TIME OF THE POET REPUBLIC features a Poetry Artist Extraordinaire. CASSANDRA SWAN is an internationally acclaimed, widely published, award-winning poet, author, artist, revolutionary, visionary, political activist, medium, clairvoyant, PhD student and former highly successful hypnotherapist. She delves deep into the human mind and condition in her intimate, confessional poetry to explore the human psyche utilising voices, landscapes, characters, images, emblems, motifs, myths, symbols and archetypes, which embrace death and re-birth. This collection of selected works reaches back as far as her adolescence. Some of her works are tragic, humoresque, ironic; some serve as a map to her own unique, imagistic journey, addressing existential, social, sexual, emotional and synchronistic insights, which emerge as an awareness of the unavoidable stages of life from puberty through to middle-age. Currently acclaimed Swan has been awarded a collaborative project with Margot Fonteyn Ballet Academy. The Collaboration Project is based on Cassandra Swan s controversial epic poem, “Candy Cotton Kid and the Faustian Wolf” a THEORY on the LIFE and SUICIDE of AMERICAN POET, SYLVIA PLATH
This award-nominated, epic poem with extensive, substantiating notes
EXPLORES THE CONSEQUENCES
OF TED HUGHES’ OCCULT INFLUENCES and
UNETHICAL USE OF HYPNOSIS
ON HIS VULNERABLE WIFE SYLVIA PLATH
This unique, erudite poem/theory seeks to explain and explore Plath’s experiences, revealing that both her childhood experiences and Ted Hughes were inextricably linked to cumulative trauma resulting in her suicide.
#VIBE FROM THE MARGOT FONTEYN ACADEMY DIRECTOR made the following statement about Cassandra and her epic poem:-
“I have been inspired by Cassandra’s poem, and I am honoured to work with her to bring this poem to light in a new way. In a world that mainly sees only results, the journey and cumulative damage it brings is rarely considered, particularly with women and minority populations who are dominated by powerful men. We are in a time of revelation and Cassandra Swan is a pioneer for emotional truth.”
KEN LUDDEN – DIRECTOR – MARGOT FONTEYN BALLET ACADEMY – USA
# CANDY COTTON KID AND THE FAUSTIAN WOLF
Did Uncle Frank violate Candy Cotton Kid?
Pragmatic necessity, he crafted a sturdy xebec,
sailed with the child virgin, the trireme a perverted dais.
The ocean bouncing, a senseless liquid witness.
Drail hooked cold-blooded eyes, dying fish shared the secret.
Uncle Frank said the wind agreed, no tears,
it would upset the sun; evidence trickled, as bitter syrup,
over a vulnerable, dwarf coition odalisque.
Out with Sivvy’s tonsils, more space
for the stripling’s incestuous, pubescent swollen asp;
laryngoscope phallus, all seeing eye.
Taciturnity carved into dried semen,
Sivvy fought against latent, vomit-ridden memories.
Would the rain whisper in her sleep?
The fog knew everything,
heavy as old flannel blankets,
linen cupboard full of rattling skeletons.
Mummy called the doctor;
Daddy had rotted in a diabetic dementia.
No goodbye, why?
Absent heart, Mummy must not
get married again, sign here!
Smart Sivvy, published proudly,
at only eight years young.
Siblings artistically entwined,
creative happiness prevailed.
Compositions, sketches, riddles;
secrets hoarded and repressed,
infernal chasms of the cunning blind mind,
the veritable store of amoral vulgarities,
intrinsic; psychological safety mechanisms
safeguarded Candy Cotton Miss.
All would be decorticated,
as writhing worms beneath a mossy obsidian.
Sivvy a prodigy, saltus to Smith College.
Blood, sweat, tears, fears, menstrual melee, hormonal hood.
New York hailed, electric chairs,
spies, nauseous sizzling flesh, hazy heated June.
Sivvy awarded Mademoiselle magazine guest editorship;
poisonous crabmeat, botulism, hell.
Intermittent sinusitis, seppuku haunting.
Wellesley cellar crevice, narcotics,
overdose, head wounds scarred cheeks.
Ms. Genius lost in a timeworn tunnel?
White walls, institution, wired up,
Sivvy’s copious brain fried as a portion of charred chips,
smothered by blind eyes and smoldered whiskers,
recoiled as a foetus, trapped in amniotic vinegar,
Her psychiatrist engaged in fiducial transference
with Sivvy’s restrained memories,
a tombola with no lucky prize,
ignominious secrets spiraled violently
as sycamore husks in the drum.
Ugly distortions, masked faces, laughing,
taunting lasciviously, in Sivvy’s child envisioned ghost train.
Mother disliked this; her daughter concealed the truth
among a mountain of rotting fairy cakes
and cheese, in the Bell Jar forever.
