#in the name of the mother(sappho) the daughter(women) and the spirit of the dykes(the concept of lesbianism and sapphicism)

[floofysmallbob]

my family saying a blessing: dear father,

me praying to sapphic jesus, the little gay freak who lives in the sky: sup lesdyke bitch

[punkbirdwitch]

Sweet Mother Sappho

A longer poem about learning through history, self-discovery, etc. It’s a rough draft-- I’m not 100% satisfied with the storyline-- but, eh, here ya go.

---

Oh, Mother Sappho, though I’m not sure who you are,

I just found you in the trunk of my dad’s old beat-up car,

In a pile full of other stuff he used to want but doesn’t,

So I figured now would be the time to give myself a present.

I must admit that I’m not well-versed with verses,

Haven’t seen stanzas since Kwanzaa, and my rhymes could use work-- but!

Your face is on the cover and you look like you’re nice, so

I think I’ll come and read you-- only once or twice, I swear!--

And only when I’m curious about Aphrodite’s weaving,

Or carpenters and roofbeams or Gods who like deceiving!

I’d hate to be a bother with all of my incessant reading,

There’s just something ‘bout your passages I can’t help but find intriguing--

But maybe it’s just that my curiosity took

When I noticed finely scrawled within the tiny nook

Between the front cover and the page--

Faded some with age--

In graphite on the page, it reads, “Steph…

...

I hope you like the book.”

… My name’s Chris, by the way.

-

Oh, Mother Sappho, I know it’s only been one day,

But after our first meeting I can’t tear myself away!

And on top of that I realized that I’ve been a little flippant.

Dad always says that when I talk, my brain gets sorta distant.

My name is Chris, as I surely said before,

I’m 15 years old, born in the year Two Thousand and Four,

Which to you must seem like, I dunno, a billion years away--

If only you could see all of the stuff we have today!

My dad’s a docent-- uh, which means he works in a museum,

And I remind him he’s a nerd just about every time I see ‘im.

He takes folks ‘round to see the history, the time when you lived--

And money can be tight, so sometimes he works the graveyard shift.

I guess they save some headache by keeping the same guy

To glide across the floors by day and scrub ‘em by night.

But hey! I’m not complaining, and neither is he,

‘Cuz Empty Halls + Father/Son = Happy Memories.

I spent a lot of nights playing next to history,

Though how I (almost) never broke stuff still remains a mystery.

I played tag with the Huns, roshambo with Tommie Smith,

(A game I always won since he would always raise his fist).

My father told me tales from ancient times-- (Never quite PG)--

Then quizzed me on Mythology ‘til my mind was at its apogee!--

I’d hunt with Davy Crockett and paint with Vince van Gogh--

Might explain why a dead poet makes the second-best friend that I know. Ha!

But my favorite-- yes, the best-and-kindest figures of all

Were the warriors whispered about in the Women’s History Hall.

This was before they spread the female figures throughout the exhibits,

But in that hallway you could sense there was rebellious spirit.

Wollstonecraft and Curie, Shelley, Earhart and d’Arc,

I danced with Josie Baker, had some chats with Rosa Parks--

I fought entire wars with them as a tactician of sorts,

Then settled it with kindness, like you read about in books--

And it’s true that my childhood would have been less sleep-deprived

If I stayed at home while daddy made the money to survive,

But I’m a night owl through and through, a real child of Nyx-- (Still got it!)--

Which is why I’m sitting here with you at, like… 3:06.

… A.M. Yikes-- Mother Sappho! I’ve got to get to bed,

But thank you oh-so-kindly for the poetry I’ve read.

I hope that you don’t mind if this becomes a regular thing,

Like when I used to read soliloquies to Dr. Martin Luther King (‘s statue)--

God, with all that museum time, it’s weird I never met you.

But without further ado,

I’ll say good night to you.

… But Mother Sappho-- one thing keeps me awake,

A little shred of curiosity that I have yet to slake.

