Poem: Foolscap, Sayid [Lost]
Fandom: Lost
Title:Foolscap
Character: Sayid
Prompt:For the tarot21 prompt #004 The Emperor
Spoilers: Not so much
Summary: The Emperor: When the Emperor appears in a spread, he is something to be overcome. Some rigidity of thinking, some inflexibility of approach, some external force keeping us from our destiny.
Disclaimer: The words belong to me; Sayid, sadly, does not.
A/N: This is dedicated to zelda-zee, whose Sayid love is so inspirational. Her comments also helped shape the last section...thank you for that, Z. I hope you enjoy the results. This piece has also been looked at by so many of y'all at this point, I'm more unsure who *hasn't* read it. Both matilda36 and fosfomifira were incredibly helpful though, and have my deepest gratitude. First and final beta thanks go to Mr. Toast.
Long overdue, but here it finally is...
~~~~~~
Foolscap
I. Descending
The first thing
God created was the pen,
that he might record
Creation’s order.
This Ballpoint,
white plastic bearing
the teeth marks
of infidels, black cap
cast into the winds;
this is the most
sacred thing
Sayid owns.
Images lie,
photographs are false
idols, pulling the soul
to soil.
But what earns the worth of writing?
Death is not weightless.
The heavens do not hold
his end.
Sayid is not an artificer
feathers elude his touch
all but quills.
He clings to this-
inky spill, shadows
on white paper
roll of metal
against pulp.
II. Surfacing
Along the neck
dark swan’s arch
rolls the sea-
salt droplets
marking time
patter falling from curls,
an ornamental garden of silk and ebony
now overgrown
sporadic water chime
plink of seconds
matches breath’s measure.
The ocean swallows but won’t devour.
Sayid’s death is not written in the depths.
Sometimes sunset
Glimmers, unveiling
a message understood only
if read right to left.
His sentences always end in the sinister.
Blue is protective, turns aside the evil eye.
Brine is etching the past deeper.
Sand clings to instep
brisk hand shucking
blue from skin.
Even in motion,
Sayid can feel
the ridges of memory rising
within the soft tissue where
fingernail meets its bed.
On the beach, blue tarp remains
a beacon.
Spine straight
Facing forward,
Sayid averts his gaze
without bowing his head.
III. Inferno
He scrubs but cannot come clean.
No matter how deep
he drinks, Sayid cannot
chase iron from his tongue.
Familiar fury, an outgrown friend
magma roiling
molten sea settled
beneath
impassive basalt and civility.
Red is the color of his birth,
though Sayid chooses to deny
the celestial wheel gravity.
He turns
blazes
a new path,
wrapped hilt holding
an improvised blade
heavy in his hand.
He moves deeper,
leaves brush along his cheek
fronds caress forearm and bicep.
Sayid stops courting
facades.
Fire was his way-
Tongues of flame
words that sear
cauterize
and lay bare.
There are no words here.
Sap sticky on skin
He scrubs but cannot…
Firebrand swallowed
arrow head digging
point in the untrammeled mouth.
There are no words just
Green alone,
green
and deeper green.
IV. Manifesto
These are the words
that create the world.
This is the water
that quenches thirst.
This is the fire that quickens
the spirit, wakes passions.
All surround gravid earth;
land dark with promise,
dark with secrets.
Sayid has never known a place
of such teeming umbrage; effected by
its pull, wilderness curves carvings
of daggered green
around his heart. With each breath
his lungs flex against their cage.
Dust
and devils
and earth
like a winding cloth
wound ‘round follicles
and wrinkle caught.
Captured, a stumble
further in,
downward.
No rabbit holes
or redemption-
there lies another’s tale.
Graveyard dirt
Grit, the grey relentless
bleeds into iron
on the tongue.
Ever present, the taste
of weapons
of shovels
Sayid earns new calluses-
Wooden handle against
fleshy web, the net holding
thumb to forefinger.
Manifesto
making due
making a map
or a list
lexicon entered in;
Tapping tables
with the dead
how can communication
be wrung from driftwood?
Sayid was meant for more
The kingdom of red earth
and sand, sun heat on his face.
Spine straight
He faces forward
without bowing his head.
He’s crawling now
underbrush
or just under
mud on his hands.
