Dennis Wheatley, 1975. Image: Allan Warren, Wikimedia Commons
BILL HARTLEY recalls the occult appeal of a once-bestselling author
He was a writer loathed by critics, but his books were best sellers. Today, Dennis Wheatley is forgotten but the question is, how did he continue to remain popular for so long?
Born in 1897, Wheatley was a product of the Edwardian age. In London his family had risen to prosperity first as grocers, then in the wine trade. This was an era when Mayfair and its grand houses still depended upon local retailers for their needs. It helped shape the snobbery which was to colour his writings. Wheatley’s books are full of references to fine wines and spirits, influenced by the catalogues of the family firm. Perhaps a Reserve Royale from the summer palace of Tsar Alexander 1st or maybe a fine champagne cognac from the cellars of Marshal Ney? The firm was clearly no mere off-licence. Cirrhosis of the liver carried off his father, suggesting he did more than simply sell the stuff, and Wheatley was to follow in his footsteps. As he told readers in the biographical notes which accompanied his works, Wheatley and Co’s customers included, “three kings, twenty-one royal and serene highnesses, twelve British ducal houses, the Archbishop of Canterbury and a score of millionaires”. At least until the depression hit, and forced him to abandon the wine trade for writing.
Wheatley wrote across a variety of genres. His first book The Forbidden Territory (1933) was a thriller set in the Soviet Union and introduced readers to the four protagonists who were to feature in many other works. As a writer, he was a reactionary who would leave no cliché unturned. Foreigners conformed to archetypes when necessary, such as ‘sinister’ Chinese. His writing style included much bad prose but was saved by a powerful narrative with cliff hanger endings to chapters; he also troubled to include a strong romantic interest, which brought him female readers. Wheatley became an enthusiastic traveller, introducing his readers to plenty of history and geography, at a time when most people had little opportunity to leave the country. He was perhaps, the first writer before Ian Fleming to include in his works brand names and references to real shops, notably Justerini and Brooks, the company which bought his family wine merchants.
Apart from thrillers, historical novels and on one lamentable occasion, a foray into sci-fi, it is his occult books that marked him out as a writer. In the thirties and forties there was a considerable interest in the subject and Wheatley’s ‘Black Magic’ novels certainly tapped into the zeitgeist, so much so that if he is remembered at all, it is due to this. Wheatley’s work has been described as “luxury Satanism” and it is a thread which runs through his works. Reflecting this, the back cover of a Wheatley paperback usually carried a photograph depicting him as a smoking jacketed gentleman, with an array of volumes in the background and a glass of wine at his elbow. His was a world where plots were laid out in someone’s library and downstairs there would be a fine cellar to draw upon for guests. Imperial Tokay dessert wine was a brand with which his readers would become very familiar.
The interwar years introduced the British public to an array of occultists, notably Aleister Crowley (1875-1947), an indefatigable self- publicist who built a reputation for depravity and wickedness. Crowley was said to start the day with a half pint of ether as a morning bracer, causing him to smell like an operating theatre. A pre-lunch drink might consist of a triple absinthe. Wheatley met Crowley and others like him, and was left wondering why these masters of the black arts always seemed in need of a loan. Such contacts led him to notice a link between occultism and rightwing politics. He wasn’t the only one: George Orwell once found no fewer than 38 advertisements by clairvoyants in an edition of Gringoire, the French Fascist newspaper. As a consequence, Wheatley began to see a political aspect to occultism.
The main influence behind his occult output was the Reverend Montague Summers (1880-1948) a wearer of extravagant ecclesiastical outfits, such as a purple stock, shovel hat and buckled shoes. Summers claimed to be a Catholic priest, though there is no evidence that he was actually ordained. His book A History of Witchcraft and Demonology (1926) was a publication on which Wheatley built his supposed occult knowledge. He drew upon it extensively for his first foray into the genre, The Devil Rides Out (1934). The plot centres on a group of Satanists planning to start a world war by finding the talisman of Set, a mummified Egyptian phallus belonging to the god.
Wheatley would linger over his descriptions, some of which must have had readers thumbing their dictionaries. In one book, a temple devoted to the Prince of Darkness is described as being furnished with “heavy curtains of silk damask, tulle cushioned pre dieus, together with luxurious chairs in crimson and gold”. No blasted heath for Wheatley’s Satanists.
His smattering of arcane knowledge was enough to drag occult fiction into the world of the thriller and produced a total of eight books on this theme, sharing with his readers details of travel on the astral plane and the different grades in the Golden Dawn sect. He had an eclectic readership, to say the least. William Joyce (“Lord Haw Haw”) later to be hanged for treason, told him that Hermann Goering was a fan. Despite being a reactionary, Wheatley was no admirer of the Nazis and probably found them rather common. His writings were heavy with nostalgia for a world before the Great War.
On the subject of Nazis, Wheatley’s second occult novel Strange Conflict sees the Duke de Richelieu, a recurring protagonist, discovering that German intelligence is working with a practitioner of voodoo, who uses astral projection to spy on allied convoys. In this book as well as many others, readers certainly got their money’s worth. Wheatley’s books would often run up to 160,000 words, twice the length of the average thriller. He was incredibly self-disciplined, fortified by innumerable cigarettes; one novel was written in just seven weeks. Five of Wheatley’s books were filmed, but only The Devil Rides Out, which appeared in 1968, made any real impact. It was made by Hammer Films, and one film historian has described it as the studio’s swansong. It was certainly the only one upon which the studio spent a significant amount of money. Unusually, Christopher Lee, the Hammer stalwart, plays a sympathetic part.
With the defeat of Nazi Germany, Wheatley transferred his satanism to the communists (the real master isn’t Stalin, but Satan). As usual, this was twinned with dastardly foreigners and an undercurrent of anti-semitism, though the latter was selective. Wheatley’s main objection was to Jews who also happened to be foreign. Marx, Trotsky et al were bad; however, one of Wheatley’s chief protagonists, Simon Aron, is a Jew. Like Disraeli, Aron’s family had been in Britain for a long time and was therefore acceptable. Foreigners tended to run contrary to Wheatley’s admiration of the gifted amateur and his Edwardian sense of fair play.
Wheatley’s occult novels were his most successful post war books with titles such as They Used Dark Forces and To the Devil a Daughter. He never updated his Edwardian prose style (“that’s devilish good of you, old man”) and remarkably this took him into the Sixties and Seventies.
Arguably, there were two reasons for this – the first being that his novels contain a good deal of erotic imagery. Much is hinted at, notably female sacrificial victims, although very little is actually delivered. Usually they were rescued in the nick of time, with no ill effects. His dated jingoistic style suggests that Wheatley viewed the era before the Great War as something of an Eden. There was a respect for hierarchy, with the ‘right sort of people’ running things, and sinister foreigners kept at bay.
Secondly the sixties saw a revival of interest in the occult. The Beatles’ Sergeant Pepper album for example, featured a picture of Crowley on the cover. Wheatley had the field much to himself and would even lecture on the subject. As a result, he continued to be one of his publisher’s (Hutchinson) bestselling authors. A new Wheatley novel could sell 100,000 copies in a couple of weeks.
By the 1970s, the supernatural had begun to modernise. Works by writers such as James Herbert and Stephen King were beginning to appear, and their brand of the supernatural was to be found far from a gentleman’s library, in more everyday settings. It is difficult to imagine Wheatley’s work attracting a new audience. His was a world of the Right Sort of People with an allegiance to the Crown and Empire.
Years of good living finally took their toll. He died aged 80 in 1977, a product of the Edwardian era who had remarkably remained in fashion through all sorts of changes and upheavals in society, of a sort which might have been expected to render his opinions and prose style obsolete. Wheatley’s timing throughout his career was good. He departed just as the supernatural was beginning to catch up with the rest of society and embrace the Everyman protagonist.
BILL HARTLEY was formerly a deputy governor in HM Prison Service. He works as an archivist for the Mining Institute in Newcastle and is a Fellow of The Royal Geographical Society
What follows is an extract from J. Simon Harris’s new translation of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. You can read an interview with Josh about his translation in this issue
Excerpt from Fitt IV (lines 1998-2090)
NOW the New Year draws nigh, and the night passes,
and the day drives into the dark, as the Lord commands.
