#letter to brigit

[irelandseyeonmythology]

This Saint Patrick's Day, don't forget the reason for the season. Celebrate like St. Patrick would have wanted:

Speak Welsh.

Turn your enemies into foxes

Call out your local politicians

Set a bonfire, piss off the cops

Curse your enemies' fields to become barren marshes, unfit for farmland.

Cause an earthquake

Write all your letters in Latin

Despite this, claim that your Latin is bad.

Become a key part of Uí Néill propaganda.

Yeet your enemies into the sky so that they freeze to death.

Adopt a child who refuses to leave you alone.

Bargain with an angel to be allowed to judge the souls of the Irish on Judgement Day

Remind your local surviving members of the Fianna that all their friends are dead and in Hell.

Have two oxen decide your burial place

Develop a long and complex relationship with St. Brigit in the folk tradition, despite neither of you being contemporaries.

Refuse to suck the nipples of the pirates who you are trying to convince to take you back to Britain.

Disguise yourself as a deer

Fight against manmade climate change

Be accused by your former friend of unspecified charges that might or might not have involved gay sex and write a long self-justifying letter about your tragic backstory.

[april-is]

April 26, 2024: Origin Story, 1993, Adam Falkner

Origin Story, 1993 Adam Falkner

Your grandma says you look just like your cousin Frank, mostly in the eyes when you grin. They chuckle at the dinner table when there is Frankie in your hair, towhead cowlicks bolting into sky

like strands of snapped hay. No one stays long on the subject, really – just the way he lives in your laugh, your funny faces, how he smokes like a ghost from your whistle. Once, your nan

had to grip the back of a chair to keep from buckling. And he’s not dead. He just moved. They told him he had to. So he bought a blue ‘82 pickup & went to New York to “get AIDS

and die.” Which he did. But not before filling his lungs with sky the size of God country & the new-fashion baptism of a sequined, hungry life. Not before flashing

through a decade of open-mouth laughter & living room play readings, crowded apartment holidays & finally, the big breaks. Not before the coke parties & park muggings & good news to share

with the boys & dinners at diners that let you run a tab & hard news to share with the boys. Not before beach houses wind-whipped with salt & memory, where they sit arms pretzeled to watch

the sun steal into the other life. But that’s later. It is 1993. You are nine-and-a-half but going on knowing. It’s the fourth of July & everyone is here except everyone who never is. Your giggle

lingers like grease on the walls as you float the hallway, dull murmur carrying on from the kitchen & there—frozen on the dresser, like a trophy & a prayer. He kisses you back.

--

Do me a favor? Take a quick 1-question poll on the future of these posts.

Today in:

2023: For the Dogs Who Barked at Me on the Sidewalks in Connecticut, Hanif Abdurraqib 2022: Demeter, Midwinter, Mairead Small Staid 2021: from A Pillow Book, Suzanne Buffam 2020: Letter to My Great, Great Grandchild, J.P. Grasser 2019: After the First Child, the Second, Mary Austin Speaker 2018: A New Lifestyle, James Tate 2017: Anchorage, Joy Harjo 2016: Poem to First Love, Matthew Yeager 2015: Ode to the Reel Mower, Jim Daniels 2014: So Much Happiness, Naomi Shihab Nye 2013: Habitation, Margaret Atwood 2012: About Marriage, Denise Levertov 2011: In Praise of My Bed, Meredith Holmes 2010: Black Swan, Brigit Pegeen Kelly 2009: In Me as the Swans, Leslie Williams 2008: Gnosticism V, Anne Carson 2007: American Names, Stephen Vincent Benet 2006: since feeling is first, e.e. cummings 2005: The Second Coming, W.B. Yeats

[pretentiouswreckingball]

Can I have a raven playlist pls 🌚

You can have it all raven <333

r -> Ready Or Not by Dr. Brigit Mendler

a -> all the good girls go to hell by billie eilish

v -> Voyage Voyage by Desireless

e -> Everybody (Backstreet's Back) by Backstreets Boys

n -> Never Wanna Fall in Love With U by nelward

Send me your name and i'll make a mini playlist with the letters in your name

[triciamfoster]

Correspondences: Sun

THE SUN  

Rules: Joy, success, advancement, leadership, natural power, friendship, growth, healing, light, pride 

Day: Sunday 

Element: Fire 

Colors: Gold, yellow 

Sign: Leo 

Tone: Re, D 

Letter: B 

Number: 1, 6, or 21 

Metal: Gold 

Jewel: Topaz, yellow diamond 

Cabalistic sphere: 6 Tiphereth—Beauty 

Angel: Raphael 

Incense: Cinnamon, cloves, frankincense, laurel, olibanum 

Plants: Acacia, angelica, bay laurel, chamomile, citrus fruits, heliotrope, honey, juniper, lovage, marigold, mistletoe, rosemary, rue, saffron, St. John’s Wort, sunflower, vine 

Trees: Acacia, ash, bay laurel, birch, broom Animals: Child, eagle, lion, phoenix, sparrowhawk 

Goddesses: Amaterasu, Bast, Brigit, Ilat, Sekhmet, Theia 

Gods: Apollo, Helios, Hyperion, Lugh, Ra, Semesh, Vishnu-Krishna-Rama

[sixtyfivehundredinvisiblebirds]

what I read in 2022

2022 We Ride Upon Sticks- Quan Barry How to Not Be Afraid of Everything- Jane Wong Today a Woman Went Mad in the Supermarket: Stories- Hilma Wolitzer The Rabbit Hutch- Tess Gunty The Daring Life and Dangerous Times of Eve Adams- Jonathan Ned Katz AND Lesbian Love- Eve Adams (in same volume) Thistlefoot- GennaRose Nethercott Bluest Nude- Ama Codjoe The Master Letters- Lucy Brock-Broido (reread) Family Lexicon- Natalia Ginzburg (tr. Jenny McPhee) The Whole Story- Ali Smith The Rupture Tense- Jenny Xie Bad Rabbi: And other strange but true stories from the Yiddish press- Eddie Portnoy A Tale for the Time Being- Ruth Ozeki Ducks: Two Years in the Oil Sands- Kate Beaton Wandering Stars- Sholem Aleichem (tr. Aliza Shevrin)   Moldy Strawberries- Caio Fernando Abreu (tr. Bruna Dantas Lobato) Sarahland- Sam Cohen Your Emergency Contact Has Experienced An Emergency- Chen Chen Elephant- Soren Stockman Craft in the Real World- Matthew Salesses Life of the Garment- Deborah Gorlin Olio- Tyehimba Jess In This Quiet Church of Night, I Say Amen- Devin Kelly The Wild Fox of Yemen- Threa Almontaser Song- Brigit Pegeen Kelly Qorbanot- Alisha Kaplan w/ art by Tobi Kahn Gold that Frames the Mirror- Brandon Melendez Foreign Bodies- Kimiko Hahn A Little Devil in America- Hanif Abdurraqib Muscle Memory- Kyle Carrero Lopez not without small joys- Emmanuel Oppong-Yeboah Too Bright To See & Alma- Linda Gregg Borne- Jeff VanderMeer Harvard Square- André Aciman What We Talk About When We Talk About Fat- Aubrey Gordon The City We Became- N.K. Jemison Twenty-Eight Artists and Two Saints- Joan Acocella Vladimir-Julia May Jonas Everyone Knows Your Mother Is a Witch- Rivka Galchen Lessons in Being Tender-Headed- Janae Johnson Against Heaven- Kemi Alabi How The Word Is Passed- Clint Smith Earth Room- Rachel Mannheimer True Biz- Sara Nović Motherhood- Sheila Heti The Fire Next Time- James Baldwin Diary of a lonely girl or the battle against free love- Miriam Karpilove tr. Jessica Kirzane Mezzanine- Matthew Olzmann Customs- Solmaz Sharif Edge of House- Dzvinia Orlowsky Only as the Day is Long: New and Selected Poems- Dorianne Laux DMZ Colony- Don Mee Choi Stay Safe- Emma Hine Spring Tides- Jacques Poulin, trn. Shira Fleishman (reread) No One Is Talking About This- Patricia Lockwood Unaccompanied- Javier Zamora Where I Was From- Joan Didion Air Raid- Polina Barskova tr. Valtzina Mort Dispatch- Cam Awkward-Rich Bury It- sam sax A Cruelty Special to Our Species- Emily Jungmin Yoon Homie- Danez Smith Dreaming of You- Melissa Lozada-Oliva

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

Check out this great letter challenging the City of Kingston's plans for daytime evictions in Belle Park (from Mutual Aid Katarokwi-Kingston, March 19, 2024):

"I am a citizen of Kingston who lives on Montreal Street and volunteers five to seven days per week, for two or three hours per day, at the Integrated Care Hub with my colleague Brigit Smith.

In our role, at this grassroots level, we support the ICH shelter residents, substance users at the Consumption Treatment Centre, encampment residents at Belle Park and many unhoused in the community who have learned about the kindness, warmth and support we provide to the homeless.

As background, one of our business clients donated $10,000 to purchase a golf cart for the CTS and ICH staff to provide swift responses to overdoses, ultimately saving lives. We set up a prepaid account at BnB Pharmacy to support fulfillment of prescriptions, which we top up on a monthly basis. We raised over $12,000 this past winter to provide tents, air mattresses, sleeping bags, pillows, hygiene products, winter coats, boots, hats, gloves, running shoes, back packs, and warm clothing. We have built relationships with businesses in the community who support our efforts to take care of our homeless. We often purchase and donate coffee, donuts and

muffins so our unhoused feel, in some small way, that we care about their well-being. We process all incoming donations. We take care of everyone with respect and dignity and we are honoured to serve them. They are warm, friendly, appreciative, and respectful in all interactions. We do not deny the reality of challenges, as we see them every day, however one would think the threat to life would include concern for fires and freezing to death. We do not feel your decision is taking all complex matters into account. We feel uniquely qualified share our perspective.