Sivvy lived as a Lilliputian; a Borrower in a glass house,
who screamed, climbed, stumbled
then choked among facts;
they echoed with indignant certainty,
muffled by raisins and an avalanche of crusty crumbs.
Lackadaisical, hour by hour,
her bed a slab of warm cheese,
grated, it divulged pandemonium!
The panacea? Confront the stunted emotional evolution;
alas, Daddy died too soon!
Trapped in a chrysalis, her nascent cocoon,
a unique metamorphosis occurred;
emotional epeirogenesis produced
the pristine extension to Sivvy’s personality.
She finally emerged as an adult,
remaining, however, a child to her Mother.
Silken perfected wings, flapping,
colourful patterned dust clouded the jar.
Shrouded by her own vulnerability,
Sivvy created an alter ego, Aryan gate keeper;
great white shark dormant in unconscious realms,
gliding beyond dark recesses, a centripetal force,
avoiding residence in either cerebral hemisphere permanently.
Sylvia devoured men: it helped until Cambridge,
where wolf loitered; he slumbered as a sociopath.
At the St Botolph’s review, lightning struck,
a pagan demon emerged, love ignited;
wolf empowered his prey.
Plath responded with a styptic bite.
Dark domination, violation, the sequel, second sitting.
Wily ruffian, baptized by Lucifer,
accessed pleasurable comfort from Candy Cotton Miss.
The available, lonely poetess was momentarily shark-less,
the emotionally crippled child, transparent butterfly,
had flown beyond the jar.
Sylvia’s fatal needs were prevalent,
her ideals a target for the black eyed, conscience-free Northerner.
A wedding in June; lusty ocean whispered to the occult luminary.
Yorkshire vampire fed well, he devoured the emotional banquet.
Hughes became the thief of his wife’s theological virtues
and replaced them with his evil deeds.
Sivvy’s cathexis, her devoted gift.
Sextonian and Lowellian eddas,
priceless similarities, strong bonds forged,
new friends witnessed all.
Plath’s edifications exposed her desperate blindfold.
Machinated Ouija board lure, writing on the wall,
skeletal wife, grizzly bear growled death,
the shaman’s warning!
Rambling hills, whistling dales,
Court Green, confused crowds of wayward daffodils,
chopped stems as broken oaths.
Creeping cloudberry climbing the trellis
as clueless as the sun.
With new-born, Sivvy became a perfect wife in a domestic play.
Unexpected clandestine scenes ensued at her grey, stone-clad theatre.
Unwelcome visitors, bees in her bonnet,
disturbed the status quo, feline xenophobe
the floozy with heinous thighs.
Amoral wolf, the highbrow mystic,
nose-picking slammerkin skald,
ensnared a second dupe.
Adultery permeated as still as hanging fog,
with a sickly stench, Chanel fragrance perfume.
Duplicity, dreaded symbiotic-association
of post-natal blues, clung as fluted mushrooms
to a towering silver birch tree.
Sivvy burned with rage, hellfire,
miasmal injustice, punctured pride;
Ire, seeping through as blood on fine lace.
Ancient wisdom, kinnikinick flamed across Cornish skies,
ravens choked to brittle matchstick bones:
feathers floated and crackled amidst smoke and scorn.
Pungent rituals of destruction curdled as succinic acid,
Chanel cocktail whisked with neological wolf sweat
and recently written foliated manuscripts.
Words, words, words, words!
Testimonies, promises, warnings, speeches of anguish,
prophetic duties to fulfil, Sivvy stirred her cauldron of hope
with only a dessert spoonful of faith.
Flight of night, London hailed,
Screaming, loud as Roethke’s Big Wind.
Recollections imperceptibly thawed,
arid ghost flour and ice dough, kneaded into cacophony bread.
Cherubs slept, soon to be Motherless.
Predatory visitor, the Yorkshire shaman,
Libertine in Yeats’ house cajoled and hypnotized the poetess;
her subconscious binding burst, human computer on overload,
Sivvy re-lived vile rape: Uncle’s adolescent serpent
hissed, fork-tongued at Sivvy, two long decades later.
Puss spurted, flooded her emotional dam,
torrents of curdling, rank, volcanic vomit,
crashed against the barriers of deceit!
My! What bold truths, baked courageous mouldy buns,
exploding bitter poison veins.
Brusque afflatus revealed the culprit,
silent screams echoed in the jar.
Wolf, green fanged, hot breath,
dribbled his auto-suggestions and flimflams,
Raised the Bell Jar, wafted in gas
the unconscious programmed perfume.
