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The witch Baba Yaga once baked herself bread
out of spiders and liars and red razorwire
that was garnished with flowers from the vaults of the dead,
and sweetened with lye from a child’s funeral pyre.
It was light as the crisp, cracking bones on the fields
and as sharp to the taste as the ash-scattered shards
that were all that remains of the swords and the shields
of the warrior king and his bold bodyguards.

In a chicken leg hovel at the edge of a wood
the witch Baba Yaga licks the dregs from the spoons
that she used to stir soup, spiced and thickened with blood
that the dying ones spilt from their widowing wounds.
But her low kitchen table will never be laid
and her bonewafer banquet will never be served,
while ghostly white whistles pipe a last serenade
as she’s swept to the moon by the swerve of the earth.

The witch Baba Yaga in the coldness of space
weeping tears for the cage and her gingerbread home,
but icicled, weightless, they fly in her face
with the regular tick of a deaf metronome.
Now her broken-backed biscuits have crumbled to dust
and there’s rust on her tongue and there’s clay in her gaze
and the snow on her coat forms a bitter white crust
for her oven’s as cold now as yesterday’s grave.
©2007-2009 ~tightwhitepants
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Submitted: July 13, 2007
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Author's Comments

If you would have it mean something, consider how the magic of modern technology leaves in the mouth a cold metallic taste to overwhelm the uncertain spices and strange flavours of ancient lore.

Otherwise consider it 24 lines that scan and rhyme, and let that be enough for it to call itself a poem.
Daily Deviation, 2008-10-11

Daily DeviationModern Magic by *tightwhitepants makes me miss all the wonderful folktales we were told as kids. (And Baba Yaga is as cool as it gets -- she was some witch!) A spectacular poem with lots of great rhymes, I highly recommend reading this. (Featured by `lovetodeviate)

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I remember this one.

Fondly. :~)
Hum.
Interesting....

But it didn't have so much of an emotional flare.
Just had a nice ring to it ^_^

--
I have left to go find myself, If I return before I get back come find me.

!!~*†®!þÞ*~!!
That's cool! I like how it sounds. :)

--
And in the daylight we can hitchhike to Maine
I hope that someday I'll see without these frames
And in the daylight I don't pick up my phone
'Cause in the daylight anywhere feels like home
-Matt and Kim
God damn, is a fun read! 8-line stanzas, rhyming ababcdcd. There's a form called a Ottava rima: eight-line stanza rhyming abababcc, but this is quite a treat anyways. It is so chock full of anapests, one can OD on the swing of the meter. I'd call it anapestic tetrameter. Here's a quick scan of your last stanza, if it's of any help. Think about recording this? Heh.

The WITCH / Baba YA / ga in the COLD / ness of SPACE
-iamb, anapest, anapest by eliding "ga" and "in" into one beat, anapest -tet

weeping TEARS / for the CAGE / and her GIN / gerbread HOME,
-anap, anap, anap, anap -tet

but I / cicled, WEIGHT / less, they FLY / in her FACE
-iamb, anap, anap, anap -tet

with the REG / ular TICK / of a DEAF / metroNOME.
-anap, anap, anap, anap, BUT, "metronome" has a first-syllable stress under almost all circumstances. Standard scansion says that one must use the dictionary's common usage to scan. I say fuck'em. -tetrameter

Now her BROK / en-backed BIS / cuits have CRUMB / led to DUST
-anap, anap, anap, anap -tet

and there’s RUST / on her TONGUE / and there’s CLAY / in her GAZE
-anap, anap, anap, anap -tet

and the SNOW / on her COAT / forms a BIT / ter white CRUST
-anap, anap, anap, anap -tet

for her OV / en’s as COLD / now as YES / terday’s GRAVE.
-anap, anap, anap, anap -tet


best,
-Charles

--
The discipline of the written word punishes both stupidity and dishonesty. ---John Steinbeck
I had to read this a few times, to get the idea properly. I'm not sure if that's your fault or mine - probably mine. I honestly love the way you write, it's amazing.. I wish I could write half as well.

However, I really think you could've done better. Although your language flourishes and the poem flows very smoothly, it lacks substance... It's not nearly and heart wrenching or gut turning as some of your other pieces, and I'm sure it has a deeper meaning, but it doesn't really reach out to me.

Having said that, i love this:

"In a chicken leg hovel at the edge of a wood
see the witch Baba Yaga lick the dregs from the spoons
that she used to stir soup, spiced and thickened with blood
that the dying ones spilt from their widowing wounds."

Mainly the way you used the term "widowing wounds". Very cool. So despite my critisism, i have to :+fav: this simply because you write so amazingly!

--
Sarah!!
It was written for the rhythm and the sound principally. The piece was inspired by a piece of abstract sculpture that suggested variously an oven, a space craft and the stilted hut in which Baba Yaga, the witch of Russian legend is portrayed as living in. The theme which draws on images from Russian iconography from the 18th thru 20th century is one of cultural loss, and alienation from the past and from the rich strange broth of myth and legend.

but yes, the ring of it is the important thing.
Thank you. I'm glad - it's all about the sound.
loved the poem, but is it in your intention to make a poem the way adeimantus analyses it? I hope you get the question :) it's an odd one I know but english isn't my native language so I don't know if I said it correct. I just find it interesting how a poem like this is "made". does one think of it as much as his analysts claim...?
Aha! you caught me out, peddling second hand goods as new!

Don't ever by a used car from this man.
Did you read Dr Seuss as a child (or as an adult come to that)? A big bright burning beacon of my younger days was Seuss's The Lorax :

...And at that very moment, we heard a loud whack!
From outside in the fields came a sickening smack
of an axe on a tree. Then we heard the tree fall.
The very last Truffula Tree of them all!

No more trees. No more Thneeds. No more work to be done.
So, in no time, my uncles and aunts, every one,
all waved my good-bye. They jumped into my cars
and drove away under the smoke-smuggered stars.

Now all that was left 'neath the bad-smelling sky
was my big empty factory...
the Lorax...
and I...


I didn't know at the time, but the good doctor was prescribing poetry coated with that most palatable of sweetners - the anapestic tetrameter.

Some people, and they'll often quote "The Night before Christmas" as evidence for their argument, call it a 'comic' form of verse, but I like to think it can deliver a more powerful punch, despite its jauntiness. (For sure the Doctor had the forestry industry running scared enough to concoct the "Truax" as a pro-logging response to the Lorax.)

I wasn't actually thinking of Seuss when I wrote 'Modern Magic'. It wasn't until I read your comment that i started thinking about why that form is so enjoyable, where it was I'd picked it up from, so thank you for your perceptive and informed comment.

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