#poetry busking

[bespectacledbookworm]

Today I went downtown to write poems for strangers and it. Was. Awesome!

[pvdpoetry]

Alicia reading a poem on demand while busking at the Pedestrian Bridge in Providence.

[env0writes]

Janus Estuaries Vol. 3, 1.5.24 “Panhandle Busk"

We do not stop To drop a single, crumpled, tattered, unused dollar bill Into the streetside performer’s hungry tips For in their scraps, their elegance We do not see Refuse to see Any more than beggars; poor Noise and nuisance Inconvenient to the day So we do not stop and listen To the well rehearsed movements How can a value be ascribed To what can barely be described We do not stop To think of hours spent The minutes, days, the years Overcoming ridicule and fear To show something true and near We pull our phones and record the show And share with our all friends Look down Look down At the starving, ravenous box for tips Are they not worth loose change? Enough to wish to share To remember Not enough to pay What is the value Of one who seems to lack values

@env0writes C.Buck   Ko-Fi & Venmo: @Zenv0 Support Your Local Artist!   Photo by @env0

[leicadiary]

[tugmataludtodtalata]

100 TULA PARA SA KANYA

Sequel

#031 Banda Masyadong makapangyarihan ang mahika ng mga kanta. Kayang-kaya nitong ibalik ang lahat ng ibinaong alaala. Kaya no'ng gabing 'yon, malupit ang hagupit ng banda. Nagawa nitong padalawin ang mga alaalang matagal ko nang iniwan sa kaniya.

[cinader]

Laurie Stone, Christopher D. Sims, Crystal Cauley

Martha Cinder speaks with Laurie Stone about her Substack, Tony Robles with Christopher Sims and Crystal Cauley about Juneteenth at the Carl Sandburg House

Episode 16 – Listen & Be Heard Subscribe at Spotify Subscribe at Apple Subscribe at Google Martha Cinader hosts live at WPVM in Asheville, NC, with interviews and spoken word. Laurie Stone Laurie Stone Martha speaks live from the WPVMfm studio in Asheville, NC with Laurie Stone in upstate New York, about her Substack: Everything is Personal, the series Succession, the VIDA count, (remember…

[sohannabarberaesque]

Poetry Corner

Those Bungle Brothers: Not exactly Branson's kind of stage act. Perhaps it's because their style isn't one as unconsciously promotes a Nutritious Patriot Love of Country, as Branson unconsciously expects in its "music show" acts.

Leaving George and Joey to try the rounds of small-time "home talent shows" (or what may still pass for them) to see if they can still manage Their Big Break for Once. Or at least try boardwalk busking "down the shore" over the summer period to see if their act will actually click with the masses for once, let alone generate the bakeesh.

And wonder what sort of act they may try pulling off, one trying to cross the line of Good Taste and Seaside Postcard Humour while managing to avoid Unwelcome Attention from the police as much as merchants and tourism-promotion agencies still a little too conscious about optics to the point of unhealthy.

Meanwhile, dost thou have some interesting Hanna-Barbera poesy worth the sharing?

*************

@warnerbrosentertainment @tallcharlie @jellystone-enjoyer @xdiver71 @archive-archives @themineralyoucrave @thebigdingle @screamingtoosoftly @warnerbros-blog1 @thylordshipofbutts @theweekenddigest @princessgalaxy505 @warnerbrosent-blog

[reine-du-sourire]

A Covert Overture

Cheslock frowns in perplexity as he makes his way over to his favorite table in the corner of the café, enjoying the way the warmth of the coffee cup seeps into his hands through the fingerless gloves he always likes to wear.

Who keeps paying for my drinks? This is the third time this week!

His violin case bounces a bit as he slings it carefully over his shoulder and lays it on the empty seat beside him. Good tips today; not that he'd needed to use them on his usual coffee order, though.

"It's already paid for," the barista says cheerfully as Cheslock starts rummaging in his pocket for the few dollars he'd set aside from the money he'd earned busking across the street. "I wish I could tell you who, I really do, but I swore I wouldn't! You've got such a fan!"

"Thanks, McMillan. Sure ya can't even give me a hint?"

"Please, Cheslock, don't make me give it away! I promised!"

It really shouldn't be this hard to get secrets out of McMillan.