But the wild weather of the world awakened outside:
clouds had cast the cold keenly down to the earth,
with enough of the nip of the north to sting the naked skin;
the snow fell sullen and bitter, biting the beasts of the wild;
the whistling wind whipped down from on high
and filled every valley with vast snowdrifts.
The knight was listening close as he lay in his bed—
though his lids are closed, he sleeps little.
By each cock that crowed, he knew the hour.
Suddenly he sat up, before the day had dawned,
for the light of a lamp still gleamed in his chamber.
He called to his chamberlain, who quickly answered,
and he bid him to bring him his byrnie and saddle his steed.
The servant bustles about and brings him his outfit,
and he gets Sir Gawain geared up in splendid style.
First he clad him in his clothes to keep out the cold,
and then his equipment, which was carefully kept—
his paunce and his breastplate brightly polished,
the rings of his rich chainmail rocked of rust—
and all was as fresh as it was at first, and his gratitude was
quite keen.
He’d donned each sparkling piece,
wiped to a shimmering sheen;
the most gallant from here to Greece,
he bade him bring his steed.
As he threw the finest threads on himself—
his surcoat with the sign of shining achievements
emblazoned on velvet, and virtuous stones
embedded all over the borders, and embroidered seams,
and a lining of fair fur from the finest pelts—
yet he did not leave the lace, the lady’s gift:
that Gawain did not forget, for his own good.
When he’d belted his blade on his bulging haunches,
he twined his true-love token twice about himself,
sweetly swaddled around his waist, that knight.
The girdle of green silk well suited that gallant hero,
such a rich display upon that royal red cloth.
But the warrior wasn’t wearing the girdle for its wealth,
nor for the pride of its pendants, polished though they were,
and though the glittering gold glinted upon the ends—
but rather to save himself, when it comes time to suffer,
to abide, without debate, the baleful blow of sword
or knife.
The bold knight, fully clad,
comes swaggering outside,
and thanks the noble lads
profusely with delight.
Then Gringolet was geared up, that great big horse;
and having stayed in the stable, safe and sound,
that proud horse pined for the spur to gallop.
The man approaches his mount and inspects his face,
and he solemnly said, and swore by his oath,
“There are men in this castle with a mind for character!
May the prince who supports these people rejoice!
May the lovely lady be loved in the fullness of life!
When they cherish a guest out of goodness and charity,
when they hold honor in their hand, may the good Lord
of heaven on high reward them, as well as all of you!
And if I lead my life on earth for long enough,
I’ll compensate you somehow, if I can.”
Then he steps into the stirrup and saddles up.
His servant hands him his shield, which he slings on his shoulder.
He spurs Gringolet with his gilded heels,
and he starts over the stones, standing no longer
to prance.
His man was next to ride,
bearing his spear and lance.
“I trust this castle to Christ—
may He give it fair chance.”
The bridge was drawn down, and the broad gates
unbarred and borne open on both sides.
He blessed himself quickly, and crossed the boards.
He praises the porter, who knelt before the prince
and gave him God and good day, that Gawain be saved.
And he went on his way with his one man
who would teach him the path to that perilous place
where he’s meant to receive the mournful stroke.
They passed by peaks where the boughs are bare;
they climbed by cliffs where the cold clings.
The heavens were high, but ugly and ominous.
Mist moistened the moors and melted on mountains;
each hill had a hat, a huge mantle of mist.
Brooks bubbled and broke on the banks about them,
cascading through cracks and crevices, shimmering down.
The way through the wood was wild and devious,
until it was soon time that the sun rises in that season
DEREK TURNER is the editor of The Brazen Head, as well as a novelist (A Modern Journey, Displacement, and Sea Changes) and widely-published reviewer. His first non-fiction book, Edge of England: Landfall in Lincolnshire, was published June 2022. Some of his writing may be found at www.derek-turner.com He is also on X – @derekturner1964
It’s easy to have an escalated memory of certain films, books, music or paintings. In film, this can be particularly evanescent: an image or tone, a line of speech, the fleeting expression of one of the players – or in the case of the 2010 documentary, The Woodmans, (director: Scott Willis) – the expression or gestures of a non-fictional person, maybe self-conscious or recreating a memory, but not fully acting. The Woodmans was the intriguing film I first intended to write about . . . but its incidental display of privilege, wealth and relative success, eventually ground me down. Francesca – the photographer daughter – is the most notable member of the Woodmans family and although her work can be a shade formulaic, it is frequently mysterious and powerful, as seen here.
House #3, Providence, Rhode Island, 1976, by Francesca Woodman
After Francesca Woodman leaves the story by suicide in 1981, aged only 22, the other Woodmans are inevitably left with a haunting burden of grief . . . yet remain fortunate as artists – artists with a modicum of talent who could always have lived the art life whether or not they succeeded in sales terms. It is to their credit that they carried on trying hard. They believe in their work and its value, despite that it is often little more than decorative. In other words, second time around, the film did not live up to my empathetic and escalated memory of it. Or perhaps the chords which concealed its faults were no longer binding?
With Whirlpool[i] (1950, director: Otto Preminger) I got further, appropriately spiralling down into its enjoyable hogwash, notwithstanding the difficulty of accepting natural crime kingpin, Richard Conti, as a bowtie-wearing psychoanalyst! Cynical witticisms regularly illuminate the shadowy ruined coastline of Noir, and their serrated architecture can memorably survive long after many of the films’ enveloping, invasive tides have receded. Lines such as “a successful marriage is usually based on what a husband and a wife don’t know about each other” (00:11:32[ii]) are naturally amusing.
Regardless of how plausible or implausible the whole premise of Whirlpool is, especially self-hypnosis (once self-hypnotized against pain, surely, you’d also be hypnotised against a sense of caution and danger?) for me Whirlpool remained enmeshingly tense. It was entertaining as well, to spot the numerous parallels with the much more successful Laura (1944)[iii] – also directed by Preminger and starring Gene Tierney. But all this was not sufficiently enlightening[iv], and while I was very glad to see it again, it’s hard to violently disagree with some of its negative reviewers[v]. I needed to recall a film that could be inhabited. A film as commandingly hypnotic as Vertigo (1958) whose deepest scenes can distort and expand so much from memory or mistaken impression, that the actual film itself can become a distraction[vi]. Plot and sequence, characters and meaning . . . can all seem relatively irrelevant. In such a state, I no longer want the Hitchcock-directed, finished film, only the intensity or visual poetry beyond certain scenes. What stays cloaked just out of reach or can be sensed at the back of the head, is closer to the true source. Perhaps the best films, even much of the best art, draws on sublimated or unconscious archetypes or anomalies, and once these are activated or vaguely felt, the surfaces of the art itself can become an interference, a fading static? With Vertigo, I sometimes want a sense of time and anti-time, the texture of dark forests and the escape from them, the sweep of the high red bridge and a flight without it, the swell of waves (or studio tanks), the feel of old Spanish settlements, the tilt of the streets, distinctive coastal trees such as those at Cypress Point . .
Consequently, I remain very drawn to the idea, in Vertigo’s case, of the San Francisco area[vii], despite that in reality, the locations used are widely dispersed and their relationships with each other, as well as their physical appearance 68 years later, would likely be a disappointment[viii].
Recalling a film I could inhabit, a confusion occurred. Apparently, the Japanese title of The Snow Woman怪談雪女郎 (Kaidan Yukijorō) can be translated as Tales of the Snow Witch or Ghost Story of the Snow Woman, and I believe I originally watched the 1968 film under the title Woman of the Snow. Since the justifiably famous Kwaidan[ix], directed by Masaki Kobayashi and consisting of four ghost stories[x]was released four years earlier, and one of its stories was entitled Woman of the Snow, perhaps the later feature film, was at some point, retitled to avoid confusion? Both films, (the 1964 Kwaidan story, at 42 minutes, is about half the length of Tokuzō Tanaka’s 1968 feature), are adaptations of the same Japanese folktale made internationally popular in 1904 by Lafcadio Hearn’s collection, Kwaidan: Stories and Studies of Strange Things. Both films have an atmosphere, at sudden or creeping moments, of breaking through the rushing static of what we like to think of as “reality”. Both films relishthe fierce calligraphy of their titles, although with Kwaidan – the complete film – calligraphy becomes almost a character in itself – particularly in The Story of Mimi-nashi-Hōïchi or Hoichi the Earless[xi]. Calligraphy as a weapon. Calligraphy as a stockade.
