#poetries and poems in every languages of the world

[camarei]

Nerd Reader x Nerd Nanami = smart power couple

you and kento were sitting at a corner table on a café, your eyes glued on your notebook, fingers fiddling with your pen.

“you’re so focused, working on how to divide zero now?” kento chuckles as he leans back.

“haha, very funny. if could divide zero, i’d be solving the world’s fundamental problems, not this stupid equation.” you huff.

you were preparing for an upcoming exam and you thought about inviting kento to study with you.

because why not, right?

“there’s beauty in the paradox of diving by zero, maybe you should just stop looking for the answer and let the question be.” he shruggs.

“so, you’re saying that i should just stop solving and just appreciate it? will that get me a passing grade?” you look at him, eyebrows furrowed.

“pretty much. though, to be fair, i get it. numbers don’t offer room for interpretation. but language—language is fluid. it can mean whatever you want it to mean... have you thought about math as a language?” kento suggests taking his drink and sipping a little.

“sure, math is a language. but it’s a language about rules. it’s all about structure and logic.” you refute, looking back at your messy math notes.

“if you look at it this way, math is a kind of poetry. just like a metaphor works in finding the unexpected connection between two things—math finds connections between numbers. patterns show up and suddenly something new appears where there was nothing before.” setting his cup down as he looked at you.

“you’re starting to sound like those motivational quotes that you find imprinted on the side of a coffee cup. you have a point, though i don’t think i’m gonna start writing sonnets about theorems anytime soon...” you laugh softly, scribbling nonsense on your notebook.

“i’ll take that as a win. i think you could give shakespeare a run for his money if you ever wrote a poem about prime numbers.”

“‘shall i compare thee to an irrational number? thou art infinite and never repeating…’” you say sarcastically.

“hey, don’t knock it until you try it. you could write a whole epic poem on pythagoras and his theorem, i guarantee it would have a bigger following than every other poems.” kento leans back on the chair again.

“yeah, yeah. you’re distracting me! go read whatever shenanigans you’re reading, you’re making me lose focus!” you lightly slap his shoulders.

nothing could beat moments like this, just you and him—throwing playful banters against one another.

and you did end up passing your test! but you’re not sure if you’re still gonna invite kento anytime soon knowing that he’s just gonna go off and talk about things that you really can’t comprehend...

who are you kidding? of course you’d invite him either way...

an: english isn’t my first language so this made my head hurt, i think i drained my brain juice and idrk how i’d portray this type of trope so i just went w it 😿 + i believe that kento is a english literature poem stuff kind of guy and becomes a yapper when that’s the topic, you can’t change my mind .

[adastra121]

I have an Ais headcanon.

Ais writes poetry.

Ais has always had a fascination for language. Language is connection. In each exchange, it binds people together, gives each person a glimpse into another’s existence — in some ways, Seaspring’s Groupmind is a pale facsimile of the same phenomenon, a cheap shortcut to knowing another soul without taking the time to listen. Language is connection and for someone who detests isolation, Ais’s hungry soul can never devour its fill.

He picks up on the subtle ways that words interact with the world — the ways in which one word can mean one thing, but can transform in meaning when paired with another. The ways in which a word can grow and evolve with people. The ways in which words are alive.

The more he listens, the more he learns, the more he holds — words, language, entire worlds in his mind and on the page, arranged and rearranged, meanings shifting and transforming, to give shape to a moment. To existence. Scrawling it all down as a way to parse out which thoughts and feelings are still his. Even if they aren’t, there is a comfort to penning down lost souls’ words as they defiantly continue to leave their marks on the world they, for the most part, could only drift through.

So he writes and fills pages with thoughts, feelings, observations. Experiments with the words, the syntax. He writes poems in every new language he learns.

[22ayla21]

Hello! Could I request a fic about Argenti with a partner that’s the least romantic person ever. Just a completely stoic person that still tries to express their affection the best they can but has no idea what they’re doing.

Silent Signs

He sang of their love in loud words, while she showed everything in actions.

The cosmos was boundless, like Argenti's eternal searches. His silver armor gleamed amidst the stellar nebulae, reflecting the light of distant suns. He wandered, as usual, alone – or rather, almost alone.

She was there. Tall, with a straight posture and an invariably calm face that could hardly be called animated. No sighs, no flutter of eyelashes. No smile. No hint of coquetry or romantic play. No desire to hold hands, no need to listen to poems about the dawn. But Argenti knew: she was with him.

And that was enough.

She didn't know how to express feelings the way he did – a knight of beauty, raised on poems and ballads, on noble duels for a lady's honor, on words burning like a sunset over a lake. She didn't say "I love you." Didn't bow her head with grateful grace. Didn't appreciate the flowers he found even in the most lifeless corners of the universe. And yet… in her silence, there was something more than a thousand words.

He remembered how once she silently brought him new armor polish, simply placing it beside him as if it were self-evident. He remembered how she stood between him and a plasma beam, without even blinking. How, without a single gesture, she accompanied him during long oaths, staying by his side even when his speeches dragged on for hours. There was not a drop of falsehood in her. Every action of hers was silent, precise, like a steel blade. Without embellishment. Without theatricality. Pure truth.

To some, she might have seemed cold. To him, she was a fortress.

And yet, at times he tried to instill in her the "romance" he himself sang of. He read poetry aloud, chose gifts, described the majesty of her walk, comparing it to the radiance of stars, and her gaze to the diamond carving of ice. She listened without interrupting, nodded… and then one day handed him an accurate map of an uncharted asteroid belt where, according to her, "a plant suitable for tea grows."

He understood. This was her gift. In her silent, practical care lay the equivalent of his flowery declarations. She didn't call him handsome – she repaired his armor while he slept. She didn't hug him – but stood beside him in all battles, never leaving his side. She didn't blush. Didn't get flustered. She simply was.

And perhaps, that was her form of love – in actions devoid of loud words. In absolute devotion, in unwavering resilience. In accepting him with all his eccentricity and nobility.

He didn't change for her, and she didn't change for him. He continued to admire the world, to seek beauty, mentally blessing her name at every step. She simply stayed by his side, like a shadow, like a quiet companion, like the foundation upon which his wings rested.

Argenti knew: if he disappeared, she would look for him. Not with cries and tears, but with a map of routes, a detailed analysis of hyperspace, and a cold, piercing gaze into infinity. Because for her, he was important.

And isn't that the essence of love?

He looked at her sleeping – her eyes closed, her breathing even. He knew that in the morning she would simply get up, as always, without a kiss, without a tender word. She would simply get up. And hand him his armor, dusted off.

And that was enough. More than enough.

Because that was her language. And he had learned it.

[atierrorian]

| Glad it's you | — R.H

PARING: Rook Hunt x Deaf!reader

SYNOPSIS: All your entire life, you knew silence. But—it isn't as bad as people make it out to be. Because even with your biggest flaw, he still chose you.

˗ˏˋGENRE ´ˎ˗ — Romance, fluff, angst/comfort

˗ˏˋCW ´ˎ˗ — Rook is already a warning. Ooc, mentions of bullying, stalking(It's Rook, duh) horrible poetry.

˗ˏˋNOTES ´ˎ˗ — Wow! It has been a while and I am so sorry for not making anything in quite some time, I've become so busy nowadays that writing has barely crossed my mind, so I'll make most of my free time writing this!

✎| Masterlists|Navigation |

♡ "Are you really willing to accept me?" ♡ "I've accepted you a long time ago."

People always pitied you for as long as you can remember now. Frequently assuming it must be hard not being able to hear. And yeah, sometimes—but it isn't as bad as they make it out to be, if anything, you find solace in the silent world you have lived in all your life. Sure, there were times when it was hard to understand people, especially if they didn't know sign language.

Luckily, you mostly used poems to interact with them. Though, it was amusing to see them struggle to grasp your poems—that's what makes it fun anyway.