The announcement of the City of Kingston to prohibit day use and evict our encampment homes on a daily basis, effective April 2, 2024, simply must not go forward.

We are in the midst of a national housing, economic, substance use and drug poisoning crisis. This is our reality. It is not going away. Delegations have approached council to talk about substance use in our schools at the elementary and secondary levels. Poverty and homelessness are growing. This is evident in the statistics authored by the Canada Mortgage and Housing Corporation. These may be the most complex times we will face in our lifetime and as citizens we can not condone the short sited and thoughtless approach of daily prohibition and daily eviction of homes. Asking our vulnerable residents who are often medically ill with complex mental illness, and or substance use and many fragile elderly, to pack up their homes and belongings daily, is inhumane. We must have more scope than knowing we will be complicit in the death of our vulnerable citizens, if we push them further into the woods and isolation, as Justine McIsaac stated at your council meeting in January 2023.

Moreover, the Office of the Federal Housing Advocate, authored by the Canadian Human Rights Commission (Feb 2024) clearly indicates the need for the City of Kingston to comply. It is a human right to receive adequate housing and yet you are proposing we dismantle the only home they have on a daily basis, destroying the little dignity they have. These are their homes, and it is incumbent upon us to improve their homes, not dismantle them. Our citizens in Belle Park are already a community in crisis, a traumatized and disadvantaged population. We have a group of seniors who depend on us to listen to their stories and memories and be present for their needs. Many, are quite sick and dropped off from the hospital in various states where continued active care is required. We also provide walkers, canes and wheelchairs. It is our norm. How can we respect and support the decision of the city when you do not seem to understand the complex matters of these very important citizens. We need to collaborate to find common ground.

Can you imagine what will happen to our emergency departments when we can no longer administer naloxone in Belle Park. An already overburdened HDH and KGH will now be providing overdose support because residents have moved further away from their support at the CTS and ICH. We serve hundreds of overdoses. These overdoses will land squarely at emergency along with the Paramedics and Police who must remain present until the emergency dept can serve them.

Our residents will find places to live in their tents further away from the ICH. Tent encampments will not cease to exist, with your dismantling strategy. Recently, you took the tent of a resident, and this particular resident continues to live at Belle Park under a tarp. You accomplished nothing but putting this resident further into crisis. This is their community, it is their home, their tents are their homes. Let that sink in, tents are the best we have provided them. This eviction will push them further into crisis, despair and desperation and as Justine stated, resulting in death.

It is our understanding, a resolution from Council is required to move forward with your April 2 directive and we did not find this resolution. Can you please advise us as to how this decision was made as we understand this directive to be illegitimate

Please let us work with our community, fire department, police and bylaw to educate and support our residents. Our outdoor engagement team has worked very hard to collaborate with citizens, police and fire and we believe with a dedicated team we can build understanding and find common ground. We are inviting the community to volunteer with us. Give us a chance to build relationships. Please reconsider your decision and work with us to support our community while we build a made in Kingston strategy together. On a strategic level, we have a made in Kingston plan to collaborate with private sector and all levels of government to lift Kingston as the innovative and dynamic city it is. Please reconsider and work with us toward a sustainable solution.

Sincerely,

Pamela Gray and Brigit Smith"

[angedemystere]

Reading Thoughts This Year - DNFs

This was my first year in which I had an official reading plan (even a spreadsheet!) to not only get me back on track with reading in general but to think more consciously about my current tastes and habits. Both of them shifted over the course of the year, which resulted in overhauling my TBR after a few months of completely lapsing (yaaay). But knowing that I could go back and rearrange my list and make progress through my TBR was empowering, regardless of how many books I managed to finish.

This post is about my DNF list, which has two categories: books started and dropped, and books not started at all.

For the dropped book list –

Medieval Scandinavia (Brigit & Peter Sawyer): My first foray into historical nonfiction, and boy, not a promising start. Not that I didn’t find the information interesting, but I quickly discovered that pacing was going to be a big problem for me in nonfiction, at least in history texts. I think the key factor was information density: there’s so much to process, and because it’s not presented in a narrative in the way a biography or memoir can be, I had to put more work into reading. It’s definitely a text I want to get back to, but I might let myself take it chapter by chapter instead of setting page-count goals.

The Poetic Edda: The beginning of my reading slump. Now this might be a poetry thing, or it may be weaker interest in the stories – I can’t be sure. I finished The Prose Edda a couple months earlier with little trouble, so maybe it’s a style issue, but the Prose Edda also squarely focuses on the Norse gods, while the Poetic Edda encompasses other culture stories that I’m not as familiar with and that didn’t hold my attention as readily. That said, I will definitely get back to it, maybe in the coming year.

For The Wolf (Hannah White): My dawning realization that I might be reading too many YA fairytale retellings. Not only that, but many of them have the same premise that I’ve seen done in other books that better fit my taste (or were better written). I think I’m also growing weary of the brooding love interest in these stories. I used to enjoy the trope a lot more, so either I’m outgrowing it or I’ve had an overload and need a substantial break. This is one I will likely give another try down the road, but I’m not anticipating this being a favorite.

Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea (Jules Verne): I don’t think I was in the right headspace to pick up the book when I originally planned to. Definitely one I want to tackle again soon.

Les Miserables (Victor Hugo): Ah, my white whale. I genuinely want to read this book cover to cover. Every time I pick it up, I get a little further than where I stopped before. Just not that much later. Fortunately I’m solving this problem with Les Mis Letters where I have each chapter emailed to me every day of 2023. This is absolutely not cheating.

The Vikings (Robert Ferguson): The next victim of my nonfiction-novice-reader brain. Again, interesting information and I think written with a bit more narrative flow than Medieval Scandinavia, but I got bogged down trying to keep up with my page-count goals. I might wait for the mood to take me back to this one.

The Keeper of Night (Kylie Lee Baker): I honestly thought I would get sucked into this one, but … maybe it’s the worldbuilding, or the characters, or the stakes that feel too simple, but yeah, this one lost me just a few chapters in. I do struggle with beginnings in general, including for books I end up really liking. But again, it’s a familiar setup that I’m probably oversaturated on: the outsider who has no friends (except maybe one) and must leave a home they don’t really like anyway. Maybe if the main character were more interesting, I would’ve wanted to follow regardless. I might look up some reviews to see other people’s spoiler-free thoughts before deciding to come back to it.

Brothers of the Wild North Sea (Harper Fox): Man, this one has potential. It’s a gay romance, it’s enemies to lovers, and it’s Vikings and monks—there’s so much going for it! But my interest dropped when the love interest got introduced. I just don’t like him. The main character can do better. And yes, that’s the point, they grow to be a good fit for each other. But I found myself more interested in how the monks were going to protect their abbey and deal with overzealous new management than whether the MC and the injured Viking were going to fall in love. The setup for their relationship feels forced in certain ways. Another book where I’ll wait for the mood to take me back to it.

The Gilded Wolves (Roshani Chokshi): Why must you try my patience? Why must you be an interesting premise on paper yet fail to keep me hooked? Is it that worldbuilding feels a bit thin? Is it the attempts to make the characters interesting with their quirks that fall flat? This is my second time picking up this book, and while learning some more character backstory pulled me along for a bit, I’m just failing to vibe with most of the cast, setting, and plot. I want to like this book! Not sure when I’ll come back to it, but it gets one last chance to win me.

I don’t have much to say about the books I ended up skipping because I still want to give them all a try. For the sake of completeness, here are the Untouched DNFs (DNSs?):

The Darkest Part of the Forest by Holly Black

On Stories by C.S. Lewis

City of Light, City of Poison by Holly Tucker

Legend by Marie Liu

The Werewolf of Bamberg by Oliver Potzsch

A Gathering of Ravens by Scott Oden (technically a DNF from last year I meant to get back to)

Till We Have Faces by C.S. Lewis

Why Did Jesus, Moses, the Buddha, and Mohammad Cross the Road? by Brian McLaren

Out of the Silent Planet by C.S. Lewis (reread)

European Travel for the Monstrous Gentlewoman by Theodora Goss

Strange Practice by Vivian Shaw

The Golem and the Jinni by Helene Wrecker (another DNF from a few years ago I meant to get back to)

Sun Dancing by Geoffrey Moorhouse

[forgottenbrigit]

If it hadn't been her for own pride (and that of her sisters'), Brigit wouldn't have minded if all of Astaira knew what had happened at Malconaire. Everything had crumbled in Valentina's hands and if it hadn't been for those around her who loved it so, it would have collapsed entirely. But it was their own love for Malconaire -- and for the legacy that their father had entrusted to all of them to uphold -- that Brigit never dared to say a word.

She suspected Valentina must know this, due to the fact that the girls had all gone along with her scheme, at all. It was a shame, for it would have been so happily and lovingly done, if only Valentina had tried to share in the labor that she demanded upon them while also refraining from spending any profits they managed to produce on such silly and extravagant luxuries.

Brigit couldn't quite help rolling her eyes when Valentina reinforced to her that none of them could appear as though anything were amiss at Malconaire, "Oh, never fear, stepmother, I shouldn't think anyone would ever mistake you for being anything other than a lady of leisure." In fact, in all of Valentina's years as mistress of Malconaire -- in both times of peace and war -- Brigit couldn't recall ever having seen her do anything more strenuous than writing letters -- and even then, she often had Aoife write her correspondence if there was too much to be done.

Brigit started to say more on the subject but then stopped, suddenly.

If there was one way Valentina could manage to stop Brigit in her tracks, it was to remind her that she once saved her from being burned as a witch.

It had shocked her to see that her stepmother had come forward on her behalf. Brigit often thought that if some accident befell in her in the woods or upon a horse, that Valentina would secretly celebrate her loss. But when all she had to do was step aside and say nothing if she wanted Brigit to meet a fiery end, she not only pleaded for Brigit's life but managed to convince them that they had made a mistake.