Poetically concise, the production style and painterly studio backgrounds of Kwaidan’s Woman of the Snow episode (1964), are exquisitely abstracted yet also metaphysically challenging – conjuring a hyper-reality way beyond surrealism. On the other hand, The Snow Woman, of 1968, with the extra space of its longer story – increasing the tension between mortal and immortal, the vulnerability of the elemental in a corporeal world – probably attains a more haunting poignancy, a deeper sense of the tragic? Its Snow Woman feels more torn. Rewatching both films, I find the merits of each too considerable to want to elevate one above the other. They are both unmissable. Their more extreme moments possess a valiant character – the challenge of the wish, the contempt of the supernatural toward the human drone.
The Woman of the Snow episode, directed by Masaki Kobayashi in 1964, begins within Kwaidan at 00:39:55. Kwaidan’s style as a whole, its drama, lighting and score[xii] are theatrical as well as startlingly innovative. In contrast to The Snow Woman’s frequent use of real landscapes (notably in its opening mountain forest scenes) Kobayashi filmed inside an aircraft hangar, in which, art director Shigemasa Toda, and set decorator Dai Arakawa, created vivid symbolic skies, map-like symmetrical forests and a brimming river – its magical overflow sparkling like silver foil. At first these scenes are buried in drifts and flurries of snow, with only the red flag of the absent ferryman to alarm a wintry palette. This red of danger, signalling the margins of some fever zone, stays imprinted in the mind. Under whited-out or painted skies, impressionistic, clear or churning, from hopeful and spacious to claustrophobic and doomed, the lives of the characters become archetypal.
While in the more conventional 1968 film, the old man and his younger apprentice are master and student sculptors, in The Snow Woman they are merely woodcutters. Their highest ambition is to have a useful, contented life. Art doesn’t come into it – unless you count the later crafting of sturdy and attractive sandals. The Snow Woman has few quotidian scenes and little conversation to start with. Its scarce inhabitants live almost entirely in isolation. When the snowstorm overwhelms the two woodcutters as they return from the wilderness, they struggle into the ferryman’s deserted shanty. Its gapped planking reduces the blizzard’s fury. But there is no safety here at the centre or eye or crossroads of the storm. The Woman of the Snow enters . . . and when the old man perishes from the extra cold deployed by her ghostly form, Tatsuya Nakadai, as the younger man, speaks the horror with his eyes. He doesn’t protest against fate as the spirit turns her lethal gaze upon him to slowly approach his recumbent, terror-stricken form. All he can do is tilt his head away – as if this distances her from his wide unblinking gaze. Is it for the sake of his youth that the snow witch spares this “handsome boy”[xiii] – or does she know the future; is she attracted to him? Shuffling towards the door she fades through it . . . but not before extracting a promise which the longer film later echoes:, but here, it is that he mustn’t tell his mother what happened, rather than his parents, children or wife – as if the woman or spirit has some degree of omniscience.
Next morning the storm has abated. At 00:51:49 the ferryman arrives (above) and failing to get in the front door of his shack, enters another way. As mentioned before, the concise adaptation within Kwaidan eschews the sculpting vocation of the main character in the longer story and there any no evil billionaires or despicable Lords either, only a mother, curing her traumatized and half-frozen son with porridge. That all the blood was drained from the old woodcutter implies that the Woman of the Snow is some form of vampire – a hint later strengthened. But the old woman does not pursue with questions. Knowing she must work while her son, hollow and withdrawn in bed, recovers, she staggers away with a basket of sticks[xiv].
A year later and thankfully recovered, after a long day’s wood harvesting, on his stroll home against the westering skies the son meets a woman going to Yedo. The sky, red and orange, awaits the appearance of those earlier symbols, globes or the beginnings of eyes which could suggest the materialisation of spirits as if from whirlpools in the atmosphere. Despite the eerie music, the setting is serene. Nothing in this gentle yet accelerated alternative to modern dating, insinuates that Yuki[xv] might be the Woman of the Snow in disguise. They continue to walk through sunset-crimsoned woods and pools, as the painted skies turn from white and blue to yellow and black. Swirls like giant marbles, now begin to generate above the horizon. The young man invites Yuki to the lonely house where he lives with his mother. Another cinematic house to envy! Yuki shows no caution, presumably because she knows she cannot be endangered? Is this a planned seduction on her part? Could he resist if he wished? In the house, at 01:01:22, he is clearly stirred by the sight of the traveller washing her feet.
Soon, laughing chases through the rushes and reeds under roseate skies, unwind the formality of the potential lovers. In contradiction to the angry whirlpools of stormier skies, a jewel-like shape forms above nearby, like a sentient sun, to indicate the approach of a happy perfection. Under this glowing symbol, loving embraces follow naturally, with gently bared breasts among the grasses[xvi]. . . before cross dissolving to a baby being bathed. Two other children are soon present[xvii] – the Woman of the Snow has become a perfect wife and mother. Walking with her children, I wonder if the strange song the children voice at 01:03:46, in which “the priest was amazed and fell upside down”, is partially parallelled in the longer, 1968 film, by a scene in which evil Lord Jito, endorsing the established rival sculptor, Gyôkei, (who Jito has employed to usurp the younger sculptor’s commission), says of apprentice sculptor Yosaku at 00:40:23: “there is no way he will win, even if he stands on his head.” This bizarre comment may arise from mistranslation or subtitling, but as with the Snake and Tortoise/Turtle song used in the 1968 film (and brought up below), it creates a reflective pause in the narrative – at least during interrogatory viewings[xviii].
That the children grow older but their mother never ages, is emphasised by a humorous exchange with three village women – they and the ferryman are the only sign of any local community in the entire film. Yuki has taken her children to pay their respects at their grandmother’s grave. They pass the women, busy washing clothes, on their way home. “Most peasant women age early,” but despite giving birth three times, Yuki still looks like a girl. “That woman is a wonder!” the village washerwomen all agree[xix], taking it for granted that the dead grandmother is still able to see and appreciate her grandchildren, as well as their wonderful mother and happy lives.
Evening, and the children are all asleep in a side room. The young woodcutter is no artist but has crafted four pairs of sandals for his wife and children. Yuki admires her pair and returns to sewing. From his lower angle and with the light on her face, the woodman suddenly remembers across the years . . . the light becomes blue and icy and with the change comes, recognition? Then the light turns warm again and he seems about to laugh off his memory. Unfortunately, he rambles on . . . No don’t say it! But he doesn’t stop . . .
For the sake of her sleeping children, the Woman of the Snow forbears from carrying out her strict promise of murder, returning toward the giant eye, leaving a widower grieving over his four pairs of beautiful sandals. Sadly, he puts hers out in the snow. Since they disappear, perhaps there is hope that she might return? Yet the mood is tragic.
The quality of human ambition in The Snow Woman (1968), is something the shorter, more lyrically concise version of 1964, bypassed. In the longer version of the tale, the old wood carver Shigetomo, seems almost punished for his ambition: “My name will be known throughout the mountains of Mino,” he anticipates triumphantly. Conversely, his apprentice Yosaku is frequently undermined by a lack of self-belief. Beginning in real snowy landscapes, prospecting for the ideal tree for a temple commission, master and apprentice fall to their knees to give thanks when they discover a magnificent example – a tree so fine they believe it may even have a soul. As if the thought of felling such a tree to become mere material for religious carving is a crime, the weather abruptly changes. Winds howl and swirling snow snaps branches around them. They struggle on through the tempest. Fortunately, a rough shelter appears, but later, as the young man wakes from under his heaped straw, a ghost slides into their refuge (00:07:30) to kill the fire and summon ice in its place, snow from the stare of its eyes and spirit, frost from the percussive sounds[xx]. Without Kwaidan’s implication of vampirism, the old Shigetomo is simply chilled to death. The Snow Woman turns her attention towards the young apprentice Yosaku, creeping backwards on his elbows, only sparing him because “you are young and beautiful” (00:11:20). In exchange, he must promise never to tell even his dearest, what happened that night. The door of the shack opens of its own volition (00:12:37) before the Snow Woman glides back into the blizzard.
