Yui-chan

Hrm. Did that mess up the page format?

 

Uh-oh...

~Yui

 

EDIT: Oh, whew. It's fine.

Well, I wrote this up a while ago for my journal, but I thought that it was especially appropriate for the thread. This is our new kitten and his arch-nemesis, our older cat.

 

Let me set the scene for you: It's Saturday. A nice, sunny Saturday about a week before Halloween. Our intrepid heroine (duhduhDAH!) and her trusty sidekick (Valyth) are racing through the seedy streets of town, intent upon foiling evil-doers and obtaining nutritional supplements for poor, hungry Psychomutt. Tires squealing and afterbunners in full flow, they careen their way through the labyrinthine parking lot of what looks like a simple PetSmart, unaware even as they park that things are not as they seem.

 

You see, this particular PetSmart is only a facade, a cruel illusion held over the very Gates of Torment themselves, and within the deceptive steel-and-concrete edifice lives a force unlike any the world has known before, a Power that will launch our unsuspecting heroes into a battle that will leave them forever changed. He is...

 

 

Pictures of his nefarious deeds follow, and I will warn you now that they are not for the faint of heart. Deadly Cute and a vicious tendency to Nibble are the least of this fuzzy villain's weapons, all of which he used against our unsuspecting heroes. Though our cameras were there to witness the foul events, some of our most stalewart crewmembers were maimed or injured during the encounter.

 

Continue reading at your own risk, for what follows can only be called a pictorial account of Unspeakable Acts.

 

Read through the Rhapsody series...uh...Fantasy and Romance....uh....uh....yeeeaaaahhh.... Though I LOVE Achmed and Grunthor...Rhapsody herselve made me want to gouge my eyes out from time to time. I can understand the heroine needing to be naieve in romance novels but there's a limit to naievete that even the basic 4 year old can pass. That being said I bought the rest of the books in the series and have them in my queue

Well, I tried that series. I got about halfway through the second book before Rhapsody's irritating personality had me tearing my hair out AND gouging my eyes out. I gave up and haven't looked back. I wished the books were more about Achmed, myself. He was fascinating, especially as you dig deeper into the second book.

 

I picked up the Dresden Files books, by the prementioned Jim Butcher....wholly crap did I love them.

Aegon really loved those books, too. Have you checked out the TV series?

 

I can get verbose about books, so let me spare you with a list of good series and authors I'd recommend you look into:

 

1) Carol Berg - We have a lot of her books. As you say, many of them are in the queue. But I have read and ADORED the Transformation series. (Transformation, Revelation, and Restoration) Extremely highly recommended.

 

2) Barbara Campbell's Heartwood - It's a touching and interesting book. Actually, I've always been surprised by how much I liked it. On the surface, it doesn't seem like an amazingly interesting or unique plot. But the writing and the execution really make it stand out. Plus, it's a sweet story of brotherly love and devotion. It's her first book. I haven't read the second one (unrelated to Heartwood).

 

3) Juliet Marillier - If you like romance and fantasy and history all wrapped up together, you'll probably love her Sevenwaters Trilogy. She's an excellent writer. I have more of her books in my queue, but my mother-in-law has already read them and adored them. Also, Aegon is currently working his way through the Bridei Chronicles (starts with Dark Mirror) and loving those books, too. At the minimum, I highly recommend the Sevenwaters Trilogy: Daugher of the Forest, Son of Shadows, and Child of the Prophecy.

 

4) Catherine Asaro - Another great series for romance and fantasy together, as well as a really cool magic system, would be her Aronsdale books. It's a set that starts with The Charmed Sphere. There's a main trilogy and more recently another kind of side-story fantasy / romance short novel that explores the futures of a couple of the more important supporting characters. They're all love stories set in a fantasy / medieval world. Well-written, though the setting is just a little bland with the exception of the magic system, which I thought was really interesting. The characters and character development are definitely the backbone of these books.

 

5) Jacqueline Carey - Her Kushiel's series has got to be the most twisted and indirect love story that I've ever read, but it's absolutely fascinating. The main character is a god-gifted super sexual-masochist, "one pricked by Kushiel's Dart, chosen to forever experience pain and pleasure as one." No, it's not soft-core literary pr0n. It certainly involves sexuality and sexual situations, but I have great respect for the subtle and tasteful ways in which I felt the author conveyed the reality of her main character's life without turning her book into a S&M smutfest. If you think you are the type of person who's comfortable with the pretty much constant undertones of sexual situations and manipulations (she is a 'priestess of sex', essentially), then this is a very interesting and unique trilogy to read.

 

6+) There are a ton of fantasy authors that Aegon reads. He's gone a lot deeper into the genre than I have, has been reading it far longer. So since I have only read a handful of these others, and often only one book, I'll just finish off with a list of authors that I know Aegon would recommend you to explore:

 

David Gemmel

David Eddings (Definitely read the Belgariad)

George R.R. Martin

Melanie Rawn

Deborah Chester

Piers Anthony (Phaze series, Incarnations of Immortality series)

Janny Wurtz

Jack Whyte

L.E. Modessit, Jr.