Sly-boots sneaked away, his insouciance with stratagem,
bubbled as a brew of death; confutative as a voodoo master,
cloistered, the evil vulpine wizard awaited the vixen’s implied,
Alvarez, the Anacreontic critic, visited Sivvy;
she recited fantasias, her angst-ridden soul vociferated,
echoes were not loud enough.
Dearest of Mothers controlled the volume from America.
Mama designed the invisible emotional calipers,
a nubile infrastructure, psychological scaffolding which collapsed.
Oh! Great Statue of Liberty, transformed to a drowned Triton.
The Girl who thought she was God, disabled by her own miracles;
crucified by the nihilistic canine woolgatherer.
Subterranean secrets surfaced and floated as an oil slick on a vast ocean.
Uncle’s misdemeanors totally overwhelmed her Kon-Tiki.
Alvarez, faithful fox, was he messenger of wolf, a stool-pigeon?
Soon crept away stealthily into biting ice, white candy-floss.
The depths crashed in Sivvy’s head
and gushed down her swan-like neck.
A regressed infant,
she prepared her volitional Nazi gas chamber.
Apathetic, resigned as a Jew,
her fragility bruised by life,
a wretched, inconsolable pallid waif,
poised to drift ephemerally.
Huckaback towels remained a barrier between two worlds;
curtains which would unveil this ultimate tragedy.
Uncle Frank’s debauched, noxious, untamed viper,
shriveled to a flaccid elastic band.
Daddy heard Sivvy’s caterwaul
suddenly pierce the ethereal plane, fractured yet resonant.
The Bell Jar smashed, inevitable glass shards of driving winter sleet,
and bees swirled as a hurricane;
Yeats’ spirit, as overseer, offered his withered hand.
Karma exposed, Otto knew the fates
had absorbed his daughter’s vinous pain.
Virgilian words, no longer dry, or rider-less,
but wild and frenzied;
wisdom stampeded great literary divides,
florilegium published truth.
Critics subjugated, as entropy created complicated pleonasms.
Sivvy’s spellbound spirit escaped,
back, back, back to Daddy! Electra immortalized.
Primal darkness shrouded her heathen spouse,
odious destroyer of memoirs.
Faustian wolf, spurious basilisk bard,
Tip-toed with Sivvy’s eclogues, through a crisp blanket of snow,
a satisfied smirk of completeness straddled his egoistic maw.
Hoodlum pilferer, utilised the premise
he protected his children
from Sivvy’s Pindaric final words.
Pity the coward should have shielded them
from his irrefutable, dispossessed foul play!
A psychotic, who embroidered his faults
As pretty little roses! Such a cavalier madman!
He unhooked all the hooks, as all great crooks!
Hypnosis and finesse left no fingerprints,
only callous, carefully chosen linguistics,
evidence dissolved into nauseous gas,
death by mesmerism and suggestion!
Veracity? Still buried among schistose tectonic plates,
shifting with each new theory.
Sylvia? Troubadour beyond the grave;
scarlet bones, indigo heart,
seraphim goddess with an infinite soul.
Copyright – Cassandra Swan – All rights reserved originally written 2000/1
#JOB DESCRIPTION (The Confessional Poet)
The essential qualities required
for this unique, Christ-like bard, are:
the ability to receive eccentric tutelage,
24/7 from your muse.
pondering aloud – for all to hear –
emotional abstractions, musings and fears;
perceiving, feeling and thinking in ink, from a well-spring
of metaphorical rhetoric – epic works for critics to counter-sink;
donating grandiloquent graphorrhoea, with infinite versification,
these will become irreversible, as a re-enacted crucifixion!
Persecution will be enforced by critical imposition:
this will occur repeatedly in one poignant, poetic life span.
The Confessional Poet MUST be prepared
to bleed words! Their well-fed soul – though inspired –
must exist within and unchangeable, physical
form of dysfunctional poverty. Individuality and sparkle
will weaken severely, whilst breathing angry hyperbole:
along with every irretrievable syllable, idiom and simile.
God will advocate spiritual renewal and slavery,
with re-birthing opportunities! Sign-up, annually.
Salvation applications – by prayer and petition –
will be the subject of rigorous examination.
Performance work may lead to recognition.
Depression, suicidal fantasies, intense frustration,
emotional and financial insecurity, decayed teeth,
caffeine and nicotine addictions.
Low self-esteem may occur; with deeply ingrained
narcissistic, surreal, manic meanderings,
which will often lead to the composition of major,
idiorrhythmic epics. For example “THE PANJANDRUM OF QUONDAM”.
Page 2/ Job Description (The Confessional Poet)
Not appropriate. The position of CONFESSIONAL POET
attracts few candidates: even fewer have the courage and endurance
essential to succeed in this rarely acclaimed, key, creative post.