Moving on: in cheerful daylight the felled tree arrives in the village (00:14:54), with or without its soul, no longer exceptional. Propelled on rollers by a crowd of peasants and greeted rapturously by a crowd of villagers, the High Priest’s officials are delivering the section of trunk and request that Yosaku carry out the original commission, since his old master spoke highly of him and the High Priest believed in Shigetomo’s judgement. Feeling unworthy, Yosaku, persuaded by Shigetomo’s widow, reluctantly accepts.
That night, during a rainstorm a beautiful traveller – “young girl” in the widow of the old master sculptor’s eyes – shelters under the eaves of the Yosaku’s workshop (00:17:06). Invited indoors, in a mildly sensual way Yosaku’s surrogate mother supplies dry clothing while remarking on the traveller’s beauty. As the Snow Woman, Shiho Fujimura may be too terrifying for the word beautiful to arise, unless one admires haughty superiority and malevolent elemental force . . . but as Yuki, she is almost unrecognisable. In the Kwaidan story, you can see the similarity between spirit and woman. Here, on a first viewing, perhaps audiences where not expected to notice any connection? After several meaningful admiring glances between Yosaku and Yuki (only slightly distracted by her appreciation and confidence in his sculpting skills, and his dissatisfaction with them) at 00:22:30 they go together to gather herbs which Yuki knows would be good for the old wife’s recurring health problems. At 00:24:09 love reveals itself. Meanwhile, galloping thugs are approaching the village as children circle and lark on a log stack. The children’s reckless behaviour naturally predates the modern health and safety attitude towards timber stacks!
Haverthwaite, 20th June 2026
Thrown from his horse by the fright factor of rolling logs, Lord Jito is furious: “Fools! Children or not, I’ll have your heads”. Hurrying out to protect the children (00:24:38) the wood-carver’s old wife founds herself beaten by Lord Jito for her “impudence”. Returning to the village, Yosaku and Yuki rush to intervene, but it is too late. Nasty Lord Jito, clearly fancying Yuki at first sight, gallops off with the threat that they haven’t “heard the last of this”. Despite encouragements to “hang in there” (!! anachronistic subtitles at 00:22:27: what subtleties might we be missing?) before long the old wife succumbs to her beating[xxi] – using her dying moments to virtually oblige a marriage between Yosaku and Yuki. Although they don’t wish to impose upon each other, they are happy to follow this course.
It seems clear in both versions of the film, that the spirit of the snow has sought out the two young men spared, perhaps because like the Greek gods, the snow women are drawn to mortals by desire? Or for wanting to know what it feels like to be human, to bear children and be a mother? Is it also a vain attempt to escape their chilled immortality, at least for a lifetime? On their first night together, at 00:29:12, Yosaku asks “Yuki, why is your body so cold?”
Another powerful character with sundry titles now emerges to complete the cultural hierarchy. Witch doctor or priestess, she is later referred to, gender-specifically, in the subtitles as a “shamaness”. Cast listing meanwhile, describes her as a “Shrine Maiden”. Divining for the presence of evil at a sacred festival this shamaness immediately perceives Yuki’s supernatural origins – the zealous old hag’s flame darts at 00:30:47, act like ghost-seeking missiles. Maybe this is the point at which, on a first viewing, you are supposed to know with certainty that for all her love and sympathy, Yuki is the Snow Woman?
Five years later and snidey Lord Jito is back from the capital, Kyoto[xxii], interfering in local politics and trying to engineer for an experienced sculptor, Gyôkei, to replace Yosaku for the task of carving an inspiring Buddha for the temple. Having known the old master carver Shigetomo and heard him praise Yosaku, the patient High Priest still wants the unproven apprentice to do the work. Angrily, Jito forces a competition upon the religious authorities – the winner will be granted the commission. By this time Yosaku and Yuki have a young son, Tarô, yet Yuki has not aged in five years. When the family group chance upon Lord Jito (feudal or samurai equivalent of a contemptible billionaire or unscrupulous politician of now) and his corrupt entourage in the woods, Jito confides to a sidekick, (00:37:08) that he “scoured the capital for five years and found none to equal her.”
For a brief relaxed interval, after his classmates taunt Tarô for not knowing a strange song – apparently a traditional children’s rhyme about a turtle that takes over a snake’s yard to cause the disappearance of nine local people – Yosaku watches Yuki teaching it to him. Whether or not this song is thematically connected[xxiii] to the film, it creates an enigmatic frisson of the type which often encourages a fork or splitting point in the pathway of a narrative . . . a pause or glance toward something cloaked or just out of reach, something only sensed at the back of the mind.
At Gyôkei’s workshop, in the contemptuous dialogue between master sculptor and Jito, Jito declares that country people are “like frogs stuck in a well” (00:40:35) and goes on: “Trying to compete with you, he does not know his place.” But it’s not just that Jito considers Yosaku to have ideas above his station: “His wife is far too good for him too” (00:40:50). The plot thickens and when Jito’s henchman come to arrest Yosaku for the theft of the tree, their leader shortly offers the planned way out: Yuki should offer herself to Jito. Yuki is so disgusted that a fine of three ryō or gold coins is imposed – an impossible sum . . . yet Yuki says she will pay. Grudgingly, the gang leaves.
Yuki: “How can someone be so unscrupulous?”
Yosaku: “It’s Lord Jito we are talking about.”
To cure a local landowner’s child of a dangerous fever (00:45:33: “Ridiculous! How can a mere woman possibly cure him,” say the doctors who’ve given him up for dead), Yuki repeatedly and exhaustingly becomes the Snow Woman. She snows near the child and cures him with snow parcels, freezing the fever away.
Not only does she have compassion, the Snow Woman believes in art! Yosaku’s “wooden doll” sculpture looks perfect within limits (“I just can’t seem to finish her face”), but like so much “great” art, is somehow dead. Gyôkei’s golden version however, is truly and thoroughly dead. TheHigh Priest is not impressed – “It shines with gold. It is almost too bright for my eyes to bear!” (00:58:01). “Indeed, her beauty is overwhelming . . .” but “Look closely at her face. In her eyes, do you see the light of compassion?”
Despite the High Priest’s support, Yosaku remains unhappy with his work, he cannot get the eyes right and persuades a very unwilling Yuki to come and pray with him at another religious festival. Forced to run from the festival through the dark forest when she realises again that the Shrine Maiden can sense her presence, Yuki is abducted for Lord Jiro. In a nearby shed, Jiro is determined to have her. He lusts after her pale skin . . . pure like snow. “How I’ve longed to strip you bare” (01:03:47). But the rape goes no further than a bared shoulder.
When he tries to tear her kimono off, Yuki begins to change from frightened woman to invincible Snow Woman, (01:05:45): “All those who have seen my true form must die”. Jito grovels, pleads and freezes. She freezes all his assets and empties his accounts[xxiv], and when his minions discover his frozen corpse, they too are dealt with. Hurrah!
Back at home, Yosaku and Tarô find an exhausted Yuki, yet Yosaku is still concerned with finishing his statue – a picture of the true artist, sacrificing everyone and everything for Art! An ominous shadow clings to him though, preventing that final miraculous transformation of dead wood. But now the news of Lord Jito’s death is abroad and the Shrine Maiden turns up to accuse Yuki – as if the hag was in league with Jito: corrupt politics hand in glove with corrupt religion . . . surely not! The Shrine Maiden is obviously jealous of “a power beyond this realm” (01:10:09). Calling Yuki a “Monstrous demon!” she is determined to look for the scars of her flame darts. Yosaku finally helps repel the old woman and comforts Yuki: “No one could destroy our happiness.” Now he feels he’s been washed clean and remembers his Art. “I think I can finish the statue” . . . yet the dark shadow remains”. Suddenly, stirred by the accusations of the Shamaness, he remembers the night of the Snow Woman and overrides his promise never to tell anyone, not even his wife. NO DON’T SAY IT!
