Cerulean

My dearest Gyrfalcon and Orlan, to say that Ms Scarlett is 'fallen', is an insulting slight, to the girls of the night, gravity - and all underwear woollen. Even so - she's sung songs and poked lizards, with the grace of a sprite in a blizzard. Please divest her good name of that weeniedom bane, so we'll hear no more tosh from that dizzard!

Or better yet - wait until the kids are 18, then adopt, then wave them ba-bye as they leave home! Uhm, and Happy Birthday crystal, of course. Cerulean.

Happy Happy Happy Birthdayishes! Sorry I'm a tad late, I hope your days were fun and frolicky!

*Helga Hurtle zooms through the room leaving a monumental dust cloud behind her. When the air eventually clears, Blade Mistress spies a beribboned chickory stem, only slightly (and very delicately) nibbled. Cerulean cups her hand over her eyes and gazes into the distance toward the ever retreating carapace, then turns to Blade and smiles warmly.* 'Welcome to The Pen, I think this erm gift, may be for you. '

One of the unfortunate consequences of having been away from The Pen for so long is that I now know many of you far less well than you deserve, or whatever that hobbit said! *Cerulean scratches her head, smiles and hugs Mynx and Gryphon warmly*

Hi there, I liked the restlessness of this, the force of movement that resonates throughout. I enjoyed the way that you reflected both the compulsion to move and the necessity of moving along - when you don't belong. Thank you for posting, C.

Good news Falcon, I was very glad to read that things were picking up for you. I hope the lights at the end continue to outnumber the tunnels! C.

Unpopular shmopular! If you can assemble from my dissembling, you're something resembling heroic. I should write a couplet for you! Admiringly, Cerulean.

Hi, I liked the duality here, of the foregrounded normality and the menace in the background. I was reminded strongly of Auden's 'Musée des Beaux Arts' for the sense of significant things happening while real life is looking the other way. Cheers for the post, I enjoyed not understanding this! Cerulean.

I'm humbled by the talent of so many Pen members, especially those writing in their second language. Your tiny prepositional errors may distinguish you as a non-native speaker, but your artistry and competence distinguish you with altogether more fanfare as an extremely skilled writer. Thank you for 'sketching'. C.

An appreciation: I wanted to post and say how very much I enjoyed reading this. Perhaps I'm predisposed to respond positively to any writing which includes cats, but this was certainly a beautifully painted piece to my eye. The economy of the first paragraph was admirable, given the descriptive bounty within. I loved the concept and execution of the lynx, the boundaries of its influence and the definition and method of its existence. I thought you pinned down the cat's movement, purpose and manner effortlessly. Your language, like the creature, carrying the conceit forward. (Although I'm well aware that writing that appears effortless is frequently the child of devout labour.) 'not caring of the glimpses various mortals on various planes had of him' I would say 'not caring about' here, to match what I see as your intended meaning, although the word fits the sentence less gracefully being polysyllabic. You could also say 'not caring for', but I think this gives the sentence a negative slant, rather than the uninterested one you described originally. The second paragraph contains my favourite line of the entire passage, I think. 'The whiteness was natural, the dirty white of snow and ice, of wintry rabbits and drifting clouds.' This sentence captures the essence of the cat's appearance for me. The loveliness of the language lies in its simplicity and rhythm. Thank you. I wish I'd written that. Another deft word-selection I wanted to pick out was 'scarce' in the preceding line, nice choice. For me it is through such linguistic precision that effective imagery is built. I've been long pondering your choice of the phrase 'hinted to'. You know how it is when you see subtle writing, you consider whether the language, slanted slightly askance, was a deliberate grammar blur. I understand your meaning completely, but still want to read hinted at or hinted toward. The first is the grammatical norm, the second I can't explain, just that it seems to fit better. I don't think I've ever seen the phrase hinted to to mean suggest, so it delayed me in my reading. By the end of the second paragraph I felt that you'd expertly characterised the cat and the realm through which it moved. I especially enjoyed the impressionistic sweep of the periphery, solidifying only as the lynx travelled nearer to the core. Your writing was tight, careful without being self-conscious and very poetic in places. Your instinct with the auditory properties of language is apparent too. This piece benefits from being read aloud, providing another layer to enjoy alongside this reader's appreciation of the visual scenes you seek to represent. When I moved onto and through the Grail Glade, I appreciated the contrast of course and was intrigued by the man sitting there. I liked the phrase 'his mouth half-open as if he had been about to say something for a long time, now.' I read a preoccupation where time's passing was external and insignificant. I thought you broke the rapture naturally and intelligently.. The subsequent interchanges between the people drew me less powerfully than the padding cat. I am certain the fault here is with my knowledge and preferences, however, and not your writing. I need to gen up on my Dreamer history to slot all characters into appropriate places. Perhaps then I'll have a keener understanding and appreciation. My final favourite phrase has to be 'drafted onto empty air'. Once more simple, but beautifully telling. Again, thank you for sharing your work.

