Archives For Sarah Sadie

Some stuff ’bout Capitalism, and some good people to read.

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(how’s that Oxford comma for ye’?)

I mentioned earlier that I intend to occasionally redirect ye’ fine folks to writing of others that I think really ought to be read.  The Wild Hunt doesn’t do the Pagan Voices spotlight anymore, and so there’s all sorts of stuff not getting highlighted for the vast majority of us who’ve no time to scroll through the internet to find interesting things that other people are saying and doing.

So, here ye’ go.  More to follow, maybe even weekly?

Sara Sadie

This stuff’s awesome.  A Pagan-ish poet meets Wayland the Smith and suddenly, well–you know how this goes, right?

From her first piece:

No, you know that’s not it. I want a goblet made of bone.

But where on earth will I find something like that? We’re at Sears. I see a white coffee mug and pick it up.

It’s $3.49, on sale, mass produced. This is Sears. Put it down.

I look sideways at him. You’re not going to be a cheap date, are you.

You have no idea.

She’s only posted two pieces thus far, and I’m waiting with the same anticipation for her next with which I anticipate a new Patricia McKillip or Ursula K. Le Guin book…except they write like every few years now, and she’s (hopefully) gonna be more frequent.

Lorna Smithers

Another poet.  There aren’t enough poets.  Granted, if I had my way, there’d be so many poets that there’d be no one to do any sort of work at all, which is actually part of my insidious anarcho-gay-pagan-bardic agenda.  We could all write poetry about what it was like to work for others for no good reason whatsoever.

And speaking of work, her poem Workhouse is fantastic:

Picking off nameless black shapes,
tossing naked between rough blankets,
the endless scratching of disembodied hands
keeps me awake.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . I can only sleep
in the day to the trance of needlework,
when dexterous fingers scoured to the bone
lift jugs of skilly not quite warm enough to drink.

~

Some days I sit in peace amongst dog graves,
little headstones overgrown with daffodils.

I am listening for the dead wagon,

trapped amongst harmless lunatics,
howling at the moon.

So, yeah.  There ye’ go.  More to follow.  Write and be well!