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Our third and last theme for the year is Izanami-no-Mikoto. In Japanese mythology she is a goddess of life and death. The editors and I were looking into mythology about rebirth and came across some stories about Izanami and we thought that she would fascinating inspiration for poems and art. Like Izanami, women are life-bringers in so many ways, not just through the birth and rearing of children. There are many ways to give life, and the form we most love here at Cauldron is the giving life to stories, poems, art. We can't wait to receive new submissions! 
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Girls Just Want To Be WitchesI love stories about witches. When I was six I wanted to be a witch. I was so obsessed with witches that one day I borrowed a book from my local library that contained real-life spells. Cool, I know! Unfortunately, when I got home I realised that the only ingredient I had in my witchy arsenal was water. So, I commenced making potions that consisted of water, mud, and half of my mother’s garden (sorry Mum). To my great disappointment, none of my potions or spells worked. It was official, I truly was a Muggle.
All of my favourite witch stories include things that are so magical, they somehow seemed real, which is why for many years I believed the broom in the shed was really a Nimbus 2000 in disguise and that any old crone with a face-wart I came across was going to kidnap me, force me to eat mountains of candy, and then cook me for supper. It’s that uncanniness that makes witches so intriguing, and why I so desperately want to be one. The Valkyrie’s DecisionIn mythology, the Valkyrie is being portrayed as someone with the ability to move among a battlefield, and choose who lives, who dies. She’s not just choosing who gets to continue living though – she’s choosing the path of their afterlife. It strikes me as quite the responsibility. What happens if she chooses “wrong”?” and is there even such a thing? Does she ever regret whom she chooses? When I first learned about the Valkyrie in more depth, and what she does, the phrase that crossed my mind was judge, jury and executioner – not so much for the execution, but for the way that she has to carry out unpleasant actions of walking a battlefield.
Now, when I’m thinking about the Valkyrie, the thing that gets me is the decision making: she’s always deciding. Always weighing up one or another. This isn’t to say that I want to read exclusively battlefield epics wherein our heroine decides between A and B. Why not expand the scope? Put her in a range of other scenarios where she has to judge and decide – or, flip the coin. Take away decisions. I can’t wait to see what you come up with. Recurrent Figures in LiteraturePeeling back the layers of a witch can be fascinating, and the witch archetype is one of the most intriguing layers. It is the archetype figure of the crone/hag which is deeply connected to the witch that draws my interest. The wizened old woman who is so full of knowledge that she is sometimes feared for it can be seen as a catalyst in stories, myth, and folklore. Hecate, for example is one of these catalyst in her role as the guardian of the crossroads, she is present for life’s transitions. To add to Hecate’s layers, she also has associations to angels and oracles. Witches have so many depths built into their characters, so many wonderful layers to explore, and I can’t wait to read about the witch and layer you choose to unravel in your submission to us at The Cauldron Anthology.
Goddamn, it was such a great day when i met you. you called my poems powerful and excellent. i’ve never been anything close to those god-like words and yet you gave them to me, so easily for free! i knocked, you let me in. called me over with my verbs in hand - so darn simple. Harder day happened when i wrote - you didn’t answer right away like i hoped. junking out the rust and the old carburetors leaking clotted oil in your brain. stuff so bad the recycling center calls hazmat when they see it dumped in the corner behind the dumpster that is your heart. A heart so big it pops regularly and the deflating helium makes a whine like tea ready between your ears and the light from the explosion of the aortic chamber is like one Yin of the strobe light - it has no brother of Yang to weigh it out so lopsided, it is - too bright, too white i hear you in the back room sweeping dust that isn’t there - i’ve done it making cobwebs for work to do - the easy work, of time, time spun of 7-legged spiders weary of the toil you set them to - enough already! they spit - full of the flies that dropped dusty to the cerebellum last night no more they fill the bite of spiders spinning on the floor - one last zzzzz. silence. tinnitus. rallying cries - on the tips of your lips echoing - your family in your mouth i like the tears of sorbet you paint on my face like tie-die now, urgently dripping imagine - how to stain me how to drink my blood tannins impossible flesh; your newest kin your batik still weirder on my skin but none the less founded - it’s no t-shirt i swim in but archaic in form. this need, this grace fungus sprinkled with Devil Dust about your place ------------------------- 65% potash 30% stomach acid 3% eyeball of newt 1% you 1% me ------------------------- harder still to not know what room you're in now the kitchen/ frying eggs in tears serve me up/ your greatest fears Don't Feed Them What They Want! is to keep you they’ll grow and cook in kilns for you and become children of cerulean blue, and have names like Lucy and Hugh, and the trenches, well - they’re in them too the blinds are so tight again with the strain of my meanderings Don’t be scared…. it’s just me, peeking in - and i guessed you on a treadmill in slatted light singing Hey Jude - wishing through the bombs all over again for ‘68 Don’t Make it Bad the day i was born i bet you knew my words i bet you knew me then Take a Sad Song, the day you die i’ll never lose i’ll never lose you again i won’t give up on this friend i’ve not met - he’s like a staple - a hinge in my heart, where And Make it Better. dusty songs like an unread manuscript: have i give my non-existent life for this: i try Remember to Let Her into Your Heart i’m in his inbox, he is my call. i’m at his gate, he is the wall: I’m trained to be small. on second thought: not trained at all. Then You Can Start to Make it Better. but to swim in this gravy for the longest haul, with my conflicted lenses of rose and opal. Better, Better, Better. About Elisabeth HoranElisabeth Horan is a poet, mother, student, lover of kind people and animals, homesteading in Vermont with her tolerant partner and two young sons. She hopes the earth can withstand us and that humans may learn to be more kind to each other and to Mother Nature.
