ELIZABETH EBSWORTH PHOTOGRAPHY

Her oath unbroken, sacrifice unspoken,
She hails the coming of winter.
The rule was golden, the summer beholden,
Until the green began to redden and crisp.
Barren the earth will become,
And so she returns, like the sun to the horizon,
To a hearth set in the earth,
Her sword raised one last time.
With a steed so black, her hair bright as a coal—
Will her story resound as she sheathes her sword
And abandons this world for the next?
Or shall the untold tale be lost in seasons to come?

Our photo shoot draws on the themes of autumn and the contrasts it brings. Autumn in literature is often a symbol of transition and the cycle of birth, death, and rebirth. We wanted to tell the story of a queen who has done her best to rule skillfully and fairly … but now it’s her time to make way for a new ruler. Nothing is eternal except the cycle of the seasons—including the seasons we experience in this life and the next and the passing of the crown to another.

To tell this story, we chose the colors gold and red, strongly associated with the changing of the seasons. With autumn comes the radiance of golden and fiery colors, but at the same time these colors foretell the arrival of winter and the hibernation that follows.

Here, now, is one last chance at splendor.

With the harrowing knowledge that winter will soon envelop the land, our queen looks to her past achievements and the burdens she has carried. She’s done her best. She has planted the seeds of her principles—fairness, equality, justice. Now she entrusts her future to the spring.

She takes her leave, riding her black horse to the afterlife.

Yinsey Wang is an occasional self-portrait artist, model, writer, and costumer. Although she is a full-time lawyer, she loves getting creative when she can. Find her on Instagram @tornandpolished.

Find photographer Elizabeth Ebsworth at elizabethebsworthphotography.com.

Feature Image:
Princess Sabra, or The King’s Daughter (1865), by Edward Burne-Jones

Once there was a story
that lost its end.
It turned in tepid circles
grasping ideas & air
scented like half-remembered
memories,
moments lost.

Dust motes moved in where
commas used to be.
Lint smudged out plotlines
& shadows cast by early morning
erased all words that followed
the first.

Can there be a story in just one word?
Once
Once
Once.

Must it be repeated? Or, once
once had come, been said,
must it transform—
stretch its sides to accommodate
twice, thrice, more?

Once wonders. Once ponders.
Once sees at last
there’s no need to fret about
middles, endings, denouements.

All the reader needs to spin
a kaleidoscope of wonder

is Once.

We have a sweet message from our friend Sherry L. Ross, poetess extraordinaire, whose collection Falling Through Time is also quite fae and mushroom-attracting.

She says:

Nothing bewitches us more than spring in all her glory and May means spring is fully upon us. Spring blesses us with her eternal gifts of rebirth and revitalization. Beltane has recently passed and mid-summer night dreams are not far away. The faery world is busy again at the edge of our gardens and our hopes of catching a glimpse of sprite or fae are elevated. For those of us who garden and are fortunate to have a bit of land to work with, we are now fully engaged in our partnership with Nature and enjoying the return of flora favorites or are adding to our cultivations. I don’t plant as ambitiously as when I was younger, but I always have my herb garden; though the best chives are always foraged wild in the woods beyond my backyard gate.  Below, I’m delighted to share a poem… one that speaks of what gardening means to me. I also think it has a witchy vibe, sprinkled with a dusting of fae. It’s from my poetry book, Falling Through Time. I hope it casts a happy spell over you day.

We See What We Want to See

My feet squish on the wet lawn.
Pieces of mowed grass stick to
my sneakers. Slugs are feeding on the
hostas mix in the shade at the edge of the garden.
 
Beetles have arrived on the roses.
The ground is writhing with life.
We see what we want to see and
sometimes what we don’t.
 
Eyes are everywhere, objective and
single-minded. Now the sound of rain
overwhelms the noise of chewing. 
I will not resort to poison.
 
Ferns and pink astilbe make love
under the ivy which winds around a
piece of driftwood we placed here years ago,
a green patina spreading across its silver surface.
 
I enter the far gate onto a carpet of moss.
I imagine I hear the splash of water – a fountain
with shallow pool and bronzed satyr
holding court. It is all so real, this mirage.
 
Everything changes and yet remains the same.
A vision of what has been and what will come.
A vision of what is now and what will never be.
A time to pinch off dead azalea blooms.

I wish you all a most wonderful springtime and a splendid summer ahead. Reading a book of poetry out in nature on a beautiful day, or sharing out loud with friends of a summer evening, is a great way to enjoy and become engaged with poetry. I believe my poetry is accessible and surprising, beautiful with a good measure of the magical. I hope you’ll give Falling Through Time a try.
You can find it here on Amazon!