“I saw the terrifying Snow Woman. She killed my master.” (01:13:42) . . . “Yuki . . .”
“That . . . was me.”
“You?”
“After all this time you have spoken of it. It was all I asked of you. I told you never to speak of it. All these years I prayed you wouldn’t. Because I became your wife, I discovered human happiness . . . (01:14:33) . . . I hoped this happiness would never end . . .”
She becomes the Snow Woman and is about to kill Yosaku when Tarô cries in his sleep. Becoming a mother again for a while, she realises she must leave instead: “Please look after Tarô in my place. And please finish that wonderful statue of yours . . .”
In all this tragic farewell, Yosako is still distracted by his ART . . . and seeing the light of compassion in her face (01:18:22) – compassion for the child and for him – he knows now, how to finish the statue.
[iii] For a truly weird and distant echo of Laura, seek out Singapore Sling (O Anthropos Pou Agapise Ena Ptoma) 1990 1h 51m imdb.com/title/tt0100623/?ref_=fn_t_1 which despite a striking and luminous Noir atmosphere is laughably absurd – with Meredyth Herold coming across like Josie Lawrence in an X-rated Mastersons (radio) improvisation! bbc.co.uk/programmes/b007jsmr
[iv] From A Backwards Alphabet of Films – X: “Although it may be unfashionable to say that art, music, writing, film and so on, should be about enlightenment, I will say it anyway.”
[v] Such as David Vining, who in 2025 was unengaged by it: “I don’t think it’s a good thriller or mystery or drama. But, it has some charms along the way to make the film not a complete waste”: davidmvining.wordpress.com/2025/11/27/whirlpool/
[vi] As noted in A Backwards Alphabet of Films – X . . .
[xi] In this story, the blind musician Hōïchi is obliged to perform every night for the ghost court of the Heike clan. To prevent his being torn apart or carried off by spirits, the priest of the temple and his devoted assistant paint the Hannya-Shingyō (Heart Sutra), a holy text, over every part of Hōïchi’s body.
[xii] Toru Takemitsu’s uniquely and sometimes piercingly disquieting score combines traditional instruments such as the shakuhachi and the biwa with electronic manipulation and tape loops as well as a modified piano: screws, bolts, and soft materials placed on the strings to summon strange percussive effects and assorted unpredictable clangs.
[xiii] In the 1968 film the apprentice is also spared for his youth and beauty.
[xiv] Recently watching the film again, I thought of the cover of the album now known as Led Zeppelin IV, but as this is not helpful, I only include the passing thought to reference this intriguing blog post: wknc.org/2021/04/11/behind-the-cover-led-zeppelin-iv/
[xv] Both the Woman of the Snow and the Snow Woman are named Yuki – but who would expect Robin Hood to switch names with every new adaptation of his folk story?
[xvi] The Kwaidan segment (1964) appears more audacious in this way than The Snow Woman four years later. Surprisingly, both films were originally released under Japan’s ‘G’ rating (General Audiences), equivalent to a U certificate in the UK.
[xvii] The Snow Woman bears only one child as opposed to The Woman of the Snow’s three. In both cases it is the presence of a child or children which prevents the snow women from carrying out their promise to kill their husbands for “betraying” her secret. As they only reveal it to her, the severing of their happy lives together as well as the potential deaths involved, seems a shade severe as punishment – but I suppose marriages between mortal and supernatural beings have to end somewhere . . .
[xviii] To consider the implications of inversion in religious terms is probably fanciful as well as complex. On the one hand there is Peter requesting to be hung (crucified) upside down because he felt unworthy to die in the same way as Jesus. On the other, the inverted cross is linked to being in league with Satan. But Christianity’s influence in feudal Japan has been described as profound: japan-kyushu-tourist.com/history-of-japanese-christianity-2/
[xix] The odd thing about the tone of this encounter is that one can’t be sure it is entirely friendly. As the washerwomen all laugh at the end, are they being sarcastic to a degree? Or do they have some sense of division arising from a buried instinct that Yuki is not quite of the world. Yuki’s return comments could also be seen as partially ironic.
[xx] Akira Ifukube wrote the score for The Snow Woman. He and Toru Takemitsu – composer for Kwaidan – “stand as the two pillars of 20th-century Japanese classical and film music”. Both largely self-taught, the two were rivals and at times were very critical of each other: “Ifukube once famously proclaimed that “Music is not philosophy,” a direct jab at the highly conceptual, philosophical nature of Takemitsu’s avant-garde output”. “Takemitsu looked heavily toward Western modernism (Debussy, Messiaen, and John Cage) to create a style that balanced avant-garde abstraction with traditional Japanese instruments.” Quotes from Classical Music Forum.
[xxi] Informed of this far away, Lord Jito cares not a jot that the “old bag” has died, he is only feverish to find out about and entrap Yuki.
[xxii] Kyoto, centre of the Imperial Court, served as the capital of Japan from 794 until 1868.
LAWRENCE FREIESLEBEN, Film & Television Editor of The Brazen Head, has beenan artist and writer as long as he can remember – cycling away at weekends from the council estate where he grew up, to paint the countryside as an escape from the restrictive tedium of the school week. Leaving home at 16, he has lived in 17 different areas of the UK – from Devonshire to Northumberland – painting and writing, always vigilantly questioning the interior light of landscape, cityscape and wider atmosphere. Living virtually off-grid with his large family, both remote locations and urban visits have formed the backscene to a passion for film which has intertwined with art and writing throughout his career. Films remain a key creative focus since childhood, resulting in encyclopaedic folders and clippings as well as a constant stream of home-made film festivals. He currently lives in a dilapidated Lancashire seaside town
SHARON HOFFMANN is a writer based in Atlantic Beach, Florida. Publications include the Hooghly Review, New York Quarterly, Beloit Poetry Journal, Alice Walker: Critical Perspectives (Harvard University Press), Paddler Press, South Florida Poetry Journal, Letters, Wild Roof, Sho Poetry Journal, and other magazines. Awards include fellowships from Atlantic Center for the Arts and Florida’s Division of Cultural Affairs, three Pushcart nominations and a nomination for Best Spiritual Literature.
The Well-House
That past week – the tag-end of winter, the first of spring –
we had come across the Forth Bridge on a pilgrimage,
visiting holy wells, points in an ancient geography,
Saint Mungo’s well, St. Margaret’s. We wanted
to share something sacred, something the Reformation
had not reduced to rubble. They’d been able
to cut down sacred groves, lay waste to chapels,
desecrate statues of saints, but water was indestructible.
Water flowed on, and folk went on worshipping it.
Not us, though, not really. We were
just pretenders, not truly pilgrims.
When our guide drove us out into the countryside,
we were disappointed that St. Mungo’s Well survived
only as a shallow basin, dank and stagnant.
We left no offering, not a silver coin, not a bent pin.
We didn’t perambulate three times sunwise.
We certainly didn’t pray. We dipped our fingers in,
but declined to take the slightest sip.
At Roslyn, we skipped Saint Matthew’s Well.
No longer young and fit, we weren’t
inclined to clamber down the gorge just to see
some rivulet seeping downslope to the Esk.
We did intend to drink at Saint Anthony’s,
but once again our age betrayed us. We struggled
halfway up Salisbury Crag, but the saint and his well
stayed out of reach. (Perhaps St. Mungo
had told St. Anthony about our disrespect.)
Staggering back to Holyrood Park, thirsty
and exhausted, we were grateful when our guide
produced an iron key to a massive door.
Behind it were steps that descended
to the well-house underground – Saint Triduana’s Aisle.
In the Dark Ages, fifteen centuries before our time,
a holy virgin had plucked her own eyes out
and sent them to the Pictish prince who’d praised them.
A thousand years on, James III had built a chapel here,
a hexagon with an altar and her relicts up above,
the well-house underneath. Thousands came,
hoping to be cured of blindness and diseases of the eye.
