Winter Ghosts: What is This What is Coming? 6

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On the weekend of 15th and 16th December 2017, a strange mist will fall upon the coastal town of Whitby. From the sea fret will come haunting sounds and tales and more besides. Here over the coming days we shall in turn usher in the ghosts of winter …

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As part of the Winter Ghosts event at Whitby, there will be a session of book readings at the Rusty Shears Gin Cafe from 11am to 1pm on Saturday 16th December.
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Reading from Folk Horror Revival: Corpse Roads will be Andy Paciorek
Reading from North will be Phil Breach & Tim Turnbull
Reading from Ghost Stories from Whitby will be Chris Firth
Reading from The Wyrd Kalender and The Black Meadow books will be Chris Lambert.
Reading from This Game of Strangers will be Jane Burn & Bob Beagrie

Join us at Winter Ghosts – Tickets and full line up – Here

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Winter Ghosts: What is This? What is Coming? 5

Winter Ghosts: What is This What is Coming? 4

Winter Ghosts: What is This? What is Coming? 3

Winter Ghosts: What is this What is coming? 2

Winter Ghosts: What is This What is Coming? 1

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She is Time

She is Time …

A giantess

A dwarf

A bear

A bird

Mother sister daughter all

Originator and child born

Wondrous

Awful

Tender

Harsh

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.

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​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

Dark

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.

Story: A Poem by Carmit Kordov

Story

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/).