She'd come to terms with the fact that all of this was likely propelled by Valentina's desire to preserve the family name and ensure her own children's futures. For all of her faults, Brigit had to admit that Valentina's love for her own children far outweighed whatever hatred she held in her heart for Brigit -- as she demonstrated that fateful day before the pyre walk.

If it hadn't meant condemning her own sisters to the same suspicion and ruination that Valentina and her children would have succumed to, there would have been a part of Brigit that would have wished Valentina had been brave enough to let her die. She certainly wouldn't have gone quietly -- she could think of many more preferable ways to die than being burned at the stake -- but she would have died knowing that her death had played a part in the ruination of both Valentina and her family.

As it was, she didn't particularly like being reminded that she owed Valentina her life -- whatever her reasons, in the end, Brigit knew that if Valentina hadn't interfered, there she likely would not be alive.

And she hated her for it.

"Imperially wed?" She almost laughed to hear her stepmother imply that such an outcome was plausible in the same breathe as she stated that such a union would help for the accusations against herself to fade. "Do you think the emperor or his daughters should look twice at either of your children?"

Brigit was, perhaps, a bit unfair to Sonya who was both beautiful and intelligent -- and since Roderick did not seem to care how many wives he had, she was just as likely as the next noblewoman to catch his eye -- but when it came to Cassimir, who was the heir to a kingdom that Roderick had already claimed and only had a estate that was facing ruin to his name -- what on earth did Valentina truly believe he might be able to offer a princess of the Varmont empire?

Not to mention that her own son was secretly engaged to Eithne. Brigit would have loved nothing more to see the look upon her face when Valentina learned that her own beloved son had proposed without her knowledge or consent and meant to disregard all of her grand plans for his future.

But Brigit had no desire to turn Valentina's anger away from herself and onto her sister, so se bit her tongue.

Her eyes widened as she listened to Valentina justify why she would have them all bow to Roderick Varmont, despite the horrors he had inflicted upon them. "I do not know what he did to your own family," She admitted, "But after seeing what he has done to Astaira, I can easily imagine. And still, after everything, you would rather align your own family to him so that you might live in comfort and ease? You would see Sonya married to him, just so she might sport a crown? You are a coward!"

Valentina's slap came hard and fast. It was not the first time Valentina had struck her, but it still came as a shock. Brigit infuriated her often, but their arguments would end with her instructing Brigit to be lashed. It was not often that she so struck a nerve that Valentina was driven to such violence, herself.

Brigit could feel the heat rising from it; could feel the sting linger moments after she had been hit. She wondered if it would leave a mark? She raised her own hand to it and contemplated, for a moment, if she ought to heal it when she was alone, until deciding that she certainly would do no such thing.

If Valentina Malconaire meant to strike her, let all of Astaira see.

"And what shall I tell everyone happened here, stepmother?" She asked, her eyes defiantly meeting Valentina's.

Unacceptable | Brigit & Valentina

"She cannot be serious. Am I supposed to wear this the entire evening?"

Brigit still wasn't sure what was so terribly wrong with the plain brown dress she had been wearing (the color hid the mud stains on the hemline well enough, in her opinion), but Valentina had made such a fuss, stating she looked "half wild" and insisted that she change.

"It's only for a few hours," Aofie said, softly, " ... and it is rather lovely color."

It wasn't hideous. Brigit supposed she ought to be thankful for that. It was one of Sonya's old gowns that was a season old, but it had hardly been worn and looked almost new, even if a tad out of style. But Brigit hated it, all the same. It was too constrictive: she felt as though she could hardly move.

"How am I supposed to ready the horses in this? And what if something happens on the road there? I don't think I could nock an arrow, let alone shoot one."

"I don't think you are supposed to do any of those things in that dress, Brigit."

Brigit exhaled, still very much frustrated but ultimately having resigned herself to her fate. She would have faked an illness to avoid this evening all together, if she wouldn't worry so much about her sisters being at this ball without her. The thought of attending a ball held by Roderick Varmont in the palace where the Staffords had ruled for centuries made her angry -- and the fact that she was supposed to pretend to enjoy herself angrier still. But she knew Cassimir would take this opportunity to lavish his attentions upon Eithne; in addition the three Varmont princes would be swarming about all three of her sisters -- and this was not to mention the other men who would come circling.

No, she had to go. But that didn't mean she was especially happy about the idea.

Brigit descended the stairs, following her sister, to meet with the rest of the family who were all gathered in the hall waiting to depart. It had been late enough, already, when Valentina forced Brigit to change (she had fused over the appearance of her own children first, before turning her attention to the other girls), and now they were sure to be late. Brigit supposed she had that to be thankful for: the later they were, the less time they would have to spend there.

She walked directly up to Valentina, "Have I met your approval, step mother?" Brigit almost wished that she would find more fault with her -- anything to delay the evening further.

[april-is]

April 26, 2023: For the Dogs Who Barked at Me on the Sidewalks in Connecticut, Hanif Abdurraqib

For the Dogs Who Barked at Me on the Sidewalks in Connecticut Hanif Abdurraqib

Darlings, if your owners say you are / not usually like this / then I must take them / at their word / I am like you / not crazy about that which towers before me / particularly the buildings here / and the people inside / who look at my name / and make noises / that seem like growling / my small and eager darlings / what it must be like / to have the sound for love / and the sound for fear / be a matter of pitch / I am afraid to touch / anyone who might stay / long enough to make leaving / an echo / there is a difference / between burying a thing you love / for the sake of returning / and leaving a fresh absence / in a city’s dirt / looking for a mercy / left by someone / who came before you / I am saying that I / too / am at a loss for language / can’t beg myself / a doorway / out of anyone / I am not usually like this either / I must apologize again for how adulthood has rendered me / us, really 
/ I know you all forget the touch / of someone who loves you / in two minutes / and I arrive to you / a constellation of shadows / once hands / listen darlings / there is a sky / to be pulled down / into our bowls / there is a sweetness for us / to push our faces into / I promise / I will not beg for you to stay this time / I will leave you to your wild galloping / I am sorry / to hold you again / for so long / I am in the mood / to be forgotten.

--

More Hanif Abdurraqib: » I Would Ask You To Reconsider The Idea That Things Are As Bad As They’ve Ever Been » When I Say That Loving Me Is Kind Of Like Being A Chicago Bulls Fan » If Life Is As Short As Our Ancestors Insist It Is, Why Isn’t Everything I Want Already At My Feet

Today in: 

2022: Demeter, Midwinter, Mairead Small Staid 2021: from A Pillow Book, Suzanne Buffam 2020: Letter to My Great, Great Grandchild, J.P. Grasser 2019: After the First Child, the Second, Mary Austin Speaker 2018: A New Lifestyle, James Tate 2017: Anchorage, Joy Harjo 2016: Poem to First Love, Matthew Yeager 2015: Ode to the Reel Mower, Jim Daniels 2014: So Much Happiness, Naomi Shihab Nye 2013: Habitation, Margaret Atwood 2012: About Marriage, Denise Levertov 2011: In Praise of My Bed, Meredith Holmes 2010: Black Swan, Brigit Pegeen Kelly 2009: In Me as the Swans, Leslie Williams 2008: Gnosticism V, Anne Carson 2007: American Names, Stephen Vincent Benet 2006: since feeling is first, e.e. cummings 2005: The Second Coming, W.B. Yeats

[lotrobsession]

