they want with their lives, and it’s not for want of trying.

The constellations are made of spider silk;
a phantasmal web of alluring illusion.
Held in place by ephemeral orbs of light,
before the glittering beast consumes your delusion.

Phosphorescent was the monster who did beguile
with predation beneath a shroud so shimmering.
With deals of deceit and an alchemy so false,
the beginnings of a downfall were simmering.

The contract tethers you to a pendulum chain,
oscillation within the pull of a black hole.
The dice are rolled on the board of exploitation,
the cosmic expanse is playing for your soul.

You hold a queen of hearts and a peasants’ revolt,
no match for the marionette masters’ royal flush.
The puppet-string stars all stop to laugh;
it was a magnetic deal at first blush.

Gilese and Europa held sway over Summer,
but the snow globe of Winter was the Earth.
For the collapse of ten thousand fading stars,
only one shall reach it’s bewitching birth.

Sky Space

This was written at a time when I was lonely, single and not very confident in myself or my outward presentations in the slightest. So, except for single, I am still many of those things. But I don’t really see the ‘sky space’ as much of an issue anymore, given that I have no reason to care if anyone else sees me as suitable for a relationship anymore.

With a face obscured by clouds,

swirling around, distorting your features;

how can I know of your beauty?

Because, you sit above me.

I can’t help but imagine,

you peering downwards to see me.


Your eyes sit amongst the Gods,

on level with their mountain top.

Were you born of their craftsmen?

A design so unreachable divine,

by I, on my seat of mortality.


A cygnet is not yet a swan,

but my feathers will remain greyed.

Your porcelain white helps you fly,

lifts you away from my sight,

where I couldn’t hope to reach you.


I can’t help but worry about the roses,

who use their cunningly coaxing petals,

in a game of teasing for the daisies.

Tell me; are you thorned?

Where does this worry stem?


Your pedestal rises higher than I couldgrasp,

for one who I will hope,

would lay on the low earth with me.

Ritual Of Inversion

The subject of this work is based directly from the medieval concept of a ‘ritual of inversion’, hence the title that is somewhat derivative of that! The concept is that, in many communities for one day a year, the natural order (within reason) would be ceremoniously and symbolically reversed. In particular, a ‘Lord of Misrule’ would be chosen to preside over the festivities. Some have suggested that this has been seen as a form of subtle social control, which I find fascinating. Here, I have written the story of a group of serfs who decide that the day of the ritual would be a symbolically opportune time to enact a revolution.

This day dawns only once a year
when the moon presides over the light
and the suns sleeps on oceanic damask.
This time, we’ll make it ours
and tear down the silken sky,
drape it over the eyes of our lords
and slip through the gauze into freedom.
We used to be fettered in seigneurial chains
for the fruits o’the Earth, to our masters’ hands.
But to subside, we toiled to survive,
grappling existence and sapping the spirit.
Always bathed in the manor’s shade;
it seemed to hang from the scales of Libra.
Our plans are born upon evening’s fall,
and we embody the violet dusk.
Tonight, the sumptuary order’s reversed
but fortune’s wheel shall hold it’s stance
for our hands shall interrupt the circle.
The Lord arrives to the sun’s demise,
of misrule he shall reign so true.
Let sceptre and orb become shield and sword.
From the weight of which we were bedecked
led us to fall so grievously.
The gold on our wrists tarnished to iron
and burning spirits were surely drowned.
Fools we were, for without our labour,
the land blooms still, once we are killed.

Rational Endsequence

This poem is completely about my own personality and how I operate under stressful conditions. This was directly derived from one of my former boyfriends who would sometimes raise his voice angrily to me at very menial things, which caused me to retreat into a shell and become somewhat icy. I’ve noticed that I’m a colder and more closed off person, following the relationship, and I can’t help but think that it is something of a consequence of that.

One click;

activate function word.

Initiate shut down

and raise the defences

to the heart.

One word

to send ice crystals through my veins.