It pulls me in like the aroma from the master dish of a chef,

Oh, Mother Sappho…

… Who’s Steph?

-

-

Oh, Mother Sappho! Julie’s coming by tonight,

And whenever she comes over she just has to steal the spotlight!

Not that I mind-- I’m cool with being quiet at the table

While my childhood friend fills my open head with fables.

Our Hellish Elementary formed our crucible as friends,

And though it sucked, we only came out stronger in the end.

A nerdy girl, a “cissy” guy, playing sci-fi with dolls--

Didn’t really resonate within those tiny halls.

And of course I’d be remiss to not show her my new find--

I always try to have a new conversation topic each time

That she comes over-- Which she’s done quite regularly

Since she became my friend when no one else

Would hang out with me.

… But anyway-- She says she loves you, which is not a surprise,

It’s always been dead-dramatic ladies for whom she’s had eyes--

Not saying you’re dramatic, Sappho, I’m just trying to say,

That I’ve recently been wondering if you might’ve been gay?

I’m just saying! that’s the conclusion that I came to next

When the subtextual did floweth over into the text.

(O it makes my panicked heart go fluttering in my chest,

for the moment I catch sight of you there is no speech left

in me--) You see? You can’t blame me for thinking

That it was rainbow-colored nectar you and your friends were drinking.

 And while Julie’s father has a chat with my dad,

I tell my lifelong friend about the conversations we’ve had--

And I can’t help but hear our fathers talking in the afternoon air,

Two strong voices rising through wood and laughing as a pair…

Though what they talk about’s a mystery-- dad says it’s “Nothing much--”

It’s rare for friends to have their dads like each other this much,

Aaaand I just rhymed “much” with “much”-- I told you I’m rusty!

But I think I’m getting better, you’ll-- just have to… Trust me?

Ugh.

 -

-

-

 Oh, Mother Sappho, I’m addling my brain--

If I don’t find out who this “Steph” is, I might just go insane--

Short for Stephanie, I’m sure, but why is it in my father’s hands?

And why would he discard in the back of our sedan?

Is there some pain within my father’s past he’d rather I not know?

...

You know-- I never had a mother, Mother Sappho.

 -

-

-

-

 Oh, Mother Sappho.

Oh, Mother Sappho.

 I spoke with Julie today, Oh, Mother Sappho.

Sweet Mother Sappho.

I had something to say, “Oh--

“You know,” I said, “I think that I would like to be a girl,

Even if not for forever, I’d still give it a whirl.

I’m unversed in verses-- It’s hard

To explain in the wrong key

But I get the feeling that not everything

Is quite all right with me.”

And she turned to me and smiled and said “Silly-- you can be.”

 .

 Oh, Mother, Sappho.

Oh, Mother, Sappho.

I’m addling my brain.

There’s something here inside my heart that I just cannot contain.

It doesn’t feel right--

And yet

It doesn’t feel wrong.

It just feels like I’ve

Never quite

Belonged.

And now I’m not sure where I’m at or what to do.

Mother Sappho, I don’t know what to do.

Oh, Mother Sappho…

…

Sweet Mother Sappho…

 -

-

-

-

-

-

 (Oh, darling daughter, I hope you know that you are strong

And that as you sat there rambling, I was listening all along.

Please pardon my language-- I’m afraid I’ve not rehearsed.

In this meter, I’m afraid that I’m the one unversed.

 (You’re green and dainty, child-- what better thing to be?

And though your heart is violet, you’re as sturdy as the tree.

I hope you know I love you, no matter who you are,

For your soul is far more radiant than all the highest stars--

Now show them who you are--

My child, show them you are.

...

(And know

That you have nothing to fear.

You’ll know

When you understand how near you were

And are

To people just like you.

To people who love you.)

 -

 Oh, Mother Sappho, I hope you know you haven’t been misread,

And I think I found the meaning in that thing that you last said.