Katherine Kerr

Robin Hobb

David Farland

Neil Gaiman

 

... and hopefully that's enough to get you started. Our library is mainly fantasy, these days, so if you really need more, I can probably dredge up a few more names and titles.

 

Have fun reading,

~Yui

Hello, Salinye. I have missed your presence.

 

<3,

~Yui

Friends,

 

Thanks for the feedback. It's nice to know that all my rust doesn't get in the way of writing something that can be enjoyed.

 

...one thing is that I'm curious as to how large the young roc is exactly, since I recall Rocs being pretty huge mythic birds of prey but wasn't sure if you envisioned the young roc as a regular-sized bird or something larger that seizes Jochim and Ylen.

Actually, in talking with Aegon about this, it turns out that what I was picturing really isn't accurately described by the term 'roc'. I associated that name with it from the first moment I dreamed these guys up, but I was using it in error. I think this creature should probably be called a 'gryphon', albeit a small one. It was supposed to have a feline body and tail, and the talons, head, and wings of a bird of prey. It's also (though the story really doesn't address this at this point) a sort of 'miniature' breed, like a domesticated miniature poodle compared to a normal poodle. So I figure it's slightly larger than the biggest housecat with wings and a beak.

 

And I should call it something other than 'roc'. I feel like Gryphon isn't what I want, though. I'm going to have to give it some thought. Thanks for catching me, though. It's funny what you can write incorrectly without thinking twice about it!

 

The other thing is that, while I think the ending is a really cool twist, I couldn't quite figure out what the cause of their combining was exactly... I got a certain hint that it may have had to do with the enchantment Jochim purchases at the beginning and the grohlings contained in the treasure pouch, but it's sort of unclear at the moment.

I think, if I ever continue this thread of story, determining precisely what happened will be addressed. As it is, I only left really one hint, but it seems to me that you picked up on it quite well. You're just lacking certainty, and I, being evil to the core, am not going to offer you any in this 'chapter'.

 

P.S: Jochim must have great looks to reel in gals with those lines of his. x_x I certainly snarked at his 'sword' comment though!

Heheh. Jochim is a looker, but he's also a man-pig. It's a good thing his identity just got all twisted around. I think I would have had to get him slapped, stabbed or defenestrated at least once a chapter, otherwise.

 

I do hope you plan on continuing this.

Thanks, Patrick. I think I will try to continue developing this character, but it's hard to say for sure. At this point, I can't get it/them to settle into a story. I'm not very amazingly interested in the PPENN world that was used in the exercise, I think, so I'm finding it a bit boring to try to fit this character concept into anything going on there. I will try to at least continue the exercise with these guys or with another character I've dreamt up for it, but I can't promise that there's going to be a real plot developing.

 

I appreciate your feedback, though, and I will make an effort to find something interesting for these three to do.

 

Thanks to all three of you for reading. I appreciate your comments and the fact that you take some time out of your busy lives to let me know what you think.

 

Yours,

~Yui

But I thank you, and I'll try to stay away from the 'emo ranter' sort of type.

Kikuyu,

 

You know, take this or leave it as you will, but I think even 'emo ranter' poems have a place in the world. If not for their affect on your audience, then at least for what they do for you as the author. I don't think any poet should try to avoid a poem that their heart wants them to write, even if societal conventions have made it an unpopular tone to use.

 

I guess what I'm trying to say is that it's okay if some (or even all!) people don't like a poem. Don't let that force you to 'stay away' from writing what you feel. Not every piece has to be The Masterpiece, especially not here on the Pen.

 

<3,

~Yui

This was created using the schema and the world from the Six Sides of Fate roleplay at the PPENN writing community. I wanted a semi-random driver, so I borrowed their list of 'plot devices' and hit a dice roller. The dice said 79, so here you are:

 

_______________________

79. Your character finds a bag of gold.

 

207 coryka stones and a full clutch of grohn hatchlings. That’s the outrageous price the hook-nosed little enchanter had asked for his services, one that Jochim had paid with a smile. Sure, it was a full third of the goods he’d brought to market, but what was that next to the value of the treasure it was going to protect? Nothing. Half of nothing. Investments were a fact of a merchant’s life, after all. And this one was a swift bolt to a soft eye that was going to put him years closer to his goal.

 

His step light with the kind of glee that only riches can bring, the young man patted the lumpy sack tucked beneath his heart and deftly wove his way through the crowds. Still there. Still safe. Wrapped in the kind of magic that only nervous men in seedy dens on the bad side of town provide. He loved the peace of mind that he got from a little touch just as much as he loved the sound: that cold, musical chank that sang a refrain of silken sheets and marble walls, sweet wines and even sweeter women. The kind that only a young, charming man-of-means could attract.

 

Jochim’s smile twisted at the touch of that old bitterness, but he shoved the thought away, determined that nothing would ruin his good mood. After all, a handsome face and svelt physique may not have been enough to get him into the circles of the haute monde, but his new treasure would see to it. In a fit of morbid inspiration, he made himself a promise to find his way beneath the sheets of every noblewoman who’d snubbed him. A little revenge and a lot of pleasure. How perfect.

