A Poem by Peg Aloi

BY PEG ALOI

The Apples

The apples my father brought were large

perfect, juicy, crunchy and sweet

red, delicious

in purple cardboard egg carton boxes

that he bought for clients

his generosity a beacon

amidst our constant struggles to make ends meet.

The apples my mother made pies with were grasshopper green

big and round, super tart, Northern Spy

baked to mushy sweetness

spiced with cinnamon and nutmeg

filling the afternoon with a warm fragrance of love and care

that rose above

the damp lingering sadness and fear of the morning.

The apples we picked in the local orchard

by the horse farm that smelled faintly of manure

and strongly of fresh-cut hay

were burnished by sunshine

red and green and yellow

Macintosh, Golden Delicious, Jonathan, Cortland

tumbled into bushel baskets

riding home in the back of the station wagon

like treasure, like gold

shining autumn days

when we learned what farms were

where food came from

what happiness was made of.

The apples my witchcraft told me of

were shining like round red planets

cosmic throbbing pomes

the color of blood and roses

their plump poisonous seeds bursting

with fairy tales, myths, secrets, curses and wishes

their crisp, fragrant, juicy flesh

tasting of this moment, and of immortality.

Peg Aloi is a freelance writer, film & TV critic, professional gardener, traditional singer, practicing witch, and lover of apples and orchards. Her book The Witching Hour: How Witchcraft Enchanted Popular Culture, will come out in 2021.

autumnal beloveds day 6: Esoteric Poesis

BY LISA MARIE BASILE

A gift from a good friend, this anthology of esoteric poetry — Datura: Explorations in Esoteric Poesis, published by Scarlet Imprint and edited by Ruby Sara — this collection sits beside my bed, waiting to be picked up on nights of ritual, contemplation, and big full moon energy.

It’s not a new collection; it was published in 2010, its intro written, “on the cusp of Imbolc/Candlemas, the season of poetry and fire, when the Pagani lean their hearts toward Bridhid, that goddess and patron saint of poetry….” (Fitting, I think, as I share this in early Autumn, the nights getting colder — more of us turning toward art and the sacred as we close the proverbial and literal door to the outside world).

Including 26 poets’ work (and many essays) from writers across occult communities, this really is a conjuring of that which stirs within us — that cosmic inspiration, that invisible Spirit o creation, and that holy drive to channel that which comes from some realm we cannot see.

This is a book of literary prayer and magic — a holy text in my temple of wordcraft — for poetry conjures the liminality of spirit and spell, and the high, rich emotion of devotion and sacredness.

Here are some snippets of the work included. I recommend you find the book and order it.

autumnal beloveds day 3: magical ASMR videos collection

BY LISA MARIE BASILE

For the entire month of October, I will be posting daily to Luna Luna about all things magical, witchy, spooky, and spoopy. From books and tarot decks to films and random research or rituals I happen upon, I’ll be offering up a little taste of the shadow.

Today, I’ll be offering up a few of my all-time favorite autumnal, witchy, magical ASMR videos. With their intense dedication to set design, spooky goodness, and soft, gentle vibes, I love to play these in the background while cleaning, applying makeup or a face mask, or redecorating my room/altar space/bookshelf.

As a kid I’d fall into the world of books — and I still do. Every color, every character, ever drawbridge and castle would speak directly to me, keeping me up at night deep in my thoughts. My little secret escapes.

ASMR is sort of like that to me now; as an adult, these videos are a retreat, a secret world, a place where you have the permission to indulge in fantasy (so oft repressed by the adulting life) and aesthetic beauty. Sometimes we don’t have the mental capacity for a book; rather, we need to be swept away by sound magic By feeling something.

ASMR — by its very nature — was designed to get us into our bodies. The “tingles” that come from these videos come in the form of softening — simple relaxation feelings — or whisper-induced hair-standing-on-end as if you and your friends were whispering secrets in one another’s ears.

ASMR is also about permitting yourself to feel nurtured, and to have a quiet, gentle, safe one-on-one intimate experience. In the age of COVID, I think we could all use that — free from over-saturation, fear, and hamster wheel chaos of our world. ASMR is, in a way, a ritual.