Love,
Sherry

Here are links to other books by Sherry:
Seeds of the Pomegranate, a poetry collection: https://www.amazon.com/Seeds-Pomegranate-Sherry-Lazarus-Ross/dp/0615111335/ref=sr_

The Vinetrope Adventures, Return of the Vinetropes: Full length fantasy novel for older children 10 and up, lavishly illustrated by internationally loved artist Julie Bell:
https://www.amazon.com/Return-Vinetropes-Vinetrope-Adventures-
@thevinetropeadventures

Or you can go to her Youtube channel:
https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCO5jAq4k6MPqISk4e_vkzWw

Let us remind the world
How many shades of green there are
How, together, we look like life itself
How tender the dirt gets in spring

Let us burst open, one multitudinous bud
Unfurled by that internal pressure of petal
Ripe, yes, and soft
You will learn to inhale us

Let us punch up from the earth, a lava
Bright and abundant dreams of tomorrow
Flowing molten and free
Turning ignorance to ash

Let us act like we got some roots
Know that we are held deeply
Even as we dance towards the golden breast of the sun
life delectable again

Let us remind ourselves
That life moves ever towards life
This is the season of our nectar
Beloveds this is the season worth the sting

Originally published by YES! Media at yesmagazine.org. Read more about
writer, editor, activist, social justice facilitator, coach, speaker, and doula
adrienne maree brown at adriennemareebrown.net.

It is a privilege to be the keeper of a historic, quaint cemetery in my small Maine town—a magical place hidden within the forest, accessible by an old wagon trail. The hallowed ground is natural and wild, covered in varieties of spongy moss, wild violets, maiden pinks, white yarrow, pine straw, and crisp fallen leaves. The space is tenderly enveloped by towering oak, white pine, and hemlock trees that come together at their tops to form a protective arch above the stones. The air has an earthy, woodsy, slightly sweet smell that blends naturally and seamlessly with the tendrils of memory upon the wind.

Our town has more than seventy historic cemeteries. Some of them very small, with only a few graves, while others are much larger, like the one for which I am keeper.

I’ll never forget the day I first approached it. Someone had told me about this place of beauty, and I knew I had to find it.  My eye was drawn to a tiny fragment of stone peeking through fallen leaves, just at the entrance to the graveyard. When I gently brushed away the leaves, a broken plaque emerged, revealing a single name upon the stone. It was my name: Susan. You can well imagine my surprise. I fell in love, and I knew I was meant to be the keeper of this special cemetery, taking care of the stones and the sacred space. I contacted the town’s cemetery committee. There were two volunteer keepers at that time, neither of whom had the time, energy, or interest to invest in it, so I was appointed in their place. Everyone (spirits included) was very happy.

In this role, I am essentially a groundskeeper. I pick up fallen debris from trees, pull weeds and saplings from around the stones, and plant traditional foliage to keep erosion at bay. I’m also record keeper, keeping note of the stones and their conditions, the dead tree limbs that may fall and need attention, and stones that need repair or resetting.

Most of my work is done in the spring and fall. I visit this enchanting, sacred place pretty regularly throughout the year, not only to lovingly tend to the gravestones and grounds, but to find peace and quiet in the stillness, connect with nature and those who came before, and spend time with my thoughts. The majority of my job involves cleaning the headstones, nearly 100 of them, from the simply crafted ones made of slate, marble, and granite to the more natural rock monuments and the fancier memorial stones painstakingly designed in a gothic style. I was trained in a gentle, internationally used technique for cleaning by a member of the committee, who was trained by the Maine Old Cemetery Association, in Augusta, our state capital.

I suspect I am not alone when it comes to enjoying time in inviting, old cemeteries. I imagine that you, dear reader, might be able to relate. I sometimes bring along a sprig of rosemary for remembrance, to honor the dead. I notice the names particular to an earlier age, beautiful old first names like Bainbridge, Desiah, Content, and Love.

I also like to bring along poetry from that era, the 18th and 19th centuries, to read among the graves. Maybe these townspeople of long ago read some of this very same literature, much of it on themes of death. So often they would have been surrounded by death; the death culture and etiquette makes this plain. I imagine the family and friends of the deceased would have turned to poetry as an outlet for their grief and to attempt to find solace. Some of it, no doubt, was read in the cemetery, as I do now.

Have you ever heard of the Graveyard Poets? Also referred to as the Churchyard Poets, these 18th-century British writers were known for their explorations of the fleeting nature of life,  death, bereavement, and the afterlife. They were not afraid to embrace the darker side of death, as their poems were filled with gloomy imagery, elaborate descriptions of graveyards, skulls, bones, and other macabre fascinations. This made them precursors to the gothic novelists who would come in their wake. Some of their works were written as personal elegies for the deceased, while others reflected about death’s impact more generally.