 

***

 

173 rekbas of pure gold and a tooled leather sack that was a thousand times more precious to her than its contents. That’s what the thieving bastard had hidden beneath his coat, and Ylen intended to have it back. By any means necessary.

 

The guardswoman tucked her black hair behind her ear and slid farther over the end of the roof, her glare on the merchant’s back hot enough to make an effrit squirm. She didn’t notice his good looks, but she sure as hell saw his self-satisfied grin and that bouncy little spring in his step. He was happy as a clam, now that he had her treasure in his hands. She wanted nothing more than to leap down there and choke the glee off his chiseled features, but she carefully reigned in her boiling rage. The street was still too crowded, the northern sentry post too close. Revenge would be sweeter and longer-lived when there were no witnesses. No interference.

 

Ylen knew precisely where that would be.

 

***

 

One crate of rotten tomatoes and half a haunch of rancid pork. That was the feast the Roc had discovered in a dark alley, one that was just beginning to quench the hunger that had become its constant companion. A simple creature, he didn’t quite understand why the old days had passed away, the times when the soft one brought his meals on sparklyshiney plates and petted his furred head in that oh-so-nice way while he ate his fill. Never this unhappy hungry feeling. Never this sad-alone-scared pain that chased him through the city’s dark places. And, really, the meals on the sparklyshiney plates had made his tongue much happier than this stuff.

 

As inhuman as the creature was, the breath he loosed at those melancholy thoughts could only be called a sigh, imbued with all the grief of one who has had and lost. He felt his state, though with the vagueness of a being that existed somewhere between mere self-awareness and true intelligence. Dirty. Messy. Uncomfortable. Tired. Clean and safe were so much better. Curled up in the soft one’s warm lap, purring with contentment while the little bristle-thing brushed stroke after stroke down his back. Latching on to the memory of those sensations, the animal shoved his beak further into his lucky little treasure-trove of food, a weak hint of his once-robust purr tickling the back of his throat. He almost relaxed. Almost.

 

A sound killed the moment, shooting from his ears to his brain like a bolt of liquid fear, triggering Instinct and blanketing Intellect. Dripping tomato juice like fresh blood from the tip of its beak, it tensed, staring down the dark alley. Keen eyesight found the commotion in a hurry, and his attention locked there. Fighting. Weapons. Danger.

 

With a strangled cry, the young roc hunched over his treasure and spread his wings. Look scary. Be mean.

 

The deadly beast would defend what was his.

 

***

 

Jochim didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He was the better swordsman, but in this situation, he was damned either way. The woman – the screaming, foaming-at-the-mouth madwoman who had attacked him without a word – wore the armor and badges of the Anosa guard. He couldn’t kill her, even in self-defense. He didn’t dare. The city revered its protectors, and Anosan justice was known to be … rather extreme. Jochim liked his testicles right where they were, please-and-thank-you. Of course, a part of him admired the exotic looks and leather-wrapped curves of his opponent, pondering the possibilities of other locations for the anatomy in question.

 

On the other hand, the she-devil was holding nothing back, her broad blade a blur of frantic motion. The rage twisting her features screamed her intent with a clarity that no voice could ever match. She wanted his heart, no matter her creed or reasoning, and he could guess why. With a frown, he placed his free hand over the pouch hidden under his coat, watching her gaze heat. She wanted his treasure.

 

***

 

Ylen wanted her treasure! She snarled at the well-dressed merchant, rage fueling her arm as he dodged swing after swing of her heavy blade, his speed a high barrier to the death she wanted to deliver to him. BASTARD. The young man blocked the next stroke, his thin, curved dagger ringing slightly from the impact. She could feel the lack of strength in his arm, the slight give as she pressed her blade ineffectually toward his throat. He wasn’t her match in pure might. Not even close. But he was so damn agile, so fast that she was exhausting herself without even scratching him. He danced away from their clashing blades with an ease that seemed inhuman, and frustration finally dimmed the red haze of her righteous anger enough to loosen the locks on her voice.

 

“You’re going to die, you filching swine! Stop delaying the inevitable, and maybe I’ll make it a clean stroke instead of the screaming, begging, broken death I’d planned for you.” She growled the words, grinding them out from between clenched teeth.

 

All they earned was a slight smirk and another deft dodge away from her blade. Each engage-and-retreat edged them deeper into the filth and shadows of the alley.

 

“Beg pardon, my dear ever-so-insane lovely, but your offer lacks a certain appeal.” He seemed to ponder that, sidestepping to move his heart out of the way of her thrust. “Hm. Really, it lacks any appeal at all. Now, throw in an evening appointment, perhaps a nice glass of a cev’bion vintage under full moons. I’ll bring a ‘sword’ you’ll certainly enjoy, so I’m sure we could find some sort of mutual arrangement.”

 

His eyes traveled her from top to bottom in a way that meant far more than ‘mutual arrangement’. Ylen wouldn’t have believed that she could get any angrier, but it happened like the fall of a guillotine. She went blind with it, her body gone in favor of an instrument with which to punish the wicked man before her.