Successful candidates will be rewarded for their work
decades later – often posthumously – IF their poetry withstands
the stringent test of time and fallible critics.
Rebellious, Confessional Balladeers
must leave in their wake, defiant, rhetorical poetry
to motivate and proliferate a support structure
to appeal to future versifiers.
DO YOU HAVE WHAT IT TAKES TO FILL THIS DEMANDING ROLE?
Copyright Cassandra Swan – All rights reserved
#THE POCKET-SIZE WREATH
The elephant-grey, cracked walkway clacks with alacrity
as the tedious, stiff fascades in a talentless circus of mediocrity
plod and trek to their typical, mechanical homage – a life my –
insurrection rejects! Instead, at a lowly, junk-ridden, rickety
desk – on sixteen-hour, voluntary shifts – I regurgitate injustice.
Will, I ever switch my rabble-rousing, misanthropic existence
for a steady salary, car and otiose days off at Christmas?
Swivel chairs – in an unholy, goldfish bowl – with chains!
Pub jaunts, cream cakes with petty, civilian saints,
and dreary, clock-watching years, with lottery syndicates.
This rantipole poet re-mortgaged her lifeblood to repossess time:
decrypting the tangled-web of a tortured mind’s production lines.
My supernatural re-incarnation – as a poetic, psychic surgeon –
pledges petroglyphs of Donatistic lyrics, and complex lamentations.
I survive by devouring plentiful plenilunes in valiant dimensions.
Jekyll and Hyde’s allotment cultivates fine verbs and nouns.
Fifty years devout, sterling service awards and android-head,
with an ingot watch, a pension and an orthopaedic bed!
Yet, starving lyricists live eternally in folios: their cicatrices
flood like wordy blood, as knife-edged, quality-controlled rectos
cut into eternal ebbs and flows of etymological, mystagogic tides.
An android’s watch – rasped by retirement, coronary and death –
ticks on as a by-passed heart, gasping for breath:
under a charity shop counter, it flops; limp as amaranth,
in a swiftly-decomposing, demoralised, pocket-sized wreath.
This wage-less wordsmith’s spine-chilling lines will outlive
the hands and face of mechanised life and time; by sculpting
denticulate epistles – with a scalpel – into epidermis then epitaph.
Copyright – Cassandra Swan – All rights reserved
#THE EMOTIONALLY BANKRUPT NOMAD (My Muse and my Poetic Anatomy)
My tears dive as thousands of seamstress’ pins,
piercing and scratching my senescent, seersucker skin
in unison with inundating rain, pelting like
chipped stones on grimy windowpanes.
I have psychically unstitched and extracted
my poetic heart: it pumps independently
as a swollen, red pincushion in my paternal
grandmother’s needlework box.
I am miraculously liberated! Immune from men,
their tricks, and critics! They spin yards of finely edged,
perissological offcuts; blind to my worth
with their market-stall illiteracy.
I am an emotionally bankrupt nomad!
Hollow as a didgeridoo!
Fighting a spellbinding resonance,
with Bohemian hysteria and scholarly phantasmagoria.
Now I persist in Rhadamanthine strictness –
whisking together idioms, while dull homemakers
bear children and bake cakes – abominable tasks!) –
as an unalterable, contrary, libertine poet,
thrilled by my jeremiad rigmarole
in a blue-bell picking, pell-mell hell!
My computer has swallowed my soul
and subconscious: commixing psyche soup,
with device-conscious croutons.
The cerebellum is my only secure home.
I have temerariously traipsed many meritorious miles
on the bedlam-worn path of an elegiac,
Cossack, Revolutionary Poet.
In this dead man’s boots, with vast oval holes,
I flung myself – as a lemming – into the cerebral infinity
of the tormented demagogue’s words,
curdled blood, and his untimely bullet!
They now bond, as flesh stamps, on star-crossed
lovers’ envelopes. A tainted love pact binds me
to my burly, etheric paramour: in heartfelt, moth-eaten cloth
my love grows eagerly, as a hand-made Russian quilt;
binding the spiritual fabric of our otherworldly lives,
blending them, to create one proxilitious, adept, unique,
contemporary, female agitator.
Mayakovsky basks with me in red-hot, Revolutionary ecstasy.
Our poetic blood leaves a dripping trail
for bards who wish to follow.
Frenzied Lotharios are rattling out of
the woodwork, as dozens of demented
death-watch beetles. I fluctuate between
a discursive, jejune wilderness,
and committing cumbrous, discombobulating acts.
Page 2/ “The Shaman’s Pyrrhic Victory”
All that remains are these death-defying facts:
“You are beyond redemption , Cassandra!”
“You belong to me!”
“Your veins are full of MY blood and poems!”