And so, here are my favorites — full of witches, goblins, magic herbal potions, and autumnal coziness:

Autumn Beloveds Day 2: The Art of the Occult by S. Elizabeth

BY LISA MARIE BASILE

For the entire month of October, I will be posting daily to Luna Luna about all things magical, witchy, spooky, and spoopy. From books and tarot decks to films and random research or rituals I happen upon, I’ll be offering up a little taste of the shadow.

Today, it’s the Art of the Occult: A Visual Sourcebook for the Modern Mystic by the mega-talented S. Elizabeth.

I’d love to share a few things before I get into the book; I’ve admired S. Elizabeth for a while now for plenty of reasons; her Instagram itself is a curatorial delight of idea, curiosity, esoterica, and art — a veritable treasure-trove of pleasures and ghastly bits and beautiful things that remind you that being alive is an act of deliciousness.

But it’s her writing that truly gets me. S. Elizabeth’s digital diary (a literary garden of glory) Unquiet Things is a space I’ve found myself sifting through over many, many a night in bed with tea. From scent magic to autumnal soups to lullabies and darkness, she writes with such depth and fullness about everything; because of this, there is no doubt that any book she puts together will be a well of wonder and research and shadowy goodness. Oh, and you can also find her magical words at Haute Macabre, Death & The Maiden, and more. She’s also the co-creator of The Occult Activity Book Vol 1 and 2.

The Art of the Occult is a visual journey through time’s spiritual, magical, and otherworldly art and experiences.

From the description:

“From theosophy and kabbalah, to the zodiac and alchemy; spiritualism and ceremonial magic, to the elements and sacred geometry – The Art of the Occult introduces major occult themes and showcases the artists who have been influenced and led by them. Discover the symbolic and mythical images of the Pre-Raphaelites; the automatic drawing of Hilma af Klint and Madge Gill; Leonora Carrington's surrealist interpretation of myth, alchemy and kabbalah; and much more.”

SIGH. Even better? It features little-known artists and marginalized artists — people whose names and works aren’t often cited or seen.

I’m waiting with bated breath for this book to arrive upon my doorstep. What a treasure.

Autumn Beloveds Day 1: The Uncommon Tarot

BY LISA MARIE BASILE

For the entire month of October, I will be posting daily to Luna Luna about all things magical, witchy, spooky, and spoopy. From books and tarot decks to films and random research or rituals I happen upon, I’ll be offering up a little taste of the shadow.

First up: The Uncommon Tarot by Shaheen Miro and Theresa Reed (who wrote Tarot for Troubled Times together), which is out today.

This incredibly reimagined tarot experience — and that’s what it is, really — offers 78 cards worth of Miro’s incredible artwork alongside Theresa Reed’s brilliant authorship.

The artwork is Miro’s interpretations of the classic cards done in delicious, zesty, spiritual collage-style with all sorts of symbols, mysticality, and hidden meanings bursting forth or waiting to be discovered. The deck is new to me, so it’s going to be a bit of time (forever, really, like any deck) before I really decipher what sort of essence or spirit this deck brings to my life. But right now, it feels incredibly fresh and energetic; it reminds me that we all have stories — and that they’re all beautiful and complex and divinely-touched) and that we ourselves are breathing archetypes functioning within this world, inspiring others around us, and adding to the mosaic of this life. It also tells me that we all can learn from one another’s beautiful stories, cultures, and energies.

That’s not the feeling I always get from other decks; in fact, this is really the first deck that makes the seeker, the storyteller, and the poet in me come out to play in full force. Not only are the images so completely unique and lush, but they also evoke all the elements of the human condition. You’ve got to hold it and be in its presence to feel that.

Theresa Reed, whose work with tarot (and everything she does) is super rooted in the shadow and human development, shines through here. I feel safe, understood, and like my journey is well-anchored with her at the helm. Her words are a balm, a salve, and a gift.

This is a true gift for the contemporary tarot reader or enthusiast.

You can pick up the glory here.