~~~~~
Title:Foolscap
Character: Sayid
Prompt:For the tarot21 prompt #004 The Emperor
Spoilers: Not so much
Summary: The Emperor: When the Emperor appears in a spread, he is something to be overcome. Some rigidity of thinking, some inflexibility of approach, some external force keeping us from our destiny.
Disclaimer: The words belong to me; Sayid, sadly, does not.
A/N: This is dedicated to zelda-zee, whose Sayid love is so inspirational. Her comments also helped shape the last section...thank you for that, Z. I hope you enjoy the results. This piece has also been looked at by so many of y'all at this point, I'm more unsure who *hasn't* read it. Both matilda36 and fosfomifira were incredibly helpful though, and have my deepest gratitude. First and final beta thanks go to Mr. Toast.
Long overdue, but here it finally is...
~~~~~~
Foolscap
I. Descending
The first thing
God created was the pen,
that he might record
Creation’s order.
This Ballpoint,
white plastic bearing
the teeth marks
of infidels, black cap
cast into the winds;
this is the most
sacred thing
Sayid owns.
Images lie,
photographs are false
idols, pulling the soul
to soil.
But what earns the worth of writing?
Death is not weightless.
The heavens do not hold
his end.
Sayid is not an artificer
feathers elude his touch
all but quills.
He clings to this-
inky spill, shadows
on white paper
roll of metal
against pulp.
II. Surfacing
Along the neck
dark swan’s arch
rolls the sea-
salt droplets
marking time
patter falling from curls,
an ornamental garden of silk and ebony
now overgrown
sporadic water chime
plink of seconds
matches breath’s measure.
The ocean swallows but won’t devour.
Sayid’s death is not written in the depths.
Sometimes sunset
Glimmers, unveiling
a message understood only
if read right to left.
His sentences always end in the sinister.
Blue is protective, turns aside the evil eye.
Brine is etching the past deeper.
Sand clings to instep
brisk hand shucking
blue from skin.
Even in motion,
Sayid can feel
the ridges of memory rising
within the soft tissue where
fingernail meets its bed.
On the beach, blue tarp remains
a beacon.
Spine straight
Facing forward,
Sayid averts his gaze
without bowing his head.
III. Inferno
He scrubs but cannot come clean.
No matter how deep
he drinks, Sayid cannot
chase iron from his tongue.
Familiar fury, an outgrown friend
magma roiling
molten sea settled
beneath
impassive basalt and civility.
Red is the color of his birth,
though Sayid chooses to deny
the celestial wheel gravity.
He turns
blazes
a new path,
wrapped hilt holding
an improvised blade
heavy in his hand.
He moves deeper,
leaves brush along his cheek
fronds caress forearm and bicep.
Sayid stops courting
facades.
Fire was his way-
Tongues of flame
words that sear
cauterize
and lay bare.
There are no words here.
Sap sticky on skin
He scrubs but cannot…
Firebrand swallowed
arrow head digging
point in the untrammeled mouth.
There are no words just
Green alone,
green
and deeper green.
IV. Manifesto
These are the words
that create the world.
This is the water
that quenches thirst.
This is the fire that quickens
the spirit, wakes passions.
All surround gravid earth;
land dark with promise,
dark with secrets.
Sayid has never known a place
of such teeming umbrage; effected by
its pull, wilderness curves carvings
of daggered green
around his heart. With each breath
his lungs flex against their cage.
Dust
and devils
and earth
like a winding cloth
wound ‘round follicles
and wrinkle caught.
Captured, a stumble
further in,
downward.
No rabbit holes
or redemption-
there lies another’s tale.
Graveyard dirt
Grit, the grey relentless
bleeds into iron
on the tongue.
Ever present, the taste
of weapons
of shovels
Sayid earns new calluses-
Wooden handle against
fleshy web, the net holding
thumb to forefinger.
Manifesto
making due
making a map
or a list
lexicon entered in;
Tapping tables
with the dead
how can communication
be wrung from driftwood?
Sayid was meant for more
The kingdom of red earth
and sand, sun heat on his face.
Spine straight
He faces forward
without bowing his head.
He’s crawling now
underbrush
or just under
mud on his hands.
~~~~~