Vintage sketch of a witch on her broomstick, with a black cat riding behind her.

Shropshire Women, Witches, And Myths – Writing Poems For Stone Tongued

When I started writing my second collection, I thought I was writing a pamphlet of poems about Shropshire folklore, and the way that water weaves through so much of it. That assumption made sense at the time, as the idea stemmed from my poem ‘Trickle Down’, but as I kept writing, different pieces of history and myth started to work their way into the manuscript. I realised I was working on something bigger than a pamphlet, and Shropshire was only part of the puzzle. The pamphlet that I’d been calling ‘Water, Witches, and Women’ started to become ‘Stone Tongued’.

The collection isn’t finished, but since it’s International Women’s History Month, I wanted to to talk about some of the Shropshire women (and women linked with Shropshire) that have inspired poems. The collection pulls from history and myth, so in places the line between those two gets a little blurred. There are stories I couldn’t have included if I was writing a traditional history, because I cannot reference the source material. Writing poems about these poem allows me to focus on finding their voices, rather than double checking my footnotes.

In this post I’m going to be going voice to five women (ten if you count carefully). Kathryn Garner who was tried for witchcraft, Placida who was a Roman woman living in Britain, Mary Jones who was a resident in the Oswestry House of Industry, Hafren an ancient British princess, and Ginny Greenteeth the water hag. I will hand you over to them:

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Jörmungandr – A Poem By Carol J Forrester

I’ll start at the toes,
short,
and not quite in joint
with one another.

Pause around the ankles.
Suckle them
like gobstoppers
to the marrow.

Crunch shin and calf,
ravish thighs
till the fat glistens
along my jawbone.

Pick the pelvis clean,
pop each ovary
between thumb
and forefinger.

Still juicy and ripe.

Pull intestines,
lungs, liver, heart,
kidneys free.
Mince into a pie.

Portion each breast
out with the cuts
to ensure a moist
cook.

Lick the remains clean
from each finger.
Grind the bones
between my teeth.

Leave one hand for eyeballs,
seasoned tongue
tastes a lot like ox,
ears more like bacon.

At the end,
begin again.



With Halloween just a couple of days away, I thought I’d share one of the more monstrous poems from my poetry collection, ‘It’s All In The Blood’ which sounds like a much darker collection when associated with this poem on its own.

Trickle Down – Working On Writing During Lock-down

At the start of this year I was planning on which poetry events I wanted to go to in order to publicise my new collection ‘It’s All In The Blood‘. I managed a few local ones, and had a slot booked to perform at a Ludlow poetry night, right at the beginning of March. Then 2020 hit its stride in the UK.

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Water Song – #DVersePoets

I want to sink bells into the pond.

Plant them just below the waterline,

where the ripples look like scales

lifting out of the shallows slowly

on the back of an endless snake.

Then at night when the moon lifts,

turns her face to watch,

I’ll slip out onto the decking,

strip down to my silver skin.

Drop like a stone or a witch

into the quiet cold of a place

not quite what I wish of it.

Wonder as the bells ring out

if anyone else may be listening.

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There’s a lot of Shropshire Folklore about women and water. The River Severn is often characterised as female, and there are tales of women (or women-like creatures) inhabiting lakes and ponds. Another image in Shropshire folk tales, is that of church bells falling into water and being lost forever, but the sound of their ringing being heard at night.

I’ve always been in love with myths and legends, but more often than not it was the classic Greek, Egyptian, and Norse myths that I turned to as a child. More recently I started to look into the tales from my native county, and one of the poems in my collection was inspired by this research. During the lockdown I’ve been trying to read more books to keep myself occupied. I ended up purchasing ‘Shropshire Folk Tales’ by Amy Douglas. The one off poem on Shropshire Folklore that I included in my collection now looks like it might grow into something more.

 

 

 

 

Myth Lost Lover

They carved a mirror out of shadows when you died,

just to pull your reflection from it,

held the silhouette up like a man

full formed and walking

despite the brittleness in his limbs

when he reached for anything other

than the stories they planted inside his mouth

like the kisses I used to keep there

when the world receded with the tides

on blue moons and snowy days in June.

I alone knew that you did not smile in that way.

I alone knew the curve of your mouth

was remade backwards,

the bend of your nose lost beneath legends,

a scar on your palm,

no longer than the width of one finger

healed by their songs.

If we had laid together I would not recognize the man they’d forged,

even your eyes changed colour

in the light of their voices.

In the end I had to learn to let them keep you

this other version of you,

that I did not own,

and I did not know.


Daily Prompt: Famous (Also inspired by Madeline Miller’s ‘The Song of Achilles)