Hi Drummondo, I've come back to this poem a few times today, each consideration has provided me with a different scenario to contemplate and a further enjoyable read. Thank you for that. *applauds wildly* I loved your opening particularly, although it was one of many thoughtfully expressed lines. I can see in the base metaphor a question of acceptance/ rejection, but this worked for me too on a level of political or geographical integration and dissolution. Additionally, I was reminded of 60/70s Britain, Enoch Powell's 'Rivers of Blood' speech and the subsequent tapestry of subtle inclusions and exclusions humankind weaves daily. You have sufficient ambiguity here, to permit the reader's individual interpretation, micro or macro. I admired that. I won't presume to guess your intentions as the writer, but rather congratulate you on a stimulating read, which caused me to do a bit of research and thinking. (Never a bad thing, I'm a lazybones. ) Having observed your feedback preferences, could I speak from the pov of a snowy squirrel now: My only nit is that fawns are such easy victims. I immediately pictured Bambi and was welling up even before the denouement! I feel the true strength of this piece lies in the interplay of understatement and nuance. The use of fawns weakened the mindscape imho and led me directly to a conclusion instead of allowing me to search tentatively for it myself. As I say, one small personal nit in a very accomplished piece. Once again, thanks for posting. I'm enjoying exploring your work. C

Venefyxatu, your translation was brilliant! I wouldn't be surprised if Wrights pies had rats in them either! Katz, you know the saying 'bad in bed' is so entrenched, for meaning ill in my mind, that I swear I pored over your post for ages, trying desperately to see where the humour lay! Needless to say I get it now lol - and simply cannot believe I never noticed that before! Talk about not seeing the wood for the trees! And confession number two is that I indeed have bummed many a fag in days gone by. People certainly said it where I'm from! Lady Celes, I'm terribly sorry for having caused you eyestrain and brain-bleed. *passes glass of medicinal porto and settles two or three cats into the esteemed Lady's lap for added comfort* Here is the meaning of the conversation for you! - Tow rate ark? Are you all right our kid? (little brother) - Ar, at they? Yes, are you? - Arm owrate burrem famished I'm all right but I'm famished - Ar, ar am 'n ow! Yes, I am as well (as well = and all --> an' all --> 'n ow) Lets goo 'n get some rates pies Let's go and get some Wright's pies (local delicacy *cough* ) - A conna, ar onna gorenny money I can't, I haven't got any money - Nar, ar onna ayther No I haven't either - Weerst toffter? Where are you going? (off to) - Arm gooin wom, at cummin? I'm going home, are you coming? - Nar, a conna, arve got stee eer! No, I can't, I've got to stay here - Ast? Warsthat? Have you, why's that? - Eest pee dee t'dee, n may mum's bad in bed, n arve gorra weet fer me fayther mak sure ay goos street wom! It's pay day today and my mum's ill in bed, and I've got to wait for my father to make sure he goes straight home (and not to the pub to spend all his wages! ) Drummondo - not Newcastle, no. At least not the one on Tyneside. It's a bit further South than that. I grew up with the Potteries on one side and the Peak District on the other, so the accents I heard were a hybrid of Stoke and North Staffordshire. Not so far away from your good self in fact. And Wyvern, you scaly scallywag, yet another brilliant post! Arrrrr! *Scarlett sidles in wearing only an eye-patch and a parrot! In her best demure and dulcet tones :woot: she recites a Dorothy Parker poem for Wyvie, accompanying each verse with a huge theatrical wink!* Song of Perfect Propriety: Oh, I should like to ride the seas, A roaring buccaneer; A cutlass banging at my knees, A dirk behind my ear. And when my captives' chains would clank I'd howl with glee and drink, And then fling out the quivering plank And watch the beggars sink. I'd like to straddle gory decks, And dig in laden sands, And know the feel of throbbing necks Between my knotted hands. Oh, I should like to strut and curse Among my blackguard crew.... But I am writing little verse, As little ladies do. Oh, I should like to dance and laugh And pose and preen and sway, And rip the hearts of men in half, And toss the bits away. I'd like to view the reeling years Through unastonished eyes, And dip my finger-tips in tears, And give my smiles for sighs. I'd stroll beyond the ancient bounds, And tap at fastened gates, And hear the prettiest of sound- The clink of shattered fates. My slaves I'd like to bind with thongs That cut and burn and chill.... But I am writing little songs, As little ladies will. *Seeing the almost dragon's shoulders bobbing up and down with mirth at the idea of Scarlett and propriety appearing in the same sentence, let alone the same post, Harpy darts in to check whether the lizard's laughter has dislodged any rolls of coins...*