 

***

 

All the smarmy charm dropped away the moment Jochim saw the Trance descend over the woman’s face. Ah, gods. He couldn’t even verbalize the magnitude of his mistake, panic driving him to stumble back – get away. Whatever her weaknesses as a fighter, the Trance made her far, far more than he could handle. Ever. In a million years. His dagger felt as useful as a toothpick in his hand.

 

For the first time since the shrieking woman came leaping out at him, he thought to look around for help. Not a soul stirred in the small back alleys, and the main road, thick with the comforting crush of people, was impossibly far away. No one would even hear him scream.

 

The guardswoman lunged, possessed now with the calm of the Righteous and the speed of God himself. Jochim threw himself backwards with all his might, desperate, and felt the blade bite a burning line across his chest, slicing through leather and silk and skin as if they were air. The shriek that resounded as he fell might well have been his own, driven out of him by the pain of his wound.

 

But it wasn’t.

 

***

 

FIGHT! PROTECT!

 

The roc screamed his warning as the two creatures leapt toward his food, his treasure. Hiss. Bite. Scratch. In a flurry of wings, beak and fur, he attacked, fending off whatever moved. Targeting whatever was soft and exposed. One on the ground. One standing. There was a lot to process, and Instinct was too strong, driven to a frenzy by the danger and a growing scent of blood. His keen eyes were attracted to a motion. Something soft-looking, swinging. Vulnerable.

 

***

 

Ylen saw the pouch swing free from the ruins of his coat and wasted no time in lunging for it. MINE.

 

***

 

Three creatures moved, each toward the same goal. Jochim wrapped his hand around the pouch first, staining the leather with his weeping blood. Ylen slapped her own hand over his, intending to wrest it free from his grasp even as the Trance faded from her eyes. The roc, seeking any way to protect its food, wrapped one foretalon around Ylen’s wrist and the other around Jochim’s, ready to rip and tear and crush.

 

But none of them got the chance to follow through on their intentions, for the entire alley suddenly tilted sideways, shuddered, screamed, tied itself into a knot, crumpled into a grain of sand, and then exploded into utter, blinding darkness.

 

***

I awoke with a splitting headache. More than splitting, as if every tiny piece of me (and there were many of those, scattered all over the alley), were on fire, dipped in acid, and being eaten by grohnlings all at the same time. I couldn’t even groan, only lay still and wait for it to pass, trying to gather up the disorganized mess of my mind.

 

I think it took a long time, though it’s hard to be sure. It certainly felt like a long time. Oh, not the pain. That passed quickly. But my mind was a shambles. Confused. Missing chunks. Like I was learning to talk to myself, learning to hear myself, learning to think again. I couldn’t remember anything particularly pressing that I had to do, so I took a while at it. Gathered in each piece and each part and slowly, patiently fit them into place. I’m pretty sure it was a little out-of-character for me to be so painstaking, but I guess life is growth and change.

 

Some time later, when at least I knew that I was laying in a filthy alley in a busy and unsafe city, I decided to turn my attention to getting up. I had something valuable, something to protect, and I recalled watching indigents and sefya-junkies and the passed-out drunk get their pockets rifled in back alleys just like this one. That wouldn’t do.

 

So I got up. It was messy, since I expected my hands to act a little differently, and then I expected my legs to feel stronger… or was it weaker? Or was it that there weren’t enough? Too many? (See what I mean? I was very confused. ) I muddled around, probably floundering like a fish out of water, but in the end I was upright and mobile, left to take stock of … well, everything.

 

Not as easy as it sounds, when you see too much. Literally. I saw myself. And I saw my other self. And that self saw myself. Yeah, it took a few minutes to work that all out. I was here, staring across at myself and noting that I was covered in something … disgusting. Rotten. Putrid. I knew it was meat and tomatoes, and that it tasted like three-day-old socks marinated in urine. I couldn’t imagine eating it, but darned if I didn’t know exactly what it tasted like. So I guess I ate it?

 

Hm. Yes. I was hungry, so it’s okay. But I think I won’t do it again. I know better ways to get food, now.

 

It was when I went to wipe it away that I realized I kinda hurt, right there. It was a sensation much like moving your arm and realizing it was sprained, except this was on an entirely new scale. A strange scale. A natural-feeling scale that I knew wasn’t really quite supposed to exist.

 

My Jochim hurt. To be specific, my Jochim’s chest hurt. It stung because it was cut and bleeding. I knew this. I’d done it to … myself? My Ylena had cut it and my roc had added a few cuts and bruises. I had to ponder this for a few moments, because I couldn’t quite imagine why I would want to make myself feel this pain. I remembered my rage, and my bewilderment, and my protective instinct. Reconciling them all together was confusing, though, because I knew the why behind everything, and none of the actions made sense.

 

I found the treasure. But I was frantic because I’d lost the treasure. I protected the treasure. I ate the treasure. (Wait, I did? What?) No, I wanted to eat the treasure, but I had to protect it. I wanted to get the treasure back after I found it a second time. I already had it, but I wanted it back.

