#blotched-poetry

[sinligh]

You seek approval,

my subconscious implemented in my dreams. you build up illusions of yourself

and like a bridge thread of a spider web you give them to others

silky, sticky yet somehow,

you’re smooth enough to lure them to wrap you in all that you desire,

even if it’s their own pleasure.

you’re not stuck you’re waiting, for an ending or a beginning

an unsolicited death, an indefinite life

you fear your own madness but the edge of it is what you live for.

you wait, and wait and wait for love to visit the fragile home you made for yourself in this temporary world

but it’s not what you want, is it ?

because the moment it knocks on your door you rush to the arms of another,

paranoia or melancholy? It doesn’t matter.

you writhe and hiss until you shed a skin of a past life that you held on

For acceptance alone, if nothing else…

what is it that you truly desire?

•••

• Quotes: Susan Sontag/ Edgar Allan Poe/ Emily Dickinson/ Halsey/ Sylvia Plath/ Christa Wolf.

• Original context: Sinligh

• Art reference:

1. Art by Edward Burne-Jones. 2. Art from Sedmikrasky (Daisies). 3. Dave McKean, "Sandman" graphic novel. 4. Art by Roberto Ferri. 5. Painting by William Oxer. 6. Craww's "Woven".

[learningto-write]

it can't quite explain this feeling

I've heard so much about mending broken hearts, with time, with love, with the right person

but I never hear about the hearts that are so shattered they can never fit back together

I never hear about the hearts that have been betrayed and tormented countless times

I never hear about how guarded and closed off our hearts become, and how truly nothing feels as though it can break through

I never hear about how deep, whirl wind, soul tied love feels impossible - is my heart even capable anymore ?

I never hear, about hearts like mine

[deer-daughterx]

It is a strangely treacherous feeling, to see you here in front of me when I’ve been staring at after images of you in places you haven’t been in years.

-Forgotten places

[cosmicmote]

The Study of People as Lovers

same painting used as previous Chill Day piece, but with slightly different editing.

does the sun repeat itself?

does the rocket to the moon?

I feel like the poem should be expanded on, in longer form

graphic and words ©spacetree 2023

[followcb]

Like a lovable friend, this poem has come back around life's bend..... and how it's tale continues to transcend. ❤️ 😍 💖.

Her Favorite Chair

she unlocks secrets

parlays rainy days

plays hide and seek

with clouds and sun

perhaps an unexpected, overcast past

taught her how to interpret

shadows and storms

and how moods intersect

today, she now finds

a sense of contentedness

inner bliss and happiness

home peering out her windows

watching gray skies arrive

she grabs a book, pops open a beer

excited about inclement weather

reclined and relaxed, she's ready

to watch tv and watch it rain

as she settles into her favorite chair

(c) @followcb | October 26, 2019

[unuskvloo]

-/ batim oc /-

Name: Bonnie “Bella” Clarke

Age: Thirty-Four

Pronouns: She/Her

Gender(optional): Trans Female

Species: Formerly Human. Now transformed into an Ink Humanoid

Job/Role in the studio: Voice Actress for “Bella”

Likes: Watching artists draw and the animation process, Jazz/Swing Music, Socializing with others, The “Boris the Wolf” character, Poetry, Reading Thriller Novels, Tap-Dancing

Dislikes: Mistakes of any kind (heavily judges her self-worth and integrity), Flaws and Failure, Messy Food, Closed/Narrow Areas, Sammy Lawrence, Susie Campbell, Sitting Within the Quiet

Relationships: TBA (Open for any kind of connections/relationships)

Backstory: (More or less a very simplified version)

- To perform as an antagonist, artists eventually created concepts and the final product of their most mischievous character: Batty Bella. The one to cause most antics that are meant to tempt the demon to continue his devilish activities. A contrast to Alice Angel; one that is there to “throw a wrench into his schemes”. The little devil on one shoulder as the angel stands on another.

- Bonnie was assigned the role after being hired through a friend of the company. Despite the major risks that came for being “different”, through tons of back-and-forths, Bonnie secured the role once she “fit the description”. While there weren’t the best intentions made in mind when assigning her Batty Bella. Nonetheless, she was ecstatic to be able to voice act within a toon that would be watched by many.

