Contempt Loves The Silence
And, I'm back with internetz and more tv channels than I can shake a stick at (anyone know the origin of that metaphor? I just keep imagining people shaking sticks at things and...it is hilarious).
Anyways, a thought crosses my mind as I pick up more people I beta-read for...anyone interested in some random fic/writing tutorials? I don't pretend to be an expert at anything, but I think it would be fun to have a go at it. So, lemmie know if people are interested in anything like that. <3
Lastly, posting a piece of poetry that I have been working on for a few months (three, I believe, to be exact). Posting it here for my own edification. Oblique references to 18th century fiction, Irish folk tales, use of numerous languages (including random Welsh), use of sonnet form, haikus, and other stuff abound (I should make an annotated version). One part calls for your imagination as the formatting did not transfer well. Not a happy read.
The Death Eclogues
For F.R.H. (d. 2007)
And
R.T.R. (d. 1993)
"We have to get good at dying, so we do it a little every day."
I.
Where have you been? She will ask.
Desole, el cielo está cerrado.
Venga otro tiempo, por favor, otro día.
What have you been but pen and ink
And sometimes particles and scents?
And thunk thunk thunk
Dirt hits the all-too-small box with finality.
Because now we are grave-diggers when
In Modernism we let others dig the graves.
Thunk thunk thunk. We apologize for today,
but, with our deepest condolences, Heaven is full.
Call earlier next time to avoid disappointment.
And sitting in the red of the room there is
A small splashing and the red deepens
The iron passes over tears, like other water but saltier,
And with a sizzle they are gone.
(An ocean evaporated in an eye.)
But, in the Library of my Babylon, the rushing of
Twin rivers does not drown out the single sound
Of sobbing. Of those who don't sob.
Dierdre of the Many Tears
Dash your head against the rocks.
Down down down you plummet.
With splatter.
And where have you been?
You have been words.
You have been silence.
One of you is perfume of many years.
One of you is cologne of recent times.
Sleep, Sleep, my Túatha Dé.
Let the harp be unstrung and the doublet all unbraced.
This is my marwnad. My marwnad.
Sleep, Sleep, my Túatha Dé.
Where have you been?
And
Where are you now?
II.
All of us women here drown and we drip
And descend - half dead - down into the mud.
Great ones - our Cleopatra - poison sip
And dearest Ophelia, drowned in her bud.
Portia of County Offaly there flies
Ghostly over the river that choked her -
Stones in her pocket into the cruel tides -
And the water pours down lest we demur.
Rosemary, I give you remembrance
In guttering candles and perfumed shroud
God's violence acted without a glance
But no spine bent to He who forged the proud.
It is in water we shall write our name,
For it's futile when Death alone grants fame.
III.
Paper birds hang in a cathedral sky
Where ancient and secretive dust
Settles and weighs down their wings -
The Prayer Birds of St. Mary's -
So burdened they have lost Heaven.
I gave those Limerick birds a Prayer -
One lost in a torrent of words -
The prayer that slipped God's mind
And fluttered down, down, down.
The lost Prayer Bird of Limerick.
That Prayer was for you.
Perhaps God took you in its place.
My voice was shriveled and burnt
And consecrated without my consent.
I'm sorry (but what does that mean?) I could not do more -
My wings were as stifled as those words.
It fluttered down, down, down,
Into God's death of Prayer,
The dust.
IV.
I am not alone.
Waking up in the morning
Finds a phantom scent
Of cologne.
In a place he has never been.
I say, "I am alright
And you can go, to wherever it is
You go."
I tell the síd to close
Or all the gessa
That bind us to this mortal coil
Will break.
But, oh,
How I long to walk
Around Tara circling left and Brega
Circling right.
To DeTamble away (or back or away?)
From desires that don't shift
And harrow all the crypts of
The world.
V.
Grief.
Indivisible
Nontransferable
Immutable
Unshareable
…Grief?
A Burden.
Or Misery?
VI.
The wind tumbles through the branches
Like the clattering of bones and rumbling metal:
Cold, cold Dublin wind.
And Tristam says:
Alas, Poor Yorick!
[White text encapsulated in a black box:
And this echoes
through the
branches, too.]
VII.
I sing you to life -
My blood and my beloveds -
Spring you from coffins.