And so, making use of your skills, you swiftly wrote down another poem for a certain hunter. He's one of the few people you've known who could actually decipher what your poems meant. And it's not to say each and every time you show him your masterpiece, he always seems to be on your level when it came to writing back to you.

It always makes you feel giddy inside when he writes back to you. Re-reading every syllable. Caressing the ink that was clearly carefully written with such consideration with each word he used, you couldn't help but feel as though he was hinting to you about something.

You scoffed; shaking the thought away. Who were you trying to fool? This was the Rook Hunt you were thinking about! He's like this with everyone. Besides—why would he go for someone who had a defect? To say the least, you weren't insecure with your disability but, thinking about the blonde hunter who seemed to always cross your mind whenever you wrote—you couldn't help but feel your heart tightening in your chest from such thoughts.

In the end, why would he choose you? You're nothing special, far from it anyway. You're just someone who could never hear and someone who just writes to communicate. But, even then, you were still wrapped around his fingertips. And besides—it doesn't hurt to hope, right?

You felt a hand placed on your shoulder, you froze. You had never stayed still like a statue so fast in your entire life until now. What? Millions of thoughts were racing through your mind right now—was it another of the students who were here to once again chuck balled up papers again? Take your poems away from you and ripped them to pieces or flames it until there's nothing left but ashes?

"Awww, what's this? Another one of your silly stories?"

"Look! It's another one of their love poems!"

"Pathetic if you ask me."

You didn't focused on them, you never even knew what they were saying, and you could care less what insults or degrading comments they were spewing from their filthy mouth. Your knees on the ground while clutching onto what was remains of the paper you once cherished. And they tore it all up like it was nothing.

Shuddering from the memory, you closed your eyes and continued to look at your lap; prepared for whatever torture they were gonna do to you again. Tore your poems? Throw paper at you? Mocking at you while you cry in tears because they had nearly killed you? What else did they had in store for you?

You gripped the paper even harder, shutting your eyelids even tighter if that was even possible. You were scared.

Huh.

You felt a piece of paper slid onto your lap, hesitantly, bit by bit, you forced your eyes to open to see what it was. Was it an insult written in a letter? If so, then you're surprised that they were even intelligent enough to finally realized that you had a hearing disability instead of using their vocals to try and insult you.

But no, it was not anything you expected or thought. Instead, your vision was blessed with a familiar handwriting. Subconsciously, you read what was was written on the white letter that graced your sight, and goodness it always doesn't fail to make your blood rushing through your face. By the sevens, how does he always make you feel this way?

Why such a blue face? You don't need to be ashamed of such a heartache; If you need someone to wipe your tears, my heart will gladly volunteer; What you consider flaws, is what I consider perfection —

Mon Cherie, you are the belle of my dairy heart, You, sweetheart, have me wrapped around your fingertips; I will never let go of the string that wraps around my wrist; That connects me, to you.

My heart beats loudly; even you could hear it— If your heart longs for anything, Mon cherie, just write to me; And tell me all your silly sorrows. -Rook Hunt

Though it was short and simple, you couldn't help but re-read the words every now and then. You smiled seeing the words written on the paper. How could you not? His words sweet like candy, it was addicting in a way even you were worried you wouldn't get enough of it. Or maybe it's too late for you.

Your heart started racing so fast you thought even you could hear it. The more you examined the poem the more it started to look like a love confession. But it couldn't be that, could it? You so badly wanted to hope that you had a chance but you didn't want to get your hopes up.

You, sweetheart, have me wrapped around your fingertips.

Those lines, shit, you couldn't help but swoon over them. Clutching the poem, you finally gazed at the author with wonders and hope. He smiled at you and signed those three words you've been waiting to see.

"I love you."

Was it even possible for your heart to be beating faster than it was before? You held the poem closer to your beating heart, trying to conceal it; worried he might hear it. It felt like your heart was about to leap out of your chest. You sighed dreamily and thanked your heart for choosing him.

Meanwhile, Rook chuckled seeing your flustered expression. He found beauty in all things whether it was considered good or bad to others. But he found you the most beautiful of them all. He won't lie, he fell for you hard when he saw you. Because even when he learnt about your flaw, it didn't matter to him; you were still the fairest of them all. You weren't able to hear his words—but that's alright; he'll gladly write thousands or more letters if it meant to show you just how much he loves you.

He'd gladly and happily dance in hot and burning shoes if it meant to show you his devotion to you, just to show how much he cares for you. And if anyone were to make you doubt? Let's just say they wouldn't be coming closer to you anymore if they caused you pain. But before that, he'd come and comfort you, with words written on paper just so all your worries would go away.

Even if his fingers start to go numb and bruises appear, he won't stop until he finally sees you smile. He's glad that his heart chose you.

END

Wow! Uhm, heyy ik it's been awhile but I finally found enough inspiration to make this! Again sorry it's been awhile I've been so busy that I barely found any time to write at all, but I do hope you guys liked this!

[grayscale-sparks]

@lordofthesoups tumblr has been FIGHTING me from posting this it’s take four and your ask has been eaten

anyway your prompts were a date across universes and washing Arthur’s hair and I got Very Carried Away

1200 ish words in the Sea Major AU

“Letting you universe hop has to have been the best thing I have ever done.” Kayne said matter of factly.

Arthur rolled his eyes. “You said that about giving me cat ears yesterday.”

“That’s true they were very cute.” Kayne nipped Arthur’s ear. “I can bring them back?”

“No, thank you.” 

“What a shame.”

Kayne looped his arm in Arthur’s. They were walking through the streets of a picturesque city somewhere in Europe- Arthur wasn’t quite sure. Kayne seemed to know where he was going, so Arthur wasn’t too concerned. He knows he should be- just a few weeks ago, he’d be digging his heels into the ground, demanding to know where each step took them.

But… forgetting was easy when faced with such wonders of this and every world. He’d spent so long seeing the worst the universes had to offer. Sometimes sinking his teeth into a chocolate pastry was all he needed. (They were ever so slightly different from his own because of a spice trade with a long forgotten civilization. According to Kayne, anyway.)

“Describe it to me.” Arthur said, leaning his head slightly into Kayne.

They were allowed to be… affectionate, of a sort, in public. All due to Kayne’s abilities, of course. He would be remiss if he let some mortal bigots get in the way of their conversation.

Still, Kayne frowned. “I gave you your eyesight back, Artie. What do you want me to say that you can’t see?”

“You know I like poetry.”

“You know I’m not a poet.” Kayne shot back. “Still, I’ll try for you, darling.”

Kayne cleared his throat, straightening his tie, making a show of preparing for his wondrous poem. “Let’s see- the city is dull/but you my dear are full/or will be tonight.”

Arthur shoved him away, protesting through his laughs. “You’re awful!”

“I don’t know, maybe I am a poet.” Kayne said with a devious grin, trying to reign Arthur back to his side.

“I’m never asking you to describe anything ever again.” Arthur said, face still red. “That wasn’t even a proper haiku.”

“Bullshit, yes it was.” Kayne argued.

“Your middle line was six syllables.” Arthur said, giving into Kayne’s attempts at taking his arm back, and settling back beside him. “It’s supposed to be seven.”

Kayne rolled his eyes. “How do you know that the haiku rules are not different in this universe?”

“You’re incorrigible.”

“Your incorrigible.” Kayne said, knowing full well it made no sense. “You try. Give me a haiku, Artie.”

Arthur sighed. “Darker than the night/but I know you will be mine/master of my heart.”

Kayne bit his lip, studying Arthur’s downcast eyes. A flicker of burning affection licked through his chest, not for the first time and definitely not for the last. “Your middle line was seven syllables,” He said softly.

Arthur scoffed. “I hate you.”

“You’re the one being insensitive to this universe’s poetry.” Kayne said. They were coming up on the grand hotel- shockingly empty, wonder why- that Kayne wanted them to stay that night. It held a gorgeous view of a strip of the city, and beyond that the sparkling river and bridge leading to the forest on the other side. Everything glittered at night, turning the dark night into a blanket of indigo and gold.

