#auden's fall :)

[balkanparamo]

Landscape with the Fall of Icarus (detail) by Bruegel

[tenderlystupendoussoul]

"Landscape with the Fall of Icarus", Pieter Bruegel the Elder (c. 1560);

"Landscape with the Fall of Icarus" (poem), William Carlos Williams (1960);

"Musée des Beaux Arts" (poem), W. H. Auden (1938);

“ICARUS”, STARSET;

“Icarus”, Bastille;

“Fun”, Coldplay;

“Sunlight”, Hozier;

“I, Carrion (Icarian)”, Hozier;

Icarus's passing is seen by Bruegel, Williams, and Auden as a minor incident in the grand scheme of existence. Williams' "quite unnoticed" serves as a reminder/memento mori of our own mortality. Dying is not such a remarkable occurrence, life moves on without us when we pass away. And sometimes all that can be heard at the end of a life is a just a brief splash sound.

"Icarus" by STARSET is about a self-destructive character. They interpret the story of Icarus as an allegory for being too self-absorbed at the expense of others. The lines "you'll never be good enough" and "you always fly right up until it burns" as well as "you'll never go through them" all allude to a tendency to constantly pursue the same route over and over no matter what.

Bastille's "Icarus" retells Icarus's story alongside a modern tragedy. The opening scene of "Icarus" shows a person preparing to "dig their own grave" and "drink themselves to death." The song continues by drawing a comparison between death and Icarus, who is "flying too close to the sun/ And Icarus's life, it has only just begun". With these lines, Bastille adapt the Icarus myth to a more contemporary setting, creating associations with tragedy and the carelessness of wasted youth.

In the song "Fun" by Coldplay, the singer likens himself to Icarus and confesses, "I know it's over before she says/ Now someone else has taken your place/ I know it's over, Icarus says to the sun". The Icarus myth is reframed by Coldplay as a tragic love story between a young person and the sun.

Hozier's song "Sunlight" describes how he is ready to die (metaphorically) in order to be with the person he views as his sunlight. While Hozier's main concern in "I, Carrion" is his lover's support, even in the face of death. The narrator's deep yearning for their lover's companionship leads them to embrace death willingly. Just as Icarus dismissed Daedalus' warning about flying too high, Hozier shows a similar disregard, blinded by love, prioritizing his over to the point of placing them over his own life.

[whumpitisthen]

The Prelude

Next I Masterlist

Lightning crackles blue across the dark sky, rapidly frolicking between black clouds. The rain beats the ground, determined to flood the world and drown everything under holy water. Burnt charcoal trees struggle to stay upright in the wind bending them to be parallel against the ground and tearing them in half as the singed bark on them breaks apart. People, animals, even plants cry out in terror.

A brutal storm has formed on this scorched Earth. There hasn't been one like this in decades, apparent as every living thing — mortal or not — scrambles to seek shelter under anything that bears the weather. The ground shakes constantly with thunder; one would think an earthquake is taking place at once.

Out in the middle of noman's land, in the epicentre of the tempest, a clearing surrounded by trees of a forest waves its grey blades of grass under an opening in the clouds; — no, an opening in the sky itself. The space rips open like molten glass, casting a golden light onto the land, which instantly evaporates the rain befallen on it. A loud tremble rings in the air, coming from the tear as the storm reaches its peak, and out the opening comes one spear of lightning hitting the earth with such power the grass disintegrates to ashes and flows away with the wind.

Under the light — a huddled figure. He claws at the dirt in pain, his screaming drowned out by the fury of the heavens. He shakes on his knees and hides his head behind his arms as he cries into the now burnt patch of grass in sorrow and terror, overwhelmed by his surroundings to such an extreme that he cannot bear to think a single thought loud enough to overcome the raging squall. His pain is immense, and not merely physical.

An angel. He was cast out of his Heaven, and now, with blackened wings glowing at the edges of its feathers with fiery embers, he suffers the consequences of the sin he had committed that had landed him here. Namely, he has to bear the agony of Falling. The burning of his most precious wings that will never heal, that he will never fly with again. The suddenness of hunger and cold and fatigue; the loss of his life as an immortal being, and the process of becoming accustomed to what will be his new life from now on: the life of a mortal. Barely anything more than a simple human. Defenceless. Weak. Vulnerable. Prey.

In this world, thunder elicits horror inside the souls of Angel and Demon alike; only bringing destruction and fury to everyone who dares brave it. It is a byproduct of the divine fury of the most powerful beings the Heavens house, their anger traversing worlds to manifest itself in horrendous storms that tear apart the earth itself, uncaring of who or what lives on it. Intimidating as they are, disasters like this do not happen often, and when they do, rarely does a Fallen find themself on the ground with their powers ripped away, their wings burnt to a crisp, scars of lightning leaving markings that will never disappear, forever reminding them of their terrible fate and their mortality. This fate is irreversible without the eternally holy and gracious Archangels themselves changing their mind, — something that a lowly little angel like Auden could never achieve.

One choice remains to be made.