- However, in one moment- she could recall her vocal chords straining and vibrating to hit certain high notes of a particular song. And in the next, she would feel something impale her stomach. There are numerous blotches within her memories, unable to recall the moment before or during the ink machine debacle. But, nonetheless, the ink machine recreated the woman into something that felt more comfortable than her own skin. Even if her new form is not ideal for outsiders.

Extra Info:

- Voice Claim is Belle Baker (Song - If I Had a Talking Picture of You (1929)

- Feels as though the character was made for her in some instances when reading the synopsis of Batty Bella. Bonnie always had interest in ballerinas and other hobbies/activities considered feminine.

- Always feels at least suspicious or wary of other angels due to a part of her sensing (or assuming) one of them stabbed her.

- Ring and pinky fingers are melted together.

[grandhotelabyss]

Have you read any of the Sagas or other old Scandinavian stuff? If not, I think you’d like Egil’s Saga, and have some interesting points to make about Njal’s Saga.

Egil's Saga is the only one I read, but that was a long time ago, and I couldn't do more than repeat commonplaces about it. I definitely want to read Njal's Saga—they say it's the best one—and the Vinland Sagas for the American connection. I loved the starkness of the landscapes and the outbreaks of violence and terror, while sometimes getting tangled up in the genealogies and social relations. I am attracted to Seamus Heaney's idea that these texts are the Northern rivals to the Mediterranean epic tradition and to David Mitchell's idea, laundered through his Martin Amis-like fictional writer Crispin Hershey in The Bone Clocks, that they are at the origins of all later narrative poetry and fiction, which I will quote here since I don't have a more personal answer for you:

“If you’re writing fiction or poetry in a European language, that pen in your hand was, once upon a time, a goose quill held by an Icelander. Like it or not, know it or not, it doesn’t matter. If you seek to represent the beauty, truth, and pain of the world in prose, if you seek to deepen character via dialogue and action, if you seek to unite the personal, the past, and the political in fiction, then you’re in pursuit of the same aims sought by the authors of the Icelandic sagas, right here, seven, eight, nine hundred years ago. I assert that the author of Njal’s Saga deploys the very same narrative tricks used later by Dante and Chaucer, Shakespeare and Molière, Victor Hugo and Dickens, Halldór Laxness and Virginia Woolf, Alice Munro and Ewan Rice [another fictional writer in Mitchell’s novel]. What tricks? Psychological complexity, character development, the killer line to end a scene, villains blotched with virtue, heroic characters speckled with villainy, foreshadow and backflash, artful misdirection. Now, I’m not saying that writers in antiquity were ignorant of all of these tricks but,” here I put my balls and Auden’s on the block, “in the sagas of Iceland, for the first time in Western culture, we find proto-novelists at work. Half a millennium avant le parole, the sagas are the world’s first novels.”

[outofangband]

Butterflies and moths of Doriath

Flora, fauna, geography and environment Masterlist

As always I included world building notes at the bottom so it’s not just a list of species

There are hundreds of species of butterflies found throughout the region of Doriath. Though Tolkien abandoned the idea that butterflies, all originated in the Nan Tathren, which was written in the book of lost tales, I do like to headcanon that this remained a legend or folktale in universe

Note: there are so many species of insects, this unfortunately cannot be a complete list

Primarily Neldoreth: orange tip (outskirts), elm autumn moth, Aglia tau, silver washed fritillary, dotted border moth, brown tail moth, comma butterfly

Primarily Nivrim: Checkered skipper, purple hairstreak (found in Region too), green hair streak, large copper, white prominent moth, purple emperor, large tortoiseshell

Primarily Region: Holly blue, northern blue, oak lantern moth, bird cherry ermine moth, blotched emerald moth

Throughout Doriath: ghost moth, wood white, cranberry blue, green longhorn moth, Luna moth, peacock butterfly, ghost moth, lilac leafminer moth, paper moth, white Pearl moth, red admiral, Heath fritillary, light emerald moth

Forest edges and clearings: short tailed blue, pea blue, purple edged copper, small copper, speckled wood, green hairstreak, wal brown, scarce swallowtail, clouded Apollo, blue spot hairstreak, twin spot fritillary, Julia,

World building notes

-Butterflies and moths, as a whole are associated among the Sindar with transformation and cycles of life as they are in many cultures. They are also symbols of abundance, color and precision/agility. Different species and varieties will have more specific connotations, however

-Arthórien has rare, even rainforest butterflies due to the difference in temperature and rainfall. I will make a separate post for its butterflies!