Only the best views in each universe for him.

“Here?” Arthur asked. “It’s… fancy. What’s it called?”

“Languages developed differently- just enough to be unrecognizable. In your world, it would translate roughly to Hotel Wanderlust.”

Not really true, it was closer to the Voyager Hotel, but Kayne allowed some poetic interpretation. Arthur seemed to like it, so it didn’t matter either way.

“Up we go, I’ve already got us a room.” Kayne said, ushering him inside. He let Arthur circle the lobby, taking in the gilded walls, the crystal chandelier, and the grand piano off to the side. There were a couple of high backed plush chairs beside the piano. They’d take breakfast, Kayne would convince him to play something. Maybe they’d head back up to the room, maybe they’d explore the city. Whatever Arthur wanted.

Lazy mornings with Arthur were… something he’d grown inexplicably fond of.

“Where is everyone?” Arthur asked.

“Do you really want anyone to disturb us?”

Arthur shrugged, and Kayne took his hand, leading him up to the highest floor, down the hall to their room. It was only marginally less lavish, opting more for Arthur’s comfort than the most crystal and gold. 

Arthur stood in the middle, shoulders tense as he kept his eyes on the floor.

“What… What’s wrong?” Kayne asked. He had trouble with temperatures, was it too cold? Arthur didn’t really care, though, so what? The view? They could get a different room-

“Sometimes I wish I was blind still.” Arthur said quietly. Kayne stopped in his tracks, like a line running into each other’s backs and nearly tipping over. He stared at Arthur, waiting for him to continue. “I- I miss him, Kayne. I shouldn’t have… survived when he didn’t. I shouldn’t be able to see all of this when he can’t. I should have… tried harder to save him.”

John. Of course.

That was still a sore subject between them, and Kayne had to remind himself it really only had been a few weeks since his death. 

“He got his wish.” Kayne said carefully. “To be human. And you’re getting your wish.”

“And that is?”

“To know the world.” Kayne said. “At least, I assume. Am I wrong?”

He hesitated, then he shook his head. “No.”

“Close your eyes.” Kayne said. “I’ll lead you.”

Arthur turned to look at him, and Kayne prepared to argue his case. Who cared about trust? It was just them. Arthur knew Kayne wouldn’t kill him- they didn’t even know if he could. But Arthur let his silver eyes flutter close. “I trust you.”

Kayne was glad Arthur couldn’t see him absolutely shatter at that, trying and failing to get his expression under check. 

“What first, my love?”

“I could use a bath.” Arthur said.

“Yeah?”

Arthur nodded sagely. “We’ve been on the road for how long? I need to relax.”

Kayne decided not to comment on Arthur’s insistence that a bath would calm him down. It seemed rather contradictory, but he had said the same thing several times now. Kayne led Arthur to the bathroom, glancing back to see Arthur’s eyes still dutifully shut.

“I’m going to turn the water on now.” Kayne said slowly.

“Okay.” Arthur said. “Make sure it’s warm.”

Kayne rolled his eyes- of course he would. He sat on the edge of the tub as it filled, studying Arthur. There was blood on his shirt and his hand, smudges in his hair and face as well. All from where Kayne touched him. Watching Arthur get bloodier with each day was something that made Kayne think very irresponsibly. He nearly faded into oblivion when Arthur took his hand, not expecting the blood, and pulling away only to inspect the crimson before taking his hand once more.

Kayne would mourn washing the blood off- especially from himself- but he’d already committed to giving Arthur anything he wanted. It was like a little experiment. Take everything away from the test subject to see how they break. Give them everything back and see how they react. Except this wasn’t a test subject, this was Arthur Lester, and none of the results Kayne collected were expected.

Arthur Lester, his one and only. How did he put it? Master of my heart.

[mikareo]

⌗ SEASONS OF LOVE ₊ ˖ ་. a 呪術廻戦 miniseries

“ ࣭⸰ ★ HOPELESS ROMANTIC ; geto x fem reader ⠀ ꒰ . . episode four ! ꒱ . . . word count; 0.9k ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ⠀ ᯇ leaves are falling, and he is too

⊹ ⠀⠀ with so many love stories on the shelf, geto feels his heart being influenced. if he's going to fall in love with anyone...it's you.

contains; geto suguru x fem reader, university (year 2) au, fluff, swearing, friends to lovers, love triangle

⋆⋆⋆⠀ ⠀pm or send ask to join/be removed from taglist,, ⋆⋆⋆⠀ ⠀link to miniseries masterlist

"suguru how do you expect me to read when my heart is in a million pieces?"

he doesn't think he's ever met a person as dramatic as you are.

"these books can't teach me how to get laid."

it's kind of cute, though. annoying...but cute.

with the november breeze sweeping the leaves from every tree on campus, winter is approaching fast and geto feels like your irritation towards gojo is at an overwhelming high. there really isn't anything he can do about it. after all, he wasn't there when you oh-so-spontaneously confessed your undying love for satoru on halloween; to which you received a brutal rejection...this is why geto doesn't date— especially why he doesn't date in a world run by satoru gojo.

now, geto has done his very best at trying to distract you from the devastating heartbreak that comes with loving his best friend. there have many so many girls before you who've tried to get on with him after being ignored by the white haired boy; which is extremely insulting that any of them thought geto would be an easy target or a second option to satoru. when geto does fall in love, he hopes that it'll be with someone who chooses him first. someone who doesn't even consider their other options and believes that he's the only person in the entire world who can fit with their uneven puzzle piece. clearly, gojo isn't the person to fit with yours.

"maybe you just need to sit down and be silent?" he purses his lips in annoyance, trying his best to focus on the words of poetry and rhyme. poems are the language of love. you could take some advice from these lines. "you're talking so much that you're not even enjoying the book."

you groan. "this book is boring. who the fuck reads poetry for fun?"

um. he does.

the glare he sends your way is intimidating, but also gentle. "what would you like to read instead? since you're such an avid reader?"

his sarcasm is meant to be insulting.

a mischievous smile creeps into the corners of your lips; smile likes yours used to scare him as a child after having seen alice in wonderland one too many times. he never understood the other children's fascination with a purple, talking cat. it's just weird. "how about this one!"

the book your present to him isn't anything he's read before. actually, it's something that he hopes to never read ever. "you're kidding."

"dead serious!"

how is a cheesy romance supposed to make you feel better?

"that's just going to make you feel worse, y'know." he gently takes the book from your hands and shuffles through the pages. with his head nodding along to each words his eyes skim, it's painfully obvious that you're going to read this book imagining the male lead to be satoru. "you have such an active imagination, you'll be heartbroken all over again."

with his words, your smile melts and geto knows he's right. "satoru is a lost cause in the romance department." he explains, scooting a little closer to you and rubbing your knee. the two of you have been seated on the floor of the lovely little bookshop near campus for an hour now. you're practically the only two people in the entire store, which has made this fake date feel a little more real. "i promise that you're better off dating anyone other than him."

you don't move away from the comfort of his palm, and instead lean into it; but your words are in defense of gojo. they always are. you can't seem to find it in your heart to let him go— no matter how awful of a rejection. "he's not a bad guy. he just needs a little help learning how to love."

the look in your eyes is earnest and geto sees that you believe your statements with your whole heart.

