An Online Resource for Writers and Readers of Poetry in and around the City of Canterbury      ~      mail@canterburypoets.co.uk

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Lexi McCudden Biography: Louise McCudden lives in London, works in Media Communications, and she believes writing is often at it's best when it makes the reader question the most universal of moral absolutes. She is usually inspired by ordinary, everyday things which are connected to bigger issues, but she also likes writing as a way of creating something constructive from any emotion or situation, no matter how negative.

Narcissa, Medusa and Joan

Three women, all waiting for pardons,
Narcissa, Medusa and Joan,
spent most of their time in the Garden
enclosed by a circle of stone.

Narcissa was sent by her husband,
after punching a hole in the wall.
She said she was aiming for him, though,
and he wasn’t damaged at all.

He’d grown rather cross with her mirror,
the way it would shimmer and pout,
and make his wife light up, and glimmer,
well, of course the man started to shout!

If other men saw that reflection,
who knows what events might ensue!
He decided Narcissa’s complexion
was safer all battered and blue.

It was safety, as well, for Medusa.
For the rules, she had little regard.
It was in her own interests to move her
away from the men she made hard.

And Pope Joan was sent there by Jesus,
for daring to stand up as Pope.
And for hiding her lack of a penis
until biology just couldn’t cope.

There’s a reason why girls can’t be Pope, dear.
There’s an order to how these things go.
And a mirror is not a good lover.
And it’s your fault you turn men to stone.

Now, the Garden was glowing with sunshine,
so Narcissa slipped out of her shorts.
In the sunshine her curves looked like gold mines
to the shadowy figures indoors.

Medusa, cross-legged, by the oak tree,
keeping cool in its fatherly shade,
was surprised to see Joan running over,
and suggesting a plan to escape.

They shared the idea with Narcissa,
but she hadn’t noticed the walls.
She said, ‘We can swim in the river!’
No, she wasn’t bothered at all.

So they all got undressed, rather shyly,
except for Narcissa, who posed,
and reached out to stroke her reflection,
which shimmered, like watery gold.

Pope Joan had a plan to go fishing,
so they would have something to eat.
Narcissa dived in, and went swimming.
Medusa stared down at her feet.

‘Jump in, girl, jump in!’ called Narcissa.
‘Or sit here, with me?’ offered Joan.
But Medusa hid under the oak tree,
to sit in its shadow, alone.

‘What is it with her?’ asked Narcissa.
‘She hates us, perhaps?’ wondered Joan.
‘No, no! That’s all wrong!’ cried Medusa,
but she wouldn’t say why it was so.

Narcissa climbed out of the river,
and dried herself off in the sun.
But Medusa was starting to shiver,
and felt her nose starting to run.

Now Joan, who was watching Medusa,
and longing for someone to kiss,
was wondering whether to choose her,
then suddenly caught her first fish.

Medusa ran down to the river,
for now they had something to eat!
Joan pointed her hand at Narcissa;
Narcissa had fallen asleep.

They left her to lie there in comfort.
(perhaps she was trying to tan.)
‘Let’s split this in two,’ Pope Joan whispered,
‘and eat it as fast as we can.’

Narcissa awoke, feeling hungry,
her belly beginning to moan.
When Pope Joan explained what had happened,
she shouted, ‘I want to go home!’

‘But when we’re at home,’ said Medusa,
‘they do things to make us ashamed.’
‘Oh, speak for yourself!’ cried Narcissa,
‘we’re not all such miserable slaves!’

Narcissa flounced back to the river,
to see if her image had changed,
and Joan laced her hand through Medusa’s,
and asked what she meant by ‘ashamed.’

Medusa replied, ‘I’m a monster!
I did turn those men into stone!
I looked in their eyes, and I bled, oh!
Will you hear my confession, Pope Joan?’

‘I argued for my independence!
I told them I wouldn’t wear heels!
I grew hairy legs, hairy armpits,
and told them I couldn’t cook meals!’

Pope Joan laid a hand on her sister,
and kissed her, on each tender bruise.
‘I can’t be like you and Narcissa.
I’ve tried, Joan, I’ve tried! It’s no use!’

At these words, they looked at Narcissa,
crouched over, to kiss her own lips.
 But her head, it just bobbed in the river:
she had drowned, with a shimmering kiss.

Pope Joan raised a hand to her forehead,
And Medusa looked into her eyes;
Pope Joan gave a scream of pure horror,
and fell down, then peacefully died.

Medusa clutched Joan’s empty body;
a mass of unloveable stone,
then silently made for the oak tree,
to sit in its shadow, alone.




The Black Swan

He rises like a spectre from the lapping blackness.
I feel guilty for daring to stare.
He pounds the murky ripples with his wings
 and snaps his beak at me.

The pulsing moon tugs my blood
 and I scramble through the raging foam
  to meet the monster.
Salt on my lips, the wind on my tongue,
 my mouth is dry like rocks.

But my heart is wet like the ocean
 as the weird, eyeball pebbles peer down the coast.
So I run to him.

Blue-skinned, I plunge onwards,
 ignoring his pounding and snapping.
When I reach him, I see the salt in his eyes
 and drink him happy. 

But even as we float and shiver
 our cold grins fade
  and the dead grey horizon looms larger
   and closer
    than ever.


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