 

It was hard to reconcile everything, so after a while, I gave up. I had the treasure, now. It was still wrapped in my Jochim’s bloody hand, so there was no problem. I could protect the treasure because I had a sharp beak and talons, a strong arm and a mighty sword, and I could talk my way out of anything… or into it, if the lady was pretty enough. Then there was the expensive enchantment of protection that I’d put on the pouch… but something told me that it might have been a little messed up by the whole imploding-alley situation. My roc smelled twisted magic. Ah, well.

 

I laughed, despite the sting from my Jochim. Yeah, I’d be fine. I just needed a bath, some raw (no, cooked!) beef, and a few bandages. Although it was a strange sensation, I flapped my wings and settled my roc gently onto my Ylena’s shoulder. As I was making my way out of the alley I glanced over at my woman/roc and realized something very important.

 

I’d have to find an inn that allowed animals.

___________________________

 

Critique is welcome. It's the first time I've written a story in many, many months. I tried to give this a light polish, but it's certainly relatively close to a first draft. I'm sorry if it seems rusty. I certainly feel rusty, these days.

 

Yours,

~Yui

Elsewhere...

 

Yui turned from the darkness with a laugh, her gaze seeking the familiar form behind her. "A touch dramatic, today, are we?" The criticism was softened by the love in her eyes and her arms wrapping naturally around her mate's waist.

 

"Nothing's too overdone for my sweetheart - especially on her birthday," Aegon asserted with a crooked grin, leaning down to steal a quick kiss. "Besides, I haven't crafted illusions in ages. It was fun to stretch the old enchanted muscles."

 

Her smile was his beacon as she turned away, taking his hand and heading over to where a few servants scurried to finish setting up the pavilion for their guests. Wyvern, having recovered quickly from opening his eyes to an entirely new locale, was already doing his best to lighten the load on the banquet table. "How about if you stretch some real muscles and help me get the last of the chairs set up, then? If you haven't worn yourself out with your recent exertions." Though she didn't look back at him, he saw her cheeks dimple and could imagine that teasing twist of the lips she always used. Saucy wench.

 

"It would be my fondest pleasure to serve the lady in whatever way she requires." He pulled her to a stop just long enough to let him sweep a flourished bow and steal one last kiss before resigning himself to the next task.

With his snout buried in the carpet and his beady little eyes closed, Wyvern didn't notice the stirring in the shadows, nor the fact that he and his generous gifts were slowly sinking right through the much-abused parquet. He slipped out of sight with not so much as a whisper, leaving the rest of the Pen members in the room to blink at a cart full of junk and a large shadow. They knew this particular trick, however. So they waited.

 

... and waited.

 

... and waited.

 

Three minutes later, as Peredhil stirred restlessly and Patrick scratched his head in confusion, a sparkle of very un-shadow-like magic gathered at the edges of Wyvern's impressive parasol shadow, glimmering like so much faerie dust before its expectant audience. It began as a nebulous cloud, the barest hint of a sparkle in the air, but it quickly gained form and motion, swirling in an ever-growing spiral that raised a gentle breeze. When the breeze had become a gale and the soft glow had become a harsh glare of exploding sparks, the spell began to turn in on itself, gathering at the center to form a blinding well of light. As the Pennites in the room covered their assaulted eyes, a trumpet fanfare filled the room, rebounding from the rafters with sound as bright and metallic as the light. The last note drew out just as the last of the light swirled into the center of the spell, causing it to implode with a blast of air and a final, brilliant flare of light.

 

As the flash-blindness cleared from everyone's eyes, they found a shape resolving out of the darkness, a square that floated above the floor, visible at first only as a contrast to the shadow behind it. It soon resolved into a simple sign, held aloft by a pair of hovering silver spheres. Large, bold lettering adorned the face, written in a careful hand.

 

"Party at our place!

~Aeg and Yui"

 

Even as the message resolved, a large, red arrow sprouted from the side of the sign, pointing directly at the large Shadow Wyvern had created. So the invitation was received.

 

 

((OOC: Thank you very much for the birthday wishes, Wyvie. I hope everyone here enjoys the day as much as I do. Please consider this an invitation to Aegon and Yui's mysterious new place. Everyone is welcome to help define the details from what little Wyvern told you, and I would be pleased if the Pen would roleplay a little party on the other side of the Shadow. Regardless, thank you all for thinking of me.

 

Yours,

~Yui ))

... I saw something that put me in mind of a certain Pennite lady. I just had to snap a (bad, sorry) photo.

 

Here's thinking of you, Tzimme.

 

Ghost,

~Yui

Welcome, Verileah. With the three interests you list, I have no doubt whatsoever that you're already well on your way to fitting like a glove in this community! You'll find that while we all maintain a primary site focus on writing here at the Pen, we're also prone to sharing our various artings, various gamings and various fun and interesting personalities. I, for one, and always just as happy to discuss digital painting, drawing, website tomfoolery, or my latest adventures in the Outlands* as I am plot, tone, word choices and my favorite grammar errors. I hope you'll feel free to do all of the same, here, as well as sharing your writing and enjoying that of others.

 

Make yourself right at home.