"i can be the person to help him learn."

there's no physical tell that you're upset, but he can somehow sense that you're about to cry. maybe it's the way you slightly tensed up with your body rejecting his soft touch or the way your gaze refused to meet his; no matter, he's going to cheer you up anyways. there aren't many people that geto can make smile— but somehow, in the past four months of being your friend (?), you've become the only person he cares to cheer up.

he murmurs your name in the most comforting, gentle voice that anyone's ever spoken to you. "you are the most talented, most interesting, and most extraordinary person in the universe; and you are capable of amazing things—"

"because you are the special. suguru, i've seen the lego movie. you're not being slick." aw man.

your tone of voice is irritated, yet you still laugh. yes, geto knows that might possibly have been the stupidest and cheesiest thing he's done in his whole life, but he doesn't care. he made you smile. him! not satoru. geto suguru made you smile. it's not something he'd win an olympic medal for, though in his mind it's worth more than that. he doesn't know when you became so special to him. he doesn't know how you managed to creep your way into his heart and cause this embarrassing blush to consume his cheeks; and he isn't bothered to figure it out.

he doesn't want to rejoice in your heartbreak...however, there is a tiny part of him that's happy satoru doesn't love you back.

maybe it's finally time suguru gets to be loved.

⋆⋆⋆⠀ ⠀pm or send ask to join/be removed from taglist,, ⋆⋆⋆⠀ ⠀link to miniseries masterlist

⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀ ⊹₊｡ reblogs are greatly appreciated! ˚₊⊹

[duckprintspress]

Celebrate Native American Heritage Month with 7 Queer Books We Love

November is National Native American Heritage Month! We’re celebrating with books (as always, lol). We asked our rec list contibutors for their favorite queer books either by Native American authors or starring Native American characters. Most of these books (maybe all, I couldn’t confirm for all the authors) are both! Contributors to the list are Nina Waters, hullosweetpea, D.V. Morse, Shea Sullivan and an anonymous contributor.

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Indiginerds edited by Alina Pete

First Nations culture is living, vibrant, and evolving…

…and generations of Indigenous kids have grown up with pop culture creeping inexorably into our lives. From gaming to social media, pirate radio to garage bands, Star Trek to D&D, and missed connections at the pow wow, Indigenous culture is so much more than how it’s usually portrayed. These comics are here to celebrate those stories!

Featuring an all-Indigenous creative team, INDIGINERDS is an exhilarating anthology collecting 11 stories about Indigenous people balancing traditional ways of knowing with modern pop culture.

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Postcolonial Love Poem by Natalie Díaz

Postcolonial Love Poem is a thunderous river of a book, an anthem of desire against erasure. It demands that every body carried in its pages – bodies of language, land, suffering brothers, enemies and lovers – be touched and held. Here, the bodies of indigenous, Latinx, black and brown women are simultaneously the body politic and the body ecstatic, and portrayed with a glowing intimacy: the alphabet of a hand in the dark, the hips’ silvered percussion, a thigh’s red-gold geometry, the emerald tigers that leap in a throat. In claiming this autonomy of desire, language is pushed to its dark edges, the astonishing dune fields and forests where pleasure and love are both grief and joy, violence and sensuality.

Natalie Diaz defies the conditions from which she writes, a nation whose creation predicated the diminishment and ultimate erasure of bodies like hers and the people she loves. Her poetry questions what kind of future we might create, built from the choices we make now – how we might learn our own cures and ‘go where there is love’.

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A Snake Falls to Earth by Darcie Little Badger

Nina is a Lipan girl in our world. She’s always felt there was something more out there. She still believes in the old stories.

Oli is a cottonmouth kid, from the land of spirits and monsters. Like all cottonmouths, he’s been cast from home. He’s found a new one on the banks of the bottomless lake.

Nina and Oli have no idea the other exists. But a catastrophic event on Earth, and a strange sickness that befalls Oli’s best friend, will drive their worlds together in ways they haven’t been in centuries.

And there are some who will kill to keep them apart.

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Never Whistle at Night: An Indigenous Dark Fiction Anthology edited by Shane Hawk and Theodore C. Van Alst Jr.

Many Indigenous people believe that one should never whistle at night. This belief takes many forms: for instance, Native Hawaiians believe it summons the Hukai’po, the spirits of ancient warriors, and Native Mexicans say it calls Lechuza, a witch that can transform into an owl. But what all these legends hold in common is the certainty that whistling at night can cause evil spirits to appear–and even follow you home.These wholly original and shiver-inducing tales introduce readers to ghosts, curses, hauntings, monstrous creatures, complex family legacies, desperate deeds, and chilling acts of revenge. Introduced and contextualized by bestselling author Stephen Graham Jones, these stories are a celebration of Indigenous peoples’ survival and imagination, and a glorious reveling in all the things an ill-advised whistle might summon.

-

The Witch King (Witch King series) by H.E. Edgmon

Wyatt would give anything to forget where he came from–but a kingdom demands its king.

In Asalin, fae rule and witches like Wyatt Croft…don’t. Wyatt’s betrothal to his best friend, fae prince Emyr North, was supposed to change that. But when Wyatt lost control of his magic one devastating night, he fled to the human world.

Now a coldly distant Emyr has hunted him down. Despite transgender Wyatt’s newfound identity and troubling past, Emyr has no intention of dissolving their engagement. In fact, he claims they must marry now or risk losing the throne. Jaded, Wyatt strikes a deal with the enemy, hoping to escape Asalin forever. But as he gets to know Emyr, Wyatt realizes the boy he once loved may still exist. And as the witches face worsening conditions, he must decide once and for all what’s more important–his people or his freedom.

-

Elatsoe (Elatsoe series) by Darcie Little Badger

Imagine an America very similar to our own. It’s got homework, best friends, and pistachio ice cream.

There are some differences. This America been shaped dramatically by the magic, monsters, knowledge, and legends of its peoples, those Indigenous and those not. Some of these forces are charmingly everyday, like the ability to make an orb of light appear or travel across the world through rings of fungi. But other forces are less charming and should never see the light of day.

Elatsoe lives in this slightly stranger America. She can raise the ghosts of dead animals, a skill passed down through generations of her Lipan Apache family. Her beloved cousin has just been murdered, in a town that wants no prying eyes. But she is going to do more than pry. The picture-perfect facade of Willowbee masks gruesome secrets, and she will rely on her wits, skills, and friends to tear off the mask and protect her family.

-

Black Sun (Between Earth and Sky series) by Rebecca Roanhorse

A god will return When the earth and sky converge Under the black sun

In the holy city of Tova, the winter solstice is usually a time for celebration and renewal, but this year it coincides with a solar eclipse, a rare celestial event proscribed by the Sun Priest as an unbalancing of the world.

Meanwhile, a ship launches from a distant city bound for Tova and set to arrive on the solstice. The captain of the ship, Xiala, is a disgraced Teek whose song can calm the waters around her as easily as it can warp a man’s mind. Her ship carries one passenger. Described as harmless, the passenger, Serapio, is a young man, blind, scarred, and cloaked in destiny. As Xiala well knows, when a man is described as harmless, he usually ends up being a villain.

What are your favorite queer books with Native American representation?

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Update your Goodreads TBR with any of these books by visiting our queer Native American books shelf  on Goodreads!Shop books with Native American rep using our rec list on our Bookshop.org affiliate page!

[revalition]

OCT 5 - CONCEPTUALIZATION

Understand creativity. See Art in the world.

sorry so few drawings in today's (and the really lazy colouring job) I'm very tired and wanted to still get it out. I love love conceptualization!! I'll draw and colour you properly some day.

I drew him with legs in my banner (still a WIP, I need to colour it...) and I'm not sure what I like more... definitely don't ever expect tons of consistency from me haha

Alsoooo... I think I'm going to do mondays off instead of sundays so I don't split up the 4 groups across the break. and volition's realllly gonna need that extra day, I love that guy way too much

anyway! as usual tons of quotes and comments under the cut! conceptualization has sooo many amazing ones, it's too hard to limit it to 29 :(((

PALE PALE PALE

actually me the second I heard about the pale. I've spent a likely unhealthy amount of time contemplating it. I did a science project on the possible ways the Universe will eventually end when I was like 15 and only gotten worse since then, I live for this stuff. It fascinates me endlessly

ily conceptualization and volition. I had to suffer through the unbelievably embarrassing ordeal of the failed poetry the first time, when conceppy stopped it the second time I immediately fell in love.