Letter to Brigit By Viggo Mortensen I could not bring myself to take pictures of any of it, to take anything, although I did for a moment consider grabbing my camera to ensure that later on I’d have an image, some tangible visual record of the process of losing you. Maybe that momentary impulse came from fear that the emotional weight of participating in your last days as flesh-and-blood would eventually outweigh or alter the straight facts that photographs might hold. Fear that visuals so fresh right then, as I sat on one of the two plush green leather couches of the crematorium waiting room, would reshuffle themselves and gently blend together as merely tolerable sentimental recollection. It wouldn’t have been right, though, to shoot what only you and I should know. The camera stayed in the truck. ---- The kind man in charge of the ovens had just gone out into the noon blast of July in the San Fernando Valley to check on the progress of your burning. I’d followed but stopped thirty feet back as he’d asked me to. “You don’t really want to see—it’s something you probably wouldn’t want to see… The. … uh …,” he’d mumbled, faltering in a way that had won me over instantly. “You mean if she isn’t done yet?” I’d said, completing the thought for him. “Yes, exactly. The, uh… sometimes they’re not completely …” He’d paused, looking as pained as if he’d known you the way I had. “Her insides?” “Yes,” he’d blurted out with a slight squeak in his voice. “It isn’t pretty.” “No. I can imagine it wouldn’t be,” I’d said. “Not at all pretty.” He had stood there, putting on his fire-retardant gloves and his sunglasses, still looking at me as if needing to say something more. And I had waited. It’d already been a hell of a long morning, so I hadn’t been in any big hurry at that point. “I do this all the time, but I couldn’t personally, you know, do this.” I’d thought I understood more or less what he meant. “My uncle’s dog,” he’d continued, “I had to do that one, and it was very difficult. I could never do it again.” “I understand,” I’d said. “Very difficult.” “Yes, I’m sure.” He’d started backing sideways toward the oven. It was one of the three on the back lot that seemed to be in operation, as evidenced by the grey smoke rising from their steel-pipe smokestacks into the smoggy haze above us. As inappropriate as the thought might have been, I somehow couldn’t help but think of the much larger indoor ones I’d once seen in the Dachau concentration camp memorial. I’d felt a momentary urge to ask if these ovens had been manufactured in Europe, but it had passed. “Please stay back here while I check and see how she’s doing,” he’d then said. “OK,” I’d said. “And how do you check?” He’d stopped side stepping toward the oven. “I open the door and look.” “Oh. Yeah.” “She might not be done. She might not be ready.” “Yeah. OK. I’ll wait… ” “Plus, it’s real hot. About 1,500 degrees.” “I’ll wait here then.” “I’m so sorry,” he’d said, tugging down the bill of his navy-blue ball cap and turning toward the oven. He’d said “sorry” several times since I’d arrived, and he seemed to mean it. “Sorry for your loss. I am truly sorry.” After a minute spent carefully peeking through the slightly opened oven door, he’d closed it and walked back to me. “I’m sorry. She’s not done yet. Another ten or fifteen minutes.” “Should I go back inside to the waiting room, then?” “Yes. If you don’t mind. Sorry. I’ll let you know just before I get her so you can come and watch me do everything. Check, you know, to see if… see that… ” “Yeah, good. OK, thanks.” ---- A tall, well-groomed black poodle named Paris, as I’d overheard her being called when I’d first arrived at the crematorium office, had been staring at me for a while. From her position under a sort of anaemic-looking potted ficus by the doorway to the office, she was able to monitor all comings and goings. Suddenly, she rose and bolted straight for me, jumping up on the couch right next to me, barking excitedly. Her breath smelled like boiled carrots. Sort of sweet and not altogether unpleasant, but not something I craved at that moment. The receptionist called Paris, no doubt trying to keep the dog from further upsetting me, the grieving customer. Paris was not bothering me at all. I understood that she had been barking for attention, not out of aggression—probably bored out of her mind in this place where all other dogs were dead and burning or about to be. She hadn’t even barked that loudly, really, and her company was comforting in a life-goes-on-and-there-are-lots-of-nice-dogs-in-the-world-sort of way. Paris gave me one more quieter bark right in my left ear, licked my face and left me to see what the receptionist wanted. “I’m very sorry,” the receptionist said, as she led Paris into the back of the office area. “That’s OK,” I said. “She wasn’t bothering me. Female, right?” “Yes, she certainly is. I am sorry for your loss.” I know she meant it as well. Expressions of sympathy for the customer would to some degree have probably been obligatory for the crematorium personnel, but everyone did seem to be personally and genuinely concerned. People doing their utmost to run a decent family-owned business with kindness and compassion. The compulsion to record all of this got the better of me, finally, and I went out to the truck to look for my notebook. After a quick scramble through the papers, books, cameras and other assorted commuter debris on the back seat, I found the notebook. Although I had not had the time to take many pictures or to sit down and write much of anything lately, a camera and something to write in are always in the car, or in whatever bag I carry, just in case a moment special to me presents itself to be stolen. Resisting once more the temptation to take the camera, I grabbed the notebook and a pen and returned to the waiting room to begin writing this. Kind strangers have given me a few handsomely bound journals and notebooks over the years. Some, like this one, are bound in beautifully tanned and tooled leather. This one’s cover has a giant oak tree cut into it, with other old oaks on a distant ridge beyond it. The big pewter button used for tying the notebook closed with a leather thong is cast with an oak leaf and acorn detail. I am not much good at keeping a diary, or diligent about any sort of regular journal entries. My way to remember has usually been to write stories, poems or more often than not, to make photographs or drawings. I felt a little rusty and awkward writing in the waiting room under the quietly watchful eyes of the receptionist and Paris. Maybe it didn’t seem at all odd to them, my scribbling away. Probably what bothered me was my own sense of guilt over being inclined to record the events surrounding the processing of your body. Just a short time earlier I had been openly weeping while crossing the city in morning rush-hour traffic. I suppose we humans can be resilient—nearly as resilient as you were, Brigit—and as accepting of life’s unpredictably rough patches as most animals seem to be. Whatever the reason, I found I could not write fast enough in my attempt to describe the events of the day. “Do you want to come out while I clean this out?” the kind voice of the oven-minder asked softly, interrupting me in mid-sentence. I looked up and nodded. “Yes, please. I’ll … let me … let me just finish this sentence—this paragraph. I’ll be right there.” “Sure …” ---- “Do you write a lot?” he asked, as I followed him outside. “Used to.” “Nice-looking book you got there.” “Thanks. Yes, it is.” I closed it, marking my place with the pen, just as he stopped and turned to me. I was standing on the same spot I had been asked to watch from earlier. “Please stay right here. I’ll shut her down and get everything. You’ll be able to see everything happening, but it is very hot now, and also …” “Yes, ok I’ll wait here.” As I stood still in the by-now withering heat and watched him switch off the oven and open it, I suddenly realised that there had been no muzak, no music of any kind playing in the waiting room. That was a pleasant surprise and seemed remarkable to me. The tact involved in such a choice on their part told me that they really must care. The ovens were out behind the small, one-story building that holds the tidy crematorium office, some oversize freezers and the very pleasant air-conditioned waiting room. The property was surrounded by twenty-foot-high stacks of automobile carcasses, entire auto bodies and an enormous variety of neatly sorted bits and pieces—fenders, doors, hoods, seats, side mirrors, steering mechanisms, engine parts, dashboards, roofs, etc., arranged in row after row—apparently according to year, make and model. The sprawling salvage yard dwarfed the crematorium and its modest parking lot. Although there was no vegetation in sight, the colourful, encroaching heaps and rows of rendered vehicles almost looked like exotic organic growth, a sort of postmortem environment that seemed to me to perfectly complement the pet-burning business. The thick, lightly buzzing strands of heavy-duty power lines drooping as they crossed some thirty feet above us from one massive steel support to another only added to this entirely man-made, and remade, end-of-nature garden. Its perfume was a blend of acrid and oily-sweet, of melting rubber and asphalt, of taffy-thick black engine grease, of yellowing plastic and peeling paint sluggishly wafting upward and blending with the constant dead-fish reek of Los Angeles smog. ---- I had risen very early—or, rather, got out of bed early, as I hadn’t slept at all. Knowing it was today that I was scheduled to pick up your refrigerated corpse at our trustworthy local veterinary hospital and drive it out to this industrial hinterland for cremating had kept me from being able to rest. Probably I am able to write about this with a degree of detachment because your brother Henry and I have already gone through the worst of your final decay and death process together. We took you, our fifteen-year-old, completely lame and largely incontinent pal, to be “put down” three days ago. In the intervening time we had to wait for a slot at the crematorium to open up. I have been able to largely digest and assimilate the stronger surface emotions of your final morning. As much as I am and will continue to be haunted by your sweet, departing gaze when the brain-stopping serum was administered, time and the responsibilities resulting from your passing have more or less carried me away from that heartbreaking scene. I will always see your eyes slowly lose their gleam as I gently lay your head down. Will always remember your final generous gesture of rolling halfway over to let us rub your belly one last time before the doctor gave you the sedative. I’d arrived at the back door of the vet’s office feeling like I was complicit in some sort of underworld transaction. As had been the case all week, the morning sky was overcast, and the clammy grey marine layer had only added to the death business I was now part of. Two men in overalls had come out with what looked enough like a curled-up “you” shape inside a light-blue trash bag. As I had taken the thawing bundle and carefully laid it on the towel-covered passenger seat of the pickup truck, I had looked at the older of the two men. He’d nodded, seeming a bit uncomfortable, and then had turned and followed his colleague back inside the building without a backward glance or farewell. I had been very tired, a bit teary-eyed, and had not said a word myself. Probably not the most pleasant person for them to be around. I had gotten in the car and begun making my way to the 405 freeway. Moving slowly, stuck in the usual massive commuter caravan headed north toward the Sepulveda Pass, it had occurred to me that tomorrow would mark the 60th anniversary of the Hiroshima and Nagasaki atomic bomb drops. Then I had thought, not for the first time when passing the Sunset Boulevard exit, about O.J. Simpson’s bizarre televised journey in the famous white Ford Bronco. I had continued in that vein for a while, my mind becoming cluttered with a dizzying assortment of images involving unforgivable murders and other perversions of justice. The ideals of compassion had seemed distant, insignificant. I’d felt resigned, passively understanding that life moves forward just as traffic eventually does. Suddenly, the cars in front of me had slowed abruptly and I had braked hard, glad to see cars in my rear-view mirror doing the same. The bagged corpse had slid off the seat and onto the floor, and I’d tried to pull it back up with my right hand. It had been quite heavy, and I’d realised it would be a difficult and dangerous task to accomplish while driving, so I had made my way across two lanes of traffic and off onto the side of the freeway. As I had come round the front of the truck and opened the passenger-side door, I had decided I’d have a look at you to see if you were intact. I had straightened out the towel on the seat and lifted the bundle back onto it, then poked a hole in the plastic bag, now wet with condensation, where I could feel one of your frozen paws. Long black hair, long black nails. Not much like any of your paws. I had quickly felt for the body’s head, finding a stiff tongue projecting beyond clenched teeth, and then a collar around the neck. We had taken your collar off when you’d expired at the vet’s, and I knew that Henry was wearing it wrapped twice around his wrist as a bracelet today. This dog was not you. The absurdity of it all had hit me immediately as I had stood up and stared at the mass of moving cars through the poisonous-looking heat waves. The sadness of it had been suddenly overwhelming, as was the smell of initial decomposition, which I had not been aware of until that moment, like that of a dead deer that’s been hanging for a few hours from a tree. I had never really wanted to live in Los Angeles. Here I was, on yet another ridiculous errand, feeling vaguely like I was being punished for some past transgression, marking time and forced to make sense of an oddly evolving riddle. I had secured the corpse and made sure the towel was placed so as to keep the dead stranger from touching the seat or any part of the truck’s interior. Eventually, I’d got myself turned around and headed back to the vet’s, feeling sorry for this poor dog I did not know, and for its unwitting owner. En route, I had called the crematorium and informed them that I would be late for our oven appointment because I’d been given the wrong dog. They’d been very kind, had said I should get there when I could, and that they were very sorry. ---- Now the crematorium is about two miles behind me as I sit listlessly sipping coffee at a Mexican restaurant. This is as far as I have got, with my new cedar box containing your remaining bone fragments and ashes. I had asked the oven-minder to please not crush your bones if that was what he’d planned on doing. “Yes, normally we do very gently break down the bone matter so that it fits comfortably in the box or urn as the case might be. If you prefer, though … ” “Yes.” “…we can also not do it and just try and place her, the bone matter—the bag, that is—in the cedar box for you. If they’ll fit—if it will fit—that is.” “That’s ok, I can do it.” Earlier, out by the ovens, I had been allowed to scoop up all your burnt bits from the metal tray that the man had scraped the cooling, fragile ghost-shape of your skeleton onto. I had stopped several times to carefully examine some of your more distinguishable pieces. Vertebrae, hip parts and most beautiful of all, the rounded piece of bone that I instantly recognized as the top of your skull. We have petted that part of you so often. I can feel its shape even now, in memory, feel the bone through your smooth fur, feel your warmth and your happiness. All of it had gone into the plastic bag he now held. “Ok, sir. As you prefer.” I proceeded to gently rearrange the bag and its contents inside the box, and then placed your crematorium nametag and the receipt for services provided on top of your remains before closing the lid with its little brass clasp. “We would like you to consider the cedar box a gift from us due to the unfortunate mistake that was made this morning. We are very sorry about that.” “Oh. Well … thank you …” A woman who seemed to be the oven-minder’s boss, and perhaps the owner of the establishment, stood up and came around her desk to address me. “We are very sorry that … Brigit?… that Brigit got confused this morning.” I almost pointed out that you had not been confused at all, being quite dead, but I resisted the temptation, knowing what she meant. “It is very unusual that something unheard of like that would happen,” she continued. “Very unusual, and we are extremely sorry. If you prefer a larger box or don’t like cedar as a wood type… maybe an urn would be more to your liking?” I was truly moved by her words and the generous offer. “Is it Western red cedar?” I asked, for some reason unknown to me now—perhaps being at a loss for anything better to say by way of response. “You know, I am not real sure about that,” she replied, a bit thrown off by my question. “I certainly can try and find out for you, if you like?” “No, thanks. I was just wondering. Just curious, I guess.” “Would you like to replace the cedar?” “Replace? No. I like cedar. Smells good, looks good. Thank you.” I now felt like a complete idiot. “You don’t have to give me the box, though. Don’t have to give it… I’m happy to pay for it.” “We insist. It’s something we want to do for you.” “Thank you very much. Very kind of you.” “If Brigit doesn’t fit comfortably, not being completely dust and all… ” (“Comfortably?” Never mind… ) “No, that’s fine. She fits. I got her in there ok. And it’s a beautiful box. Thank you.” ---- “Me podría traer un poco de arroz con frijoles, por favor?” “Would you like anything else with that?” the waitress replied, in heavily Spanish-accented English. “Gracias, pero la verdad es que no tengo mucho hambre.” She looked at me calmly, and said “I’ll bring it right out. Warm up your coffee for you?” “Fijese: ahora que lo pienso creo que sí me gustaría una pequeña ensalada de lechuga y tomate… y cebolla, si hay.” “Ok,” she continued in English, “and will you like some dressing—vinaigrette, ranch, French, blue cheese, or oil and vinegar—for that?” Doesn’t happen often, but once in a while my gringo looks or perhaps my Argentine accent seem to be held against me like that. She glances at the cedar box resting on the table to the right of my place setting. I wonder if she has seen this sort of box before. The crematorium isn’t far, and maybe other people stop here now and then as I have, unable or unwilling to drive any further. Maybe they sometimes come here and get a little drunk, become indiscreet and open their boxes to look at what’s left of their animal friends. Maybe they cry and have to be consoled. I do not look at my box, just hold the waitress’ gaze when it returns to me. I’ve taken an initial dislike to her because she seems to refuse to speak Spanish with me, so I’m certainly not going to give her any more clues now. “Will that be all, sir?” she asks dryly. “Sí… y si me puede traer la cuenta con la comida—y un poco más de café—se lo agradecería.” She looks at me for a moment longer, then reluctantly mutters “Por supuesto, señor,” as she turns to go place my order.

