Mortar and Pestle

Mortar and Pestle

Wouldn’t you think a witch would cook?

We imagine her over her cauldron, stirring 

potions to make someone fall in love,

or hearty soups to keep her family healthy.

We think she’ll be grinding herbs very fine

for either of these recipes. Well, you know what?

I haven’t the patience. I’m a quick-and-easy cook,

and as for love potions, I think they’re unethical.

I do use herbs, but I don’t grind them myself.

I was telling a friend only today

(quoting Erica Jong, in Fear of Flying)

‘You’re a poet. You don’t have to cook too.’

I’m a witch and a poet. I make my magic 

with words. That might be the oldest way.

It’s surely one of the most potent. With words

and thoughts and passion. Not so much

with plants. So I’m sorry, I can’t show you 

a photo of my mortar and pestle; I have none.

 
Written for #decemberwitch 9 on Instagram.

Some witches – and poets – do enjoy cooking, and good luck to them. But this is my excuse for not having a mortar and pestle photo to post on Instagram.

Also sharing with Poets United's Pantry of Poetry and Prose #9. 

Happy Holidays / Holy Days, everybody!

Tagllock

Taglock

I tag you by your fingernail clippings,

lock them into the folds of a small doll,

hidden from sight, and cast my spells.

Wicked witch? No, it’s a healing 

I am bringing about for you

by means of this magical connection.

Secretive? No again. You knew.

You willingly gave them to me, 
these cast off pieces of you, when I asked.

But it’s easy now to disbelieve

‘all that silly superstition’

when you’re walking around well.

Written for #decemberwitch 6 on Instagram

Altars

Altars

My main altar has a mirror

with runes around its oval edge,

drawers full of witchy supplies –

incense, candles, a herb-cutting knife 

etcetera. All the four elements 

are represented and displayed

on its surface, as on all my altars,

even the tiny one in my bedroom;

even the writer’s altar above my desk

with its pictures of wide-eyed Brigid

wearing blue like Mary, and graceful Pan

alive in black ink, fiercely intent.

On the desk itself Minerva stands

with her owl. Close by are both

Sekhmet and Thoth, he of course

holding a tablet and stylus: inscribing.

The bedroom altar is more for healing.

There’s a picture of the Blue Madonna

with names on the back, in pencil 

to change for the now well, or new ill.

My working altar, my casting altar,

has dragon statues; the oracle 

I channelled and made; several wands

and my athame (a crystal laser).

Sometimes I think I want to spell it ‘alter’, 
for the work of change. Oops,

that’s the other kind of ‘spell’. Or is it?

Even before altars, we had Word.

Note for non-witches: 'Athame' (a witch's dagger, for cutting energy) is pronounced either ATH-uh-may or ah-THAH-may. I say it the first way.

Note for witches: No, I have no trouble mixing pantheons!

Written in response to the #decemberwitch challenge on Instagram. Another option was to photograph my altars. That felt too personal. But then this poem wouldn't fit into the space of an Instagram post, so I used just this one photo.

Also linking to Pantry of Poetry and Prose #7 at Poets United.