NO why is turning him down an option??

:(

this was so vivid and sad

the whole revacholian nationhood quest is so delusional... but conceptualization is going to embrace it anyway

art cop my beloved

of course he'd find it artistic... it's definitely a statement I suppose

much love for this, conceptualization comforted me into accepting the sorry cop, like... 30 minutes into my first run

don't be sorry honey I always want to hear your artsy thoughts

Yes this is the poetry fail again... this was actually incredibly painful. Also first day of my first run, walked out of the Whirling over to the lorries. So many moments of 'what did I doooo' over picking 1 INT...

Almost every fail ends up with the failing skill giving you really really bad advice, I love how this time conceptualization is just. desperately trying to stop you from continuing. and he can't!! it just gets *worse*!! I'm not including the rest of the poem, I don't want to even look at it. conceptualization ily for trying to stop the horrors...

hehe conceptualization hates improv

ough I love this one. referring to Le Retour.

un jour je serai de retour pres de toi...

actually me as soon as the hyperfixation stops

silver stars melted down...

ough I love the melancholy of a lot of conceptualization's comments.

this one especially. it's so simple, but deeply, deeply sad. the authors of this game were definitely no strangers to grief.

I love when the skills are silly

I love these, they just make my heart happy

mm... true

hehe

I gain a year of life every time anyone mentions harry's blue soul. ily conceptualization

that's it thanks to the evil screenshot limit :((( I hit it so fast too. I'm going to actually die on Volition day. Maybe I can just type the quotes instead of screenshotting them... there's no character limit hehe

running through conceptualization's other language names through google translate: unconventional, concept formation, abstraction

I like these. Most translate directly to conceptualization, but the ones that don't are always cool.

ough I love conceptualization a lot. I barely heard from him my first run, but maxed him out the second. Him and inland empire and shivers are my lovely poetic boys.

Volition trusting Conceptualization is also extremely!!! important to me. as far as I remember, conceptualization isn't identified as compromised either. He just wants art. Even tells you to "lay off that love stuff, if you can" at one point. I'm very fond of him.

[thepaleys]

Vladimir Paley at the Corps des Pages - Part 1

But Volodia's childhood was soon to be over. The grand duke wanted his younger son to follow the dynastic tradition of an army career, and in that same year, 1908, the little Count von Hohenfelsen became a student at the Corps-des-Pages, the Saint Petersburg military school for aristocratic youngsters. Half-ignored by his imperial relatives, he lived in the house of his tutor Colonel Alexander Nikolaiveich Fenu. Both Colonel Fenu and his wife Alya Vladimirovna were very kind to the boy. For Vladimir, suddenly deprived of the loving atmosphere of his family, and forced to face an unknown world, his first days in the Corps-des-Pages were dreadful. He had no military vocation, spoke poor Russian and felt completely out of place in the often rude environment of the school. In his letters to his family, he complained bitterly about his life in the barracks, remembered his Parisian days with nostalgia and dreamed to get out of the school to visit exotic and legendary places. He longed for Easter, summer and Christmas vacations when he was allowed to spend with the family in France or traveling to varied places in Western Europe.

Throughout his stay in the Corps-des-Pages, Volodia continued privately to school himself in painting and music. And it was around 1910 during his first years in the dreaded school, when the young Count von Hohenfelsen started to write poetry, a vocation that never would abandon him. His mother wrote: "Ever since the age of thirteen Vladimir had been writing delightful verses… Each time he returned home his poetic talent displayed itself more decidedly… He availed himself of every free moment to devote his mind to his cherished poetry. By temperament a dreamer, he observed everything and nothing escaped his subtle, watchful attention… He loved nature ardently. He went into ecstasy over everything God had created. A moonbeam inspired him, the scent of a flower gave him an idea for a poem. He had a prodigious memory. What he knew, what he had time to read in his short life, was truly marvelous. Vladimir wrote his first verses in French, the language most familiar to him at that time. The few ones published by Jacques Ferrand in his biography of Grand Duke Paul (Agonie, Les miettes, Indifference, Chanson de Therese, Le Chemineau, Vieillesse), written in 1913, show an already remarkable talent for images and versification, as well as deep feeling. Until this day, however, most of his French poetry remains unpublished in his relatives' archives in France or the archives of the Russian Federation, along with some poetry he wrote in English.

Gradually, the young count got used to the life in the Corps- des-Pages and even started to enjoy it, a situation that probably was encouraged by his progress in Russian, a language he eventually learned with perfection. His letters home became much more joyful. He also found good friends among his classmates who called him Goghen, a russified abbreviation for Hohenfelsen.31 Some of them would perish during the first World War and be remembered by Vladimir in sad verses.

"A Poet Aming the Romanovs" - Jorge F. Sáenz

[astrology-by-sita]

💐SHORT POETRY FOR EVERY VENUS SIGN💐

♈️ARIES VENUS

Scary is passion, intimidating is passion

Love is a dagger cutting right through lies

I'm not your conquest nor your prize

I'm the blazing fire, from ashes I rise

My burning desire possesses no disguise

I'm a flying spark, an ancient warrior

With a tender heart of gold

♉️TAURUS VENUS

Let me devour sweetness with relish

That dripping fruit I shall savor

Let me cherish every flavor

As a bard plays his harp, sip the red wine

Let me enjoy a company so fine

As the Moon and stars above us shine

Hark, the tunes of the Goddess within

♊️GEMINI VENUS

Hold my hand, every test we'll withstand

As we traverse the garden of Eden

Lift me up towards our heaven

Let's sing our hearts out

For our freedom we'll forever dance

Let your words whisper my heart to beat

As lush grass caresses our bare feet

♋️CANCER VENUS

Under the brightest moon we sing

Our hands adorned with pearls

We stroke white sand beneath the waves

Spume chants the tune of the staves

As it caresses the rocks in ebb and flow

My eyes reflect that snowy moonglow

In ecstacy, for I have found my home

♌️LEO VENUS

Long may we reign with all our glory

Adorn my heart with a crown of gold

Our regal beauty, behold

Weave my golden dress with sun rays

Let's set our hearts ablaze

On a bed of silk glowing as glaze

Like a sunflower let me dazzle and daze

♍️VIRGO VENUS

For perfection the soul hopes

For completion the mind gropes

But the heart secretly elopes

With an imperfection

For love is perfect but the lover is not

For damp soil under my bare feet I long

The healing tune will cure my lovesong

♎️LIBRA VENUS

Inebriated by the smell of dewey flowers

We tread by sunset on that lonely road

Besotted, your hand I shall forever hold

Amidst the world around, chaos and fights

They mean naught, when a heart unites

In this haven, our harmony means love

Betwixt the rubble, soars a white dove

♏️SCORPIO VENUS

Beauty is death, love is death

Bur once in passion we embrace

All my demons I shall face

Forbidden fruits are here for you to taste

For that fruit, Lilith desires

And in passion the snake devours

Our love, a secret, it's only ours

♐️SAGITTARIUS VENUS

Teach me how to live in tune

With the gentle summer breeze

With golden sunsets and wide blue seas

I'll set my soul free and break the chain

So that we'll dance forever in the rain

Our love is a prayer so divine

For the whole world is now our shrine

♑️CAPRICORN VENUS

Pan ardently plays his flute

For the nymphs in an endless pursuit

For love is a green fruit

Waiting to turn mellow and ripe

The harvest, my tears it shall wipe

That tender heart is covered by thorns

But its affection is never forlorn

♒️AQUARIUS VENUS

Let's be together, yet still alone

They do not have to understand us

As long as our love is true

As long as the vision we pursue

Shall reconcile the old and the new

Love is just a thought, they say

Thoughts change the world, it's the way

♓️PISCES VENUS

Let me lose myself in you

For in the endless ocean of love

Each sparkly wave embodies a dream

The mermaid chants her sacred tune

The sailors dance under the full moon

In your melodies I shall drown

Bedeck me with the seaweed gown

If you liked these you can buy my English language poetry book here

OR you can read some poems here for free - they are not in that book

[fatehbaz]

Coral today is an icon of environmental crisis, its disappearance from the world’s oceans an emblem for the richness of forms and habitats either lost to us or at risk. Yet, as Michelle Currie Navakas shows in [...] Coral Lives: Literature, Labor, and the Making of America, our accounts today of coral as beauty, loss, and precarious future depend on an inherited language from the nineteenth century. [...] Navakas traces how coral became the material with which writers, poets, and artists debated community, labor, and polity in the United States.