[nbula-rising]

Letter to Brigit By Viggo Mortensen I could not bring myself to take pictures of any of it, to take anything, although I did for a moment consider grabbing my camera to ensure that later on I’d have an image, some tangible visual record of the process of losing you. Maybe that momentary impulse came from fear that the emotional weight of participating in your last days as flesh-and-blood would eventually outweigh or alter the straight facts that photographs might hold. Fear that visuals so fresh right then, as I sat on one of the two plush green leather couches of the crematorium waiting room, would reshuffle themselves and gently blend together as merely tolerable sentimental recollection. It wouldn’t have been right, though, to shoot what only you and I should know. The camera stayed in the truck. ---- The kind man in charge of the ovens had just gone out into the noon blast of July in the San Fernando Valley to check on the progress of your burning. I’d followed but stopped thirty feet back as he’d asked me to. “You don’t really want to see—it’s something you probably wouldn’t want to see… The. … uh …,” he’d mumbled, faltering in a way that had won me over instantly. “You mean if she isn’t done yet?” I’d said, completing the thought for him. “Yes, exactly. The, uh… sometimes they’re not completely …” He’d paused, looking as pained as if he’d known you the way I had. “Her insides?” “Yes,” he’d blurted out with a slight squeak in his voice. “It isn’t pretty.” “No. I can imagine it wouldn’t be,” I’d said. “Not at all pretty.” He had stood there, putting on his fire-retardant gloves and his sunglasses, still looking at me as if needing to say something more. And I had waited. It’d already been a hell of a long morning, so I hadn’t been in any big hurry at that point. “I do this all the time, but I couldn’t personally, you know, do this.” I’d thought I understood more or less what he meant. “My uncle’s dog,” he’d continued, “I had to do that one, and it was very difficult. I could never do it again.” “I understand,” I’d said. “Very difficult.” “Yes, I’m sure.” He’d started backing sideways toward the oven. It was one of the three on the back lot that seemed to be in operation, as evidenced by the grey smoke rising from their steel-pipe smokestacks into the smoggy haze above us. As inappropriate as the thought might have been, I somehow couldn’t help but think of the much larger indoor ones I’d once seen in the Dachau concentration camp memorial. I’d felt a momentary urge to ask if these ovens had been manufactured in Europe, but it had passed. “Please stay back here while I check and see how she’s doing,” he’d then said. “OK,” I’d said. “And how do you check?” He’d stopped side stepping toward the oven. “I open the door and look.” “Oh. Yeah.” “She might not be done. She might not be ready.” “Yeah. OK. I’ll wait… ” “Plus, it’s real hot. About 1,500 degrees.” “I’ll wait here then.” “I’m so sorry,” he’d said, tugging down the bill of his navy-blue ball cap and turning toward the oven. He’d said “sorry” several times since I’d arrived, and he seemed to mean it. “Sorry for your loss. I am truly sorry.” After a minute spent carefully peeking through the slightly opened oven door, he’d closed it and walked back to me. “I’m sorry. She’s not done yet. Another ten or fifteen minutes.” “Should I go back inside to the waiting room, then?” “Yes. If you don’t mind. Sorry. I’ll let you know just before I get her so you can come and watch me do everything. Check, you know, to see if… see that… ” “Yeah, good. OK, thanks.” ---- A tall, well-groomed black poodle named Paris, as I’d overheard her being called when I’d first arrived at the crematorium office, had been staring at me for a while. From her position under a sort of anaemic-looking potted ficus by the doorway to the office, she was able to monitor all comings and goings. Suddenly, she rose and bolted straight for me, jumping up on the couch right next to me, barking excitedly. Her breath smelled like boiled carrots. Sort of sweet and not altogether unpleasant, but not something I craved at that moment. The receptionist called Paris, no doubt trying to keep the dog from further upsetting me, the grieving customer. Paris was not bothering me at all. I understood that she had been barking for attention, not out of aggression—probably bored out of her mind in this place where all other dogs were dead and burning or about to be. She hadn’t even barked that loudly, really, and her company was comforting in a life-goes-on-and-there-are-lots-of-nice-dogs-in-the-world-sort of way. Paris gave me one more quieter bark right in my left ear, licked my face and left me to see what the receptionist wanted. “I’m very sorry,” the receptionist said, as she led Paris into the back of the office area. “That’s OK,” I said. “She wasn’t bothering me. Female, right?” “Yes, she certainly is. I am sorry for your loss.” I know she meant it as well. Expressions of sympathy for the customer would to some degree have probably been obligatory for the crematorium personnel, but everyone did seem to be personally and genuinely concerned. People doing their utmost to run a decent family-owned business with kindness and compassion. The compulsion to record all of this got the better of me, finally, and I went out to the truck to look for my notebook. After a quick scramble through the papers, books, cameras and other assorted commuter debris on the back seat, I found the notebook. Although I had not had the time to take many pictures or to sit down and write much of anything lately, a camera and something to write in are always in the car, or in whatever bag I carry, just in case a moment special to me presents itself to be stolen. Resisting once more the temptation to take the camera, I grabbed the notebook and a pen and returned to the waiting room to begin writing this. Kind strangers have given me a few handsomely bound journals and notebooks over the years. Some, like this one, are bound in beautifully tanned and tooled leather. This one’s cover has a giant oak tree cut into it, with other old oaks on a distant ridge beyond it. The big pewter button used for tying the notebook closed with a leather thong is cast with an oak leaf and acorn detail. I am not much good at keeping a diary, or diligent about any sort of regular journal entries. My way to remember has usually been to write stories, poems or more often than not, to make photographs or drawings. I felt a little rusty and awkward writing in the waiting room under the quietly watchful eyes of the receptionist and Paris. Maybe it didn’t seem at all odd to them, my scribbling away. Probably what bothered me was my own sense of guilt over being inclined to record the events surrounding the processing of your body. Just a short time earlier I had been openly weeping while crossing the city in morning rush-hour traffic. I suppose we humans can be resilient—nearly as resilient as you were, Brigit—and as accepting of life’s unpredictably rough patches as most animals seem to be. Whatever the reason, I found I could not write fast enough in my attempt to describe the events of the day. “Do you want to come out while I clean this out?” the kind voice of the oven-minder asked softly, interrupting me in mid-sentence. I looked up and nodded. “Yes, please. I’ll … let me … let me just finish this sentence—this paragraph. I’ll be right there.” “Sure …” ---- “Do you write a lot?” he asked, as I followed him outside. “Used to.” “Nice-looking book you got there.” “Thanks. Yes, it is.” I closed it, marking my place with the pen, just as he stopped and turned to me. I was standing on the same spot I had been asked to watch from earlier. “Please stay right here. I’ll shut her down and get everything. You’ll be able to see everything happening, but it is very hot now, and also …” “Yes, ok I’ll wait here.” As I stood still in the by-now withering heat and watched him switch off the oven and open it, I suddenly realised that there had been no muzak, no music of any kind playing in the waiting room. That was a pleasant surprise and seemed remarkable to me. The tact involved in such a choice on their part told me that they really must care. The ovens were out behind the small, one-story building that holds the tidy crematorium office, some oversize freezers and the very pleasant air-conditioned waiting room. The property was surrounded by twenty-foot-high stacks of automobile carcasses, entire auto bodies and an enormous variety of neatly sorted bits and pieces—fenders, doors, hoods, seats, side mirrors, steering mechanisms, engine parts, dashboards, roofs, etc., arranged in row after row—apparently according to year, make and model. The sprawling salvage yard dwarfed the crematorium and its modest parking lot. Although there was no vegetation in sight, the colourful, encroaching heaps and rows of rendered vehicles almost looked like exotic organic growth, a sort of postmortem environment that seemed to me to perfectly complement the pet-burning business. The thick, lightly buzzing strands of heavy-duty power lines drooping as they crossed some thirty feet above us from one massive steel support to another only added to this entirely man-made, and remade, end-of-nature garden. Its perfume was a blend of acrid and oily-sweet, of melting rubber and asphalt, of taffy-thick black engine grease, of yellowing plastic and peeling paint sluggishly wafting upward and blending with the constant dead-fish reek of Los Angeles smog. ---- I had risen very early—or, rather, got out of bed early, as I hadn’t slept at all. Knowing it was today that I was scheduled to pick up your refrigerated corpse at our trustworthy local veterinary hospital