Cheslock takes a sip of his Americano and gazes languidly around the café. Violet's in his usual window seat, sketching away and completely ignoring Redmond's cheerful stream of chatter about whatever new book of poetry he's currently reading, plus a couple of other patrons scattered around the fragrant space.

Violet had only shrugged when Cheslock asked him yesterday who the mysterious benefactor was. Violet practically lives in this café; surely he knew, and he still wouldn't tell. Git.

"It's quite a lovely gesture, though," Redmond titters with a wink. "You could call it a covert overture, considering-!"

"Yeah, yeah, I get it. Very clever, Red."

The bell over the door tinkles. Cheslock looks up and, shrugging, goes back to his coffee.

That weird blond guy in the green zip-up jacket who never makes eye contact is back again.

[focsle]

I was wondering if you've picked up any information on items like wedding rings or other love tokens among the whalers that you study. I've read your essays talking about domestic scrimshaw items, which are fantastic but -- I dunno! Wedding rings don't necessarily make sense for men doing hard work with their hands (and I know they go in and out of fashion) but I'm curious if there was something of the sort! Thank you for your aaaart and haunted whale men.

I feel like so many of those domestic items ARE the love tokens! Especially the yarn swifts that had so much labor poured into them, and the busks that, in addition to being an intimate object worn close were carved with all sorts of entreaties of love and remembrance to the woman it was made for. That so many of these scrimshaw pieces were these incredibly intricate domestic items (that would mostly be used by women at this time) that demanded so much patience and artistry speaks to the craftsman’s love. There are so many emotions carved into those things—ugh, I find such poetry in them.

I haven’t come across any wedding rings myself, but that isn’t to say there never was one! Here are some scrimshaw rings—they were likely just adornments, but who knows, they may have been love tokens too!

Men wearing wedding rings wasn’t a common phenomenon in the US until the 20th century. But whalers still remembered their loved ones left ashore in varying ways. Usually in the form of daguerreotypes, once the technology existed.

I always think of 2nd mate of the Arnolda, Benjamin Boodry writing on the May Day tradition of hanging a basket of flowers on the door of a sweetheart (in his case, a woman named Helen):

“I wish I was there to hang her a May Basket. I believe I should get into a 2 bushel basket and hang myself if she would take me in. here I set in my state room the door shut and my whole family of Daguerreotypes around me and my Accordion in my hand and I try to imagine myself in old Mattapoisett.”

Another mate, John Wilson, of the Wave talked about how his wife’s miniature gave him solace.

“it is hard and I still trust we shall yet get something if it is Gods will and far from home and far from home but the Image of my Wife is my only Consolation. The Island of Fyal [Fayal] Bearing E. NE. good Night. Lat 38 25.”

He mentioned sometimes speaking to his wife’s portrait while on the voyage. Whalers would hang them in their bunks so they’d be able to look upon them when they woke up. I’ve come across logbooks that had a portrait of the keeper’s wife pasted in the front cover, or poems about her. I came across a logbook keeper who held on to a cake a woman had baked him before he left, and was dismayed to find it spoiled when he finally went to eat it on his birthday. There were captains that brought some of their wife’s belongings with them, and talked about burying their face into them and weeping. Most of the ways I’ve seen whalers remembering their wives were less tangible than the scrimshaw tokens they made for them, but man did they still think about them. Physical token or not, their minds continually turned back to those they left behind.

Letters were some of the most prized objects of affection. Silliman Ives, of the Sunbeam, wrote about the importance of receiving letters.

“Speaking of letters leads me to remark that of all the people in the world, it seems to me that a sailor prizes a letter the most. Expected letters form the subject of many conversations for weeks before the ship goes into port. How many each one thinks he shall get, and who will be the writers. Speculations are rife as to the health of those from whom they are awaiting news. And if it is known that Jack, or Ben, or Dick were paying particular attentions to any certain young lady, previous to sailing, or if they are supposed to be engaged to get “spliced” when the voyage is concluded, many jokes are cracked at their expense, and numerous are the wishes of their messmates that they “may get good long ones, and chock full of love.” 

Nothing plunged a fellow into greater despair than coming into port after months at sea and receiving no letters, and nothing seemed to make him happier than when a letter did arrive (that is, if it brought good news). Old letters were clung to, sometimes from seasons’ past. They’d be read over and over again. There was even a market for selling the love letters they got to men who didn’t receive one, as whaler Ezra Goodnough once described:

“I sold a letter I received from a young lady of Salem and the only one to that I have received this voyage for two heads of tobacco, it being a very scarce article.”