When the Reformation came, this practice was called
idolatry. An edict ordered that the building be utterly destroyed.
But underground, the well remained. Hidden, not gone.
Now in the shadows under the vaulted ceiling,
we saw her broken statue, piles of rubble, fragments
of window tracery, rib-stones from the upper vault.
The cistern slab covering the well had been dislodged,
leaving a narrow opening. We peered down
into the well-hole underneath, the water surface trembling but so far below.
I wanted to fall headlong into that delicious cold
and let it change me. I wanted to believe.
Something spoke to me, saying:
There is a river underneath the earth, only one,
and it rises up in every ancient well.
If you want to touch that river, a silver coin will not suffice.
I would have to lie flat on the stones, lean
my body down into the cistern,
and stretch my hand as deep as it would go.
I did pray then: “Triduana, saint and sister, help me to see.”
I reached for the water, and it rose to me.
Odysseus Three Sticks
After the suitors are dead, Odysseus
wants to uncomplicate himself.
Suppose he leaves Ithaca again,
reprises his voyage to the mainland,
once again a shapely oar on his shoulder.
Suppose he walks inland,
city after city after city until at last
another traveler falls in besides him
and asks why he’s carrying
that winnowing shovel around like that,
especially since the wheat harvest
has already passed. I imagine
he sticks his oar into the soil,
just as Tiresius once told him to,
and makes his sacrifices to Poseidon.
What now?
It’s winter and too cold to travel,
so even though he’s eager to go home
and start the soft old age
Athena promised him,
what’s another passing season
after so many years of wandering?
In the spring there’s a girl
with a wheat bun in the oven,
and then there’s a son.
Twenty more years pass and a grandson –
let’s call him Odysseus Three Sticks.
Eventually, Three Sticks is tired
of the winnowing shovel and his dusty choices:
hard wheat or soft, bearded or unbearded,
smooth or velvet, shocking and stacking,
worrying about winter rust and yields,
when to plant a nurse crop,
whether to leave a portion of the wheat for seed.
Suppose Three Sticks doesn’t want
to be wheat anymore –
he wants to be chaff, something
light enough for the wind to take
anywhere at all. One day
when the fields are nothing
but stubble, he sets out south
with a winnowing shovel on his shoulder.
He walks until the air is heavy with salt,
and another wayfarer joins him, laughing
at what he’s carrying. Captain,
the man says, that’s a funny looking oar
on your shoulder.
Are you looking for a ship?
Yes, says Odysseus, show me the ship.
Show me the wine-dark sea.
Making the Mystery
“It was not much that was wanted. To make no mysteries where nature has made none.” — Samuel Butler, The Way of All Flesh
SHARON HOFFMANN is a writer based in Atlantic Beach, Florida. Publications include The Hooghly Review, New York Quarterly, Beloit Poetry Journal, Alice Walker: Critical Perspectives (Harvard University Press), Paddler Press, South Florida Poetry Journal, Letters, Wild Roof, Sho Poetry Journal, and other magazines. Awards include fellowships from Atlantic Center for the Arts and Florida’s Division of Cultural Affairs, three Pushcart nominations and a nomination for Best Spiritual Literature.
REAGAN UPSHAW’s selected poems In the Panhandle was published by Kelsay Books in 2024. He makes his living as an art appraiser in the Hudson Valley of New York, where he also gardens and keeps bees.
REAGAN UPSHAW’s selected poems In the Panhandle was published by Kelsay Books in 2024. He makes his living as an art appraiser in the Hudson Valley of New York, where he also gardens and keeps bees.
MICHAEL YOST is a poet and essayist living in rural New Hampshire with his wife and children. His essays and poems have been published in places like Modern Age, First Things, The University Bookman, Dappled Things, The Brazen Head, and others. He substacks at The Weight of Form
LANI BURSHTEIN is a schoolteacher, artist and writer living in Toronto. Her poetic interests include disaster, history, visual arts, opulence, childhood and constructed identities
The following poems explore the literary device of prosopopeia, or giving voice to inanimate objects. But some objects aren’t quite so lifeless as we’d like to think, are they?
TECHNICOLOUR’S ROSE
Romance isn’t dead—I’ve dyed. I’m red.
Twinkle can be tooled. My throat is jewelled.
Vamps have sultry angles. Mine are spangled.
Divas can be lifeless—this one’s priceless.
Technicolour’s rose: refracting bows.
Twins of mirrored face: my soles can pace.
Glamour grows through time. My road rewinds.
Homeward-bound she wheels; clicking heels.
Brick’s iconic trippers; ruby slippers.
QUEEN OF HEARTS
Observe my curves, my cuts, my twinkling facets
Admire my frozen fire, my glassine assets
Regard the artisans that chiselled me thus
Embrace my Cartier case, its velvet must
Be enthralled with all the lives I’ve traced
Applaud the filmic broads whose gowns I’ve laced
Respect the intellect of sparkling science
My sobriquet: the Taylor-Burton Diamond
MORNING ELIXIR
Electrify your sluggish mind with black
Elixir bitter— swirling steam’s attack
on sluggish thinking. Fill your tiny cup
and energize your neurons. Level up.
Blow for cool, then dip me back and drink,
I wake you and upgrade the thoughts you think.
Your concentration is my gift bestowed.
Now, rise and grind my beans. I’m espresso.
FROM DREAMS YOU KNOW MY HALLS
I am the widened space that speaks of naught.
My columns—tilted pines—my mats, your walking
feet upon the forest floor unyielding.
Your camera scribes the silver shadows fleeting.
My dangling boughs, grey pipes, my curling leaf—
abandoned furniture. Your presence: brief.
You interrupt my silences to pry—
I give up nothing. Structures, too, can lie
awake at unclocked hours, knowing nil.
My river—moulding carpet, nest—these sills
of windows rimed in plaque without excuse.
Here, clouds collect so you cannot peek through.
From dreams, you know my halls. I shan’t explain
my provenance. I’m liminal. My lanes—
a shuttered wood around a witch’s hut.
I’m liminal. My gates are always shut.
HMS EREBUS
Who are you to seek me—
you, who have never crunched ice like hardtack
you, without rot, mast or muster.
You think you can desecrate my ribcage,
trampling in cold shock at my collapse,
slicing the sea-rot from my dreads?
Disturbing my bones with bubbles, extinguishing
the darkness I chose?
Yes, I chose it.
A candy trail from brass buttons to bleached bodies
misled you with missives slit between the stones that knew me.
And still do.
A cairn is not a conscience. How
I rewrote your map in my mordant image: Starvation Cove.
LANI BURSHTEIN is a schoolteacher, artist and writer living in Toronto. Her poetic interests include disaster, history, visual arts, opulence, childhood and constructed identities
KEVIN MAYNARD studied at Exeter University and the Warburg Institute before becoming a teacher. His poems, translations and photography have appeared in several small UK literary magazines (Agenda,The Rialto, The SHOp, The Interpreter’s House, the online magazine Littoral etc.), and his book of Chinese war poems, The Iron Flute, appeared from Arc Publications in September 2019, and is still available from all good bookshops and online outlets, or directly from Arc. See: https://www.arcpublications.co.uk/blog/the-iron-flute-an-interview-with-kevin-maynard-285
AN ASCENT OF MOUNT LU
travel outfits dangling down you traverse wetlands
traipse through tangled chaparrals until you reach your mountain lodge
sheer bluffs, a thousand of them piled up peaks that block your way a mighty myriad of ravines that ring you round and round
towering precipitous ancient and primordial scattered so randomly you muddle up their names
deep caverns where you catch a glimpse of subterranean springs
lofty trees that lean up to the pathways in the sky pines that cluster, cling together on high mountain ledges
cloud-filled caves encountered here and there
shaded ice-pools that still freeze in summer southern trees that thrive throughout the winter
strident honking of crane-birds to greet the yearned-for dawn
clarion howls and hoots of gibbons late at night
canyons within whose plunging depths the spirits are concealed
sharply chiselled summits where divinities are hidden
you are one who loves these mountain heights who deeply feels this wanderlust
so up you climb to where the winged ones go
to merge forever with the mountain mists
Bao Zhao (414?–566)
Gongora’s Letrilla 8
(2025)
Lady Luck doles out good stuff —
doles out the bad stuff too:
for some the softest flute
for others the swanee kazoo.