-The gardens of Menengroth also have several species of rare butterflies not found elsewhere in Doriath. These are nurtured by Melian’s power.

-ghost moths are associated with spring and summer for their bright colors and emergence in warmer weather. Insects and flora have had a large influence on color and pigmentation in Sindarin practices, both as inspiration and material.

There are even practices of safely collecting the dust and pollen that collect on the wings and legs of insects; it is immensely time consuming and precise.

-Orange tips can be found on the sigils of certain Doriath nobles. Their image is sometimes used in Doriathrim fashion, especially in jewel and hair pieces made from wood or metal. Alder bark is typically used to create the orange color

It was from these species among others that pollination was originally studied by the Sindar of Doriath.

-The purple hairstreak is associated with twilight and the darker reaches of the forest. This is primarily for its color as like most species of its family, they tend to emerge mainly on sunny days. They feed mostly on oak trees. The name for this species in Ilkorin translates to butterfly of twilight.

Their almost shadow like appearance in flight makes them a favorite for artists who make prints and illustrate naturalist work!

-Wood whites are often associated with niphredil both for their color and their habitat.

Note: I always imagine Niënor wearing a hair piece or embroidery with this species during her time in Doriath

-Luna moths are highly associated with Melian and with Lórien. They symbolize night, dream, and desire and appear as motifs in a lot of later Sindar poetry and art

[gaunt-and-hungry]

Dreamt last night that Francis Crozier kept trying to write a short litany of love poetry. It looked something like this: "You are beautiful the way th' ocean is beautiful. Crest'n foam bout the waves. Tides'n rough wrought'n blades. Stingin a'bite thorough hayze. Fresh lick o salt to m'tongue, dewlike down m'bowsprit an I fret it tears far fore our paces met macushla. I pace bout the top beastin' bray an think of you, if you were, if you c'have me and I have ye, m' beour. Impermissible t'weould be. An in me thinks yer of my Iseult and I Tristan. 'an I'd make ye happy. Likes of a sailor on thar sea happy. For yer as much I nautical an t'gethar we come an go tides and all. If y'd have me. an if y'd have me." There was a pile of them on his desk in his bedcabin and most were crumpled and all soaked with some blotches of ink and it looked as if he were incredibly frustrated with it.

[sinligh]

It’s early summer,

the hopeless romantic in me found her way to the surface when the heat melted couple of my overprotective layers.

so here i am, allowing her a moment of spotlight and myself some vulnerability.

it’s past midnight, I’m sitting in floor of my kitchen eating fruits with a knife

wondering, if it’s really safe to romanticize life?

I indulge myself anyway, and think about how fruits can be considered a love language if you’re starved enough to taste love that’s throughly stained with muted apologies. 

I trust, that when the sun rises tomorrow all my attempts to romanticize life will sublimate and create a thick fog of melancholy that I’ll have no other option but to get lost into.

even so, tonight I’m tired enough to let it be and so i write this, my own report of pathology

officially it’s untitled, but I’m thinking: the pathology of love.

i start by resecting pieces of all the habits that i define my existence based on along with some of the heartache that i held onto for too long

deep down, i know some of it belongs to my mother

At least its mature flavor says so, that, balanced with the sweet essence of an overly ripe fruit that never belonged

Young and brash and an acquired taste.

it’s a poorly fixed microscopic tissue, preserved in a high percentage of feminine rage

Low expectations stained with love and paranoia alike and the question that asks itself:

is it benign or malignant?

is it infiltrating my soul, taking away from my potential to grow ?

It stays unanswered, an unforced error

because i always carry those little versions of me that vary in the percentage of their belief in my own bone marrow

a core biopsy will always show that i still believe.