Copyright Cassandra Swan – HELKAPPE POEMS -2005 – all rights reserved – Recorded 2019.
#THE WARRING HARRIDAN
(A Journey to the Centre of the Psyche with the Syntactic Pyromaniac)
An extremely tetchy, trauma geyser is fizzing – as an obfusc, voodoo brew – beneath a serene, graceful surface: yet more of my unruly lifetime’s, stymied debris to excavate – from the Abaddonian, soul-stirring slime pit – and perspicaciously express. My psyche’s Patagonian mosquito has landed: drilling for blood, it pierces my soul as a psychotic maniac with a rubiginous syringe! Deep within my subconscious, Mnemosynian archives, there resides a jagged, gyte shard: I must extract this parlous, psychological artefact – succinctly as a piece of intricately miniated hydria – and circumspectly inspect it. My glyptic wisdom will scroll poetically into cryptic diction; ornate as exquisite mezzo-relievo. These curious, iconic epics will evolve into abstruse, chronological, psychological dossiers; then filed in an historic, confessional-elegy library. I am The Warring Harridan: a psychagogue, moulting my pneuma’s tedious onus by boundlessly fly-tipping versified ire – as eclaircissemental offerings – to volumes of personally quirky poetry books. My Bragian, internal brouhaha will be the theme of lengthy deliberation and criticism. My radical, Callopian cries will spansulise, and liberalize diatribes.
I sense an epic, minacious monster creeping out from dank cobwebs in a derelict crypt. Sunless recesses of my essence are melancholy potholes; muskegs, swollen with cognitive sewage. As a thaumaturgist, I transform intricate transference into fascinating, spiritually visual symbols, and phenomenal, refined Tyrian lines. I am prancing verbosely into a new arena of hearts and minds. The Alexander Technique filched-out stout, psychotherapeutic rats a few years back; squealing and mincing frantically through my emotional bilge-pump; leaping out through my drainpipe-epiglottis. I will cast more vermin out, poisoning them for good this time! An evil-eyed demon, the psycho, a demented artist – with a flick-knife, gun and hydrophidae – sculpted me twenty years ago into an intensely wise woman. Adam rises to consciousness in a Blake-blazing vision; he switches elements and dimensions. This devilish, black-rose abreaction triggers an odious, troparion oil slick! On the rumbling genesis of a tumultuous, sentimental tempest, my psyche’s trireme will carry me through Acheron to a symbolic ravage. With irregular, cerebral outpourings, I will share my technical peak experiences and psychodynamics, as a psychiatric travel guide on a scenic, oceanic undulation. I must journey beyond the intrepid war of ghosts, as a bard revered. My psycho-synthesis passages always aim for spiritual peace and credence.
Prophetic, higher realms tell me – when I alight from my trireme – a Shaman’s giant, Snowy Owl will swoop and ululate! It will encircle the whirlwind of my mind, as an unruly, noctivagant poltergeist! Then it will perch before me, a surreal, sagacious counsel, eagerly propounding more psychologically sullied evidence, to close this tragic, Gnostic case. This Harridan will suspire fire: illuminating the grimy, insipid sea with flaming waves in a Magritte masterpiece. An over-zealous Armageddon will manifest: orgulous, intrusive psychopaths will challenge me! However, I will see through their veil of convivial sincerity. Man will continually try to sporadically employ supremacy over me; Freud’s vampires sucking at my unrepentant, Lorelei ego! Beyond the shore – as fate would have it – there is yet another war zone! I crawl: weary as a solitary soldier, digging my way forward with mud-encrusted elbows! I surreptitiously search for a symbolic orillion, to steal from a battlement, and enter my Trophonion, poet-trench.
As a tactical manoeuvre, I divert from a putative, ruthless plutocrat; refusing to squirm at his material behest! I develop a new, elegiac geostrategy and Lokian persona; carefully establishing fresh munitions and maskirovka. I transcribe in my spiritual journal as a fully-fledged, accomplished pace-setter; a hard-core, Polyhymnian graphorrhoealist, in my confessional, Poetic, Foreign Legion. I flex my newly acquired, versified ligaments, as a lurid lynx on heat. I am a slick lexicographer, with insurgent tongue and lissom feet. As Magaera, I am, now, a poetic gladiator; opposing the literati megalomaniacs; fighting – introspectively – for a place on the pellucid, world page, in diffusion of responsibility. My perilous, Russian Muse ignites my riotous heart. Vladimir demands a forward-march! Plucking, the pristine, mnemonic strings on my allegorical, Pyrrhic victory harp. A fusion of instincts with Mayakovsky incites my spirit. “To poetic battle!” he cries. “I am ready for battle!” I reply.
