Elizabeth Barrett Browning, from Aurora Leigh
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Sylvia Plath, from “Poem for a Birthday: Witch Burning.” [ID in alt text]
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Witchcraft and poetry are inseparable for me. What is a poem but a spell, every word woven with care and intention? A poem has the potential to craft new worlds, to open a portal into unseen realities, to rewild our hearts and souls. Poetry is spellcraft.
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'Witch' by Kathleen Millay
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The Wizard, the Witch, and the Wild One, "On Your Way" // "The problem with other people," Savannah Brown
I'm going to be crying over these time-haunted siblings for all eternity, I think.
[Image ID: a series of 5 pictures of quotes.
Kalaya (Brennan): I spent a lifetime of mortals looking for you. Did I—did I get it wrong?
"Eursulon (Lou): No... I—I—whatever space exists between where we're from, and where we are, I believe I may have spent more time there than you did. I came after you.
Kalaya (Brennan): I thought—it was so much worse if it was the other way. I thought there was a world where you died at Starling Ford. I thought there was a world where I was too late, it's all okay if I was too early.
Kalaya (Brennan) I learned so much magic just to try and find you. and you weren't hidden away. You were just a little late. You were on your way this whole time. I'm so happy you found me.
"The problem with other people is that one must leave before the other + one always gets there first." end ID]
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Anne Sexton, from "Her Kind", The Complete Poems
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There's something so lovely about the idea of decomposing. A sort of poetry that comes with returning to the earth. Moss taking over my skin, vines tangling into my bones, flowers growing from the nutrients in my blood, animals using me to feed their young. I hope after I die I get to haunt a spot where the forest meets the sea so that I can ominously stand looking over the ocean. I am also content with Haunting a large woods filled with animals that I can spend eternity running with. Life is so beautiful but I feel death will be just as beautiful in its own strange way.
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Sylvia Plath, from “Poem for a Birthday: Witch Burning.”
[Text ID: “We grow. It hurts at first.”
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My perfect winter Solstice 🥰
Beneath the winter's silver shroud,
A solstice tale is sung aloud.
The sun retreats, its warmth withdrawn,
As frosty breath adorns the dawn.
The world in slumber, ice-kissed and still,
A whispered breeze on windowsill.
Branches, like fingers, reach for the sky,
Nature's artwork in frozen sigh.
Crystal blankets weave a quilted scene,
A tapestry of white, serene.
Footprints echo on the glistening ground,
In winter's theater, silence is found.
Yet, in this quiet, a promise lies,
The solstice marks a slow sunrise.
Days may be short, but hope takes flight,
Winter's grip yields to spring's delight.
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