I was browsing and came upon a site which contained phonetically transcribed dialects from my neck of the woods. I don't really feel much affiliation with England having been away for so long, but this little snippet of local conversation caused a pang or two. I hope you enjoy it - and it'd be cool if you had a go at 'translating' too! - Tow rate ark? - Ar, at they? - Arm owrate burrem famished - Ar, ar am 'n ow! - Lets goo 'n get some rates pies - A conna, ar onna gorenny money - Nar, ar onna ayther - Weerst toffter? - Arm gooin wom, at cummin? - Nar, a conna, arve got stee eer! - Ast? Warsthat? - Eest pee dee t'dee, n may mum's bad in bed, n arve gorra weet fer me fayther mak sure ay goos street wom! Now I really want to write something in dialect myself hehe! *scrabbles through memories* Cerulean - that daft lass.

Glossalot quietened overhead like a thought bubble. Glossa disassociated frenulum and lapped ocelot under and within. Now was not the time for catspiteclawflashy. No, it would settle, observe and assess. Draping one hanging participle around a branch for balance, it caterpillared papillae forwards, hooking a question mark fore and aft for further purchase. Its rubbery sucker-cups chivvied and puckered, until the creature oscillated rhythmically on the very tip of a leaf shoot. Stringing alphabetical missiles like pearls, it forked extremities to attention, licked cat-internal, conjugated a battle-cry and waited.

I would like both a tongue-hinge and a self-regulating glottal-cat-flap. (Where's Wyvern when you need him? ) For sounds though, not cats. Although a partially digested feline would be more melodic than my clacking, hacking trilling muddle. I'm learning Arabic and Swedish together, oh what a mellifluous beast I birth. * Wren! I knew it! It's in the blood. IKEA GENES! Aldous Huxley is finally vindicated. Brave New World Indeed. * Scarlett contemplates the benefits of having some Swede in her too. Cerulean contemplates the irony of this having been posted in the Assembly Room. *

Skystory Days as long as this should break the rules of those who make their living watching skies. They grant us empty seconds for our tools, then press them into clocks that issue sighs so ghostly, measuring out in careful parts each avenue to course throughout our lives. In light it’s time to eat, to work - til dark slips recklessly across the sky, with knives. Each flash a twilit falsehood to eclipse the saddening reminder of times past. These stars that drink the dark with little sips an age ago burnt out, and drank their last. Observing shades, I slow my second hand, recalling daybreak’s subtle reprimand. __________________________________________________________ A reworked version of a poem originally posted in the Archmage Conservatory forum.

Hi Gwai It was a response to a thread Vlad started a while back ~Linky~ -just seemed like a great idea for a pome lol. I must write more DDs when I get around to it!

Here's wishing you a fabulous day Wyv. Hope it's full of hugs, cake and geld! Best wishes from the red one, the blue one and me.

Wren I think you have it sussed. (Are you part Swedish perchance? lol ) I shall definitely try that myself next time. I may not end up with something functional, but it could be a talking point in my house for months! I'm glad you enjoyed reading. Thanks for saying so. Falcon - I have its twin in my bathroom. Mine is far too wibbly to trust it with books though, so I keep little dishes of pot pourri on it. I can't think of anything lighter and less of a risk! And Lord Starlight - lovely to meet you You get out from behind that shelving unit immediately sir! Because if it's one I've put up it'll probably fall on you! After I'd finished screaming with laughter, and then just screaming I thought about it properly. You could invite your friends round, combine Twister with strip poker and all assemble furniture naked in odd positions. Yes I'm weird, I know. *slaps self hard* I agree with you about the pictures in the instruction booklets. Seemed daft to me too. In any case, I for one am not a jot bothered if they show men, women, elk or hamsters assembling the furniture in the pictures, since I know they're only cartoons and they couldn't do it any better than me in reality! Dosh = money - sorry, my Brit-slang. Karma for your post, och krama for yourself and Tzim. C.

Oh yes Z! Underneath that appreciative, gentle, tolerant, friendly, socially- responsible exterior writhes a hotbed of vicious despots I'm telling ya! *sniggers too* (For anyone still having doubts, I think Sweden's extremely cool, and I don't mean just the weather. ) *Cerulean turns to Gryphon and laughs with him about the pain of self-assembly. * I loved your explanation of the instructions. It really does feel sometimes that they're in a completely different language. When I saw IKEA rapped over the knuckles for their instruction booklets recently I thought their time had come to face their maker (pun fully intended!) but oh no, the hue and cry was concerned with women being under-represented in the assembly diagrams.