Poetry by Britny Cordera

BY BRITNY CORDERA

Revelations

Beside your distance, the sound of rainbow

trout stilled in a river warmer

than the bag & tent we are sleeping in,

the current like birdsong we’ll never

put a name to that might begin to ascribe

a secret note for the end of this world

& how it will happen: a continent on fire

begets the floods begets the drought

begets the tornadoes begets the locusts

begets a branding iron burning our lungs,

these titans. Want to say something:

great horned owls duetting

to each other from one stolen nest

to another, the snore of the tent

dwellers next door, & what of yours;

a deep breathing that skips over

saliva, like the flat-stone rocks

we tossed in that tepid current

to watch jounce across the water’s surface

& the remainders of autumn––

white oak smolders gold in the fire

we could have waited a little longer to burn out.

Sagittarius Season

Since the Earth is having fever dreams this year

before her long sleep, the pin oak leaves

heavy with gold have not fallen yet

and the falcon’s scream reverberates

to cleanse the Earth’s body before burial.

Here in a small town called Huntington,

the first sight of autumn is never lost

to the hunters eager to wear their camouflage

of summer’s crisp detritus. The towering pale

men are never hunted in this shrinking town

where red-tailed hawks hook themselves

to crackling electric poles. One of the men

stops at a gas station before going into the forest, finds

exotic game to mess around with; a woman with antlers,

a nest of black-widows trailing from her hair,
 

northern copperheads springing from the crown of her head

and their ratty remains, hollow bones for tight coils,

a true daughter of Horned Serpent and Cernunnos,

who just walked into a Circle K to buy hiking snacks.

The dark woman who is only seen in the shadow

of fall is spotted; a staredown with the hunter

has her paralyzed in line as he stands behind her.

He ushers her towards the line to go first

looking but barely touching the ruin on her head

with his breath. She thinks he’s going to say

wow, amazing hair to which she’ll reply in stutter

thanks, I grew it myself, but this time it doesn’t happen.

Cordera is a two-year Pushcart Prize-nominated poet. She is a proud Black writer and Louisiana Creole poet, descending from African, Indigenous, and French/Spanish ancestors. Her poetry can be found or is forthcoming in Rhino, Xavier Review, and Auburn Avenue. Currently, Cordera is an MFA candidate at Southern Illinois University in Carbondale and poetry editor for The New Southern Fugitives.

Poetry by Lauren Davis

BY LAUREN DAVIS

Little Bean

The doctor tells me he found—

in my brain—something. Nothing

to do, but give it a name. Little bean.

Sparrow’s eye. Lost pearl. It is mine.

I made it. Appleseed, my pale bead.

When I am still enough, it sings.

Brain Growth Undiagnosed in the Month of July

Aberration, you will either be

my everything or my nothing.

Once a man I loved raised his fist to me.

He stood close enough I could

smell him. In that moment I felt

a thing close to unknown.

If you grow, my sweet pea,

you will cut the stream.

Or you might disappear like

dew. I could love you either way.

Today, men set off fireworks

because when this country left

its mother, we were happy.

I think you are maybe a gift,

like when noon creeps in

where there’s been always

winter light. I see everything

now. I see the missed moment

I might have held my palms

to the grass. They call

this prayer. Even in the day

I hear a pop like gunshots

but it’s just children playing

with fire. Some say it’s wasteful

to burn sparklers in the sun

but this is not the type of person

I keep in my life. I keep in my life

you—visitor long overdue.

Little wick, lit.

Lauren Davis is the author of Home Beneath the Church, forthcoming from Fernwood Press, and the chapbook Each Wild Thing’s Consent, published by Poetry Wolf Press. She holds an MFA from the Bennington College Writing Seminars, and she teaches at The Writers’ Workshoppe and Imprint Books. She is a former Editor in Residence at The Puritan’s Town Crier and has been awarded a residency at Hypatia-in-the-Woods. Her work has appeared in over fifty literary publications and anthologies including Prairie Schooner, Spillway, Poet Lore, Ibbetson Street, Ninth Letter and elsewhere.