The Western Gate

Hekate,The Witch
Nikita Gill
Simon &Schuster

Foreward ( I don’t think wordpress will format the following as written, so~ahem~ never mind.)

My mate down the pub reckons
the only people who read poetry and prose
are poets and (sic) prosers.

He reckons that poets only write like that
’cause it pads out a book,
’cause of the way that it’s spaced out,
and that—more;
four hundred pages seems a decent graft,
but really, it’s a quarter of the word count
of a pukka propa’ book.
Says my mate,
in an ever, nearing, inebriated state.

I’m not like my mate, no I aint,
And though I wouldn’t jump
for a new book of poetry or prose,
or pure rhetoric to pose,
I loved the look of this offering—
in the circle of ever-applauded Hekate,
and all words, and art, and song and thought
to Hekate, is an offering,

A reimagining, influenced by dream.

Now my mate down the pub so reckons,
it’d be impossible for a dream
to last as long as the themes .
But— really.
A flash of inspiration and imagery
can create a whole theme.
A gargantuan saga, from the inkling of dream.

The Titans have fallen.
The Olympians risen.
The young Hekate and her mother
flee the Earth riven,
pursued by wolves~ Poseidon and Zeus.
And Hekate is left
as last resort
to the care and aid
of Styx and Hades.

So it begins.

My mate down the pub said,
imagine a book
about young Allah or Jove
getting clipped round the lughole
from uncle, aunty or both ?
It’s blasphemy, it’s hubris.
its some sort of joke
rewriting what’s written
rewording what spoke

And this is where the art of poetry works.
To reflect the dream,
the imagining,
the wayward thoughts and what-ifs.
It wouldn’t work as a novel—
it could; maybe.
But Here ! There’s room to breathe,
and the mind to create, in poetic debate—

Even though my mate (down the pub) says
if it don’t rhyme, it can’t be poetry proper.
Does each bird species sing in harmony,
is resonance abound in chaos?

I’ve seen, after purchase,
that this, is the first of three.
That bothers me.
The angst to wait
left dangling on a plate,

I hate.
to.
be.
kept.
waiting.
tickety tock

Mate down the pub reckons,
it’s a ploy to fulfill a contract.
Played a blinder, she has—
delivered one,
and the publishers are now duty-bound
…..to release the next two, for she.
tacticity tact

But what use review without content,
just musings on the style,
the flow, meander,
the rivers of the underworld
where Hekate respite is spent.

I fear ,though I don’t, my review amongst the murmurings,
amongst the real critics concurring
this fine read, and lists aplenty where it atops
and listed in reviews,
perhaps I’ll crop
my review.
no-ones interested in wiley ol’ me.

My mate down the pub at last soon asked
what did I make of this book I whisked through so fast
In fact I said to swivel eyed he
’twas glorious , sympathetic
A ride across old misty places
unknown lands and forgotten faces
a travel into mystery
and the written style? loved.
yes loved as it be.

It was a read I’d recommend
to anyone who follows the keys of Enodia’s lend
and more id sing this tune again
the history and! I felt no mimicry
to Hecate beloved by all that dwell
at pathways, crossroads and liminal spaces as well.
A journey into dream
and that’s not a bad place to be.
In fact its perfect.
yes perfect as be.

Header image ;-The Circle of the Lustful: Francesca da Rimini ~ Wiulliam Blake (1826:27)