by: Louise Anne Buchler , May 14, 2019
by: Louise Anne Buchler , May 14, 2019
Age 10 I discover a book on witchcraft in the public library and slip it between the folds of an astrid lindgren novel this strange book with its spells and incantations and hags who transform into beautiful maidens and crows and owls and a recipe for dying one’s hair black but only under the light of the full moon and only with the eggs of thirteen ravens; and the birds fly off the page in a hitchcockian nightmare and i remember being excited and terrified by this strange magick so i hid the book under my bed and i poured over it only when i was sure i was alone because something very deep inside me knew that books like this were powerful and that something about possessing it could rub off on me; and at 10 you already think you’re disgusting and you know enough of the world to know that no one needs much of any kind of excuse to come at you and if you’re reading books on witches you may as well resign yourself to solitude or a coven because that shit rubs off and the last thing you need your mother to call you is evil because you’re already loud and kinda common and you haven’t learnt to sit with your legs closed when wearing a dress and you know just enough of the world and men who seemingly are the world to know there’s some kind of magic in your panties even if they use it against you even if they call you CUNT and they burn women you know they burn women you know they burn and so i return the book and try to sleep with the light off behind the oblivion of whiteness and beyond my mother’s lace curtains the cinders of settlements burn – in sweetwater’s in henley dam and i play the theme of the deerhunter and wear my mother’s peach nightdress and imagine myself anne frank in her last days weak and dying of typhoid and my childhood is littered with the bodies of defiant women but i keep them close slipped under my tongue i suck on them like peppermints because i am the keeper of witches and i know how to light the fire the trick to surviving see is always to offer up the first match
Rosemary Woodhouse consumes chocolate mousse from the creepy as fuck Castevets and hallucinates being fucked by the devil like all women from the beginning of time, Rosemary Woodhouse (even though she sports a boyish haircut) is tainted by the carnal and so it would seem only fitting that a demonic presence would sew its seed in her womb. Rosemary -waifish and confined to her New York apartment grows wan and is the victim of gaslighting and devil rape. Rosemary Woodhouse is an incubator for the dark lord and looks super swell in oversized maternity dresses – she lives on a diet of morning sickness, paranoia and develops a taste for blood, raw meat and chicken livers. Rosemary Woodhouse cannot explain what is happening to her and is spiralling into madness until Grace Cardiff gives her a book on witchcraft and it is then that Rosemary discovers the spell in the form of an anagram and solves the puzzle to her living nightmare.
and you with your Mesopotamian eye
godhead on your sickle-back
good luck cloven hoofed wunderkind sage scented parapraxis
on the steps of the Basilica in broken Balkan dialect
hammer toed arthritic downward dog cobra crone
traffic light sentry
face as hard as a carved ashtray
eyes burn in Keatsian nightmare
pissing over the gutter
shape shifting Magdalena
keeper of dried herbs and monkey skulls
augur of things to come
devil temptress, egg thief, child thief, hag, witch–bitch, womb as barren as the Gobi
who is the keeper of all our magick
Baloi, Abathakati 
love thy neighbour with my korobela  kinda love spell
witches upon witches
sinister matryoshka dolls
harbingers of misfortune
I’m sleeping with bricks under my bed
she sends a tokoloshe 
he’s as small as a dwarf
everyone has seen him
nothing worse than growing into an ugly old crone
prowling the gardens of strangers all hyena-swag and Isidliso 
it’s a frightful thing wisdom
they’re gonna smell it on you like sex
they’ll burn you for less
 In Sesotho and Zulu these are plural names for witches.
 A love spell that forces the bewitched to fall in love with someone regardless of their personal inclinations.
 Small, strange creature that does the witch’s bidding.
 Spells of misfortune–illness, death, divorce, loss of income etc.
WHO SUPPORTS US
The team of MAI supporters and contributors is always expanding. We’re honoured to have a specialist collective of editors, whose enthusiasm & talent gave birth to MAI.
However, to turn our MAI dream into reality, we also relied on assistance from high-quality experts in web design, development and photography. Here we’d like to acknowledge their hard work and commitment to the feminist cause. Our feminist ‘thank you’ goes to:
Dots+Circles – a digital agency determined to make a difference, who’ve designed and built our MAI website. Their continuous support became a digital catalyst to our idealistic project.
Guy Martin – an award-winning and widely published British photographer who’s kindly agreed to share his images with our readers
Chandler Jernigan – a talented young American photographer whose portraits hugely enriched the visuals of MAI website
Matt Gillespie – a gifted professional British photographer who with no hesitation gave us permission to use some of his work
Julia Carbonell – an emerging Spanish photographer whose sharp outlook at contemporary women grasped our feminist attention
Ana Pedreira – a self-taught Portuguese photographer whose imagery from women protests beams with feminist aura
And other photographers whose images have been reproduced here: Cezanne Ali, Les Anderson, Mike Wilson, Annie Spratt, Cristian Newman, Peter Hershey