and drive it out to this industrial hinterland for cremating had kept me from being able to rest. Probably I am able to write about this with a degree of detachment because your brother Henry and I have already gone through the worst of your final decay and death process together. We took you, our fifteen-year-old, completely lame and largely incontinent pal, to be “put down” three days ago. In the intervening time we had to wait for a slot at the crematorium to open up. I have been able to largely digest and assimilate the stronger surface emotions of your final morning. As much as I am and will continue to be haunted by your sweet, departing gaze when the brain-stopping serum was administered, time and the responsibilities resulting from your passing have more or less carried me away from that heartbreaking scene. I will always see your eyes slowly lose their gleam as I gently lay your head down. Will always remember your final generous gesture of rolling halfway over to let us rub your belly one last time before the doctor gave you the sedative. I’d arrived at the back door of the vet’s office feeling like I was complicit in some sort of underworld transaction. As had been the case all week, the morning sky was overcast, and the clammy grey marine layer had only added to the death business I was now part of. Two men in overalls had come out with what looked enough like a curled-up “you” shape inside a light-blue trash bag. As I had taken the thawing bundle and carefully laid it on the towel-covered passenger seat of the pickup truck, I had looked at the older of the two men. He’d nodded, seeming a bit uncomfortable, and then had turned and followed his colleague back inside the building without a backward glance or farewell. I had been very tired, a bit teary-eyed, and had not said a word myself. Probably not the most pleasant person for them to be around. I had gotten in the car and begun making my way to the 405 freeway. Moving slowly, stuck in the usual massive commuter caravan headed north toward the Sepulveda Pass, it had occurred to me that tomorrow would mark the 60th anniversary of the Hiroshima and Nagasaki atomic bomb drops. Then I had thought, not for the first time when passing the Sunset Boulevard exit, about O.J. Simpson’s bizarre televised journey in the famous white Ford Bronco. I had continued in that vein for a while, my mind becoming cluttered with a dizzying assortment of images involving unforgivable murders and other perversions of justice. The ideals of compassion had seemed distant, insignificant. I’d felt resigned, passively understanding that life moves forward just as traffic eventually does. Suddenly, the cars in front of me had slowed abruptly and I had braked hard, glad to see cars in my rear-view mirror doing the same. The bagged corpse had slid off the seat and onto the floor, and I’d tried to pull it back up with my right hand. It had been quite heavy, and I’d realised it would be a difficult and dangerous task to accomplish while driving, so I had made my way across two lanes of traffic and off onto the side of the freeway. As I had come round the front of the truck and opened the passenger-side door, I had decided I’d have a look at you to see if you were intact. I had straightened out the towel on the seat and lifted the bundle back onto it, then poked a hole in the plastic bag, now wet with condensation, where I could feel one of your frozen paws. Long black hair, long black nails. Not much like any of your paws. I had quickly felt for the body’s head, finding a stiff tongue projecting beyond clenched teeth, and then a collar around the neck. We had taken your collar off when you’d expired at the vet’s, and I knew that Henry was wearing it wrapped twice around his wrist as a bracelet today. This dog was not you. The absurdity of it all had hit me immediately as I had stood up and stared at the mass of moving cars through the poisonous-looking heat waves. The sadness of it had been suddenly overwhelming, as was the smell of initial decomposition, which I had not been aware of until that moment, like that of a dead deer that’s been hanging for a few hours from a tree. I had never really wanted to live in Los Angeles. Here I was, on yet another ridiculous errand, feeling vaguely like I was being punished for some past transgression, marking time and forced to make sense of an oddly evolving riddle. I had secured the corpse and made sure the towel was placed so as to keep the dead stranger from touching the seat or any part of the truck’s interior. Eventually, I’d got myself turned around and headed back to the vet’s, feeling sorry for this poor dog I did not know, and for its unwitting owner. En route, I had called the crematorium and informed them that I would be late for our oven appointment because I’d been given the wrong dog. They’d been very kind, had said I should get there when I could, and that they were very sorry. ---- Now the crematorium is about two miles behind me as I sit listlessly sipping coffee at a Mexican restaurant. This is as far as I have got, with my new cedar box containing your remaining bone fragments and ashes. I had asked the oven-minder to please not crush your bones if that was what he’d planned on doing. “Yes, normally we do very gently break down the bone matter so that it fits comfortably in the box or urn as the case might be. If you prefer, though … ” “Yes.” “…we can also not do it and just try and place her, the bone matter—the bag, that is—in the cedar box for you. If they’ll fit—if it will fit—that is.” “That’s ok, I can do it.” Earlier, out by the ovens, I had been allowed to scoop up all your burnt bits from the metal tray that the man had scraped the cooling, fragile ghost-shape of your skeleton onto. I had stopped several times to carefully examine some of your more distinguishable pieces. Vertebrae, hip parts and most beautiful of all, the rounded piece of bone that I instantly recognized as the top of your skull. We have petted that part of you so often. I can feel its shape even now, in memory, feel the bone through your smooth fur, feel your warmth and your happiness. All of it had gone into the plastic bag he now held. “Ok, sir. As you prefer.” I proceeded to gently rearrange the bag and its contents inside the box, and then placed your crematorium nametag and the receipt for services provided on top of your remains before closing the lid with its little brass clasp. “We would like you to consider the cedar box a gift from us due to the unfortunate mistake that was made this morning. We are very sorry about that.” “Oh. Well … thank you …” A woman who seemed to be the oven-minder’s boss, and perhaps the owner of the establishment, stood up and came around her desk to address me. “We are very sorry that … Brigit?… that Brigit got confused this morning.” I almost pointed out that you had not been confused at all, being quite dead, but I resisted the temptation, knowing what she meant. “It is very unusual that something unheard of like that would happen,” she continued. “Very unusual, and we are extremely sorry. If you prefer a larger box or don’t like cedar as a wood type… maybe an urn would be more to your liking?” I was truly moved by her words and the generous offer. “Is it Western red cedar?” I asked, for some reason unknown to me now—perhaps being at a loss for anything better to say by way of response. “You know, I am not real sure about that,” she replied, a bit thrown off by my question. “I certainly can try and find out for you, if you like?” “No, thanks. I was just wondering. Just curious, I guess.” “Would you like to replace the cedar?” “Replace? No. I like cedar. Smells good, looks good. Thank you.” I now felt like a complete idiot. “You don’t have to give me the box, though. Don’t have to give it… I’m happy to pay for it.” “We insist. It’s something we want to do for you.” “Thank you very much. Very kind of you.” “If Brigit doesn’t fit comfortably, not being completely dust and all… ” (“Comfortably?” Never mind… ) “No, that’s fine. She fits. I got her in there ok. And it’s a beautiful box. Thank you.” ---- “Me podría traer un poco de arroz con frijoles, por favor?” “Would you like anything else with that?” the waitress replied, in heavily Spanish-accented English. “Gracias, pero la verdad es que no tengo mucho hambre.” She looked at me calmly, and said “I’ll bring it right out. Warm up your coffee for you?” “Fijese: ahora que lo pienso creo que sí me gustaría una pequeña ensalada de lechuga y tomate… y cebolla, si hay.” “Ok,” she continued in English, “and will you like some dressing—vinaigrette, ranch, French, blue cheese, or oil and vinegar—for that?” Doesn’t happen often, but once in a while my gringo looks or perhaps my Argentine accent seem to be held against me like that. She glances at the cedar box resting on the table to the right of my place setting. I wonder if she has seen this sort of box before. The crematorium isn’t far, and maybe other people stop here now and then as I have, unable or unwilling to drive any further. Maybe they sometimes come here and get a little drunk, become indiscreet and open their boxes to look at what’s left of their animal friends. Maybe they cry and have to be consoled. I do not look at my box, just hold the waitress’ gaze when it returns to me. I’ve taken an initial dislike to her because she seems to refuse to speak Spanish with me, so I’m certainly not going to give her any more clues now. “Will that be all, sir?” she asks dryly. “Sí… y si me puede traer la cuenta con la comida—y un poco más de café—se lo agradecería.” She looks at me for a moment longer, then reluctantly mutters “Por supuesto, señor,” as she turns to go place my order.