Whoof, this was a long way of saying I haven’t come across any wedding rings yet, men likely wouldn’t be wearing them at this point, but they really did cling to their pictures and papers!

[chic-a-gigot]

Le Petit écho de la mode, no. 15, 12 avril 1896, Paris. 9. Jupon Taglioni, propriété exclusive de la maison Jeanne d’Arc, 265, rue Saint-Honoré, Paris. Ville de Paris / Bibliothèque Forney

9. Jupon Taglioni, propriété exclusive de la maison Jeanne d’Arc, 265, rue Saint-Honoré, Paris. — Mettre un jupon sous l’invocation de la célèbre danseuse Taglioni, c’est donner l’idée d’une création imprégnée de parisianisme, légère comme des ailes de sylphe et â la fois commode et pratique. Tel est absolument le Taglioni. Ce jupon avec sa tournure invisible, complètement adhérente, crin et baleine, vous habille divinement, arrondissant gracieusement la croupe, rejetant l’ampleur des jupes en arriere, soutenant les godets dans leur fantaisiste disposition en éventail. Le jupon Taglioni donne â l’ensemble de la toilette les proportions les plus harmonieuses; c’est la poésie du galbe. Ce modèle en tissu de soie broché se fait en nuances claires et foncées, deux tons, garni d'un haut plissé en taffetas, couvert par une haute dentelle application nœud en aigrettes, prix 80 frances. Ajoutons que le jupon Taglioni se fait à 30 francs, 40 francs, 50 francs et 60 francs. Le bouvel album illustré, comprenant les dernières créations en jupons, lingerie, trousseaux et corsets avec busc et sans busc, est envoyé sur demande gratis et franco; Il suffit d'écrire à la maison Jeanne d'Arc, 265, rue Saint-Honoré, Paris.

9. Taglioni petticoat, exclusive property of the house of Joan of Arc, 265, rue Saint-Honoré, Paris. — To put a petticoat under the invocation of the famous dancer Taglioni is to give the idea of a creation imbued with Parisianism, light as the wings of a sylph and both comfortable and practical. Such is absolutely the Taglioni. This petticoat with its invisible bustle, completely adherent, horsehair and whalebone, dresses you divinely, gracefully rounding the rump, throwing back the fullness of the skirts, supporting the godets in their fanciful arrangement. The Taglioni petticoat gives the whole dress the most harmonious proportions; it is the poetry of curves. This model in brocaded silk fabric is made in light and dark shades, two tones, trimmed with a pleated top in taffeta, covered by a high lace application bow in aigrettes, price 80 frances. Let us add that the Taglioni petticoat is made at 30 francs, 40 francs, 50 francs and 60 francs. The bouvel illustrated album, including the latest creations in petticoats, lingerie, trousseaus and corsets with busk and without busk, is sent on request free and carriage paid; Just write to the Joan of Arc house, 265, rue Saint-Honoré, Paris.

[bespectacledbookworm]

Im going to get a lil tax refund and I'm trying to decide what I should do with it!

I'm thinking get my typewriter painted orrrrr? I'd like to do something to invest on my poetry. Maybe... hmm. A portable umbrella or canopy for when I busk at markets? A nice tips fanny pack? That would be lovely actually. Hmm. Something that would aide a crafts person like me.... Maybe have a professional sign printed? 🤔

I've also really been hoping to make my living g space more cozy and calming, but the only thing I can think that it really lacks rn is some privacy window film. We'll I suppose I could finally buy that without feeling guilty about it!

[mostlyonthefloor]

HOT DAMN

Secret Worlds is having the same effect on my psyche as 'The Hollow Men', the beat drop in the third chorus of Dust Bowl Dance, and the guy I saw busking beat poetry who screamed "THEN HOW CAN I BE HOLY?" into a crowded street and I am SO here for it

I HAVE NEVER SEEN ANYBODY BUSKING ANY FORM OF POETRY BEFORE THAT SOUNDS SO SICK

But yes that's a banger of a song I'm so excited you like it!!!!! They reach RIGHT into your brain. Have you listened to The Calling yet (same psychic effect as standing outside in strong wind as it begins to rain. and you are so small but you feel that you are in control in some way)

[lankira]

Was just talking about this character's BG3 version in @dee-the-red-witch's replies when I remembered that I've not talked about her on the blog much. WHICH IS A CRIME.

