#leanne moden

#10 - YELLOW

The King in Yellow is a collection of short stories by Robert W. Chambers, published in 1895. The title takes its name from a fictional play, referenced in the first four short stories of the book. According to the author, anyone who reads the play will go mad with horror. The stories are said to have inspired the Cthulhu mythos, and are so chilling precisely because they leave so much to the imagination...

The King in Yellow

You leave this place with nothing but your name, as swelling, spitting tendrils seal your fate. Your thoughts, like starving serpents, undulate,  a crown of vipers laying vicious claim  to every former joy; your darkness framed with tarnished golden halos. And their weight may waste your mortal flesh as it stagnates. The cat is killed, and chaos seeks to reign. But serpents can be tamed with soothing sounds and patience may recover what was lost.  I will remain your servant, on my oath, and loosen all the ties that have you bound.  Around your neck, a pale ouroboros: a symbol of fertility and growth. 

#6 - ORANGE

An orange poem. This really came out of nowhere...

Fen Vixen

She takes the idle viewer unawares and sets the woods alight with memories. Her spark ignites the grass, the thicket flares;  a flash of amber, darting through the trees. 

Her tail, a plume of copper-coloured smoke, the scent of burning catching on the breeze. Her wistful longing grabs you by the throat and smears your face with smouldering debris. 

I’ve seen the vixen sleeping on the Fen on land abandoned by retreating seas. The sediment erupts. Her fiery den a legacy that she destroys with ease.  

Nostalgia is a creature built of flame; you leave this place with nothing but your name. 

I saw the first full length performance of Nottingham performance poet Leanne Moden’s show in Derby city centre on Saturday (11th May).  It told the story of her teenage years growing up as a goth in Wisbech, Cambridgeshire, UK.  Bet you never thought there were goths in rural Cambridgeshire!  I used to think of them as harmless, but enigmatic, but now feel I understand them.

The hour passed very quickly and the show could well develop a cult goth following.  There’s more on www.leannemoden.com .  Please note that it contains strong language, along with references to bullying and some violence.

Please click on http://www.diypoets.com/diy-poets-quarterly-gig-the-maze-nottingham-thurs-11th-feb-2016-745/ to read Andy Szpuk looking forward to Thursday night’s show.

The featured poet is Leanne Moden.  There’s support from web poet towelintherain and many others plus music from Pop Orchestra.  If you’re in Nottingham tomorrow, it should be well worth a visit.

One of Kumquat's old friends, Leanne has graced our pages this weekend with the wonderful 'Dreaming of Budapest', which featured as part of the sonnet corona of the 28 Sonnets Later project in conjunction with fellow Kumquateers Russel J Turner, Andy Bennett and Adam Warne. Check out http://28sonnetslater.blogspot.co.uk/ for more superb sonnets, and in the meantime enjoy Leanne's 'Dreaming of Budapest'!

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Dreaming of Budapest

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We see whose love is blind and sleep. Who knows 

What wisdom slips between these quilted sheets? 

Which glories fair, which failures or deceits 

Will tremble as the lilting zephyr blows? 

We are like ghosts; a faint disquiet grows 

And formless beasts will walk these city streets. 

We conjure from our minds such tricks and treats, 

Our fears and furies granted in repose. 

A glimpse of futures past: I can’t begin 

To understand this mind of mine, so wild! 

And still each night I let the devils in, 

Till daylight finds me, weeping like a child. 

I want so much to live without regret; 

I fear that dreamless sleep eludes me yet.

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The lovely Leanne sent us this lipogram (a poem exluding the letter 'e') that she wrote during her 'experimental stage'...and we loved it! Its technicality does not limit its tenderness. Pure brill. Enjoy!

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Astronauts

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My pain is still raw.                    That night - half-hungry, half-mad and full of longing - Tonight, I watch your sky for signs of stars. I saw four. Stars for all of us. Gold insignia marks you out for him                    in photographs. (Don't do anything drastic.) Mostly, I am happy.                         But that night I saw your ghost crawl fitfully along his brow; an ugly torpidity of past scars. And you, a youth who ran hard and fast and lost his way among cold lights of stars. I am not hurt,                               not now. (Don't do anything drastic.) I am almost happy. But,                             I saw him look at your photographs with warm admiration again. I will not allow our son follow you, casting shadows on distant lands for King and Country. No gold insignia. I will not put on a                       black shroud again. 

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