30% Discount on Wyrd Harvest Press books


30% off All Wyrd Harvest Press Books

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Offer Ends October 12th at 23:59

100% of all profits from books bought in this online store are donated to The Wildlife Trusts nature conservation projects


Discount Codes ~ Folk Horror Revival Books


Save 25% On Orders Of Wyrd Harvest Press books
Use Code: LULU25 
Buy 3 books, get the 4th free!
Just add 4 print books to your cart and one will be free (of equal or lesser value)
Use Code: TRGE15
at checkout at –

Offer Ends September 28th at 23:59

100% of profits from FHR / Wyrd Harvest Press books sold in this store will be charitably donated at intervals to different environmental, wildlife and community projects undertaken by the Wildlife Trusts.

She is Time

She is Time …

A giantess

A dwarf

A bear

A bird

Mother sister daughter all

Originator and child born





Caressing – “You still have Time my love, my beloved one.”

“No Time left – Hurry you wicked child!”

I have avoided her presence.

I have acknowledged it too.

Youth or innocence or stupidity

Wisdom or just older and old age coming and then …

“I wasn’t really so ugly after all.”

Day after day and hour after hour of self criticism.

Now looking back

I beg you, “Let me make myself again!”

Help me form from clay instead of skin containing organs blood and bone.

Help me become an uncontaminated version of me

Instead of influence bombarding and impinging from all directions.

But Time will do what she wants and leaves me to learn.

Gives me precious gifts as well as throwaway baubles that will remain until infinity – Signs of me that were.

The passing of –

Who I am

Who we all are

What we learn

How to be.

Make the most of it.

Don’t waste time or do waste some time

Sometimes –

From time to time stop and

Feel and appreciate every moment of … but …

Best laid plans.

The past rises up in black and white or technicolour shards.

Puzzle together

Manufacture memory

Did it happen?

All a part of you.

Primordial – before time, before building began

Past, present, future – all times.

Hauntings, soaked and seeped into the walls the floors, the earth.

The words, the sighs, the emotions, the pleasures, the pains.

Mine mingle into the sediment of all others who came before me and those that will come.

Haunting me from the future as well as the past.

Thoughts, realities, fantasies, plans and ambitions unrealized, regretted, yearned for –

Unique and mine a part of everything that was and is.

Foolish, brave, meek, timid, strong.

All of these cycling

Who and what potential there was and is to be …

In the past in the present, in the future, in the “non” time

Just the “am” just “is” just “be” time

Would you live differently?

Reincarnation, what animal will you be?

Heaven, hell, purgatory?

Please let me –

Reclaim my self from time reclaim my fresh plump and tighter skin,

Like a lizard let me shed my tarnished and webbed self.

You are cruel but I understand.

My face, my body, my thought, is witness to evermore.

My life with others, everything I saw, everything I wanted, tasted, everything experienced – everything even wickedness.

Where in the ridges of lives does she settle?

Which cracks does she fall into?

Pressed under foot

Like leaves that begin to change colour, dry and wither while others remain under ice and snow, amber till spring when they will die, become part of what came before.

In the dew of the grass

The web of the spider

The speck of dust motes that float.

Day after day

Cycles of nature bring joy and sadness too, the end or fading of memories

Time so tied into every cell and twinge and hurt and joy.

Make way for her!

You can scurry out of the way and hide, for now, don’t think of her passing.

Hide your eyes!

Recoil from her!

But better to move toward her and welcome the shadow she throws down over you.

She is an unavoidable presence enveloping you with her wings.

A large bird is time with a wing span covering all and felt everywhere

Manufactured in factories

Forged in metal

Grown from the soil

Born from a tender nest and fed and nurtured

Created from mystery – the beginning of everything.

She takes from me without my consent

Wild and powerful and strong Time.

I feel her shadow.

She is near.

She will take me

When she is ready.

she is time copy 2

​Words and Picture (C) Carmit Kordov

Carmit is an administrator of the Folk Horror Revival Facebook group. Her poetry has appeared in Corpse Roads , a Wyrd Harvest Press book.

Please visit Carmit Kordov Words and Pictures for more poetry, photography, writing and cultural content that veers towards Magic Realism.

Dark: A Poem by Carmit Kordov


Come see Dark, the Master Manipulator!

He promises your rebirth.

Garish painted mouth stretching from ear to ear,

grinning beckoning.

Not for children this attraction.

Leave them with the carousel or the stuffed toys at the shooting range.

Let them keep their innocence – for now.