I realized what before I would not have believed in, ‘cuz--

“Steph” is short for Stephanie-- but is also short for “Stephen.”

 I think my dad and I might need to have a talk--

In the morning. It’s 2:04, and I’m still sort of in shock.

Maybe once I tell ‘im, I can help him get a date.

Ha! Maybe…

It’s late.

 Thank you, Mother Sappho, and just to set things straight-- (Which I guess I’m not, now, huh, Ms. Sapphic?)

You can still call me Chris-- it’s gender-neutral, yeah? It almost feels like fate.

Oh, Mother Sappho, I think that this feels right.

Thanks, and-- good night, Mother Sappho.

 -

(Good night.)

[enkelimagnus]

Flowers - Clizzy

Femslash February : Prompt 6 : Flowers

This is a continuation of yesterday’s Candlelight

If Lady Herondale had one quality, it was her liking for sumptuous intricate gardens. To both Isabelle and Clarissa’s taste, the old woman was otherwise sour and unpalatable. She kept an iron fist on the young ladies that visited, so only when she was asleep in the afternoon could they all run into the gardens.

Today was different. Today, Isabelle and Clarissa were permitted to run into the gardens, for Lady Herondale received their mothers, and though she saw their youthful excitement with a bit of annoyance, she had no power over them.

The only rule was for them to at least appear for a cup of tea. And so they did. For the good hour that it took their mothers to finish their first cup, the young lovers sat in that room, stealing candy out of the trays, and filling themselves on delicious treats.

Isabelle’s dress was powdery pink, from head to toe, with darker accents of red that her mother disapproved of. She was quite fond of this dress, for it highlighted perfectly the darkness of her hair, and the redness of her cheeks.

Across from her, Clarissa was earing indigo and blue, colors that she prefered, and colors that looked ravishing on her fair skin and fiery hair. Hair that had been tamed and hidden under a hat, this once. It seemed like Lady Jocelyn had been more successful in taming her daughter’s spirit than Lady Maryse.

Finally, Lady Herondale put her cup down. Isabelle only waited a second before standing and stepping towards Clarissa’s chair. She took her hand and turned to the ladies. “We must go now, my ladies. We shall be back in sure time.” Clarissa sent the ladies a winning smile. Lady Jocelyn nodded. “Go and play, girls.”

“Thank you, Mother.” The redhead beamed.

They stepped gingerly towards the door, taking care of their skirts as it closed eventually behind them. Immediately, for they had not stepped away, they heard Lady Herondale’s irritated tone.

“Jocelyn, Maryse. Your daughters are too old to play in the gardens. It is the last time I allow such pleasantry outside of my jubilees.”

Isabelle rolled her eyes as they finally stepped away. “I will not hear another story of Lady Lydia and her marriage.” She huffed, and kept her hand in Clarissa’s. The other woman sighed.

“We cannot do a thing else than wait for them to be done. But I agree. How sad is it for poor Lydia to be married and widowed so young?” Clarissa wished for this to never happen to her. Jonathan was charming enough for her to pretend for a short moment, but a marriage? And a mourning? Not only would he mourning colors not suit her complexion, but wasting her young life away crying over someone she would never love…

She kept silent until they were disappeared in the gardens. They’d come here since childhood, used to running around with their little lady friends. There had been Aline and Helen, Lydia and Maia.

Lydia had always been older in the mind and more serious, but she’d been married soon after her 18th birthday. She had loved him. She was now mourning him. She’d become, sadly, an annoyance to Clarissa and Isabelle. When her husband was still of this plane, she could not stop talking of the great pleasure of being courted by a man.

Isabelle was nearing her 21st year. She knew her parents had until then to have her marry someone. Past that date, she would not need approval, and would not be forced into marriage. She waited impatiently for that date.

Her celibacy was a topic of discussion. Though some women accepted rather easily her age and status, many were disconcerted. In all honesty, Isabelle saw no qualms in marrying a man. She loved men as she did women, she was just versatile in that way. She’d just never known someone she’d wanted marriage with, until her.

