Bella in Black

“Never used an Unforgivable Curse before, have you…? You need to mean them… You need to really want to cause pain—to enjoy it—righteous anger won’t hurt me for long—I’ll show you how it is done, shall I? I’ll give you a lesson—” ~ Bellatrix Lestrange, in Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, by J.K. Rowling

.
Night and blood
feed the flames that scream
her hollowed soul wild,

empower
the wants marked wicked,
forbidden.

Bella in black is pure
magic madness,
sweet chaos. She is
love in lust with death
that thrives through torture…

…through wild, forbidden
chaos,

Bella is tortured.
.

a wee note…
– Rommy, over at the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads, invited us to write a poem from the point of view of a fictional villain. She wants to know what makes them villainous. Are their depraved ways justified by tales we haven’t been told? Or, are they just plain rotten? I chose unstable, malicious, insane, love-starved, Bellatrix Lestrange, from the Harry Potter Series.

“Bellatrix Lestrange”, by NLMDA
via

Of Skulls, Wild Blessings, Pain and Ink

I got out of bed counting skulls. I always find healing in the act of counting blessings. If you know me a bit, you aren’t wondering about my use of the words skulls and blessings in the same paragraph—I love skulls, and recalling the tales of how they got to me is quite soothing.

Take the skull in the photo below, as an example. It’s a gift from my friend Lynne, mistress of the Insomniac’s Attic. She gave it to me during her last visit to New York City… in which we delighted in old books, got lost looking for an antique shop that insisted on hiding behind a delivery truck, and witnessed a rather irresponsible New Age seller tell a customer that onyx stones would give her telepathic powers.
Weeks later, the outrage I felt towards the seller’s statement (and the amusement my reaction brought to Lynne’s face) makes me laugh like a maniac. Laughter heals. The same is true of rituals and symbols. That’s the idea behind the grouping in the image: a frog from Stacy, a skull from Lynne, rosemary from Gina, and a mini-book from Emma, every piece sitting on a stone and a shell that holds its own tale. Even the black ribbon has a story, and telling myself all those tales (and laughing) pushes the aches away. Yes, it’s magic.

After saying goodbye to the frog, skull, rosemary and book, I started breakfast and made my bed. The quilt filled me with warm grins. It’s a handfasting present from my Mother-in-Law. As my not-so-perfect picture shows, the squares make an M or a W (for Magaly & William). And yes, the stitching forms lovely hearts. How cool is that, my Wicked Luvs? How could pain and exhaustion ever compete against the love put into such thought-filled gift?

Some gifts are unexpected treasures. The memories of when I first saw them always rush through me like a wave of ecstatically surprised endorphins. Yep, I’m referring to the bee kissing crabapple blossoms in the photo below. I was gifted this glimpse into Nature’s crafty magic, right after having spent a couple of hours searching for mushrooms. The search was a total fiasco… So, I was justifiably disappointed. Then I saw the bee… and the blooms… and I was delighted. Oh yes, I’m grinning like a lunatic, just thinking about it.

I’m writing this post while my heat pad does its magic on the pain that kicks my back. And “Yes! Yes!! Yes!!!” I’m smiling, as I think of gifts… of friends… of spring… of skulls… of wild magic… of every experience life has inked into my blood… and of how lucky I am to have the strength to craft them into poems and stories to share with you.

Do you count personal blessings? If so, do tell me of a wee blessing that brings all sorts of gigantic smiles to your face. Yummy grows yummier when spread. Really. 😉

With Brains

“I am no bird; and no net ensnares me: I am a free human being with an independent will” (and the plotting skills of a healthy psycho) ~ Charlotte Brontë (and moi).

.
My silence blooms
forests of mistakes
in inert minds.

It’s almost sad to watch,
to hear mouths spew, “Quiet
girls are like seedlings,
don’t fear them—
they don’t know enough
to be dangerous.”

I don’t need to join
the bright of the larkspur bud,
to show the strength of beauty
and poison;

you see (probably not),
I’ve already plotted
my way into your mind.
I fight like a girl—
with brains, naturally.

Yes, that’s me you hear
inside your head, cutting,
spreading, taking…

.

the wee notes…
Larkspur: a stunning plant that can cause excitability, disorientation, muscular twitching, stiffness, seizures, death… The seeds and young plants are especially poisonous.
– Linked to the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads ~ Out of Standard (Signs of the time): Isadora asked us to find an image of a protest sign and use that phrase in a poem that is not political. I chose a sign that read: “I fight like a girl”.

detail from the cover of Fight Like a Girl, by Clementine Ford