•••

•Quotes: Anaïs Nin/ Sylvia Plath/ Virgina Woolf/ Franz Kafka/Marcel Proust/ Simone de Beauvoir/Anne Carson/ Andrea Gibson/Anaïs Nin

•Original context:

•Art reference:

1. British School - Head of a girl, c. 1850. 2. Painting ( details) by Richard E. Miller. 3. Paintings by Jen Mazza. 4. Neil Carroll Original Oil Painting Realism Impressionism. 5. The Gross Clinic (details), by Thomas Eakins 6. Wounds of the Earth by xis.lanyx. 7.painting by Herbert James Draper.

[learningto-write]

And as I knelt next to her, my heart on fire

I whispered

Whatever your soul is made of my darling - mine is made of the same stuff

- on truely being in love

[cycas]

Could you talk about the ‘Subtle Work : Inks and Writings in Eregion’ wip?

This is basically a story about how the Doors of Moria ended up with moon-writing on them... The best place to get ink in all of Ost-in-Edhil was the House of Saramor. It was a small place with a low wooden door and a fine glass window full of glinting bottles in every possible colour. 

Inside, there were more bottles: stacked three deep on wooden shelves, and piles of ink-sticks, pens and brushes of many kinds. 

Beside the door there was a table filled with pressed linen paper, birch-bark strung on fine strings, reed-paper, and a few precious offcuts of fine vellum, on which visitors had written lines of poetry, names,  jokes and songs. 

It was Celebrían’s favorite shop. She could spend hours there, choosing inks and writing a line in this shade of emerald green, another in a rust-red or the gold of chestnut-leaves in early autumn, and emerge with blotched fingers and a mind full of colours and curving letter-shapes that almost seemed to fly across the page, like birds in flight. 

******

“I think we should have a design inscribed on the doors,”  Celebrimbor said to Narvi, frowning at the plan laid out on the table before him. “The symbols of Eregion and of the House of Durin together.  Hammer, and crown, for the Dwarves, the Two Trees, for Galadriel, and... my star.”

“You can’t do that.” Narvi held up a hand to halt Celebrimbor before he could begin sketching. “Our doors are always hidden when they are closed. Tradition, see? And a wise one.  If anyone could see the closed doors, they’d know just where to dig.”

“But these doors aren’t going to be shut,” Celebrimbor argued. “They’re practically ceremonial. That’s why we widened the entrance-way and put in the steps after all, so that Ost-in-Edhil and the City Under Mountain can be connected forever. The gates will be standing open, with an honour guard just to keep an eye on them. Stop sheep from wandering in and getting lost, that sort of thing.  They don’t need to be secret.”

[dustedmagazine]

Chandelier — S-T (Self-Released)

Time is the enemy for Atlanta post-punkers Chandelier, its passage relentless, marked in short-sharp packages by scramble-strummed guitars and chinking cymbals. “Time keeps trailing me, t-t-t-t-trailing me,” the singer barks in a curiously uninflected monotone, against a swinging pendulum guitar riff in the song called “Enemy.” He’s stealing a glance over his shoulder at hours, days, months, years, and they’re definitely gaining on him.

This self-titled album lives in the shadow of the pandemic, boredom and anxiety fighting it out in chugging instrumental agitation overlaid by a half-asleep drawl. Dissonant, dissatisfied guitar notes clang over the twitter of birds in brief, disconsolate “Bird.” “Mirror Called” is told through an open window, listless but nervy with enforced isolation. “The drummer in my head beats forth the sound/Stay inside, stay inside/the hours cut the days up until no one’s counting/what’s inside, what’s inside?” observes the singer.

We don't know much about the people in Chandelier — Karl Syrylo on vox, Dennis Bowen on guitar and drums, Bryan Scherer on guitar and Thomas Martino on cymbals (but just on "Bowl") — except that they live in Atlanta. They meant to release this album last spring on a small but respected label but pulled it last minute, delayed for months then put it out themselves.

And yet, we know enough just from the sounds pouring out of the speaker, the spiked radiance of guitars pushed to blur speed, the rock simple battery of drums and cymbals. Tight but somehow also ramshackle, laconic but with moments of poetry, jangling like rusted wires, the band steers by the same polestars as the Fall, the Swell Maps, Omni and Protomartyr, though more wrecked and paranoid and boxed in. “Disco Columbine” braids Fire Engines’ off-kilter dance spasms with nihilism. “Pleasure Zone” chimes and blares, its lyrics sensual (“echoes from the velvet room/emerging from the pleasure zone”) but delivered in dead-eyed monotone.