She leads us here and there:
in so many directions —
the monstrous and the fair;
both beggars and well-to-do.
Lettres de cachet for some;
for others billets-doux.
For some the softest flute
for others the swanee kazoo.
Sometimes it rains in torrents;
sometimes the sun breaks through.
Your grapes will either sweeten
or wither on the vine.
Your crops may ripen and grow tall
or be blighted by mildew.
For some the softest flute
for others the swanee kazoo.
A witness thinks she knows the face
of this homeless John Doe —
and if his face is dark enough
he’ll end up on Death Row.
While crooked bankers everywhere
more riches still accrue.
For some the softest flute
for others the swanee kazoo.
Luis de Gongora (1561–1627)
Letrilla 8
(1581)
Da bienes Fortuna
que no están escritos:
cuando pitos, flautas,
cuando flautas, pitos.
¡Cuán diversas sendas
se suelen seguir
en el repartir
honras y haciendas!
A unos da encomiendas,
a otros, sambenitos.
Cuando pitos, flautas,
cuando flautas, pitos.
A veces despoja
de choza y apero
al mayor cabrero;
y a quien se le antoja,
la cabra más coja
parió dos cabritos.
Cuando pitos, flautas,
cuando flautas, pitos.
Porque en una aldea
un pobre mancebo
hurtó solo un huevo,
al sol bambolea,
y otro se pasea
con cien mil delitos.
Cuando pitos, flautas,
cuando flautas, pitos.
TWO POEMS BY LEOPARDI
INFINITY
Ever dear to me
this solitary hill —
this hedgerow, too,
that quite cuts off
the far horizon
from my view . . .
But when I sit
and meditate awhile,
such boundless distances
are conjured by imagination —
such a superhuman silence —
and such deep stillness,
that the heart feels
not a little fear.
And when I hear the wind
rush through this foliage,
I start comparing its voice
with all that silence;
and then are brought to mind
eternity, the seasons dead and gone,
this so vivid present . . .
and the sound it makes.
And in the midst of such immensity
all thought’s annulled —
how sweet it seems to me
to drown in such a sea!
Giacomo Leopardi (1798–1837)
L’INFINITO
Sempre caro mi fu quest’ermo colle, e questa siepe, che da tanta parte dell’ultimo orizzonte il guardo esclude. Ma sedendo e mirando, interminati spazi di là da quella, e sovrumani silenzi, e profondissima quïete io nel pensier mi fingo, ove per poco il cor non si spaura. E come il vento odo stormir tra queste piante, io quello infinito silenzio a questa voce vo comparando: e mi sovvien l’eterno, e le morte stagioni, e la presente e viva, e il suon di lei. Così tra questa immensità s’annega il pensier mio: e il naufragar m’è dolce in questo mare.
Canto XIII: The Holiday Is Over
Bright, mild, windless lies the night—
and, by holy moonshine is distilled
silence among the roofs and gardens, lifting
the far peaks near—austere, implacable,
serene. O lady, now a deep hush settles
upon each empty path, while seldom gleams
from shadowed balconies lamplight . . .
At ease you slumber—for with welcome ease
does Sleep into your chamber steal: and free
from care you rest, entirely unaware
of all wounds dealt, or of how deep you slid
into my breast . . . You slumber, while I scan
these skies (so kindly-seeming); and I greet
primeval and almighty Nature, who
fashioned me from infancy for grief.
Hope I withhold, she whispers, even hope . . .
May your eyes shine, if shine they must, with tears,
or else shine not at all. And so we end
the day’s solemnities—from its delights
you drowse now, and perhaps in sleep you dream
of all you pleased, of all who gave you pleasure . . .
but not of me: I’d never dare to think
you dreamed of me . . . Meanwhile I ask how much
of life remains, and fling my carcass down
and shout in pain, and shudder: dreadful days,
and in so green a time! Ah, now along
the road there drifts the solitary song
of some sad labourer returning late
from revelry to his poor dwelling-place;
and frenziedly my heart contracts to know
how this world fades away, leaving behind
barely a trace: behold this festival
itself has fled, and to this festival
succeeds, tomorrow, one more working day.
Time snatches from our mortal hands each human
incident. That huge hubbub raised
by peoples of the ancient world: gone where?
That cry, to rend the sky, of our forebears,
and all their mighty Roman realms: gone where?
The clangour of their arms on land and sea?
The world lies quiet, and is at peace again,
and now we barely speak of them at all.
When I was still a child, how hot my heart
then hungered for each holiday! Recall
when one such day was done: I lay distraught—
awake and grieving on my bed of down—
there died away upon the paths that night
little by little, one such song as now
clutches my heart with sorrow yet again.
AfterGiacomo Leopardi
Canto XIII: La sera del dì di festa
Dolce e chiara è la notte e senza vento, e queta sovra i tetti e in mezzo agli orti posa la luna, e di lontan rivela serena ogni montagna. O donna mia, già tace ogni sentiero, e pei balconi rara traluce la notturna lampa.
Tu dormi, ché t’accolse agevol sonno nelle tue chete stanze, e non ti morde cura nessuna; e già non sai né pensi quanta piaga m’apristi in mezzo al petto. Tu dormi: io questo ciel, che sì benigno appare in vista, a salutar m’affaccio, e l’antica natura onnipossente, che mi fece all’affanno. A te la speme nego, mi disse, anche la speme, e d’altro non brillin gli occhi tuoi se non di pianto. Questo dì fu solenne: or da’ trastulli prendi riposo; e forse ti rimembra in sogno a quanti oggi piacesti, e quanti piacquero a te: non io, non già, ch’io speri, al pensier ti ricorro. Intanto io chieggo quanto a viver mi resti, e qui per terra mi getto, e grido, e fremo. Oh giorni orrendi in così verde etate!
Ahi, per la via
odo non lunge il solitario canto
dell’artigian, che riede a tarda notte, dopo i sollazzi, al suo povero ostello—
e fieramente mi si stringe il core,
a pensar come tutto al mondo passa, e quasi orma non lascia. Ecco è fuggito il dì festivo, ed al festivo il giorno volgar succede, e se ne porta il tempo ogni umano accidente.
Or dov’è il suono di que’ popoli antichi? or dov’è il grido de’ nostri avi famosi, e il grande impero di quella Roma, e l’armi, e il fragorio che n’andò per la terra e l’oceano? Tutto è pace e silenzio, e tutto posa il mondo, e più di lor non si ragiona. Nella mia prima età, quando s’aspetta bramosamente il dì festivo, or poscia ch’egli era spento, io doloroso, in veglia, premea le piume; ed alla tarda notte un canto che s’udia per li sentieri lontanando morire a poco a poco, già similmente mi stringeva il core.
KEVIN MAYNARD studied at Exeter University and the Warburg Institute before becoming a teacher.
His poems, translations and photography have appeared in several small UK literary magazines (Agenda,The Rialto, The SHOp, The Interpreter’s House, the online magazine Littoral etc.), and his book of Chinese war poems, The Iron Flute, appeared from Arc Publications in September 2019, and is still available from all good bookshops and online outlets, as well as directly from Arc Publications. See: https://www.arcpublications.co.uk/blog/the-iron-flute-an-interview-with-kevin-maynard-285
LIAM GUILAR is Poetry Editor of The Brazen Head, and the author of several poetry collections, including the series A Man of Heart, Presentment of Englishry and The Fabled Third (Shearsman), set in post-Roman Britain
This is from a translation of Culhwch and Olwen, ‘the oldest surviving Arthurian tale’ from medieval Welsh prose to modern English Verse. The story tells how Culhwch marries Olwen, the giant’s daughter. However, before he can marry her, he must complete forty tasks for her father. Many are obviously impossible; some merely extremely difficult. The tasks are completed not by Culhwch but by King Arthur and his men. What follows is the second and third task.