Eat a piece of cotton candy, you will need the sweetness on your tongue

to disguise the bitterness that will surely develop.

He is no circus clown

with red nose, balloons and pratfalls.

A trickster

A buffoon

Dark sees right through you.

You think you are strong enough?

Then come in and experience

your weakness

your fear

what delights or repels you.

He picks on you, plays silly.

Takes all he wants and spits out what he doesn’t.

Makes you tell your secrets

plays the game

The joker sees.

He is cunning

He is foolish.

He is a god.

He has been created from the earth itself.

Even his scent is musty, vegetative and wet.

No rules for him, no convention he is a disobeyer.

He is spirit –

Accesses your wounds, licks them, pokes at them with his rough tongue.

Accesses your desires and brings them to the surface of your skin like raised hackles.

Prodding and pushing and pricking of your conscience.

He takes all of you, mixes you up, shakes up your pretentions.

You can raise you hands to protect your face but he will bore a hole in your brain.

Takes you to places you never thought you wanted to go but now are willingly led.

Takes all your inhibitions, your begging and pleading, and laughs in your face.

Impells you to raise up your hands in confession, “It was me!”

He holds you under the water – will you drown innocent or float a witch?

As your confessor, he will discover what promises you kept and those you didn’t.

He takes you to the limit and beyond even the darkest corners.

So prepare and annoint yourself.

Make your decision.

You know what it will be.

Words and Picture (c) Carmit Kordov

This poem is one of a collection that will appear in a forthcoming book of Carnival themed poems and accompanying photographs by Carmit Kordov.

Please visit Carmit Kordov Words and Pictures for more poetry, photography, writing and other cultural content that veers towards Magic Realism.

Carmit Kordov is an administrator of the Folk Horror Revival Facebook group. Her poetry has appeared in Corpse Roads, a Wyrd Harvest Press book.

Vernal Equinox Charity Donation 2017


Happy Springtide to all revivalists 🙂

We are pleased to donate £201.69 from the sales profits of our books on this Vernal Equinox to the Osprey Nesting Appeal by Cumbria Wildlife Trust.
Thank You for voting and Thank You for buying our books. 100% of our book sales profits will continue to be donated quarterly to Wildlife Trusts projects. Please continue to buy our books, several magical new tomes will be released soon and more still in the pipeline.

Books available from – http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/andypaciorek

To donate directly to Wildlife Trusts ‘projects – http://www.wildlifetrusts.org/appeals

image: 19th Century print. Artist unidentified.



Story: A Poem by Carmit Kordov


Yearning for the old language of my blood, bone, skin.

Searching for my stone, my soil

stained with grief

splintered with joy.

Echoes, wistful, reverberate a desire in me.

Layers of my past, senses, corrupt my present

force me toward a hard and piercing future.

But mollify too with soft promises.

I mourn the tanned, weathered experiences, pieces of myself.

I strain to hold them tight around me like protection against wind.

I seek out rivers, streams and ponds

forge through elemental forests

rejoice in the leaves’ breath harsh and tender

brush against walls, stone, foundations dense with histories

push along through familiar unfamiliar streets.

Forced to make choices, take paths one way only.

The present infiltrates, shoves and urges me forward

cuts into viscous layers of the past.

Here I am: child, girl, woman.

I am the storyteller.

I demand the past bind itself to me and keep with me in the present.

I am the story

I will not disappear.

Words and Picture (C) Carmit Kordov

Please visit Carmit Kordov Words and Pictures (https://www.facebook.com/carmitkordovwordsandpictures/ ) for more poetry, photography, writing and cultural content that veers towards Magic Realism.

This poem appeared in Corpse Roads (https://folkhorrorrevival.com/folk-horror-revival-corpse-roads/), a Wyrd Harvest Press book (https://folkhorrorrevival.com/wyrd-harvest-press/).

FHR Charity Donation – January 2017


To mark the turn of the year, we have again charitably donated the sales profits from our books to different Wildlife Trusts projects as voted for by members of the Folk Horror Revival facebook group.


This time we have donated £530.46 to Devon Wildlife Trust’s Keep Beavers in the Wild Project.

Thank You to all those who voted and especially to those who have purchased our books. Wyrd Harvest Press will be releasing several exciting new tomes in 2017.

Folk Horror Revival: Field StudiesFolk Horror Revival: Corpse RoadsThe Carnival Of Dark Dreams



Captive, by Doris Masters

Screen Shot 2016-09-03 at 01.26.56

It smiles at me with frothy lips
Inviting me to stay;
To watch it as it leaps and drips with sand and stones at play.
The gulls fly screaming overhead
As if their prey to wake;
They dive into the watery mass,
At liberty to take.