 

Sincerely,

~Yui

 

* If you don't get the reference, then I congratulate you for avoiding the insidious addiction.

Thursday, 19 April, 2007

 

from Briggflatts

Basil Bunting

 

Furthest, fairest things, stars, free of our humbug,

each his own, the longer known the more alone,

wrapt in emphatic fire roaring out to a black flue.

Each spark trills on a tone beyond chronological compass,

yet in a sextant's bubble present and firm

places a surveyor's stone or steadies a tiller.

Then is Now. The star you steer by is gone,

its tremulous thread spun in the hurricane

spider floss on my check; light from the zenith

spun when the slowworm lay in her lap

fifty years ago.

 

The sheets are gathered and bound,

the volume indexed and shelved,

dust on its marbled leaves.

Lofty, an empty combe,

silent but for bees.

Finger tips touched and were still

fifty years ago.

Sirius is too young to remember.

 

Sirius glows in the wind. Sparks on ripples

mark his line, lures for spent fish.

 

Fifty years a letter unanswered;

a visit postponed for fifty years.

 

She has been with me fifty years.

 

Starlight quivers. I had day enough.

For love uninterrupted night.

 

 

[This is the very end of Briggflatts, Basil Bunting's long, autobiographical poem about a girl he loved and left. Bunting was really into poetry as an audible, spoken art form, so all the sounds he uses are very deliberate, and grounded in the accent of Northern England (he had some hilariously strong views on the loss of the letter 'r' in Southern accents). You can hear him reading a different poem, "At Briggflatts meetinghouse," here to get a sense of it.

 

He said: "Poetry, like music, is to be heard. It deals in sound... Reading in silence is the source of half the misconceptions that have caused the public to distrust poetry." Also he was a SPY!]

 

More like this:

What the Chairman Told Tom, Basil Bunting

To Tanya on my Sixtieth Birthday, Wendell Berry

Wednesday, April 18, 2007

 

Serenade

Terrance Hayes

 

I want to always sleep beneath a bright red blanket

of leaves. I want to never wear a coat of ice.

I want to learn to walk without blinking.

I want to learn the language of a Chilean poet.

I want to say God & fuck you & touch me

without blinking. I want to outlive the turtle

& the turtle's father, the stone. I want a mouth

full of permissions & a pink glistening bud.

If the wildflower & ant hill can return

after sleeping three seasons, I want to walk

out of this house wearing nothing but wind.

I want to greet you, I want to wait for the bus with you

weighing less than a chill. I want to fight off the bolts

of gray lighting the alcoves & winding paths

of your hair. I want to fight off the damp nudgings

of snow. I want to fight off the wind.

I want to be the wind & I want to fight off the wind

with its sagging banner of isolation, its swinging

screen doors, its gilded boxes, & neatly folded pamphlets

of noise. I want to fight off the dull straight lines

of two by fours & endings, your disapprovals,

your doubts & regulations, your carbon copies.

If the locust can abandon its suit,

I want a brand new name. I want the pepper's fury

& the salt's tenderness. I want the eight-sided passion

of sugar, but not its need. I want the virtue

of the evening rain, but not its gossip.

I want the moon's intuition, but not its questions.

I want the malice of nothing on earth. I want to enter

every room in a strange electrified city

& find you there. I want your lips around the bell of flesh

at the bottom of my ear. I want to be the mirror,

but not the nightstand. I do not want to be the light switch.

I do not want to be the yellow photograph

or book of poems. When I leave this body, Woman,

I want to be pure flame and song. I want to be your breath.

 

 

More like this:

The Same City, Terrance Hayes

Shafro, Terrance Hayes

Clarinet, Terrance Hayes

A certain someone, watching from the shadows, grins quietly and reflects that Wyvern has, once again, managed to unequivocably win the quiz - despite the fact that there wasn't any competition to begin with. Creativity (and a diabolical, semi-reptilian mind) conquers all.

 

~The Ghost

Tuesday, April 17, 2007

 

Today's post is a guest entry by Mairead, who has excellent taste in poetry and other important things.

 

I Imagine The Gods

by Jack Gilbert

 

I imagine the gods saying, We will

make it up to you. We will give you

three wishes, they say. Let me see

the squirrels again, I tell them.

Let me eat some of the great hog

stuffed and roasted on its giant spit

and put out, steaming, into the winter

of my neighborhood when I was usually

too broke to afford even the hundred grams

I ate so happily walking up the cobbles,

past the Street of the Moon

and the Street of the Birdcage-Makers,

the Street of Silence and the Street

of the Little Pissing. We can give you

wisdom, they say in their rich voices.

Let me go at last to Hugette, I say,

the Algerian student with her huge eyes

who timidly invited me to her room

when I was too young and bewildered

that first year in Paris.

Let me at least fail at my life.

Think, they say patiently, we could

make you famous again. Let me fall

in love one last time, I beg them.

Teach me mortality, frighten me

into the present. Help me to find

the heft of these days. That the nights

will be full enough and my heart feral.