Here is an excerpt from noted Graveyard Poet Thomas Parnell’s well-known poem “A Night-Piece on Death”:

Those graves, with bending osier bound,
That nameless heave the crumpled ground,
Quick to the glancing thought disclose
Where Toil and Poverty repose.
The flat smooth stones that bear a name,
The chisel’s slender help to fame
(Which ere our set of friends decay
Their frequent steps may wear away),
A middle race of mortals own,
Men, half ambitious, all unknown.

Other Graveyard Poets of note include Robert Blair, Edward Young, and Thomas Gray. If you fancy spending quiet alone time within the walls of a historic and peaceful cemetery among the beautiful old stones and epitaphs, I invite you to bring along a book of poetry written by a Graveyard Poet to inspire you and help you connect with the past, to honor and understand those who came before.

Death is a natural part of the life cycle—of birth, death, and rebirth. There cannot be life without death, light without the darkness, nor joy without sadness. The Graveyard Poets and the later gothic writers embraced this sentiment. I am reminded by poignant lines that death is not really an ending but a beginning and that the boundary between the worlds of the living and the dead are blurred. As Edgar Allan Poe so aptly puts it in “The Premature Burial”: “The boundaries which divide Life from Death are at best shadowy and vague. Who shall say where the one ends, and the other begins?”

PHOTOGRAPHY BY STEVE PARKE
Model: Love Chappelle

An errand of mercy, a basket of love. Only the best of intentions are paving this path.

But girls have been lost here before. Sweet girls, frivolous girls. Girls she has played with, spun with, traded tales with. They were swallowed in the shadows of trees; they fell asleep among bluebells and vines.

She wears her scarlet so she will be seen. No one has ever been lost in red velvet.

But this path is not straight. These woods are not still.
It has been too long since she last walked this way. When she looks behind her, she watches her footprints disappear as a wind stirs the dust. Grass grows fast over her traces.

Then comes a call in the distance … She has been seen.

Her flesh stirs in answer. Her skin prickles. Her teeth and her eyes and her ears—

Why fear the wolf when you can become it?

The house sits just up ahead.

We hope you’re having a gorgeous Wednesday! We wanted to make your afternoon slightly more gorgeous with this sweet missive from our friend Sherry L. Ross.

From Sherry:

This collection of poetry is about time and consciousness. In one way, time is merely a human construct that does not exist except as we have imagined it, so that we can function in our daily lives. In another way, time is omnipresent, a super-reality, existing and permeating everything. It weaves in between the vastness of space and in between the vast spaces of our minds and it makes us a whole: the universe and each of us as individuals. Time encompasses everything, all of the past, present, and future. Time, then, is truly timeless. This other kind of time, for me, has become synonymous with consciousness, the consciousness of this universe, which holds in it all that has been, is, and will be. It is the great author, the teller of all stories and all histories simultaneously.

These poems are a composite of a small amount of consciousness: mine. It is me falling through my time here on earth. I hope they will resonate with you and your own exquisitely unique and universal consciousness. – FROM SHERRY L. ROSS

“Sherry Ross is an authentic Gothic dream landscapist, a nostalgic story-winder, a cosmic-conscious adept, and a faery conjuror. Certainly, she must be a ‘sensitive’ and a ‘prescient’ whose life is balanced between the rigors of a normal life and what seems, to this author’s understanding, one also in touch with the ‘twilight world.’ By this I mean the cosmos, faeries, gardens, fireflies, the dark wood, dusk, wetness after a rain or dew, slipperiness, moist dirt, autumn leaves, damp grass, remembrances, the lives of her family and herself—that mysterious intersection with its very sheer veil.”
—Dr. Vern G. Swanson, author and editor of over 20 books on art, culture, and religion

COSMIC TOUR
When I die
I want the cosmic tour; to break gravity,
pass GO
and swing out into the stars, where
galaxies scatter like so much salt on a hearty meal.
I’ll taste eternity,
sip from time and feast till full.

THE FAERIE ENCOUNTER

“I’m not your friend,” the faery firmly
claimed and scraped her thistle crown against my chin,
red droplets formed for which she took the blame;
she said to be my friend would be a sin.

“But still I leave you with a Faerie’s Mark,
for times when you are feeling lost or low.
So here upon your chin I’ve etched a spark,
a star that in the dark will pulse and glow.

Forever now you are in faeries’ debt.
Whether or not you use the Elven star,
I’ve bound you to our realm in time’s deep net
made from all there is both near and far.”

With no more explanation she was gone.
The nighttime forest encircled me alone.
I wandered dazed until I reached the pond,
which meant somehow I’d finally made it home.

And now my life has never been the same,
for deer and even bear will walk with me,
and squirrels tease and act completely tame,
sharing nuts and drinking from my tea.

My friends and family treat me like I’m mad
and ask me where I got my tattooed star.
They say the glow must come from something bad,
a poisonous dye that’s made me odd and marred.

I spend my days and nights within the woods,
and forage what I need from what is there.
I know all herbs and mushrooms, which are good,
and learned to balance all with love and care.