It's all quite good, drawing you in with the beat and the energy, putting you off with the knotty, anhedonic chants. It’s not the kind of album you can get comfortable with, but if you’re uncomfortable, its manic dissatisfaction provide jittery confirmation. We lived in boxes for two years, starring dully out of windows, and when we started to dance again, it sounded like Chandelier, jerky, off-rhythm, blotched with frenetic bursts of joy and frustration.

Jennifer Kelly

[wcrriorhearts]

the maids had called upon the queen in their desperate attempts to calm the princess, but helaena did not remember when her mother had entered her chambers. she had been curled up in her bed, crying and wanting to scratch her skin to the bones, just to make the awful sensations in her belly stop, so there were claw marks on her wrists and the sides of her abdomen where she had scratched, overwhelmed and overstimulated, but yet unable to calm down. her mother had stopped her from digging her nails into her own skin, she remembered that, but it had not been a gentle thing. helaena had fought her off, until she was too tired and had just curled up to cry more.

she was so exhausted. not the kind of tiredness one acquired from too many nights of poor sleep, but one that had seeped into her bones and made it almost unbearable to be awake at all. while she had sobbed, her mother's voice had begin to sound through the chambers, soft and gentle, reading in a tongue that she usually never spoke. it evoked memories from helaena's childhood, when the queen had sat at her bedside and read poetry to her daughter. it had been one of the few methods to calm and comfort her back then and helaena found herself listening now as well, clinging to every word her mother spoke, as if her life and sanity depended on it. even though she could still feel the flutter of gentle movement inside her womb, she no longer focused on it, but rather listened. her sobbing ceased and even though she was still upset, helaena felt her breathing calm and the trembling in her body fade. her hand reached out for her mother's after a moment, cold fingers wrapping around warm ones, her blotched and tear stained face turned towards the queen. "mama", helaena whispered miserably. "i am sorry."

@vhgr gets a plotted starter

[petrichorbones]

Petrichor stains these bones ✧˖°.

Mossy fangs, canine desire, ink blotched fingers and a tear stained soul ˖⁺‧₊˚♡˚₊‧⁺˖

⋆⁺｡˚⋆˙‧₊☽ ◯ ☾₊‧˙⋆˚｡⁺⋆

Welcome to my personal blog ! If you're reading this then I trust and treasure you endlessly ♡

Warnings to consider !

This is a writing blog but that means it also doubles as a place I will vent as I use writing as a coping method !! Below I will write a list of trigger warnings I think should be acknowledged before you read further.

I WILL be writing about:

➸ Loss & Grief & Abandonment

➸ Violent imagery

➸ Lust & Sexual themes

➸ Insecurity & Mental illness

➸ Loneliness & Nostalgia

On a slightly more positive note, I will also write about:

➸ all forms of love

➸ general descriptive pieces

➸ witchy imagery

I understand if any of these topics are hard to stomach or a post needs to be ignored / skimmed !

Webweaving, poetry and general descriptive writing is ahead. Expect canine imagery, grief and platonic adoration. ฅ՞•ﻌ•՞ฅ

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┊⋆ ˚✯┊☪︎⋆ ✩

☪︎⋆｡˚┊˚✩ ┊

┊⋆｡˚. ੈ ┊

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[m3tam0rph0s1s]

sometimes i think i always carry around a part of the characters i love because the watercolor blotches and scribbled thoughts and chipped nailpolish on my hands remind me of rachel elizabeth dare and i always push my glasses up with my middle finger because once i read about a character in a wrinkle in time who used to do it like that and when i read books i fall straight into them like matilda used to and sometimes when i walk into a wall and distractedly apologize to it i know what it feels like to be remus lupin. when a teacher reprimands me for a sassy remark i'm every main character ever and when someone looks at me like they're in love i'm the prettiest princess in the whole world. i love loving and being loved and reading stories and writing poetry and making art out of nothing and yes, life is really that simple