The translation is based on Culhwch and Olwen.An edition and study of the oldest Arthurian tale, by Rachel Bromwich and D. Simon Evans, (University of Wales Press, 1992)
The tale of the oldest animals (The freeing of Mabon mab Modron)
After they’d told Arthur all that had happened,
he said, ‘Which of these wonders should we seek first?’
‘It’s best to seek Mabon mab Modron
And to find him we need his kinsmen,
Eidoel mab Aer.’
Arthur and his knights arose,
and sought throughout Britain
until they came to the outer walls of Gliwi
where Eidoel was a prisoner.
Gliwi stood on the top of his fort:
‘Arthur, what do you want?
Life’s bad enough on this crag
without you coming to ruin me.
I have neither wheat nor oats,
nor goods nor pleasure.’
‘I haven’t come to harm you,
I seek your prisoner.’
‘You can have him, although
I never intended to give him up.
And on top of that my help and support.
The men said to Arthur: ‘Lord, go home.
You cannot go with your host,
to seek such a petty thing as this.’
Arthur replied: ‘Gwrhyr the Translator,
It is good for you to go on this quest,
You know all the languages of men,
and some of the animals and birds’.
Eidoel, it is good that you go with my men
to seek Mabon, as he is your cousin.
Kei and Bedwyr, it is my hope
that whatever you seek you will find.
Go on this quest for me.’
They went until they found the Blackbird of Gilgwri.
Gwrhyr asked her: ’For God’s sake,
Do you know anything of Mabon mab Modron,
who was taken from between his mother and the wall,
when he was three nights old?’
The Blackbird replied:
‘I was a young bird
when first I came here
and found this anvil.
It hasn’t been touched
except by my beak,
tapping each evening.
Today you can see
all that’s left is the size
of a nut. God’s
vengeance on me
if I know of this man
you ask me about.
However, I will do
what is proper for
Arthur’s messengers.
There is another
creature God made
before me, and I
will take you to him.’
They went until they found the Stag of Redynure.
‘Stag of Redynure, we are messengers of Arthur,
we know of no animal older than you.
Say if you know anything of Mabon mab Modron,
who was taken from between his mother and the wall
when he was three nights old.’
‘When first I came here,
I had but a single tine
on either side of my head.
There were no trees but a single sapling.
That sapling grew into an oak with a hundred branches.
Then it fell to the earth, and now
there’s nothing of it left but a red stump.
Though I’ve been here from that day to this,
I’ve heard nothing of this man you mention.
But because you are Arthur’s messengers,
I will be your guide to an animal God made before me.’
They came to the place
where they found the Owl of Cwm Kawlwyt.
‘Owl of Cwm Kawlywt these are messengers from Arthur.
Do you know anything of Mabon mab Modron
who was taken from his mother on the third night?’
‘What I do know, I will tell to you.
When first I came here
the great valley you see
was thick with trees.
Then came a race of men
and laid waste the wood.
A second wood grew.
You now see the third.
The roots of my wings
are mere stumps now.
From that day to this
I have heard nothing
of the man you are seeking.
But I will be a guide
for Arthur’s messengers
until you come to the oldest
creature in the world
who has travelled the furthest:
the Eagle of Gwern Abwy.’
Gwyhyr said: ‘Eagle of Gwern Abwy
We have come, as messengers of Arthur,
to ask if you know anything about Mabon mab Modron
who was taken from his mother
when he was three nights old?’
The Eagle replied:
‘I came here
a long time ago
and when I first came here,
I had a stone,
and each evening,
from the top of my stone
I pecked at the stars.
Now it is not a handsbreadth in height.
From that day to this I have been here.
I have heard nothing of this man.
However,
when I was seeking my food in Llyn Llyw,
I sunk my talons into a salmon,
thinking he would feed me for a long time
but he pulled me down into the depths.
It was with difficulty I got away.
What I then did,
with all my kinsmen,
was to launch an attack.
We sought to destroy him.
He sent messengers
to me
to make peace,
then came
to me,
in person,
to have fifty tridents
removed from his back.
Unless he knows something
of the man you mentioned
I don’t know of anyone who does.
However, I will take you to him.’
They came to the place where he was.
The eagle said: ‘Salmon of Llyn Llyw,
I have come to you with Arthur’s messengers,
to ask if you know anything of Mabon mab Modron
who was taken from his mother on the third night.’
‘As much as I know I will tell you.
With every flood tide I go up the river
until I come to the bend
beneath the walls of Kaer Loyw.
Never in my life have I encountered,
such misery as I found there.
So you may believe me,
let one of you climb
on each of my two shoulders.’
Kei and Gwrhyr climbed on his shoulders.
They travelled upstream until they came
to the other side of the wall from the prisoner.
They could hear a-weeping and a-wailing.
Gwrhyr said: ‘What man laments
in this house of stone?’ ‘Alas, man,
I have cause for lamentation.
Mabon mab Modron is the prisoner here.
And no one has ever been imprisoned so cruelly,
neither Llud Silver hand nor Greit mab Eri.’
‘Is there hope of obtaining your freedom,
with gold or silver or worldly goods?
Or will it require assault and fighting?’
‘Whatever you can get of me,
will be got by fighting.’
They returned to Arthur
and told him where Mabon was.
Arthur summoned the fighting men of the island,
and they went to Kaer Loyw.
Kei and Bedwyr went upstream
on the shoulders of the salmon.
While Arthur’s warriors were attacking the fort,
Kei broke the wall, fighting with the men inside,
even when he was carrying the prisoner on his back.
LIAM GUILAR is Poetry Editor of The Brazen Head, and the author of several poetry collections, including the series A Man of Heart, Presentment of Englishry and The Fabled Third (Shearsman), set in post-Roman Britain. His most recent publication is a translation of the Mabinogion folk-tale How Culhwch Won Olwen (Shearsman, 2026)
STEVEN SEARCY is the author of a poetry collection, Below the Brightness (Solum Press, 2024). His poems have appeared in Southern Poetry Review, Commonweal, Blue Unicorn, New Verse Review, and elsewhere. He lives with his wife and four sons in Atlanta, Georgia
The Exiles from Judah in the Court of Nebuchadnezzar
Danial 3
Hananiah, Mishael, and Azariah would not bow and worship any golden image as the king of Babylon had strictly ordered. When the music played, the king’s officials gathered, paying homage to the massive golden statue. Soon the Hebrew youths were called into the presence of the king, to give account for disobeying.
Hananiah, Mishael, and Azariah came before the fiery king and spoke with boldness: “We must serve the one true God: his name is Yahweh. We would rather die than bow to any other. We can never worship as the king commands us, even if it means we’re cast into the furnace. God is powerful to save us, if he wills it.”
Then the king of Babylon was wild with anger, ordering to make the furnace extra deadly while the three young men were tied with savage cruelty, bound to face the unrelenting flames of judgment, cast into the hand of God with fates uncertain. Even guards who brought them near the furnace perished— casualties of fury at defiant Hebrews.
Then the king of Babylon stood up, astonished, staring at the blaze in terrified confusion: “Three were thrown into the fire, but now I notice four, and all untied and walking in the furnace, totally unharmed. And look, the fourth is glowing like a mighty son of gods. I can’t believe it! Servants of the Most High God, come stand before me!”
All the king’s officials came and looked with wonder, seeing how the Hebrew youths were safe and happy, hair and garments free from any singe or odor, shielded by a strength to shame the greatest idol. Then the king of Babylon declared with boldness: “All must give respect—this Hebrew god is mighty! Look at how he intervened to save his servants!”
Hananiah, Mishael, and Azariah bowed before the king but gave their praise to Yahweh: “Who is like our God, who helped us? He is gracious.”
*Hananiah means “Yahweh is gracious” *Mishael means “Who is like God?” *Azariah means “Yahweh has helped”
STEVEN SEARCY is the author of a poetry collection, Below the Brightness (Solum Press, 2024). His poems have appeared in Southern Poetry Review, Commonweal, Blue Unicorn, New Verse Review, and elsewhere. He lives with his wife and four sons in Atlanta, Georgia