I see only sequences,

the order of the letters;


I examine your meaning,

conveyed through code.

I have a system to de-crypt,

deciphering your content.


It’s all black and white.

Process the admissions

and nothing more.

Receptive to the immediate;

sight and not sense.

A hidden agenda

discarded during translation.


A smokescreen is cast

between a symbol formation

and the meaning within.

Transmit what you say

and say what you mean.

An underground thought

will be buried alive

and starved of oxygen.


I work my sequences

into a solution.

Serving into their court;

a game of pass and return.

Respond to what I see,

not what I think.


Process the letters

and gauge the next attack.

Use what you receive

to keep the momentum.

Never forget to


Emotion is anathema.

Lock on;



The battlefield is clear.

The Portrait And Landscape Of Lady Jane

I suppose this is where my inner-history student comes to the surface of my poetry. This discusses the way that the personality of Lady Jane Grey has been interpreted in history. From victimised puppet, to a cunning woman, clever in the coup that gave her the crown. I’d like to think that the actuality of the situation is much less black and white than this interpretation suggests. Lady Jane Grey, in order for a Protestant succession to be achieved was named as heir to the throne of Edward VI. It is likely that his will was hastily altered in order to accommodate for this to happen, and it was not his decision. This was to stop the Catholic Mary I from coming to the throne. This, predictably did not work. Public support generally went in favour of those who had the natural right to rule, and this was seen as Mary’s right. Mary became Queen of England in 1553, and Lady Jane was confined in the Tower of London. Originally, she wasn’t going to be executed, but it was on the insistence of Philip of Spain, Mary’s to-be husband that Jane be executed, as she was seen as a possible figurehead of rebellion, which Mary (popularly and inaccurately demonised as being evil) was extremely reluctant to do, but knew that it was inevitable. 

A planned construction like the scaffold,

a calculation of canvas and oil paint.

Herself, not central, but her white gown

on her, she was transformed into

the immaculate virgin raped by the axe.

The head that harboured the crown;

guileless, apparently so.

The chest that took anointing oil;

a pale close to snow.

We observe her memory

through stained glass.

We see her outline,

but let our minds be coloured.

The paints of propaganda,

the murmurings of martyrdom,

whisper the stories of

a flowering rose of red and white,

and a severing of the stem.

An undercurrent still remains,

suggesting a sliver of guilt.

She is now stripped of petals,

causing the core to wilt.

On The Path Of Autumn

This is a poem simply about appreciating the sensual experience of opening up to nature and letting it surround you, definitely Autumn nature to. Hearing it, seeing it, smelling it, feeling it… but perhaps not tasting it! There’s also that other strange, undefinable sense that comes from being somewhere quiet… somewhere serene and organic. It’s a feeling you get, a safe one. Certainly deserving of being some kind of sixth sense.

Cyan dragonflies pierce the air
like flying needles of the forest.
On a shoulder of mine
one pauses to rest a weary wing.
My finger reaches to welcome
but is abandoned by the insect,
unwilling to be batted to blood.

Weaving wind gifts leaves to my feet
and rasping rain dampens my hair.
The green grass embraces my shoes,
following me through it’s home.
I don’t wish to lay on the woods’ floor
so I side-step the liquefying brown.
It wants me to come nose-to-nose,
with my face touching the stone.

Climbing, I am pricked by pine needles.
I would have them simmered to tea,
had I a flask of hot water on hand,
bubbling away their mischievous spirit.
Cone fists fall as I grab for them,
whilst those sharp fingers mock and point.
I shake, and they find themselves
well and truly, beneath me.

My footsteps are percussion,
an undertone to the orchestra.
Inclusive to my wilderness soundtrack,
the woodwind birdsong calls from the nest.
Thunder rumbles to replace the bass,
and rainfall contributes to ambiance.
No chime, no flute, no drum,
can match my symphony of the wild.

I am undirected, mistaken as lost.
I wander without a destination,
but not without a purpose.
And such a purpose?
Free will, simply.