Its icy waves they touch my skin
And play around my feet.
Seaweed stops and lingers there, the hazard it will meet.
Who knows what secrets it contains,
On its dark and secret bottom;
With rusting wreckage, and silver bones
Of heroes long forgotten.

What mythical beings are dwelling there?
Mermaids, Monsters, Lorelei;
The tales we heard so long ago, in us will never die.
It’s enticing me to join it
In its never ending quest;
To swallow up the living earth
And leave mortal souls at rest.

The sea goes on forever
As it has since time began;
Guided by a silver moon, never touched by wars or man.
I shiver in its coldness
Wanting not to go,
And leave this green and pleasant land
I have come to know.

I can no longer stay here
A captive on the beach
Two steps back, and they will take me
Forever out of reach.

(August 2016)

Image by Dan Hunt, Seafield Beach MMXVI

Tim Turnbull ~ Ghosts of the Corpse Roads

By a strange twist of fate, the words of a poet who tread the Corpse Roads, vanished upon the breeze. An echo of his testimonial remained carved upon milestones.

Here now though through the scrying of technology once undreamed of, we have captured the whispers from the aether and bring you now the poetry of Tim Turnbull


They have brought him indoors again, Scarecrow,cC5Ah9nJAPuMjYrVODu1a2uhv8JxrloC1ynIrLPR8tPhDfQCnTmt3G1IZBxijVXC3-RAAlF3YYrggvgyVekh99T9F1Js9EEoscxNsfvMdeUQCRrJiOPIGYQZKnL8Htv5aWJFz8-f9CX64RQhqb-wHL6Km8U=s0-d-e1-ft
propped him in the armchair, poured him a nip
of Laphroaig (doubles for themselves) and toast
and laud him, fine splendid fellow that he is:

for did he not bring them glories unbekent
in their lifetimes, class and outright victory
at Scarecrow Festival; did not the beer tent
glow all night, song swell through the district

over misted fields and greening woodland.
Hail to thee, O Flay-crake! O Hodmedod!
O Bogle! they cry, glasses in raised hands,
in honour of their straw-stuffed half-a-god,

and Scarecrow tilts his head as if perplexed:
their panegyric’s tinctured with derision,
and rough-handling, not kindness or respect,
distinguishes their weekly depositions.

Tonight a boot was left among the furrows;
tomorrow they’ll drag him out and nail him
back up again, nursing filthy hangovers,
and leave him to the mercy of the wind.


An Old Acquaintance

Death comes chapping the door at 2 a.m.,
jiggling an own-brand single malt as bait.
So long and anxiously anticipated,
he – half coy maiden, half best bosom friend –
slurs mitigations, invites himself in,
and from the sofa, roiling bletherskate,
holds forth; confides, inveigles and berates;
oscillates between rapture and maudlin.

Through hours of inebriate remembrance,
discourse descends to fractured anecdote,
to he said/they said/something happened once,
and thence to warm and grainy oblivion
until the morning takes you by the throat
and searing, sickening light reveals him gone.



Surprising how it has seeped into one’s
being, all that land; that boggy patch
behind the Dutch barn, not discernible
from the field edge – perhaps with geophyz
or satellite it might show up – which caught
the ploughshares and pulled the Fordson
back on its heels, so that, with differential
lock and independent brakes, we churned
and worked in tacky clay until the plough
came free; and across the field, the wood,
frightening and dark, which had been just that –
a wood – but now’s Picea abies, Norway spruce,
un-thinned, neglected, spindly, a poor crop,
overlain since with accretions of schooling,
fact, and even – whisper it – the odd opinion;
and beyond the wood the hedgerow where,
one autumn afternoon, we went with tin
and a tarnished dessert spoon lashed
to a bamboo cane, and I filled the bowl
with pink powder, thrust it down the last
unblocked rabbit hole, tipped the poison,
withdrew and sealed it in the earth.

Poetry © Tim Turnbull

Tim grew up in a farming family in North Yorkshire and resides currently in Highland Perthshire. His collection of eerie tales, ‘Silence and Other Stories‘ is published by Postbox Press. His poetry is available from Donut Press.

Wyrd Harvest Press are planning to publish more of Tim’s poetry in the near future. Keep watching these lonely paths …


Photos © Andy Paciorek