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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