The Handless Maiden In Verse - Part 1

Monthly poems serializing a classic tale in verse...

Feb 07, 2025

Dear friends,

Thank you so much for stepping into this little corner of the poetry world. :)

I’m very eager & excited to share that for the next year or so, I’ll be telling a single story in 11 parts, one each month. This story will be The Handless Maiden in verse!

The Handless Maiden is a German myth/fairytale I’ve loved for years. I first learned it from Michael McRay via Becoming Restoried, who learned it from the wonderful mythologist, Martin Shaw. I’ve written extensively about my time in the Becoming Restoried program, and you can find those journals here!

I truly cannot wait to write these poems & share them with you.

Please feel free to share this ‘poetriesletter’ with a friend, your network, or social media (or gift them a subscription)!

You can also check out my about page to see how this Substack is changing—what’s for subscribers only, what’s for paid subscribers, etc.

I know a lot is going on right now & I know you feel its residue, too. So I wanted to share some newsletters that help me stay informed (but grounded) amid the slush of social media: The On Canada Project (for other fantastic Substacks, you can see which ones I read & recommend here), The 1440, Reimagined, Collective Rest, Al Jazeera, and SAPIENS.

I hope you enjoy this month’s poem, recording, and photos.

Take gentle, tender care & speak soon.

Gratefully,

1) A black & white photograph of a photograph, which contains a large sign on the side of the road reading: "HELLO STRANGER" in capital letters. 2) A scattered pile of multi-coloured books overlayed with sheer, green pattered cloth. 3) A black & white photograph of café chairs & tables crammed against a wall. 4) Scattered, multi-coloured books. 5) A black & white photograph of a wooden deck in an alleyway. Lights are strung across both the deck & alleyway. 6) An ink drawing of a map of a fantasy land. 7) A black & white photograph of two chairs & a table next to a window. A neon sign reading "coffee" is above them. 8) A black, mauve, and dark green watercolour painting of a bare forest. Beneath the painting are the words "magic forest" in calligraphy. 9) A black & white photograph of the roof of an ornate building, mirroring itself at the top & bottom of the image. — Photos were taken & shared by the wonderful Lida Pavlova (@lidapavlova_magic on Instagram).

The Handless Maiden - Part 1

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Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

Hold my hand, cresting the ripples 
of a campfire's time; as ghosts
among its smoke, they cannot see us.

Look across, not down, upon
a thick forest, no more now
than a shadow made of dead
spiders on their backs—spikes of dark,
damp wood that cannot burn.

At the edge, see a young man
by our measure, forty, a gifted miller,
scraped hollow and raw in spirit
and home by a greedy prince's domain.

Two tears fall for a wife and daughter,
who remember the warm wellbeing
that once wreathed them, 
soft like the Spring that the forest has
not recoiled in years.

Lonely among an Earth
that can no longer awaken
in the steam of its weeping, 
the Miller climbs
the black bones of an oak, looking
for any kindling that might be
breeze-blown cold enough
—dry enough—to catch fire.

And as he searches he climbs higher.
And as he climbs higher
he looks down more tenderly.

Please know the mud below
would have appeared irresistably tender
had so much as a simple snowflake fallen 
to further wet the wood that
the Miller desperately reached for.

But as he looked down, the Miller saw
a figure nearly indestiguishable
from the echo of trunks, watching, craving

to let it be known that he was walking
away with the wickedness
of those who fall for fool's faith: that
conformity might save them. 

     (And, my dear, 
     I am very sure,
     that of this part of the story
     you've never heard before.

     Blood truces, you see, 
     only last so long...these two
     have been brothers, all along.)

And thus, as if its reflection, 
the figure walked toward the tree
that our Miller, perched in above,
did not grip tightly enough.

Cloaked in cherry tree bark
as thin as if by potato peeler,
his face was concealed, and
his slithered stride so smooth
that the leaves did not crunch.

"There are better choices, 
you see," he said in a slithering,
hissing voice, once beneath the tree.

Our Miller narrowed his eyes
and didn't say anything.

"Do you not trust me, brother?"

The Miller squinted hard, finally 
recognizing the transparent face of his dead 
brother, tilted up beneath a hood.

The Miller shook his head, afraid, 
his eyes asking how on God's Earth, 
no longer green enough for the question,
his brother could return again. 

"Oh, old Slyth cannot witness
his brother so..."

"Tell me the real reason." 

"Well, you will not be surprised
to know I made a grand deal."

Slyth smiled with teeth so sharp
they crafted a dripping, shadow-like
charcoal blood down his thin chin.

The Miller's brows raised,
waiting for more.

"A few deals ago
I gathered dark magic,
as you know,
and my only way
to renounce it—to rest— 
is to aid another soul. 

I choose you, of course."

The Miller climbed down
from the tree just now.

"What are you saying?"

"I will restore what once was.
In fact, it is done with zest:
your wealth is now replenished."

The Miller looked around him.
Nothing had changed
aside from a dense stillness as if
a spell had been cast.

Knowing his brother in life, 
and unsure of him in death, he asked,
"And you wish for nothing in return?"

Sweetening his voice, Slyth said,
"Oh no, of course not. You know 
I would choose no one but you."

The Miller looked into the hard,
red, dead eyes of his brother.

"Has this freed you? Or is there more?"

"Well, a gift from life, in return,
reverses any sin, so I have learned."

The Miller smirked with
familiar playfulness.

Slyth continued, "Might I take whatever
is behind your house at this moment?"

"Hm. Our rotting apple tree—so fitting
to free your sinful soul, brother."

"Yes, precisely. 
It is perfect."

"And you will finally leave us
alone after this, too?
No more haunting?"

"Of course, dearest.
You have always been the better
of us, preferred of us, and this, 
well, this is the best news. 
At last I have slinked out of my mess,
no stone unturned, as you say of peace."

The Miller grinned, now unable
to grasp his excitement
to return to his cottage.

"I confess I will stop by next Tuesday
to collect this precious gift."

"Shall I uproot the tree for you?"

"Oh, no, that will not be necessary.
You know what deal you struck
and with who you have struck it. 
Do you not?" 

The Miller chuckled, refreshed
by his brother's riddled cleverness.

Slyth tipped the top of his cloak hood
as if it were a brimmed hat, and 
vanished faster than safety.

The Miller shivered, believing it
to be Spring's earliest breeze.

To Be Continued...