 

[i love Gilbert for his wisdom and the simple beauty of his voice; lines like "Let me at least fail at my life" and "Help me to find / the heft of these days" also have an elegance to their sound that gets stuck in my head. This is from his third (of only four) books, written when he was in his late sixties, and there's longing in this poem, I think, an urgency to maintain the immediacy of youth. Anyone lucky enough to get their hands on his most recent book, Refusing Heaven, should also read "Bring in the Gods," in which he confronts the same questions with another decade's wisdom: "I want to fail. I am hungry / for what I am becoming."]

 

More like this:

The Abnormal Is Not Courage, Jack Gilbert

In Umbria, Jack Gilbert

A Brief for the Defense, Jack Gilbert (& more like that)

Monday, April 16, 2007

 

you can't be a star in the sky without holy fire

Frank X. Gaspar

 

Why should I keep telling you what I love, and whom?

I am so dull and awkward, what difference would it make?

Yet I can't shut up. I'm like that mockingbird up on the

bee-riddled pole at the corner of our easement. He is de-

mented, singing I must have sex, singing stay away from me.

Every once in a while he does a little hip-hop, he flaps his

wings, he does a break-down. When does he breathe? When

does he sleep? And beneath him are the morning-glories,

who could teach me a thing or two about the absolute rage to live,

and also the trumpet-vine, which is serene and alluring, but which

is all muscle and will underneath. And the wisteria! You

would stand naked in the snow-white shower of its blossoms, but it

would send a root down through you and plant a stake in your heart.

No, I can't shut up, it's not in my nature, just as beauty is not,

just as all those virtues I read about have gone missing. And I

don't want everyone to gather round either. In another world

I am ready to lie down in solidarity with all the doomed blossoms

along the white fences. In another world I would stop grinding

my own bones. In another world I would convert all my failures

and consume them in a holy fire. But then there is that mindless

bird – he can't shut up – and it's one world only, and he knows it.

 

 

More like this:

Bright Wings, Frank X. Gaspar

Sunday, April 15, 2007

 

Waste Land Limericks

Wendy Cope

 

I

 

In April one seldom feels cheerful;

Dry stones, sun and dust make me fearful;

Clairvoyantes distress me,

Commuters depress me--

Met Stetson and gave him an earful.

 

II

 

She sat on a mighty fine chair,

Sparks flew as she tidied her hair;

She asks many questions,

I make few suggestions- -

Bad as Albert and Lil--what a pair!

 

III

 

The Thames runs, bones rattle, rats creep;

Tiresias fancies a peep--

A typist is laid,

A record is played--

Wei la la. After this it gets deep.

 

IV

 

A Phoenician named Phlebas forgot

About birds and his business--the lot,

Which is no surprise,

Since he'd met his demise

And been left in the ocean to rot.

 

V

 

No water. Dry rocks and dry throats,

Then thunder, a shower of quotes

From the Sanskrit and Dante.

Da. Damyata. Shantih.

I hope you'll make sense of the notes.

 

 

[T.S. Eliot's long, dense poem The Waste Land retold in limericks! Ha!]

 

 

More like this:

A Nursery Rhyme [as it might have been written byT.S. Eliot], Wendy Cope

Saturday, April 14, 2007

 

Supple Cord

Naomi Shihab Nye

 

My brother, in his small white bed,

held one end.

I tugged the other

to signal I was still awake.

We could have spoken,

could have sung

to one another,

we were in the same room

for five years,

but the soft cord

with its little frayed ends

connected us

in the dark,

gave comfort

even if we had been bickering

all day.

When he fell asleep first

and his end of the cord

dropped to the floor,

I missed him terribly,

though I could hear his even breath

and we had such long and separate lives

ahead.

 

[Correction from yesterday: Adolph Eichmann was an SS officer. Oops.]

Friday, April 13, 2007

 

All There is to Know About Adolph Eichmann

Leonard Cohen

 

EYES: Medium

HAIR: Medium

WEIGHT: Medium

HEIGHT: Medium

DISTINGUISHING FEATURES: None

NUMBER OF FINGERS: Ten

NUMBER OF TOES: Ten

INTELLIGENCE: Medium

 

What did you expect?

Talons?

Oversize incisors?

Green saliva?

 

Madness?

 

 

[Adolph Eichmann, of course, is Hitler.]*

 

More like this:

Hitler's First Photograph, Wislawa Szymborska

Ovid in the Third Reich, Geoffrey Hill

* Actually, Adolph Eichmann is not Hitler, though he was a high-ranking SS officer. Details are available on Wikipedia.

Thursday, April 12, 2007

 

This Heavy Craft

P.K. Page

 

The wax has melted

but the dream of flight

persists.

I, Icarus, though grounded

in my flesh

have one bright section in me

where a bird

night after starry night

while I'm asleep

unfolds its phantom wings

 

and practices.

 

 

[The Icarus myth is a subject poets looove -- I bet you could easily publish a whole collection of Icarus poems. This one's a little less well-known, I think, and I like it for its brevity and how it makes Icarus the speaker, not just a subject for someone else to talk about.]