Insane as a Queen, I behead superfluous suitors! Striking off Dr. Death – the subordinate Acephalite – for gross plagiarising and punctuated negligence! My calm cranium looms – as a gesticulating, Revolutionary ghost – from a well-mourned tomb. Where are the rivals? They dissemble – as if to trick the old dog – but I have learned new tricks. This Harridan – propelled by dignified furore – will take an unexpected route: ancillary enemies have to be content with following suit. Their white flags sway – as slow-motion Geishas – far faraway! I rise, – as a dazzling, Dionysian apparition – from the Melpomenian ashes of time, as the intellectual hellcat: a poetic hero extraordinaire; the syntactic pyromaniac, with a jugular full of flares!
COPYRIGHT – Cassandra Swan – 2005 – All rights reserved.
THE SHAMAN’S PYRRHIC VICTORY
My mortal coil is unwinding, falling, as miles of orange peel carpet,
Long as the Great Wall of China!
Dead scrolls appear in my visions of nations weeping divine, black blood.
My spirit is no longer screaming as a shaken baby.
As a shaman, I have passed through excruciating arenas of the heart
And mind as my test of faith.
I remove my helkappe: I am intact!
The digressed, expressive desert of my head and hands
Now dissolves as a mirage in my palm,
It remains the podium of my Ciceronian, unbidden diction.
Ninety days and ninety nights in Kohutian hell: I died to this world!
My headsman and headshrinker both dethroned!
Many mnemonic, symbolic parasites cast out. I survive!
I have forgiven those who raped me into Jackson’s
Principle and a pillar of dust:
Which now rises up as The Terracotta Army and whirls as a million dervishes,
Then clusters as brittle – Zeigarnik-effect – kaleidoscopic segments about me.
It transforms into festoons of ectoplasm:
Protecting me in a transparent chrysalis-like gown.
Cleansed and beatified; as a snake, I have now wriggled out from my mid-life,
Oozing, wound-ridden, poltergeist-stinking, Dr. Death skin!
My soul and spirit no longer stare out from the cavity of a pop less bubble.
The lexicon-like ligature in my larynx leaps out as a sky-surfer from a plane:
No longer choking my thriving throat as an overgrown fish bone.
The salmon drinks miraculin and survives the berserk bear!
She spawned many fishy lyrics in her waterfall illusion, on her way upstream:
Her gills delicately synthesise and shimmer,
Unblemished, and she is no longer twisted or punctured!
My Spring Equinox compass trades her regions for four Aces.
Mayakovsky dealt me the ultimate hand:
I merged it with my flashbulb memory and isogloss.
A butterfly has metamorphosed from a Dixian War canvas!
Her synaesthetic wings are now the colours of her
Vital force – post Purkinjie shift –
Rubiginous-red, Maldivian sunset-orange, narcissus-yellow,
Hyancinth-pink and iris-purple.
Incandescent, they thrust out beyond the frosty wilderness,
Thirstily embracing the unseen air of faith; as snowdrops in early spring.
The sonorous strings of a Stradivarius pierce the zygote of my soul.
I settle on an olive branch for alacrity and poetic hiatus.
I close my mosaic aliform to preserve their fiery-blaze.
I am – prophetic unorthodoxy – re-born!
Religious in my corrected irreverence,
I shared the growth of my silent love and uncompromising oaths.
My palingenesic, elegiac ricochet,
Warns of a Shereshevskiian, mnemonic motet!
It will be sung and plucked, on the fired-up harp
Of my estranged, re-strung heart.
PAGE 2/ “The Shaman’s Pyrrhic Victory”
Jeremiah, the soothsayer, enters my spiritual corridor:
Mayakovsky demands and instils
Lateral dominance! Rand provokes my emotional abstraction;
Varo constructs a surreal vessel.
Their protege, I am now spiritually upbraided with Blake-like antennae;
Alert and intense as Tobosaku!
I sense a supreme, mythical presence;
The Japanese Queen of The Immortals, Si Wan Mu:
She reminds me that I have eaten five – of the seven – peaches of longevity;
And I have earned poetic peace and rest in the gardens of a Jade Mountain.
Copyright Cassandra Swan “HELKAPPE POEMS” All rights reserved
REVIEW EXTRACTS for CASSANDRA SWAN’S POETRY
“Her Athenian Entablatures are the final presentation of genius.”
HONORARY PROFESSOR B. B. BLACKWELL – REVIEW WRITER/POET – UK
“Her words intimidate the intellect of the world’s greatest philosophers.”