Will he accept his fate, this punishment that his Heaven deemed fit for him with dignity, clamouring for survival for as long as he can on this cursed, awful, hellish Earth?

Or will he give up the last of his grace, bending to the most unbecoming, damned creatures and becoming one of them, a demon himself, to avoid an untimely, horrific death?

<3

Masterlist | Ko-fi

Taglist: @whumpsday @whump-me-all-night-long

[flowerofthewave]

We met Auden's sister yesterday (after she hadn't seen her for 8 years) and boy she changed!!! Very fun session though and a very sweet reunion so here are some then and now comparisons

[liquor-liquor-lips]

Excerpt from Funeral Blues, by WH Auden

Concept by @helloliriels Designed by @helloliriels and @liquor-liquor-lips Gifs by @liquor-liquor-lips

Dedicated to @topsyturvy-turtely <3

[oflights]

The Fall of Rome

(for Cyril Connolly)

The piers are pummelled by the waves; In a lonely field the rain Lashes an abandoned train; Outlaws fill the mountain caves.

Fantastic grow the evening gowns; Agents of the Fisc pursue Absconding tax-defaulters through The sewers of provincial towns.

Private rites of magic send The temple prostitutes to sleep; All the literati keep An imaginary friend.

Cerebrotonic Cato may Extol the Ancient Disciplines, But the muscle-bound Marines Mutiny for food and pay.

Caesar's double-bed is warm As an unimportant clerk Writes I DO NOT LIKE MY WORK On a pink official form.

Unendowed with wealth or pity, Little birds with scarlet legs, Sitting on their speckled eggs, Eye each flu-infected city.

Altogether elsewhere, vast Herds of reindeer move across Miles and miles of golden moss, Silently and very fast.

W.H. Auden

[virtualplushy]

small joys saturday! i'm able to wear an cardigan out & about this morning and yesterday morning! it'll be too warm again in an few days but for now.. merriment in mine heart ^.^

YAYYYYY!!! i felt the same way, it was cool enough this morning for me to wear my favorite big hoodie to the library :D

[euelios]

i’ll be honest after this term the idea of going straight into grad school isn’t looking great

[alliwanttodoiscollectpoetry]

Musée des Beaux Arts by WH Auden

[misseyres]

was leaving a vm for my bf and I caught myself almost saying the l-word....girlies....is it happening....

[ukdamo]

The Fall of Rome

WH Auden (for Cyril Connolly)

The piers are pummelled by the waves; In a lonely field the rain Lashes an abandoned train; Outlaws fill the mountain caves.

Fantastic grow the evening gowns; Agents of the Fisc pursue Absconding tax-defaulters through The sewers of provincial towns.

Private rites of magic send The temple prostitutes to sleep; All the literati keep An imaginary friend.

Cerebrotonic Cato may Extol the Ancient Disciplines, But the muscle-bound Marines Mutiny for food and pay.

Caesar's double-bed is warm As an unimportant clerk Writes I DO NOT LIKE MY WORK On a pink official form.

Unendowed with wealth or pity, Little birds with scarlet legs, Sitting on their speckled eggs, Eye each flu-infected city.

Altogether elsewhere, vast Herds of reindeer move across Miles and miles of golden moss, Silently and very fast.

[whumpitisthen]

hey love, as someone with a lot of religious trauma, auden's mindset is feeling a little familiar here... idk if you're writing this purely for fun or for catharsis (i've always been into whump, but i got into writing to vent out all the shitty trauma feelings) but if u need to talk my dms are open <333 can't wait to see what happens next in the series

Okay i thought this was gonna go in a different direction and i was already apologising for not tagging for fucky religious mindsets hhh i will do that now

But no don't worry about me this is purely for fun and because i wanna whump an angel boy, if anything, you saying that makes me a little giddy bc i managed to write something that resonates so deeply with someone, even if its a bit fucked that this is the way i managed to do that.l

Im glad you liked it, Ive been trying to make something bigger than one-shots and drabbles, so the horrible whumpy adventures of auden will return soonish for sure, im excited to share with people the vision ive come up with! He is sad and lonely and so so squeezable :3

[flowerofthewave]

Had a very well adjusted sharing the bed moment in our Spire game. These are two people who have their shit together. Take my word for it

[apoemaday]

Musée des Beaux Arts

by W. H. Auden

About suffering they were never wrong, The old Masters: how well they understood Its human position: how it takes place While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along; How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting For the miraculous birth, there always must be Children who did not specially want it to happen, skating On a pond at the edge of the wood: They never forgot That even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot Where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer’s horse Scratches its innocent behind on a tree.

In Brueghel’s Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away Quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry, But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green Water, and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky, Had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.