From last year's travels ~ Alternatively titled: Sweden's polite way of terrorising the gullible. Now some may allege I'm a tad critical of Sweden - having moved to this icicle hell from the somewhat sunnier climes of the Middle East. Bias aside, however, I seriously believe Swedes are secretly villainous Vikings bent on world domination by dint of a portfolio of sinister plans. Said plans reveal a startling degree of ingenuity and cunning, discernible only to the practised eye... Bear with me. A nation whose people keep and eat rotted herring willingly, yet export top-notch vodka in huge quantities, simply has to have an agenda. First off, they implemented the Nobel Peace Prize to give themselves street-cred and sufficient international approbation to globally popularise meatballs and beetroot... spot the buoyant Scandinavian economy anyone? Next, they lulled the English speaking world into complacency by including a few common sounding words in their language, like 'bra' and 'tack' - which although representing 'good' and 'thanks' didn't panic us because we could confidently pronounce them. It was within our smug cocoon of linguistic complacency that they then suddenly thwapped us with a medley of lilting diphthongs no god-fearing person should ever have to encounter. Having left us reeling - totally unable to say the word 'seven' (try 'hwhu' with an energetically breathy beginning and an accented nasal contortion, simultaneously flapping tongue against palate - and you may approximate it sufficiently well that onlookers merely snigger and point at you...) they then flaunt a few world-class winter sports stars, ABBA and a selection of classy porn to distract our attention completely... Finally, with world suspicion averted, and the self-confidence only a nation of natural blondes can muster, they slap up an IKEA store in every major city on the planet and in the whiff of a vanilla candle, seduce an unsuspecting public with dreams of stripped pine and coordinating bed linen. We poor fools queue for hours in order to purchase several very heavy boxes of planks to transport home and assemble ourselves. Except we can't assemble them, can we? How many more people must crawl round a precariously ledged pine bar, before steps are taken? How many more puzzled and dejected punters will waste endless Sunday afternoons rotating small blurred drawings on instruction sheets? This cruelty has to stop. I've got your number, Sweden old chum. It was an almost failsafe plan, meticulously hatched and executed with magnificent aplomb. But I'm onto you now. No more can you Swedes flit behind discreetly lit shelving units, chuckling. Your economy will never see another kronor from my pocket. I have already lost my temper, my dosh, and my dignity. I've rallied screws like troops, and still have one left over. (It's sitting next to the 2 dowel plugs that are also left over.) Before this horrendous debacle I considered myself relatively competent. I now know better. Next time I'll lop a spruce and slap myself with the branches. That would be an altogether happier alternative. (Oh and on the off chance there is anyone who can make it to Linköping with a philip's screwdriver, a tube of wood glue and a non-patronising attitude…)

My Favourite Things Prismatic spangles of sunlight on water. Pink, gritty sand and NUFC slaughter. Fume-cupboard foolery, angels sans wings, These are a few of my favourite things. Chamonix snowballs and noble alliance. Cold swirly gubbins or mint-tea defiance. Loire Valley aliads, cycles and swings, these are a few of my favourite things. Heads-on-spikes RP beyond Jebel Dhanna. Swimbo v FatK and rough stuff (with manners.) Karma, chirality, dates dried in strings, these are a few of my favourite things. When the kids fizz, when the roach roars, when I'm feeling sad. I simply remember my favourite things - And then I don't feel so bad! ________________________________ Written for an Archmage Ally, Silexion.

*bump* A thought-provoking read. Well observed, cleverly punning and an audio version to boot! Great job. Thanks for posting. C.

A Duet Cerulean: Oh Harpy would you walk this way and join me in my musing? I’m trying to define romance and finding it confusing. Does it gain lift from thoughtful gifts, or kisses bathed in star-shine? Do daisies know when plucked just so, exactly who will be mine? It really is a puzzling quest , I find the task gigantic, I think without your input dear, that it will make me frantic! Scarlett: I have no use for candy hearts, red roses or a sonnet. Just keep your carpet stretching yards with petals strewn upon it. I’ll shrug if I’m bedecked with pearls while men swoon at my graces, and I shall yawn if every dawn sees duels at 40 paces. Plain cash or cheque will do for me (or check if you’re pedantic.) And that’s not brash or lacking class, it’s merely unromantic. Cerulean: But Scarlett! (Cerulean cried) that's simply not an answer! So if you're paid, you're not dismayed, if he's an awful dancer? You don't think that a lingering look is utterly disarming? And Peredhilian politesse is absolutely charming? Come on my dear, speak without fear of what you find enticing, If love's a fresh-baked home-made cake, then romance is the icing. Scarlett: She sighs and stares and pulls her hair, at Cerulean's thinking. I just know this - it's not remiss to get that coinage clinking. You take your cakes and fond keepsakes and I'll add up his earnings. Romance of sorts is found in noughts, pro rata to my yearnings. If love's the song to which we dance, it's really not surprising, That I conclude with a non-rich dude: just why the heck should I sing?