She has recently been featured at Quail Bell Magazine, Dying Dahlia Review and The Murmur House. Elisabeth is a 2018 MFA Candidate at Lindenwood University and teaches at River Valley Community College in New Hampshire. Follow her @ehoranpoet. Heavens to Betsy Remember to curtsy Not bow, you’re wearing a dress For God’s sake Japanese wine is for Geishas to serve - Don’t you dare drink it - With me watching - Don’t you dare to look me in the eyes. I'll get it out of you and send a bill for the Kimono, too - Get your feet in the fucking shoes If they get bigger You'll be an unfuckable cow - No one wants a cow to keep Unless, except to eat Remember that when you get thirsty for meat. And don’t you ever drink from the cup of The Man that keeps you either. Fill it, wash it, serve it, you don’t deserve it. Plus, there may be a curious whiff of poison - The best thing Betsy ever did before she went to Heaven. About Elisabeth HoranElisabeth Horan is a poet, mother, student, lover of kind people and animals, homesteading in Vermont with her tolerant partner and two young sons. She hopes the earth can withstand us and that humans may learn to be more kind to each other and to Mother Nature.
She has recently been featured at Quail Bell Magazine, Dying Dahlia Review and The Murmur House. Elisabeth is a 2018 MFA Candidate at Lindenwood University and teaches at River Valley Community College in New Hampshire. Follow her @ehoranpoet. As I mentioned earlier, we're opening up two more themes for the rest of the year. Our first theme is Valkyrie. And now it's time to announce the second theme which is: Witches! Send us your charms and chants, your stories of sisters dancing by moonlight. Send us art work and essays. Let us know what it means to be a witch! Stay tuned for the third theme coming later this week.  My valkyrie Hums a song, my song, our song, when I slip into her, human into metal - and she roars into space, her wings of silver, her shield of adamantium. We collect souls, not for Valhalla, not for Odin, but to protect our space, the star-strewn runes of Freya not the Jotun, not ice giants, but the deep darkness encroaching like an oil slick. My valkyrie Hums a song, my song, our song, when I disconnect from her, back to human - and I know I will go back again, my wings of silver, my shield of adamantium. fight the eternal fight, sing the eternal song. About Joyce ChngBorn in Singapore but a global citizen, Joyce Chng writes mainly science fiction and YA. She likes steampunk and tales of transformation/transfiguration. Her fiction has appeared in Crossed Genres, The Apex Book of World SF II, We See A Different Frontier, Cranky Ladies of History, and Accessing The Future. Her YA science fiction trilogy is published by Singapore publisher, Math Paper Press. She can be found at A Wolf’s Tale (awolfstale.wordpress.com);
All white light and yellow braids astride small prehistoric ponies; galloping, fearless into the abyss. Slain men lie waiting Father Odin - expecting miracles and burials. They are the Cassandras; Cleopatras - Lady Lazarus / Red-plumed Phoenix. They are Rhys, Rich and Browning They are the housewives the lesbians the Bishops: all trans. Catching together the shredded rainbow grouper They are Emily, a symbol - Plath in the oven They are the tired mothers; endless survivors - they are so loving and so angry. They are in my head my head, my head - Echoing hoofbeats deep in my cochlea They are me: writing, struggling dodging my own sparks and lightning Streaking across open meadows burning like Hellfire with the acrid smell of death in my nose Calling me Calling me to bring the words home. About Elisabeth HoranElisabeth Horan is a poet, mother, student, lover of kind people and animals, homesteading in Vermont with her tolerant partner and two young sons. She hopes the earth can withstand us and that humans may learn to be more kind to each other and to Mother Nature.
She has recently been featured at Quail Bell Magazine, Dying Dahlia Review and The Murmur House. Elisabeth is a 2018 MFA Candidate at Lindenwood University and teaches at River Valley Community College in New Hampshire. Follow her @ehoranpoet. Dearest Cauldron Readers,
My sincerest apologies for not updating you all sooner. Our third issue was supposed to have come out this month, but unfortunately we just haven't had enough submissions to put together a full issue. I, the Editor-in-Chief, have been talking with my fellow editors and we've decided to go back to posting submissions on our blog. We will have rolling submissions and post content as it's received and accepted. Then at the end of the year we will compile together issue three. As the weeks go on we will also be adding more themes for you to choose from. The current theme, Valkyrie is still open for submissions. The new themes will be announced as soon as possible. Please consider submitting poems, art and stories to us. We want to hear from you! All the best, Abigail Pearson |
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