[forgottenroisin]

forgottencassimir

Roisin could be very clever. It was no secret that she and Brigit both delighted in tormenting Cassimir. As they grew older, it seemed that they had become less bold in their attempts to frustrate and humiliate him, but sometimes Cassimir wondered if they might have been behind more than he gave them credit for. But as he was never able to quite work out how they could have accomplished half the things he meant to blame them for, his pride didn't always allow for him to draw upon those conclusions. He would have been more hesitant to allow Roisin as much control as he had handed her, just now. He knew how easy it would be for her to lie and convince him to wear something ridiculous. But he also knew she was aware that her punishment would be severe for such a thing. But, what was more than that, is that Roisin seemed to adore clothes and the latest fashion more than she hated them and Cassimir truly believed that she found some pleasure in all of it. In addition, he had never believed she had ever led any of them astray before. Indeed, the last few times they had attended important events, they had all received such numerous compliments that it became clear that Roisin knew exactly what she was doing and that her talents were only improving with time. Today, however, he eyed the pieces she selected with some hesitation. Cassimir's wardrobe for the day-to-day was primarily monochromatic (although he might spice up all of that black with some gray). When he attended grand events, such as this, however, he liked to make a statement and did not shy away from more colorful pieces. Still, the garments in front of him did not manage to strike his immediate fancy. Considering each in turn, he held a hand up to his chin in contemplation. "Which was the most expensive?" Cassimir knew enough to know that that did not necessarily transcribe to taste, but he did not care to waste whichever had cost him the most money to produce. In addition, he did not mean to fuel the rumors that had surfaced about the Malconaire's financial situation by turning up dressed as a pauper. Before she could answer, he put another question to her, "Have you any extra fabric, from these new ones you ordered?"

His question did not surprise her overmuch and Roisin, without comment on it, dutifully leaned forward to tap one. "This brocade was brought all the way from Mysh," she said, "And the lace," here she paused, biting down on her lip in an effort to keep from laughing -- the patterns of each looked hideous in conjuction, but she made a show of letting this expression appear to be a straining to recall. "From Tothe, I believe. I do know it was handmade by the cloistered artisans of a convent in remote snow-capped mountains famed throughout the world for their skill. The hosiery, though," she nodded, sliding her gaze towards him. "That was requested by your mother."

This was a slight fib, but one she believed she could get away with. Even if discovered, it would appear innocent enough and abide within at least the letter of her stepmother's command, if perhaps giving its spirit a wider berth. Valentina had requested -- or, rather, demanded -- that Cassimir be decked out in something from her own home country, doubtless as a reminder to an brace of conquerors who couldn't care less, that he was, himself, of royal blood. Roisin, once unleashed upon this mission, had settled upon hose as the best possible means of representing this to the world.

"It was made in the very city in which your lady mother was born." She beamed. "I know how much this touch of home will mean to her and, I must say, tracking it down was no easy feat, but there it sits: ready for you whenever you should want it." She paused. "Annnd," she added, a touch conspiratorial, allowing a pinch of bravado into her voice. "Princess Cassandra tells me that hosiery is a daring new trend at court. She says not a soul can take their eyes off any gentleman who wears it, such is their revernce for it."

Cassandra had said these things. But she had been joking at the time, riffing off Roisin's notion of importing hosiery from Valentin'a homeland. Roisin had, however, persuaded both Cassandra and her brothers to testify to the truth of her claim if asked, just for good measure, and she had even persuaded Arthur (a bet and a dare had been involved) to say some very complimentary things -- supposedly unprompted -- about hosiery a few nights ago at dinner.

"Oh, yes, only a little for these," she said, gesturing to the lace-and-brocade confection (she had just extra enough, in fact, to take out the outfit about an inch or two when needed). "But the others I have," she bit her lip, considering. "About a yard of the dark black, and perhaps two, two and a half of the midnight." For her own amusement, since her stepbrother wore almost entirely black, she had taken to naming the supposedly pigments -- and switching up which was which -- to see if he ever took any note. "Would you like more accents made out of the extra fabric?"

An Ill-fitted Fitting | Cassimir & Roisin

Cassimir tended to evade Roisin and Brigit both, if possible, for their interactions tended to be strained (at best) and he knew that anything worse greatly distressed Eithne -- which was something Cassimir cared to avoid.

Of course, this was not always feasible and today was one such. He was prepared, as he had her summoned to him, that he would be calm throughout their entire encounter, so that it might pass without incident, however even Cassimir recognized that Roisin had a rather annoying habit of managing to get under his skin and make him feel as though she was laughing at him (something Cassimir's pride would not tolerate). And when it came to Cassimir, once his temper had been at all ignited, it was nearly impossible to douse.

There was something satisficing in seeing her reduced to a servant in what had once been her own home and the image of her entering his quarters on his own command, did manage to lighten his mood.

She had been updating his wardrobe, specifically for the ball that was to be held in the fortnight, and the garments were now far enough along to be fitted to him.

"Come, let's see what you have brought me," He said, simply, when she arrived, "I shall not waste time by trying anything that does not suit."

He had more important things to attend to.

[juliandev0rak]

Tumblr is strong but Brigit is stronger!!! (faust vs the courtiers in heart hunter vibes) Lysander sends Beatrice ❤️💖💗 —leila-of-ravens

hehe @leila-of-ravens

Beatrice reaches into her cloak pocket and pulls out a biscuit for Brigit, “Thank you for delivering the message!” 

She blushes as she reads the note that includes these sentiments and has to sit down for a minute, “Brigit what do I write back, he’s so sweet...”

Brigit gives her a quizzical look in response and Beatrice laughs and gives her another biscuit. “Ok fine, I’ll write it on my own.” 

She sends Brigit back to Lysander with a note that says simply, “I love you!” because really, does she need to say anything more? She also presses a red-lipstick kiss to the folded up note. 

[unmaskthemagic]

10. Wheel of Fortune

Left: Arnesson Art Right: Rider-Waite deck

Element: Fire

Planet: Jupiter

Numerology: 10 represents the completion of a cycle.

Keywords: cycle, fate, go with the flow, center

Quotes: "Men are not prisoners of fate, but only prisoners of their own mind." Franklin D. Roosevelt; "When I let go of what I am, I become what I might be." Lao Tzu; "Even if I knew that tomorrow the world would go to pieces, I would still plant my apple tree." Martin Luther

Symbols: Around the edge of the wheel are the Hebrew letters YHVH, the name of God, and the letters TORA, which can be rearranged a number of ways. TORA could mean law, ROTA is Latin for wheel, TARO could refer to tarot, etc. On the inner wheel there are alchemical symbols which signify the four elements. The snake is the Egyptian god Typhon or god of evil. Anubis, god of the dead, is at the bottom of the wheel. A sphinx is at the top, symbolizing knowledge and truth. The snake can can also represent the life force going down into the spirit world. In the corners are the Zodiac signs for Taurus, Leo, Aquarius, and Scorpio, each holding a book symbolizing wisdom, and bearing wings, which symbolize stability during change.

This card is my personality card (or soul card, different places say different things) and was my card of the year last year! Which honestly makes a lot of sense. I mean, could the universe have chosen a more ADHD card? I've always been looking for that dopamine rush, changing jobs and hobbies like it's going out of style. I transferred schools 4 times in college. On the flip side, though, my soul card (depending on what you look at) is the Magician and I interpret that as focusing my skills in order to succeed. Also, I feel like I've always had to push myself to be okay with going with the flow, (probably the autism showing) which has been an important part of my growth.

The Wheel of Fortune is all about rolling with the punches. It reminds me that the universe is run by cycles and it's a wheel that keeps turning, no matter how much we try to stop it. The Fates are going to do what they want with that thread. I think of all those times in science history where scientists have tried to contain and control nature. It's always a huge mistake and the wheel brings the karma right back. The Wheel of Fortune may be telling me that there are some things I can't change in my life, whether that's present or future problems and I should trust that everything will turn out alright. This card also might be a signal that a big change is coming or to look out for opportunities.

Here are some instructions for how to figure out your soul and personality card.

As part of my study, I use the Tarot Card Meanings Workbook by Brigit Esselmont, biddytarotcard.com, brainyquotes.com (I use the card’s keywords to search for quotes that speak to me), Pinterest to look at other artistic interpretations, and Between the Worlds podcast.

[kangaroo-writes-trash]

Swordtember - 5. Lava

“The fifth in my list... Ah, here it is. The Lava Lance. Rather simple, but a welcome return to form.”