The coral reef produced a compelling teleological vision of the nation: just as the minute coral “insect,” working invisibly under the waves, built immense structures that accumulated through efforts of countless others, living and dead, so the nation’s developing form depended on the countless workers whose individuality was almost impossible to detect. This identification of coral with human communities, Navakas shows, was not only revisited but also revised and challenged throughout the century. Coral had a global biography, a history as currency and ornament that linked it to the violence of slavery. It was also already a talisman - readymade for a modern symbol [...]. Not least, for nineteenth-century readers in the United States, it was also an artifact of knowledge and discovery, with coral fans and branches brought back from the Pacific and Indian Oceans to sit in American parlors and museums. [...]

---

[W]ith material culture analysis, [...] [there are] three common early American coral artifacts, familiar objects that made coral as a substance much more familiar to the nineteenth century than today: red coral beads for jewelry, the coral teething toy, and the natural history specimen. This chapter [...] [brings] together a fascinating range of representations of coral in nineteenth-century painting and sculptures.

With the material presence of coral firmly in place, Navakas returns us to its place in texts as metaphor for labor, with close readings of poetry and ephemeral literature up to the Civil War era. [...] [Navakas] includes an intriguing examination of the posthumous reputation of the eighteenth-century French naturalist Jean-André Peyssonnel who first claimed that coral should be classed as an animal (or “insect”), not plant. Navakas then [...] considers white reformers [...] and Black authors and activists, including James McCune Smith and Frances Ellen Watkins Harper, and a singular Black charitable association in Cleveland, Ohio, at the end of the century, called the Coral Builders’ Society. [...]

---

[H]er attention to layered knowledge allows her to examine the subversions of coral imagery that arose [...]. Obviously, the mid-nineteenth-century poems that lauded coral as a metaphor for laboring men who raised solid structures for a collective future also sought to naturalize a system that kept some kinds of labor and some kinds of people firmly pressed beneath the surface. Coral’s biography, she notes, was “inseparable from colonial violence at almost every turn” (p. 7). Yet coral was also part of the material history of the Black Atlantic [...].

Thus, a children’s Christmas story, “The Story of a Coral Bracelet” (1861), written by a West Indian writer, Sophy Moody, described the coral trade in the structure of a slave narrative. [...] In addition, coral’s protean shapes and ambiguity - rock, plant, or animal? - gave Americans a model for the difficulty of defining essential qualities from surface appearance, a message that troubled biological essentialists [...]. Navakas thus repeatedly brings into view the racialized and gendered meanings of coral [...].

---

Some readers from the blue humanities will want more attention, for example, to [...] different oceans [...]: Navakas’s gaze is clearly eastward to the Atlantic and Mediterranean and (to a degree) to the Caribbean [...], even though much of the natural historical explorations, not to mention the missionary interest in coral islands, turns decidedly to the Pacific. [...] First, under my hat as a historian of science, I note [...] [that] [q]uestions about the structure of coral islands among naturalists for the rest of the century pitted supporters of Darwinian evolutionary theory against his opponents [...]. These disputes surely sustained the liveliness of coral - its teleology and its ambiguities - in popular American literature. [...]

My second desire, from the standpoint of Victorian studies, is for a more specific account of religious traditions and coral. While Navakas identifies many writers of coral poetry and fables, both British and American, as “evangelical,” she avoids detailed analysis of the theological context that would be relevant, such as the millennial fascination with chaos and reconstruction and the intense Anglo-American missionary interest in the Pacific. [...] [However] reasons for this move are quickly apparent. First, her focus on coral as an icon that enabled explicit discussion of labor and community means that she takes the more familiar arguments connecting natural history and Christianity in this period as a given. [...] Coral, she argues, is most significant as an object of/in translation, mediating across the Black Atlantic and between many particular cultures. These critical strategies are easy to understand and accept, and yet the word - the script, in her terms - that I kept waiting for her to take up was “monuments”: a favorite nineteenth-century description of coral.

Navakas does often refer to the awareness of coral “temporalities” - how coral served as metaphor for the bridges between past, present, and future. Yet the way that a coral reef was understood as a literal graveyard, in an age that made death practices and new forms of cemeteries so vital a part of social and civic bonds, seems to deserve a place in this study. These are a greedy reader’s questions, wanting more. As Navakas notes [...], the method [...] is to understand our present circumstances as framed by legacies from the past, legacies that are never smooth but point us to friction and complexity.

---

All text above by: Katharine Anderson. "Review of Navakas, Michele Currie, Coral Lives: Literature, Labor, and the Making of America." H-Environment, H-Net Reviews. December 2023. Published at: [networks.h-net.org/group/reviews/20017692/anderson-navakas-coral-lives-literature-labor-and-making-america] [Bold emphasis and some paragraph breaks/contractions added by me. Presented here for commentary, teaching, criticism.]

[whats-the-word-again]

༄ ° Poems that remind me of Lady Hestia ｡

This is just a small fun devotional act for Lady Hestia as She's been on my mind quite a bit as of late. I thought this might be nice especially cause I love poetry and it's one of my favourite ways of expressing myself and one of my favourite forms of literature! Though none of these are written by me, all credits will be given to the original authors; I've been simply perusing the internet for some poems that speak Hestia to me. Enjoy!

[there are six (6) poems in total. all have links to where I found them]

'A Wish' - Samuel Rogers

Mine be a cot beside the hill; A bee-hive's hum shall soothe my ear; A willowy brook that turns a mill With many a fall shall linger near. The swallow, oft, beneath my thatch Shall twitter from her clay-built nest; Oft shall the pilgrim lift the latch, And share my meal, a welcome guest. Around my ivied porch shall spring Each fragrant flower that drinks the dew; And Lucy, at her wheel, shall sing In russet gown and apron blue. The village church among the trees, Where first our marriage-vows were given, With merry peals shall swell the breeze And point with taper spire to Heaven.

'A Domestic Scene' - Felicia Dorothea Hemans, from The Amulet [1830]

Twas early day — and sunlight stream'd Soft through a quiet room, That hush'd, but not forsaken, seem'd — Still, but with nought of gloom; For there, secure in happy age, Whose hope is from above, A father communed with the page Of Heaven's recorded love. Pure fell the beam, and meekly bright On his gray holy hair, And touch'd the book with tenderest light As if its shrine were there; But oh! that patriarch's aspect shone With something lovelier far — A radiance all the spirits own, Caught not from the sun or star. Some word of life e'en then had met His calm benignant eye; Some ancient promise breathing yet Of immortality; Some heart's deep language where the glow Of quenchless faith survives; For every feature said "I know That my Redeemer lives." And silent stood his children by, Hushing their very breath Before this solemn sanctity Of thoughts o'ersweeping death; Silent — yet did not each young breast, With love and rev'rence melt? Oh! blest be those fair girls — and blest That home where God is felt!

'The Little Front Gate' - Kate Slaughter McKinney

A way from the world and its bustle, When the daylight grows pleasant and late; In our own cosy cot, I am waiting For the slam of the little front gate. The birds at the doorway are singing, The roses their beauty debate; But I sit here alone, and I listen For the slam of the little front gate. Sometimes, ere the shadows of twilight Send the roving bird home to its mate, I list for a hurrying footstep, And the slam of the little front gate. O! you who are burdened with sorrow, And believe that life is but fate, Learn from me there is joy in waiting For the slam of the little front gate.