I live in two worlds now; belong to none,
and when I’m feeling sad, I touch the star —
sweet faerie songs then come and comfort some,
but the mark is both a blessèd-curse and scar.

And now until my days are truly done,
I have no choice but wait to really know,
by both great portals will I now be shunned?
To which dear realm will then I finally go?

AVAILABLE NOW ON AMAZON

“Falling Through Time is a masterful collection of poems, which could have been written only by a poet at the height of their powers. There is a sense that the boundaries of time—almost life itself—are there to be pushed at, broken down, a deep yearning to break free and understand what is beyond. “The poems in this deeply personal volume move from the sharp, detailed vignettes of remembered moments to a more abstract, transcendental finale, reminiscent of the Northumbrian poet Kathleen Raine.” —Steve Griffin, poet and author of The Things We Thought Were Beautiful, Up in the Air, The Boy in the Burgundy Hood, The Girl in the Ivory Dress, and the Tirthas series.

OTHER BOOKS BY SHERRY: Seeds of the Pomegranate | The Vinetrope Adventures, Book 1 Visit her @thevinetropeadventures

She had eyes like apple seeds.

A small, angular face that reminded me
of a fox’s mask. Was it a mask she wore
the whole time I was with her?

The thing about faeries is, they’re not like us,
material. Indeed, they most resemble
assemblages constructed from our dreams.
Their visible forms are for our benefit.

Sometimes, as we lay together in bed
under a canopy of spider-silk,
I would turn and find she had become a tree,
branches for arms, a bird’s nest between her legs,
with three blue, speckled eggs. Were they our children?
I’d blink, and she would be a woman again,
yawning and stretching as human women do.
She’d smile at me with a fox’s sly, wise smile
as though she had tricked me.

The castle was sometimes made of rough gray stone
covered with moss, sometimes of murky water
with fish swimming in the walls. When we danced, the music
came from viols or the buzz of a hundred bees.
I sat on chairs that were either toadstools or clouds,
and ate from plates that stared back up at me,
blinking iridescent eyes. What did I eat there?
Air? Insects? Salads of delicate herbs?
The bread tasted like ashes.

Sometimes she loved me, and we would ride together
on robins, or was it flowering hawthorn branches
whose thorns would prick my legs through leather trousers?
With her strange retinue: the faerie knights
riding on weasels, the goblin standard-bearers
holding thistle spears. They were always half something else,
with the heads of toads or owls, a bat’s black wings.
Everything there was always half something else,
except the faerie women, wholly themselves,
and so luminous you had to look at them
through tinted spectacles. It was the fashion
to sew living butterflies unto their shoulders,
so they moved in a halo of colored dust
and panicked flapping.
Awkwardly, at the rear of the procession,
walked a stray cat she had turned into a boy,
who mewed and tried to scratch me.
I was mostly unhappy, but sometimes happy.
The problem is this: I would rather be unhappy in fairyland
than happy elsewhere.

At night, I lie beside a woman who never
turns into a tree, who bears me human children.
And all I can think of is her hard black eyes,
which sometimes looked at me with such disdain,
her small red mouth that never told me the truth
and laughed when I believed her.
That fox’s face, which was probably always a mask.

Sometimes I go into the forest alone
and whisper into the hollow knot of an oak:
I’d rather spend an hour in fairyland
than a lifetime elsewhere.
Then I stand in the green silence, with only the cries
of birds, the shush of the oak leaves high above,
and wonder if she’s listening.

Photography by Courtney Fox

What sweeter balm than nature to soothe the lonely soul? In this poem, Wordsworth gives his readers a Romantic description of nature’s beauty through the point of view of a “lonely cloud.” I know that in this day and age, we have many resources at our fingertips to keep us busy, but we can all still feel lonely at times. I find that when I’m feeling restless or lonesome, retreating into nature or merely recalling a happy memory of time spent among it never fails to enliven my spirit.

Wordsworth’s poem calls to mind the beautiful things that entwine humankind’s relationship with nature, that prove nature itself is visual poetry to the human soul, and that provide us an inexplicable comfort. For me, these simple pleasures include train rides across the countryside, birdsong at dawn on a foggy morning, a picnic in a meadow of wildflowers, the smell of lilacs in the garden, swans on a pond surrounded by weeping willows blowing in a mild summer breeze, the beams of sunlight that seem to sparkle as they stream through the forest canopy, the smell of the salty sea mist of the Atlantic, listening to a summer thunderstorm outside my bedroom window.

All these things and more are what it means to be human. They encompass what it feels like to be alive, to be taking up space in this world, and somehow they instill a sense of intimacy with the world around us when we are otherwise feeling alone.

Visit Courtney Fox on Instagram @thefoxandtheivy.

I Wandered Lonely As A Cloud
by William Wordsworth

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.