KEVAN KOYA

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Shayah Ubah-EsT (The Witch)


Shayah Ubah-EsT
Is rudely awakened
By the distant sound of clanging and hammering on metal
And strangers' voices calling out her name,
Chanting the words:
      Come forth now Shayah, come forth,
      Come forth now Shayah, come forth.

With a wide gaping yawn,
She stretches out her arms,
Her hands reaching out across the boundaries of hell
And as if plucking an imaginary harp,
She runs her claw like fingers
Over delicate threads of light,
That have filtered down,
Through the dark cavities,
To be stopped abruptly at the gates of the underworld.
Her grating voice and high shrill laughter
Can be heard echoing and dancing
Across the many stagnant lakes and pools,
That lie deep in the airless caverns below.

Like an army of sharpened knives,
Come forth her cutting words,
Menacing, threatening,
Spat out from her foul and distorted mouth,
Shooting through the air, like arrows
Riding upon her stenched breath
And swiftly guided by black ravens' wings,
With such accuracy,
Certain of reaching their target.
So skilfully crafted to offend.
No gentle soul,
With purity of heart,
Can escape the brutality of her savage tongue.


 

Cave

 

As the sun begins to set,
Falling, sinking, haemorrhaging,
Turning the sky a blood red,
The still night air is chilled by the witch's breath,
Leaving a pungent smell of sulphur,
That lingers, suspended,
Tingeing the thickened mist with a hint of blue.
The solemn toll of the bell can be heard ringing out,
Resonating across the bog infested fields
Of Trustnott valley,
Penetrating the night's darkest walls
And travelling far beyond,
While the strangers chant:
      We pity you Shayah, we pity you,
      We pity you Shayah, we pity you.

Silhoutted against an orange glow,
The Blacksmith repeatedly
Plunges and submerges a steel rod
Into a fiery furnace,
Beating, turning, shaping,
Preparing the metal on his anvil,
Then plunging the rod back into the raging heat,
Sinking, forcing the steel down,
Into a sea of burning embers,
With his arm of strength,
He hammers, sculpting
The yellow hot metal
And with accuracy and patience,
He shapes his trusted sword,
Chanting:
      Come forth now Shayah, come forth,
      Come forth now Shayah, come forth.

Stepping forward
Into a solitary shaft of light,
Shayah's wretched form
Is brutally exposed with cruel clarity.
With a defiant crooked grin,
She looks up through
The brilliant, vertical column of light,
That has punched a hole
In her darkened world:
And, as if it were a life line
Thrown down from the world above,
Tempting, beckoning her to climb
with curiosity and loating, she makes her assent,
while the blacksmith chants:
      I'm waiting now Shayah, come forth,
      I'm ready now Shayah, come forth.

As she pushes, forcing her way up,
Rising through the molten embers,
The ugliness of hate,
That she harbours within,
Can be seen etched with scars upon her face.
      Come forth now Shayah, come forth.

With concentration and steadiness of hand,
The blacksmith's eye is focused
Up the edge of the blade to the tip of his raised sword.
He stands poised, waiting.
Waiting for the moment.
Then, with all his might and strength,
He thrusts his sword
Into the witch's tumourous flesh,
Piercing her heart, skewering her soul:
And just beneath the surface of her twisted being,
Puss-like globules
Exude from her flesh,
In the form of spite and scorn,
Erupting like a molten furnace,
Filling, overflowing,
Pushing their way out from beneath her skin:
And the strangers chant:
      We pity you Shayah, we pity you.

Her face and body are cracking, breaking up,
Dripping, spilling,
Melting like candle wax.
Deep within the chasms below,
The gates of the underworld crack open,
Releasing from the bowels of hell
Death hounds and demons,
Pulling Shayah down,
Down into the molten fire,
As if she were sinking in quick sand.
Slowly, bit by bit, she disappears, under its surface,
Consumed, devoured by the fiery, gaping mouth of hell;
Thrown into its pit of torment,
Banished for all eternity.
      We pity you Shayah, we pity you.

Graduallly, a peace and calm
Filter through the blacksmith's forge,
Forcing back the pungent mist,
And releasing the sword
From his tightened grip,
He lets it fall,
Fall into the molten fire.
      We pity you Shayah, we pity you,
      we pity you Shayah no more.

Words by Kevan Koya

This poem is dedicated to Pee Jay

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Blacksmith

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Gate

Copyright Kevan Koya

Last Updated 10/05/2017