'The Hearth' - Henry van Dyke

When the logs are burning free, Then the fire is full of glee: When each heart gives out its best, Then the talk is full of zest: Light your fire and never fear, Life was made for love and cheer.

'Upon the hearth the fire is red' - J.R.R Tolkien, from The Lord of the Rings: One Vol. Edition

Upon the hearth the fire is red, Beneath the roof there is a bed; But not yet weary are our feet, Still round the corner we may meet A sudden tree or standing stone That none have seen but we alone.      Tree and flower and leaf and grass,      Let them pass! Let them pass!      Hill and water under sky,      Pass them by! Pass them by! Still round the corner there may wait A new road or secret gate, And though we pass them by today, Tomorrow we may come this way And take the hidden paths that run Towards the Moon or to the Sun.      Apple, thorn, and nut and sloe,      Let them go! Let them go!      Sand and stone and pool and dell,      Fare you well! Fare you well! Home is behind, the world ahead, And there are many paths to tread Through shadows to the edge of night, Until the stars are all alight. Then world behind and home ahead, We'll wander back to home and bed.      Mist and twilight, cloud and shade,      Away shall fade! Away shall fade!      Fire and lamp, and meat and bread,      And then to bed! And then to bed!

'Fire on Your Finger' - Tony Jolley

Fire on your finger, Fire in your eye, Fire in your spirit, Fire that won’t die. Fire in the bare bones of being, Fire to uphold what’s right, Fire in the heart of darkness, Fire to fuel Love’s light. Fire to burn but not consume, Fire to learn and not assume, Fire to live and give living room, Fire to love and sing her tune.

That's all the poems for now! if you guys have any poems that remind you of Hestia (or of any deity), please feel free to share! (I just love finding new poetry.)

Praise beloved Lady Hestia 🤍

-> all dividers made by @/anitalenia

[im-immortal]

Hey, hello! I’m new around here. I fell in love with the Daryl and Beth couple, and through them, I also discovered the story of Normily. However, English is not my native language, so I hope you can understand me.

Honestly, I don’t think Norman would be attracted to someone like Emily at first glance. I believe Norman loved the idea of Bethyl and found Emily incredibly sweet during the filming process. Along the way, they built a strong bond. Emily fell in love with Norman, which is totally understandable because Norman has such an aura that it’s impossible not to fall for him. But unfortunately, he’s quite flirtatious.

Norman is a touch addict and a flirt, in my opinion. However, he did form a real bond with Emily. But would he have had an official relationship with someone like Emily at that time? I don’t think so. Emily is like a Disney character—too naive, too young, too childlike for him. Norman, on the other hand, craves passion.

“I think Norman had a secret, romantic relationship with Emily, but it was like a high school crush—innocent and sincere. However, when Norman met DK, everything changed. DK gave him the passion he was seeking. If you look at DK’s posts from that time, you’ll see they were just as provocative as Norman’s. DK, being a German star, could easily be placed in the same category as Norman. She fits his standards.

Norman was with DK, but he couldn’t let go of Emily. That’s why he kept his relationship with DK hidden from both the media and Emily. He only gave Emily uncertainty. I could tell this from the poems Emily wrote. Later, he made things official with DK. I can’t guess what inner struggles he went through, but once he put an end to that uncertainty, Emily unfollowed him, and I don’t think Norman was expecting that.

Emily giving up on fighting for Norman and rejecting his popularity to return to her own small world must have been surprising for Norman because Norman Reedus is a brand, and no matter what, women always fight for him. That’s why I’m proud of Emily for protecting herself and distancing herself from him.

Emily stopped writing poetry and ignored Norman. She didn’t respond to any communication. I think Norman realized Emily’s worth only after losing her because he kept interacting with Bethyl and Emily-related content. Even secretly listening to Emily’s podcast is proof that he missed her.

Even now, I think Norman wants to communicate with Emily. Believing that his post about the hummingbird isn’t related to Emily seems utterly absurd. However, whether this is love or not, I can’t say. For Emily, everything is in the past now. No matter what we call it, I love this duo.

This is actually so observant and well thought out, I can’t help but agree. Makes perfect sense tbh and I resonate with every sentiment made.

[melisnonstop]

𝙱𝙴𝚃𝚆𝙴𝙴𝙽 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙻𝙸𝙽𝙴𝚂

↳📱𝚊 𝚜𝚘𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚕 𝚖𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚊 𝚊𝚞 (13/)

TikTok Video – Henry reviews Rapture byCarol Ann Duffy

@sonnetsandspice

(The video starts with Henry sitting in his cozy nook with nice bright lighting despite the New York winter,a cup of tea in hand. The camera slowly zooms in as he begins speaking)

Henry:

"There’s something about poetry that lets you sink into emotions without being swallowed by them. It lets you explore them safely—at a distance—but every now and then, a collection comes along that feels like it's staring right back at you.

“For me, that’s Carol Ann Duffy’s Rapture."

(Henry holds up a worn copy of the book)

Henry:

"It’s an unflinchingly raw portrayal of love, written with an intensity that’s almost palpable. Duffy captures the entirety of a relationship—from the dizzying highs to the inevitable unraveling—and does so with a precision that cuts to the core."

(He glances off-screen for a moment, gathering his thoughts before continuing)

Henry:

"One of the reasons this collection resonates with me is how Duffy makes the personal universal. Every poem in Rapture feels like a shared experience, as if she’s handed you the language to describe something you’ve always felt but never quite found the words for. It’s... relentless in its vulnerability."

(Henry pauses for a beat, his voice softening)

Henry:

"And yet, there’s a quiet strength in that vulnerability. It’s as though she’s saying, ‘Here, this is what it feels like to love deeply, to lose, and to keep loving anyway.’"

(He flips through the annotated pages, finding a passage)

Henry:

"Take this line, for instance: 'The bed we loved in was a spinning world of forests, castles, torchlight, cliff-tops, seas.' That’s love, isn’t it? It’s fantastical, all-encompassing, and yet... fragile. It’s the places we go when we’re in love—both real and imagined."

(He closes the book and looks into the camera, his expression thoughtful)

Henry:

"If you’ve ever loved deeply, or even if you haven’t, Rapture will show you just how messy, beautiful, and human love truly is. It’s a modern masterpiece, one that lingers long after you’ve finished it. And for that, I can’t recommend it enough."

(He smiles, a little wistful)

Henry:

"I’ll leave you with this: if you want to feel—really feel—without being afraid of what comes next, read Rapture. It’s one of those books that finds you exactly where you are.

"Until next time—happy reading, and cheers."

(The video ends as Henry puts down the book, the quiet clink of his teacup against the table in the background)

↳📱

↳📱

[justforbooks]

Gwen Watkins

Codebreaker at Bletchley Park during the second world war who went on to become a successful author

Gwen Watkins, who has died aged 101, deciphered German air force codes at Bletchley Park during the second world war, helping RAF and US Army air force fighter aircraft to combat Luftwaffe bombers, and allied reconnaissance aircraft and bombers to evade German air defences.

Watkins joined the Women’s Auxiliary Air Force in 1941 and in May the following year was sent to Bletchley Park, the allied codebreaking centre in Buckinghamshire, as a result of her fluency in German. She was put to work in the air section, unravelling the Luftwaffe’s three-letter and three-figure enciphered codes, initially in Hut 10 and then, from early 1943, in Block F, one of a number of new concrete units that replaced the old huts.

The way in which the cipher was stripped off and the codes decoded was well established by the time Watkins joined the section. She worked on low-level messages that were designed for air crew to swiftly encode and decode, rather than the higher level communications that were protected by Enigma grade encryption. Nonetheless, thanks to the pencil and paper codebreaking techniques that she and her colleagues used, the section was able to build up a picture of how the German pilots and air defences operated.