- S. BATTEN – EDITOR – READ HERRINGS LITERARY MAGAZINE – USA
“The unique quality of Cassandra Swan’s often macabre verse, so richly endowed with tonal effect and remarkable descriptive detail, necessarily places it in a compelling class of its own”
BERNARD M. JACKSON – INTERNATIONAL REVIEW WRITER
“This book is a source of ancient serenity and top-notch art. It is a living enclave of the wounded but powerful heart, radiant intellect and deep soul! The entrance to it is open, it does not require protection from vandals or plunderers, it’s able to speak for itself and talk to anyone who dares to step in.”
STAN LAUK-DUBITSKY – SENIOR EDITOR – NEW POETRY MAGAZINE – MOSCOW
“The Panjandrum of Quondam is a masterpiece by any standards. It stretches the imagination beyond hyperspace. Cassandra’s magical use of words in new contexts can be disturbing. Read it. You’ll know then what poetry is achieving. Cassandra is the Tracey Emin of the written word, a bed we all need to lie in and explore.”
HONORARY PROFESSOR B. BLACKWELL – POET – REVIEW WRITER
“Cassandra Swan deserves the high accolade of COMRADE OF THE MONTH on Sovlit.com (now Sovlit.net) our website for the preservation of Soviet Literature. In ‘THE PANJANDRUM OF QUONDAM’ she snarls and bellows with the intensity and passion of Mayakovsky. She slaps the face of public taste, as did Mayakovsky. She stuns the reader with startling images. She bombards the battalions of the bourgeois, less-is-more poetry bunch with her brave word-bombs, all while expressing her deep love for Mayakovsky. We have arranged for the tribute to the great Soviet Poet Vladimir Mayakovsky to be translated for publication in Russian.”
ERIC KONKOL – FOUNDER/CHAIRMAN/EDITOR-IN-CHIEF – Sovlit.com/
(now Sovlit.net) – USA
“’The Panjandrum of Quondam’ is a gem; written with an uninhibited approach to language. This long poem seeks to pre-empt criticism by the author’s stance as a revolutionary class warrior. Throughout Cassandra Swan is conscious of her role as writer in opposition to the establishment, whether defined by academic, political, social or gender hierarchies.”
ADRIAN GREEN – POET – FORMER REVIEW EDITOR – LITTORAL MAGAZINE – UK
“CANDY COTTON KID AND THE FAUSTIAN WOLF”
Is a theory on the life and suicide of Sylvia Plath – written in the unconventional form of an 18 stanza, free verse poem and extensive notes.
“Candy Cotton Kid and The Faustian Wolf” by Cassandra Swan is a prismatic trip into the nectar of psychological disdain. It is a profound journey into the drowning world of human pain and it trades emotional melee with “the trireme a perverted dais.” It is a calling, a begging, melodic rampart that transcends the male mind to comprehend beyond its maleness and to concede a conscience that all sin is suspect of the “all seeing eye.” The richness of verbiage, the colourfulness and descriptiveness of such destructive realism, makes humanity stop in its tracts to consider, that sex is more a weapon than it is a gift of loving-kindness. –
DANIEL S. BATTEN – EDITOR – READ HERRINGS LITERARY JOURNAL – USA
“Candy Cotton Kid and The Faustian Wolf” is an ingenious and shocking masterpiece. It is a scarlet syrupy spark fallen from the bleeding wheel of rape and you can even see how the black viper of memory is twisting it with grinding precision. Every image is like its slough of “love” with dirty mirrors of scales. This spark is falling in our withered society with red-inked papers of ignorance. What for? To change you from the inside! This incredible poem is not just about terrible experiences from the past, it is a resurgent statue carved from shades and words, which is standing to confront you, naked, shivering, honest, and ready to be read by you with gentle touch of your eyes and heart.
*STAN LAUK-DUBITSKY – SNR EDITOR/FOUNDER – NEW POETRY – MAGAZINE – MOSCOW – RUSSIA
*We intend to publish this ingenious poem in our English edition and translate it for publication in our Russian edition.
POET EXTRAORDINAIRE CASSANDRA SWAN
Cassandra Swan is an internationally acclaimed, widely published, award-winning poet, author, artist, revolutionary, visionary, political activist, medium, clairvoyant, PhD student and former highly successful hypnotherapist. She delves deep into the human mind and condition in her intimate, confessional poetry to explore the human psyche utilising voices, landscapes, characters, images, emblems, motifs, myths, symbols and archetypes, which embrace death and re-birth. This collection of selected works reaches back as far as her adolescence. Some of her works are tragic, humoresque, ironic; some serve as a map to her own unique, imagistic journey, addressing existential, social, sexual, emotional and synchronistic insights, which emerge as an awareness of the unavoidable stages of life from puberty through to middle-age.