The family consisted of five: the patriarchal father, their subdued mother, and the three children that they held in high regard. Their make reminiscent of humans, whilst being clearly different. Instead of blood, their veins flowed with burning liquid magma, and instead of flesh and bone, their bodies were comprised entirely of dark igneous rock.  Mirri didn’t mind being the forgotten sixth. Purpose was found as a blacksmith’s assistant, and she soon flourished in the simple life she was allowed to craft for herself. The weight of being the first-born - she was glad to be rid of it. But her body was the same, and it would always be a reminder of her kin. Where there was a burning disdain for her father, there was nothing but love for her mother; she was the calm needed to balance her father’s fury. And every day since they parted, Mirri longed to see her once more, as she did for her younger brother, Sol. She was just a child the day she was disowned and discarded by her father, with Sol taking her place from that day forward, she just knows it. Out with one heir, in with the next. Her thoughts were dedicated to the life she led now, to the orders needing finishing, to the plans her and her friends were making, and, thinking constantly of the woman who delivered her letters. The woman who would linger just a minute longer than she needed, sharing idle words with sincere smiles. But in the dark of her room before her mind softly slept, once again came the thoughts of home. She has two sisters; twins, born three years after she found her place here. Brigit and Cindra. News of the fire-bound family found its way to her eventually, it always did, and it always burnt. It had been fourteen years since she saw her brother last, but when a man stood in the doorway of the forge that now belonged to her, she knew it to be him. Almost everything about him was different from what she remembered - his short fiery-hair now long and accentuated with a beard not unlike father’s, and his voice deep and grating. But, the few things that made them family, remained. He invited her home. She wanted to apologise and refuse, to stay with the business she maintained after her mentor’s death, and with the woman who kept her heart cool. But the thought of meeting her sisters for the first time, and once again feeling the warmth of her mother’s arms around her... it would make having to see her father worth it. Sol was the heir she could never be, gladly holding father’s lance despite its tarnished history. Her family were famous and beloved, but it didn’t justify the many bodies that it took to elevate them there. In her years, she had wondered once or twice if the twins knew she existed. Sol would have remembered her, but would her father ban mention of the disgraced daughter? Yet, Brigit and Cindra ran to her with such elation, calling her by name and shouting their excitement at finally meeting their older sister. Mirri lost her fight against tears. The pair were eleven years old - the spitting images of her all those years ago, and where she feared there might be jealousy of the twins, she knew quickly it was love. Her father met with her for just a few minutes, well-dressed and uninterested, as expected. He had always made use of his towering height, and time hasn’t changed that fact, but what has changed, though, is Mirri. He used to terrify her. His shouting would shake the room, the threats that he eventually followed through with, and, the rare but vivid punishments that usually involved some kind of hitting. But now, she sees him as he is.  Her mother was ill, but had found the energy to stand just so she could greet Mirri with a kiss and a hug, and once they were alone, fiery-tears were shared by both. Her mother spoke of all that she missed, of Sol’s failures and successes, his soon-to-be betrothed, and his striking use of the lance that they both disapproved of. The twins, how they have always done everything together, and refuse to be separated, even by their father. That she was the one who made sure that Brigit and Cindra knew of their older sister. Sol fought with the lance, whilst Mirri watched with uncertain interest at how he passively dealt with the men and women who sparred with him. She tried her best to not remember when she stood where he now does, denying the use of the lance that he has so clearly welcomed. He moves with such grace when he wishes to, the weapon’s grip being fastened with a velvet-red cloth that Mirri herself had picked out, all those years ago... a part of her was happy it remained. The dark coiled-crust of the lance’s head knocks against the pseudo-enemies he fights with, the weapon notably devoid of heat - quite unlike whenever she or her father would come into contact with it. Their mere touch inviting heat to catalyse within the crust, birthing small beads of liquid lava to then flow through the coiled carvings that were designed to solely accommodate it. Mirri intended to leave two days later, back on course to the life that was patiently waiting for her, but the night before she was meant to take her leave, her mother’s condition worsened. The illness that was originally described as fleeting was finally explained in its truth; quick, and fatal. To gain something, only to be told you’d lose it just as fast, it was nothing but cruel - Mirri knows now why her father relented and allowed her to return. The six members of their family were all present when their mother closed her eyes for the last time, the shared heat of their bodies cooling just a little at the loss of their matriarch. She was given an honourable burial according to the family’s long-held beliefs; buried in stone beneath the estate after being covered in liquid magma - the lava that was produced by the lance when held by their father, and by Mirri. Her body became one with the estate’s grounds and her essence emblazoned the lance, as did all that came before. When next held by Sol, a single, empty warmth, grew.  When news of the twins death reached Mirri in her forge four years later, she was the only one to question the rumoured new-found strength of the lance and of Sol, despite the blatantly-mysterious circumstances surrounding the once healthy sisters. Her father was a bad man that didn’t deserve half the things he had, and Mirri gladly wished him dead for many years after their parting, but when returning home to see Sol bury him in the same way their mother and sisters were, she couldn’t help but cry.  Mirri wasn’t a fighter - she was strong from her work, but out of practice when coming against the stalwart wall that was Sol. But, she was prepared, suspicious of the truth. The sheer uncontrollable heat that raged within Sol’s body the night he tried to kill his sister would never be matched again. His shouts roared like a bonfire, and the tears he shed, she’ll never forget. She only wanted to escape, to return to where she belonged and to never see her brother again. It wasn’t her fault that Sol’s body couldn’t contain the heat. It wasn’t her fault. Mirri never wanted the lance, but if she was to live, she needed it. She needed to pry it from her brother’s grasp and fight with the family’s flame, for the life she earned for herself. She mourned her brother for the rest of her life. 

“Sol was given an honourable burial, despite what he had done. The blame fell to the burning flame of their father; the cause. Sol’s essence empowered the lance that was buried with him. Never to be wielded again by the last living heir.”

[nizynskis]

*rolls in with a reporter van and crew* would u like to tell the folks at home what poems have shaped your life? ✒

I have to laugh Charlie you cannot know what you’ve just done...I spent multiple hours trying to narrow this list down but I will be normal about it god willing

The Undressing by Li-Young Lee > when I first read lee a long time ago i was fully neutral on him and I didn’t particularly like or dislike him. but then I read this one Lol...Gee golly.

The Laughter of Stafford Girl’s High by Carol Ann Duffy > she is easily the best narrative poet I’ve ever read. I only read this one rather recently and i could not breathe at all. heart picking up thinking about it

Quia Amore Langueo by Anonymous > I love to come back to this one! the difficulty reading it gives me a little more to work with and it’s a silly little challenge I enjoy

Crossing Brooklyn Ferry by Walt Whitman > one does not simply grow up in brooklyn and not know this one. the neighborhood ice cream parlor always had part of it written across the wall

The Tyger by William Blake > one of my favorite childhood books had this poem in it and when I read it I feel like a baby again. he was crazy for this

Heritage by Kaveh Akbar > when I force my friends to sample contemporary poetry I always always add this one. He is so thoughtful and careful with his words I am in awe

Song by Brigit Pegeen Kelly > everything she writes knocks me on my ass. it’s so satisfying in its way.

Because The Color Is Half The Taste by Paige Lewis > this is like my idea of a perfect poem if one could exist. when I read it I sigh and press my hands to my heart like an old lady

Late Letter by Maria Pawkikowska-Jasnorzewska > this poem is not especially wonderful I suppose because it’s too short to be but it’s how I imagine I would sound if I wrote poetry HEHE

The Poet Speaks To His Love On The Telephone by Federico García Lorca > speaking of how I would sound if I wrote poetry I think it would be very similar to this also. When I think about poetry I love my brain automatically flashes to the last few lines of this

Questions by Bertolt Brecht > I always forget how beautiful brecht is until I go visit his tag on my blog and scream. I like to write in this way when I write letters I hope he appreciates that

Leisure, Hannah, Does Not Agree With You by Hannah Gamble > are you noticing a pattern here! I’m obsessed with repetition. I love love when things repeat it scratches the itch in my brain

Pietà by Rainer Maria Rilke > I find it funny when writers like Erich Heller gently make fun of Rilke for being a romantic or a sap because the subjects of his poems repulse me. They are ugly. But the poems themselves are so beautiful it makes me sick what was wrong with him...is it the language...I haven’t solved the mystery

Magdalene by Marie Howe > she is a killer. I have to write a paper in english class relating three poems to the book we’re reading and you had better believe magdalene is coming in there with me.

Love Opened a Mortal Wound by Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz > after reading this I went on a wikipedia rabbit hole abt miss de la cruz and I stayed there all night. She is that good. Very interesting life too I recommend for your next Wikipedia night

Nijinsky by Andrew Glaze > this is the first of two poems about nijinsky I have here. I like to think I’ve read almost all of the poems that have been written about him and I can say with confidence now that there is just something about him that makes writers go feral. They do their very best with him.

The Convent Threshold by Christina Georgina Rossetti > I get a lot of joy from re reading this because it takes me back to being really new to poetry and reading this out loud to myself reallyyyy slowly sophie was so young then and just as excited about poetry as I still am

Consorting with Angels by Anne Sexton > her language is so overwhelming it scares me sometimes. I believe she called herself a ‘confessional’ poet and that just seems like too pale of a word for what this is

Rondel by Tristan Corbière > his entire book Les amours jaunes is so fucking good but impossible to find a physical copy it is very frustrating. The link has almost all of the poems I think and I have a golden time just going through them

My Brother, My Wound by Natalie Diaz > she is easily among the best contemporary poets rn and it was hard to select just one. I love that her field is so specific so I can literally just look at a street lamp or a knife and think Getting a lot of Diaz vibes from this...

Caoineadh Áirt Úi Laoghaire by Eibhlín Dubh Ní Chonaill > if I could memorize any poem it would be this. Not that I havent tried I used to get to it on YouTube and fall asleep listening to it hoping it would work its way into my memory but my brain is too slippery I suppose. Oh to zone out in class and be able to read this one to myself:(

The War of Vaslav Nijinsky by Frank Bidart > my favorite poem in the world. I really owe it a lot. When I first read it I was frantic about it I knew I hadn’t read the whole thing so I looked in so many bookstores. I tried to buy it online and kept getting sent the wrong book. when I finally found it I read the whole thing over three times and decided I had liked the cut off version better and that if bidart had known what was good for him he would have left it like that. and that was my first independent thought about a poem and my first real opinion about a poem and I will not forget that favor