Bill Bonsall, who headed the German sub-section in which Watkins worked, recalled that at the end of the war, commenting on the number of enemy aircraft destroyed as a result of Bletchley’s intelligence, allied air chiefs described the figures as “impressive” but said that by far the most important contribution the codebreakers made was “the saving of allied pilots’ lives which resulted from constant awareness and frequent foreknowledge of the enemy’s activities”.

Watkins was born in West Bromwich in the West Midlands. Her father, Alfred Davies, worked for the British Legion, and her mother, Harriet (also nee Davies), was a housewife.

After a family move to Bournemouth, she went to Talbot Heath school, where one of her teachers insisted she learn a fresh poem every week. “Soon I found that I could repeat hundreds of poems and hymns, as well as long speeches from Shakespeare,” she recalled. She also showed a natural affinity with the German language, reaching a high standard very quickly, reading Goethe and Schiller extensively, learning Schumann’s Dichterliebe by heart and consigning a large repertoire of German songs to memory.

She was 18 when she went to Bletchley Park. She recalled that as a result of the tight security around the centre, she was told to report to the RAF signals base at Chicksands Priory in Bedfordshire, unaware of her real destination. On arrival at Chicksands, she was surprised to be told that she would not be working there. “The sergeant asked a driver, ‘Are you going to blindfold her, or take her in the covered van?’,” she recalled. It was not, as she initially imagined, a joke. “I sat in the back of the van, separated from the driver by a sheet of hardboard and with the windows blacked out.”

When they eventually got to Bletchley Park, she showed her papers to the guard on the gate, who tried to turn her away. “I was by this time hungry, thirsty and very annoyed. ‘Look,’ I said, ‘I don’t know where I am, and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do.’ ‘[You’ve] come to the right place, then,’ said the guard, ‘most of them here look as if they don’t know where they are, and God knows what they’re doing.’”

While at Bletchley Gwen fell in love with one of her colleagues, the Welsh poet Vernon Watkins, and they were married in 1944.

After the war they moved to a bungalow on the cliffs of the Gower peninsula where Vernon had been raised, and where they were regularly visited by TS Eliot, Philip Larkin and Dylan Thomas. Thomas was supposed to have been best man at their wedding but failed to turn up.

Vernon worked at Lloyds Bank in Swansea by day and wrote poetry at night, and over the next 20 years the couple had five children. It was an idyllic life; one that was captured in a 1966 BBC documentary, Under a Bright Heaven.

In 1964 Vernon took up a visiting professorship in poetry at the University of Washington in Seattle. But in 1967, at a time when he was being cited as a potential poet laureate, he died of a heart attack while playing tennis.

Such was Gwen’s knowledge of poetry that she was able to take over his teaching duties for the remainder of the Washington university term. But she then returned to the UK, where she took a degree course in English literature at the University of Reading and moved back to the Gower.

Subsequently she wrote a number of books on literary figures, including Portrait of a Friend (1983), which examined Vernon’s collaborations with Thomas, and Dickens in Search of Himself (1987), which looked at the recurrent psychological themes in his novels. She was also co-author, with Ruth Pryor and Gordon Claridge, of Sounds from the Bell Jar – Ten Psychotic Authors (1990), an exploration of the association between creativity and psychosis viewed through the works of writers such as Margery Kempe, Thomas Hoccleve, Virginia Woolf, Antonia White and Sylvia Plath.

Watkins had met Pryor, an Englishwoman and lecturer in old English, at the University of Washington. Not long after Vernon’s death they began a long friendship and working collaboration that led to the posthumous publication of some of Vernon’s poetry, including Elegy for the Latest Dead (1977).

In 2006 Watkins published Cracking the Luftwaffe Codes: The Secrets of Bletchley Park. “To work in Bletchley Park had been an unforgettable experience,” she wrote. “Words cannot express the combined brilliance. Perhaps if all its personnel had been kept together after the war to consider the problems of world peace and universal prosperity, they might have cracked those problems too.”

She is survived by three sons, Gareth, Dylan and Conrad. Another son, Tristran, died in 1992, and a daughter, Rhiannon, 10 days before her.

🔔 Gwendoline Mary Watkins, codebreaker and author, born 31 December 1923; died 14 January 2025

Daily inspiration. Discover more photos at Just for Books…?

[strzxrin]

˗ˏˋ cultivator of art and poetry ˎˊ˗ — symon.

voice message received . . . “i enjoy the arts my dear, society can do a lot with a creative mind”

world . pevarra

age . unknown (within the hundreds)

gender . non-binary

species . deity (human-ascend)

untold truth . symon is a deity of art, poetry, and obsession — a muse wrapped in flesh and madness, divinity dipped in ink and blood. they are charm incarnate: teasing, seductive, and always performing. every word from their lips drips with double meaning. every touch feels like the first brushstroke on a canvas destined to be unforgettable. their love is poetry, yes, but the kind scribbled in the margins of grimoires with trembling hands. their affection is art — but raw, visceral, and dangerous. if you are their muse, then you are everything. you are sacred. you are theirs. and the divine don’t share. symon can be laughing one moment, comparing your eyes to ink spilled across a manuscript, and the next, whispering how easy it would be to carve your name into the stars — or into someone else’s skin, if they so much as look at you the wrong way. their love is eternal, obsessive, and creative in ways you probably shouldn’t ask about. they won’t just write you sonnets. they’ll write epics where you're the center of every stanza, every war, every tragedy. and if you try to leave? well. there’s nothing more romantic than a tragedy… right?

appearance. 

their hair cascades in wild waves like brushstrokes, constantly changing shades between midnight oil, watercolor reds, and pastel blues depending on their mood or what they’ve been creating. but by default, their hair is blond.

their eyes are the color of wet paint: one a deep indigo that never dries, the other molten gold flecked with bits of half-burnt poems.

their skin is pale parchment streaked with veins of shimmering ink, and faint, moving script flows just beneath the surface.

poems they've written — or maybe will write — drift across their arms and collarbones like tattoos caught between existence and inspiration.

6” ft (182 cm) with a slender build.

they would wear flowing robes crafted from poetry scrolls and silk-stretched canvases, the fabric inked with divine verses and abstract renderings that move when you’re not looking. 

brushes, quills, and sculpting tools hang from golden chains at their belt — and every one of them has drawn blood as often as it has drawn beauty.

incoming voice call . . . “you look like like a sculpture, one that i wish to keep forever.”

you weren’t special — not really. A hobby poet at best. but one night, you whispered a verse into the night, heartbroken and lonely, and someone — something — answered.

it started with dreams: paint-slicked hands tracing your cheeks, a voice humming lullabies in a language older than time. every night, you'd wake up with ink on your pillow, strange poems in your handwriting, and the smell of oil paint in the air.

then symon appeared.

not with thunder, not with fire — but sitting at the edge of your bed, sketching your sleeping face with fingers stained in crimson and cobalt. “you called me,” they said, smiling like a wolf wearing a poet’s grin. “and the divine always answer their muses.”

you were flattered. at first. who wouldn’t be, when a literal deity tells you you're their inspiration? they wrote you sonnets on your skin with their tongue. painted galaxies on your back. gave you passion like you'd never known. they made you feel immortal.

then came the gallery.

you wandered in by accident. every painting was of you — weeping, laughing, dying, kissing symon. sculptures of your body twisted in ecstasy. scrolls and scrolls of your name, written over and over in blood-red ink.

you tried to leave. symon let you get to the door.

"every artist signs their work," they said, appearing behind you. “and darling, you're mine. a masterpiece. i would ruin the world before i let it take you from me.” their arms wrapped around you like a velvet vice, breath warm on your ear. “now hush. i’m working on a new poem. it starts with a kiss… and ends with forever.”

and with a shiver, you realized, they weren’t just obsessed with you. they were creating you.