8,63 €
With the narrative pull of a novel and the vibrancy of a play for voices, Damian Walford Davies's Witch offers a thrilling portrait of a Suffolk village in the throes of the witchcraft hunts of the mid-seventeenth century. The poems in this collection are dark spells, compact and moving: seven sections, each of seven poems, each of seven couplets, are delivered by those most closely involved in the 'making' of a witch. The speakers - from Thomas Love the priest, the villagers who slowly succumb to suspicion and counter-accusation, the 'discoverer of witches' Francis Hurst, and the 'witch' herself - authentically conjure a war-torn society in which religious paranoia amplifies local grievances to fever pitch. Witch is a damning parable that chimes with the terror and anxieties of our own haunted age.
Das E-Book können Sie in Legimi-Apps oder einer beliebigen App lesen, die das folgende Format unterstützen:
Seitenzahl: 20
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012
For Cristyn,
who asks me: are there witches?
Seren is the book imprint of
Poetry Wales Press Ltd.
57 Nolton Street, Bridgend, Wales, CF31 3AE
01656 663018
www.seren-books.com
Facebook: facebook.com/SerenBooks
Twitter: @SerenBooks
The right of Damian Walford Davies to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
© Damian Walford Davies 2012
ISBN: 978-185411-601-7
A CIP record for this title is available from the British Library.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted at any time or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the copyright holder.
The publisher acknowledges the financial assistance of the Welsh Books Council.
Cover image by Clive Hicks-Jenkins www.hicks-jenkins.com
Printed in Bembo by CPI Group (UK) Limited, Croydon
Ebook conversion by Flo Reynolds
Thomas Love Priest
Nicolas Strelley Gentleman
Absalom Strelley Son of the Above
John Jendring
Jane Humfrey
Isabel Gage
February to April 1643
Thomas Love
We’re in Domesday: meadow,
fallow, plot and gravel pit,
flintwork church a little to the east;
Great House and cherry grove;
damson orchards blemishing
the light; the river slick
with fish; those millsails beating
on the pent-up pond. Beyond
lies corn-earth draining
to the sea. Even on rafty days,
keen eyes can see five spires –
God’s needles tacking up the dark.
My garden borders on the deadfold
Drifts of soldiery: fairy rings
of last night’s fires in the wood,
crosshatch piles of tiny bones,
comet-tails of baggage trains.
Outlandish meetings in the lanes.
Today I saw two strangers fowling
on the common, low sun striking
off their snares. I raised my hand.
They gathered up a brace of snipe,
barred bodies in a limp embrace,
and stood there, watching. Lent,
at least, is bringing in more light.
I note this intimately at the fire
The light struck Alyce differently
this evening, entering through
rich glass to dye and dapple her.
I saw tendrils of the Jesse Tree
about her hair, the Saviour’s
lacerated yellow sallowing her cheek.