Cassandra has developed a new Literary/Poetic Style: “Graphorrhoealism” (From Greek graphien to write + rhoia a flow) a written counterpart of logorrhoea. “Graphorrhoea” represents defiance: an uninhibited approach to language; and cultivates the importance of compelling, descriptive detail,This playlist has no tracks yet a fusion of poetry, psychology – often technical terminology -, mythology, synchronicity and often, prophecy. Unearthing and revealing the deep, inner revolution and landscape of the poet. A style developed through the cultivation of the higher consciousness and relationships with muses and mentors in spirit.Cassandra’s dark poems: “Hammer” and “The Pocket-size Wreath” both won international poetry competitions and the soundtracks are now produced short films. Her poetry has been featured on BBC Radio and regularly on www.audiobookradio.net. She has been widely published in poetry magazines and gained outstanding reviews for her challenging poetry. She always seeks to bring her beguiling poems to an audience in ways that overlook outmoded, traditional, conventional forms and styles. She has collaborated with composers and DJs. Her work has been hailed as works of “genius” by Honorary Professors and she has been referred to as: “The Underground Poet Laureate”. Cassandra has worked with Turner Prize nominee artists Jake and Dinos Chapman and Sam Taylor-Johnson in work subsequently featured in Saatchi exhibitions and international venues. Her couture standard hand embroidery has been exhibited in Fine Art Galleries and her controversial performance art exhibitions in various London locations. Cassandra is writing a screenplay and a sequel based on her life story and has a Director/Producer for both productions.The State Mayakovsky Museum in Moscow invited Cassandra to perform her epic tribute to Vladimir Mayakovsky: “The Panjandrum of Quondam (The Epic Grenade)” in Moscow and Sergei Polunin formerly a dancer with the Royal Ballet is now collaborating to choreograph a ballet based on Cassandra’s Mayakovsky epic tribute. “The Warring Harridan”, *“Beasts & Priests” (about paedophiles in the Church), *“Job Description (The British Serial Killer)” soundtracks, are in pre-production as short films. “Candy Cotton Kid…” is in early development with the Margot Fonteyn Ballet Academy to be a choreographed ballet.
#MEET TIME OF THE POET REPUBLIC eDitor.
Mbizo CHIRASHA Freedom SPEECH Fellow at PEN- Zentrum Deutschland. Poet in Residence at the Fictional Café (International publishing and literary digital space). 2019 Sotambe Festival Live Literature Hub and Poetry Café Curator. 2019 African Fellow for the International Human Rights Art Festival(https://ihraf.org/international-fellows ) , Essays Contributor to Monk Art and Soul Magazine in United Kingdom .Arts Features Writer at the International Cultural Weekly .Featured Writer Poet Activist at The Poet A Day(https://jamiededes.com/). Core Team Member and African Contributor to Bezine of Arts and Humanities(https://thebezine.com/) in USA. Flash/Short Fiction Writer for Squawk Back Publication(http://www.thesquawkback.com/2020/01/mbizo.html).Contributing Writer( Africa) to IHRAF Publishes-https://ihraf.org/ihraf-publishes.The Originator of the Zimbabwe We Want Poetry Campaign. Curator of MiomboPublishing Blog Journal(https://miombopublishing.wordpress.com/). Founder and Chief Editor of WOMAWORDS LITERARY PRESS. Founder and Curator of the Brave Voices Poetry Journal. Co-Editor of Street Voices Poetry triluangal collection( English , African Languages and Germany) initiated by Andreas Weiland in Germany. Poetry Contributor to AtunisPoetry.com in Belgium. African Contributor to DemerPress International Poetry Book Series in Netherlands. African Contributor to the World Poetry Almanac Poetry Series in Mongolia. His latest 2019 collection of experimental poetry A LETTER TO THE PRESIDENT was released by Mwanaka Media and Publishing and is both in print, on Amazon.com and at is featured at African Books Collective. 2003 Young Literary Arts Delegate to the Goteborg International Book Fair Sweden (SIDA AFRICAN PAVILION) .2009 Poet in Residence of the International Conference of African Culture and Development (ICACD) in Ghana. 2009 Fellow to the inaugural UNESCO- Africa Photo- Novel Publishers and Writers Training in Tanzania. 2015 Artist in Residence of the Shunguna Mutitima International Film and Arts Festival in Livingstone, Zambia. A globally certified literary arts influencer, Writer in Residence and Recipient of the EU-Horn of Africa Defend Defenders Protection Fund Grant, Recipient of the Pen Deutschland Exiled Writer Grant. He is an Arts for Peace and Human Rights Catalyst, the Literary Arts Projects Curator, Poet, Writer, publicist is published in more 400 spaces in print and online.
#TIME OF THE REPUBLIC-An Internet based Poetry Center, Archiving Theme based Digital Poetry Anthologies and Profiling Iconic Poets and Writers