In light you vanish.
And in light I shall remain.
All that's left is light.
Anyways, a thought crosses my mind as I pick up more people I beta-read for...anyone interested in some random fic/writing tutorials? I don't pretend to be an expert at anything, but I think it would be fun to have a go at it. So, lemmie know if people are interested in anything like that. <3
Lastly, posting a piece of poetry that I have been working on for a few months (three, I believe, to be exact). Posting it here for my own edification. Oblique references to 18th century fiction, Irish folk tales, use of numerous languages (including random Welsh), use of sonnet form, haikus, and other stuff abound (I should make an annotated version). One part calls for your imagination as the formatting did not transfer well. Not a happy read.
The Death Eclogues
For F.R.H. (d. 2007)
And
R.T.R. (d. 1993)
"We have to get good at dying, so we do it a little every day."
I.
Where have you been? She will ask.
Desole, el cielo está cerrado.
Venga otro tiempo, por favor, otro día.
What have you been but pen and ink
And sometimes particles and scents?
And thunk thunk thunk
Dirt hits the all-too-small box with finality.
Because now we are grave-diggers when
In Modernism we let others dig the graves.
Thunk thunk thunk. We apologize for today,
but, with our deepest condolences, Heaven is full.
Call earlier next time to avoid disappointment.
And sitting in the red of the room there is
A small splashing and the red deepens
The iron passes over tears, like other water but saltier,
And with a sizzle they are gone.
(An ocean evaporated in an eye.)
But, in the Library of my Babylon, the rushing of
Twin rivers does not drown out the single sound
Of sobbing. Of those who don't sob.
Dierdre of the Many Tears
Dash your head against the rocks.
Down down down you plummet.
With splatter.
And where have you been?
You have been words.
You have been silence.
One of you is perfume of many years.
One of you is cologne of recent times.
Sleep, Sleep, my Túatha Dé.
Let the harp be unstrung and the doublet all unbraced.
This is my marwnad. My marwnad.
Sleep, Sleep, my Túatha Dé.
Where have you been?
And
Where are you now?
II.
All of us women here drown and we drip
And descend - half dead - down into the mud.
Great ones - our Cleopatra - poison sip
And dearest Ophelia, drowned in her bud.
Portia of County Offaly there flies
Ghostly over the river that choked her -
Stones in her pocket into the cruel tides -
And the water pours down lest we demur.
Rosemary, I give you remembrance
In guttering candles and perfumed shroud
God's violence acted without a glance
But no spine bent to He who forged the proud.
It is in water we shall write our name,
For it's futile when Death alone grants fame.
III.
Paper birds hang in a cathedral sky
Where ancient and secretive dust
Settles and weighs down their wings -
The Prayer Birds of St. Mary's -
So burdened they have lost Heaven.
I gave those Limerick birds a Prayer -
One lost in a torrent of words -
The prayer that slipped God's mind
And fluttered down, down, down.
The lost Prayer Bird of Limerick.
That Prayer was for you.
Perhaps God took you in its place.
My voice was shriveled and burnt
And consecrated without my consent.
I'm sorry (but what does that mean?) I could not do more -
My wings were as stifled as those words.
It fluttered down, down, down,
Into God's death of Prayer,
The dust.
IV.
I am not alone.
Waking up in the morning
Finds a phantom scent
Of cologne.
In a place he has never been.
I say, "I am alright
And you can go, to wherever it is
You go."
I tell the síd to close
Or all the gessa
That bind us to this mortal coil
Will break.
But, oh,
How I long to walk
Around Tara circling left and Brega
Circling right.
To DeTamble away (or back or away?)
From desires that don't shift
And harrow all the crypts of
The world.
V.
Grief.
Indivisible
Nontransferable
Immutable
Unshareable
…Grief?
A Burden.
Or Misery?
VI.
The wind tumbles through the branches
Like the clattering of bones and rumbling metal:
Cold, cold Dublin wind.
And Tristam says:
Alas, Poor Yorick!
[White text encapsulated in a black box:
And this echoes
through the
branches, too.]
VII.
I sing you to life -
My blood and my beloveds -
Spring you from coffins.
In light you vanish.
And in light I shall remain.
All that's left is light.