Tymes Goe By Turnes: Stories and Poems for Solstice Shorts 2020

By Cherry Potts

Frustrated by working under lockdown and worried that the 2020 festival might not happen, Arachne Press decided to continue as though everything would be alright, and asked writers to something that responded or reacted to or was inspired by a sixteenth century poem that editor Cherry Potts has always found comforting in a crisis: Robert Southwell's Tymes Goe by Turnes; or that responded or reacted to or was inspired by some concept in it. The poem observes the ebb and flow of fortune, nothing stays bad for ever, nor anything good - so get on with it while you can. And they have. Oh, they have. This isn't exactly a response to Covid-19, but there's an echo there - in Katie Margaret Hall's epic train journey, New Orleans To Vancouver, and Jackie Taylor's Rewilding; but there is also concern for the environment, and relationships and lives in need of nourishment they are finding hard to find. As with Southwell's poem there is a fine balance between dread and hope. stories and poems from:
Brooke Stanicki
C.L. Hearnden
Claire Booker
Elinor Brooks
Jackie Taylor
Jane Aldous
Jane McLaughlin
Julian Bishop
Karen Ankers
Katie Hall
Keely O'Shaughnessy
Kelly Davis
Laila Sumpton
Linda McMullen
Lynn White
Margaret Crompton
Neil Lawrence
Patience Mackarness
Pippa Gladhill
S. B. Merrow
Sean Carney

• Language: English
• Publisher: Arachne Press
• Release date: Dec 3, 2020
• ISBN: 9781913665197

Book preview

The lopped tree

in tyme may grow agayne;

Most naked plants renew

both frute and floure;

The soriest wight

may find release of payne,

The dryest soyle suck in

some moystning shoure;

Tymes go by turnes and

chaunces chang by course,

From foule to fayre,

from better happ to worse.

A Felled Tree

Brooke Stanicki

The morning after he left, she was empty dirt, a space where a person used to be. He had lopped off pieces of her from the minute that he knew she had fallen in love. Like a felled tree, he didn’t have use for her leaves, the frontiers of her mind growing into empty space in her once boundless sky. No need for new frontiers, he wanted utility from his wife.

She would never forget the first time his threats turned into wounds. the time when he had too much to drink and burned bits of her personality to keep his ego warm. No need for her to grow, he was a blanket over her. He kept her warm and safe and airless.

How could she breathe again, without his strict instructions on how to breathe and when?

How could she learn to live when most of her years had been lived on her behalf? He said that only he could possibly love her, only he could love her naked; so, of course, she didn’t love herself.

She hated mirrors almost as much as she hated the plants in her window box, they got to grow in beautiful colours. Each season, they got to die, and renew, and start over.

She was constrained to live in the bounds of black and white because both she and her dreams needed to be paused for his ambitions.

In return, she got the fruit of his labour and a side of his bed and every poisonous drop of his private hatred and public compliments.

A generous husband, he would say.

He would never let her speak or grow or flower; a generous husband, he would say, would never let her make the mistake of living.

The funny thing was that she agreed. Who was she to know what exactly was best for her? Her, the sorest charity case that he saw, and so generously, so selflessly, took. The lucky, chosen, blessed wight that got his attention, that got his last name.

Her family was shocked, they had thought that she would never find someone to love her. And to them, he looked like love, because how could they know what was happening behind closed doors? How could they know that her soul was begging for release, when her words never said such a