This is Razira Fein, my funky lil lesbian drow follower of Eilistraee (art by @canine-king-art )

When it comes time to talk about her backstory, I will admit that I kind of fridged her girlfriend. So cws for religious trauma and character death below the cut.

So, first up: Razira is practical, but not necessarily high femme or butch in her preferred presentation. This is heavily informed by her time as house guard and surface raider for one of the Houses of her universe's equivalent of Menzoberranzan. Like...being alive trumps looking good (far right armored look), and being comfortable on the road now that she's on the surface trumps style (all black hatted look).

The other two looks? The one that's very peacocky with the feather in the hat is her stage look. Gotta grab attention there, and she's spent so much of her life in full armor that exposed skin feels incorrect. She's fine with nudity in places like full moon rituals and the bedroom. Just not her thing on stage. She'd totally be down for watching a burlesque show though. Her other (vaguely-Japanese-inspired) look is what she wears when busking on city streets. Since not a lot of places on the surface are kind to drow and she doesn't want to risk damaging the embroidery and beadwork on that performance jacket, she picked something unique but simple.

Wait. Busking? Armor? This is either the most armored bard or something else is going on here! That's correct, something else is going on here.

See, Razira left her home after her girlfriend, Llostin, was murdered for trying to leave and join a enclave of followers of Eilistraee on the surface. Drow society does NOT like when its members turn their back on Lolth. The only thing left of the girlfriend's that Razira had was a holy text. As she read more of it, she understood why Llostin wanted to leave, and did so, succeeding where her late love had failed.

After spending decades with the enclave, learning about Eilistraee, learning song and dance and art and poetry, and unlearning a lot of the typical drow society bullshit, the leaders of the enclave suggested that Razira was ready to see the world. And so, she set out to do so, making money sometimes as an entertainer, sometimes as hired muscle to secure safe travel between cities. (This is why she started as a Fighter withe the Entertainer background)

Through all this travel, she learned a lot more about the world and found her own little place in it. Until the start of the campaign had her thrust into a series of world-shattering events.

While the campaign she was in ran very short for a number of reasons, she's one of the characters I'm most fond of. I usually play someone young, at the start of their journey. But Razira...not so much. She was about 250 years old and had been mourning her lost love for about a century of that time. She thought she was nearing the end of her character arc. She had discovered a lot about herself in that time and had believed that she would never find love again, in part because of the crippling survivor's guilt, in part because she didn't think that she would want to love again.

Until she met Aurellon, one of our party's sidekicks who was described as an androgynous Milo Thatch with the fashion sense of Billy Porter. The pair talked a lot about a lot of things and there was a queer little romance starting when the campaign was tragically cut short.

So, yeah... That's the short version of explaining Razira. Oh! Also! Her fighter subclass is Echo Knight, which we flavored as pulling echoes that were past or future incarnations of her soul instead of alternate world versions. So that was neat.

[env0]

Doctor notified.

Warranty submitted

Poetry unwritten

Tinder likes exhausted

Let's go busk

[nightbloomsresorthotel]

Bringing my busking gig online! Writing poems on the spot has been such a fun way to connect with strangers. I wanted to bring that experience to strangers everywhere! If you like my poetry and want something just for you, click the link above :)

[elektramouthed]

 She finally finished the ‘pretty barbarous thing’, and though it hurt her she gave no sign. She continued to grow, ‘unequally’ and finally succumbed to ‘side-aches’ and palpitations of the heart. She recalled that she went to sleep exhausted but woke up tired, lost her country colour and shape, became pale, poetic and ‘so willowy’. She ‘took to writing church yard poetry, in consequence perhaps of a churchyard cough’. This was noticed in school. She ‘grew round-shouldered over her desk in spite of her busk’, but her slenderness was admired. No girl in the physiology class had so small a waist. She recalled that ‘chunky corsetless girls measured it with envy’. The fainting fits that eventually followed her persistence with the corset rendered her interesting. For these, she noted, and the unremitting ‘ugly pain in the side’, physicians were called in. ‘If they thought corsets [she wrote] they did not mention them. Doctors were delicate in those days. Not knowing what to do they bled me’.

Leigh Summers, from Bound to Please: A History of the Victorian Corset