“You’re thinking again.” Clarissa said softly, as they reached their favorite part of the gardens. It was a secluded greenhouse, with a delicate fountain running harmonically in the center of the metal and glass structure. Bushes of roses and violets, and other flowers grew under it, protected from the rains.

Lady Herondale’s roses were known in the county. Isabelle regularly stole a few from the greenhouse. But the violets would look greater in Clarissa’s hair that day, than the roses. It would compliment her blush and the color of her dress.

They sat on a bench carved into rock, holding hands and looking into each other’s eyes. It was silent around them, only the gentle lapping of the water against the stone basin of the fountain came to trouble the serene atmosphere.

“I’m thinking of you. You and I, my love.” Isabelle whispered. “And I must admit, it is not one of the nicest thoughts.” She reached up, hand cupping her lover’s cheek in the most tender way, as if Clarissa was made of crystal and threatened to shatter.

“Lady Herondale is right. You and I are not children anymore. How long until our mothers and her decide Johnathan is the one for you?” She asked, sadness in her voice.

“You think too much. Soon enough I will be 21, as you will be, and we will live together. Isabelle, you are the one for me, do not fear any of those who would force us apart.” In the firmness, in the fire and the determination she could sense in her lover’s words, Isabelle found one of the many reasons she loved the way she did.

“You are right. I think too much. For now, there is a few words that I would like for you to hear, but first, we shall made a crown for my queen, out of the violets growing in this house.” Isabelle chuckled.

She pushed away the thoughts and stood, walking swiftly to the violets and choosing the ones that would adorn her lover’s mane. Only the most vibrant would be enough for her love, only the most beautiful and proud.

She straightened back up, hands full of newly taken flowers, when Clarissa chose that moment to dive in for a kiss, the softness and surprise making Isabelle giggle. This, this was love without equal.

Clarissa decided eventually to snatch a few of the rosebuds, and they sat together for the afternoon, hand weaving the greenest of flowers together. Isabelle made for her lover a crown of violets. She knew the meaning of those flowers from a poem of Sappho she’d read in secret months ago, when her feelings for Clarissa had started tasting like the perfume of love, hypnotising and complex, and no longer like the sweet honey of friendship.

Sappho reminded her lost lover of the beautiful things passed, of the crowns of violets and rosebuds.

It resounded deeply in that particular moment, though. Clarissa forming a crown for Isabelle of rosebuds, while she formed one of violets. The similarity of it made her wonder if women of the Old Ages were so different from her. It seemed to her like Sappho shared many of her qualities. Humans were such peculiar creatures.

“You’re thinking again, my Carmilla. What fairy is responsible from stealing your thoughts away from me, today?” Clarissa teased.

“Her name is Sappho.”

“Sappho? Are you seeing other women, my love? Should I be worried that your heart isn’t mine entirely?” The redhead added, and the teasing in her eyes made Isabelle’s heart sing.

“My love is all yours. Fear not.” Isabelle chuckled in answer. “Sappho is a poet from the old times. She makes me think of us.”

Clarissa let her hands fall, finishing to arrange the flowers together. She had, somehow, managed to assemble it without pricking her finger once. Isabelle loved a goddess.

“How does she make you think of us?” The question was curious and teasing. Isabelle couldn’t imagine a more beautiful tone.

“She writes her love for women in a way that seems like she reads my thoughts when I see you.” Isabelle whispered. “Like so. It is her poem Awed By Her Splendor that translated my mind.”

She reached inside of her dress, where she kept he sweet letters of love written by her lover, and out of it pulled a folded paper. “Read. Only the voice in your mind can do justice to such beauty.”

“You would not tarnish it.” Clarissa reminded her, but took the paper. She unfolded it and read.

Awed by her splendor stars near the lovely moon cover their own bright faces when she is roundest and lights earth with her silver