Living the Wheel: Seasonal Musings of the Pagan Year

Thoughts and musings of the wheel of the Pagan Year.

  • Home
    Home This is where you can find all the blog posts throughout the site.
  • Tags
    Tags Displays a list of tags that have been used in the blog.
  • Bloggers
    Bloggers Search for your favorite blogger from this site.
  • Login
    Login Login form

Songs for Ophelia by Theodora Goss: a Review

     I have been given an opportunity to read and review author Theodora Goss' newest book, Songs for Ophelia, due in stores soon. This is an exquisite volume of poetry, mystical, mythical, fantastical, even spiritual, a must-read, and I thought I would share my review here, so others might have the opportunity to read this volume themselves.


     My advanced review copy of Theodora Goss' exquisite volume Songs for Ophelia is something I will treasure, even after I purchase a copy of the book. One can never have too many books, provided they are ones we love, of course. And multiple copies of the same title? Let us call it collector's insurance. (Hence my two copies of Under the Lilacs and three Jane Eyre.) So two collections of these beautiful, fantastical, even spiritual poems, one digital, one bound, grants me twice the magic, feeling and beauty of Theodora Goss' words. I will have two keys to the kingdom, a realm of dreams, otherworldly mists and confectionary-like castles of dreaming maidens and hopeful princes.

     Like her stunning book In the Forest of Forgetting, Theodora Goss has again created a masterpiece of lyrical elegance, giving readers a glimpse through the magic mirror into the artist's heart. It is a beautiful place.

     We read of heartbroken brides, reminiscent of Keats' La Belle Dame Sans Merci: 'The willow was once a bride, and dressed herself in white...She wandered by the river, her eyes grown dull and wild/ her satin gown gone ragged, her white feet bruised and bare...on she silently dances, according to decree/ with the wind for her bridegroom...'

     We are introduced to the Elf-King's daughter, the veritable Spirit of nature; a maiden who finds solace in the river's embrace, and goblins who cavort and caper on springtime hillsides. Imprisoned queens sing morning songs and the Lady of the Corn meets with her mortal love.

     We enter woods, dark, secret, where lie pools still and deep, disturbed only by a graceful beckoning hand, and only bones are left to tell the tale.

      The Marshes brought to mind Charles De Lint's short story The Moon is Drowning While I Sleep; the image of the moon lighting pools here, casting reeds into shadows there, is so clear you do not just read the words. You feel the cool night air, you smell the damp mossy pools: 'The marshes call/ the marshes so wild/ all yellow under the moon/ and the small green frogs/ raise their heads from the slime/ to croak a beckoning tune.'

      Fairy Tale denies description. You are there in the grove, listening to the plash and play of the fountain, bathing in the scent of orange blossoms. You are the princess of this fairy tale.

      We walk the ruined paths of Eden, listen to the ghosts of monks' chants, and follow Isolde through the forest. We listen to the rain and lament summer's passing. Later we will climb the Mountains of Never and dream of the pomegranates and olive trees of the south with a bear's daughter.

      We read of raven men who, like the selkies of the north, capture the hearts of humans until such time as they find their cast-off skins and return to the world they knew before.

      The words are redolent of  Emily Dickinson as we read of the last night a dear one lived: 'The last night that she lived/ I scarcely felt her breath/ She wandered vacant-eyed/ the misty hills of death...How noiselessly she went!' We are given an elegantly Victorian view of death in Dirge for a Lady: 'Lay her in lavender...lavender preserves the lovely and the white...Look how her hands are turned to alabaster...How frail, this arrangement of elegant dry dust.' We attend a ball draped in rich velvets, hosted by Death Herself, and witness Narcissus' decay.

     'The songs are done, said the singer...and since the singer left/ we jangle and we start/ all toneless now and reft/ the lutestrings of the heart.'

      I shall say no more, my friends; I feel you are so, for if you are readers of Theodora Goss then we are comrades of the heart. Read her words, and listen with me to the Songs for Ophelia.






Last modified on
I am a writer and poet living in western Massachusetts. I have a degree in English Lit, with a focus on the nineteenth century, and am working toward a degree in Women's Studies as well. My work has previously appeared in The Pagan Activist, The Pagan Review, GrannyMoon's Morning Feast, and The Montague Reporter. I am currently working on a series of children's books, a novel trilogy, and a poetry manuscript (I simply can't do one thing at a time!). I also have several random fantasy-based short story projects that I attack once in a while.   I am a Dianic Pagan and practice Kitchen Wicca, and am also a Reiki Master. For a glimpse into my own little corner of reality, you can stop in and visit me at Ellie.


  • Sarah Avery
    Sarah Avery Sunday, 29 June 2014

    I love Goss's work! When I start tutoring a new student, my favorite first assignment is Goss's "The Wings of Meister Wilhelm." This looks like a delicious new book. Thanks for calling it to our attention.

  • Please login first in order for you to submit comments

Additional information