 

More like this:

Landscape with the Fall of Icarus, William Carlos Williams

Failing and Flying, Jack Gilbert

Icarus, Christine Hemp

Musee des Beaux Arts, W.H. Auden

Wednesday, April 11, 2007

 

Johnny Cash in the Afterlife

Bronwen Densmore

 

At first you wonder where June has got to

and then you manage to forget

the circumstance of your own arrival.

Prior to here you were where? Suffice to say

that you were finished with some task

or another. Around the corner something flutters

and you'd chase it if you were feeling your old self,

though right now you're not sure what you'd do

with something living if you caught it.

You hunker down and keep an eye out,

remember how when you were a boy

you trapped rabbits in a baited net

and waited for your father, who killed them

with just his thumb and two fingers.

You are forgetting the names of these things

already. You would like to describe wings beating

as warm, and possessed of smell,

but when you open your mouth it's just air

getting out, you think screen door,

and when sound finally comes

it seems animal to you. If your wife were here

you might put your ear to her and know better

but for now it's just you and the whoosh,

whoosh of that shadow. If you wrote it down

it might come back but you don't mind,

not sure you really want it now.

For all you know it could have been owls

you were tracking back then, as a boy,

baskets that you wove to keep them in.

 

 

[i am such a sucker for what-if poems, story poems, and second person. And I love how centering this on Johnny Cash and those kinds of boyhood memories means there's no chance of it becoming overly precious. I really like the drift of this, how things get vaguer and vaguer as the poem goes along, how language itself seems to be fading.]

 

More like this:

Mummingbird, Bronwen Densmore

The Heaven of Animals, James Dickey

Tuesday, April 10, 2007

 

The Day Flies Off Without Me

John Stammers

 

The planes bound for all points everywhere

etch lines on my office window. From the top floor

London recedes in all directions, and beyond:

the world with its teeming hearts.

 

I am still, you move, I am a point of reference on a map;

I am at zero meridian as you consume the longitudes.

The pact we made to read our farewells exactly

at two in the afternoon with you in the air

holds me like a heavy winter coat.

 

Your unopened letter is in my pocket, beating.

 

 

[i love the sense of motion and sprawl and expansion in the whole poem, and how it packs in so many fantastic lines: "the world with its teeming hearts" and that last line, especially.]

 

More like this:

I Don't 'Go Organic' Often, but When I Do, John Stammers

The Taxi, Amy Lowell

Monday, April 9, 2007

 

Publication Date

by Franz Wright

 

One of the few pleasures of writing

is the thought of one's book in the hands of a kindhearted

intelligent person somewhere. I can't remember what the others

are right now.

I just noticed that it is my own private

 

National I Hate Myself and Want to Die Day

(which means the next day I will love my life

and want to live forever). The forecast calls

for a cold night in Boston all morning

 

and all afternoon. They say

tomorrow will be just like today,

only different. I'm in the cemetery now

at the edge of town, how did I get here?

 

A sparrow limps past on its little bone crutch saying

I am Federico García Lorca

risen from the dead --

literature will lose, sunlight will win, don't worry.

 

 

More like this:

My Place, Franz Wright

The Street, Franz Wright

A Supermarket in California, Allen Ginsberg

Sunday, April 8, 2007

 

Death Comes To Me Again, A Girl

Dorianne Laux

 

Death comes to me again, a girl

in a cotton slip, barefoot, giggling.

It's not so terrible she tells me,

not like you think, all darkness

and silence. There are windchimes

and the smell of lemons, some days

it rains, but more often the air is dry

and sweet. I sit beneath the staircase

built from hair and bone and listen

to the voices of the living. I like it,

she says, shaking the dust from her hair,

especially when they fight, and when they sing.

 

 

[Has Dorianne Laux been reading Neil Gaiman? I like this because it tells a story and uses details so well.]

 

More like this:

Antilamentation, Dorianne Laux

Saturday, April 7, 2007

 

Hour

Christian Hawkey

 

My sixth sensurround

is down, my second skin

the skin I'm stepping

into: I lick

a new finger & hold it up

to the wind: O my beloved

what. O

my beloved what. O my

beloved shovel-nosed mole

can I clean the soil

from your black, sightless eyes

can I massage with fine oils

your tiny, webbed feet

are you tired of running

into drainpipes

does your mouth foam

approaching power lines

are your tunnels collapsing

do you have work to do

does the dirt breathe

do you breathe the air

between the dirt

are your lungs

the size of earlobes

do you hear me

in the tunnel next to you

have you cut your nose

on a shard of glass

have you excavated

the severed, blue leg

of Spider-Man

did you pause to admire

his red booties

are you tunnels collapsing

do you have work to do

am I keeping you

am I keeping you

 

 

[i think one of the worst holdovers from English classes is the idea that you should *understand* everything going on in a poem right away, when poetry is awesome because it's the one thing that's allowed to function on other levels: how it sounds, how it looks, how it can catch you up in its images or language even if it doesn't seem to make sense. I have no idea what on earth is going on at the beginning of this poem and I love it anyway. Maybe because of it.]

 

More like this:

Four poems by Christian Hawkey

A Dead Mole, Andrew Young