[salemoleander]

Limited Life Webweave // sources under readmore

What is a webweave? Previous art: Third Life | Void Falling | Attempt 33 | Martyn

Pt. 1: Non-threatening feminist boy / @teanne ◆ Excerpt from Why We Tell Stories / Lisel Mueller via @fourteen-lines ◆ Emerald clock ◆ Digging Your Own Grave / @thatsbelievable ◆ a place i will go to this summer / @eliasericson ◆ Sand timer ◆ All have the same 24 hours tweet ◆ Invent my own family / @mountainqoats ◆ Shield #3 Brooch / Sergey Jivetin ◆ Osgood / @candiedspit ◆ Untitled (posted 2.18.23) / @petersolarz

Pt. 2: As I Walked Out One Evening / W. H. Auden ◆ I Know Not, I Know Not / Takashi Murakami via @zegalba ◆ Wouldn't It Be Nice article title / Ben Mathis-Lilley via @tikkunolamorgtfo ◆ Should You Remind Them About It? / @thatsbelievable ◆ In case of happy ending / cécile via @visual-poetry ◆ Fallout New Vegas alert ◆ [walking into a surprise party] tweet / @JUNlPER ◆ Seasonal bows / @eyanin ◆ Aerial attack / @catcrumb ◆ Vibe Check poll / @borgevino ◆ i can kill ppl textpost / @sharkyz ◆ Matchbox / @trxnspxrxnts ◆ Drawing, Stag and Hounds / William Hunt Diederich ◆ I had a dream comic / @deep-dark-fears ◆ Untitled (posted 2.4.23) / @petersolarz

Pt. 3: But the creature that wants to kill you / @keydekyie ◆ spill blood repetition texpost / @duckdotcom ◆ Everybody Dies soup / @snailspng ◆ Every Teenagers #1 / @everyteenager4free (deactivated) ◆ Statue Grave of Jane Margyl / @horrorlesbians ◆ Broken Hourglass ◆ Beautiful Island / Zachary Schomburg via @exitwound ◆ mr. cat is finally out of jail comic / @alisonzai ◆ Excerpt from End-times at an Italian restaurant / @ryebreadgf ◆ Church Birdcage ◆ Can't trust anybody Caution Sign / @secondimpact ◆ (covered in blood) textpost / @darthsenatorpalpatinecreampie ◆ Excerpt from Broken Hierarchies: Poems 1952-2012 / Geoffrey Hill via @heteroglossia ◆ A Softer World #264 comic / e horne + j corneau ◆ Pocketwatch ◆ Gut Feeling / @anatolknotek ◆ blue eyes art / @escuerzoresucitado ◆ Untitled (posted 2.8.23) / @petersolarz

[firstfullmoon]

SOLMAZ SHARIF: I was recently reminded of a story of a political prisoner—I don’t know if I want to share this. . . This political prisoner, who had been convicted and was facing the death penalty, was in a large cell with about twenty other political prisoners. Periodically, the guards would come and call one of their names and take that person out to be executed. When this political prisoner’s name was called, the prisoner stood up and started singing “The Internationale.” The whole cell sang along, and that was their farewell. But when the prisoner went into the hallway, the guards told them that they weren’t going to the gallows. They were being transferred to a different prison. The guards took them to the latrine, and while the prisoner was in there, they realized they wouldn’t have wanted “The Internationale” to be their last song, and started reciting a poem by, I believe, Hafez from memory.

For me, the why of poetry has become the reason revolution must happen to begin with. It’s no longer the conditions that make revolution inevitable, but what’s waiting for us on the other side of it. That required me to be more vulnerable—removing the conceptual frame was an act of that allowed vulnerability. . .

ALINA STEFANESCU: That reminds me of how my parents made me memorize poetry. They said: If you find yourself in prison, if you lose your home, family, livelihood, everything, the poems you remember will keep you whole. At the end of the day, alone in a cell, no one can steal the stanzas you remembered. The recitation itself is a radical act of refusal. Maybe poems sustain the hope and selfhood that carceral systems aim to extinguish.

SOLMAZ SHARIF: I love that. I was reminded of poetry’s capacities at the beginning of the pandemic. When lockdown started, some of my artist friends who work in other mediums suddenly couldn’t do any work. I remembered, for readers a poem is something you can carry with you anywhere, and for poets, writing a poem is an action that you can undertake anywhere. You don’t need physical materials. I hadn’t decided to turn my attention toward those qualities, however; I was forced to. My idea of poetry is tied inextricably to my early understanding of carcerality and war—both of which evaporate all that seems solid. And poetry seems especially able to survive these things. I bristle at the word hope, but the poem’s scrappy thereness is enough for me. In an interview late in his life, Mahmoud Darwish says, “poetry changes only the poet.” Some people understand that statement as pessimistic or cynical or jaded. Or maybe see it in line with Auden’s choppily quoted “poetry makes nothing happen”—a quote betrayed in the two words that follow: “it survives.” Auden is often quoted to fall neatly into that neoliberal ethical bypass of so much American literature. But I see the Darwish quote as honoring that even when a poem can’t be anything else, that it will be enough. I’m surprised by this turn in my own work, but the lived practice of poetry in my life made it inevitable.

— Solmaz Sharif and Alina Stefanescu, in conversation for BOMB Magazine