#poetry ritual

[wordsinhaled]

Charles loves Edwin’s little lopsided grin and the flash of his teeth because it means he’s truly relaxed.

He loves the sharp arch of Edwin’s eyebrows and the way Edwin slants his eyes at him in fond exasperation.

He loves getting Edwin to scoff at him, cares gone until all he can focus on is holding in the undignified snort Charles is about to coax out.

He loves how each time he darts to touch Edwin with his fingertips, to just barely graze him, he gets a different little bit of him, there and gone again.

There and gone, the slope of one shoulder. A patch of Edwin’s bare arm, a little shock of warmth like nothing else Charles ever feels anymore. The wool of his blue slipover, which Charles can’t really know the texture of, but it looks soft and worn-in and cherished. Charles lets his imagination run away with him sometimes, thinks about curling his fingers in that soft-looking fabric and tugging Edwin flush against him, close, close, closer, as close as Edwin would allow.

How close would he allow?

He has to know, doesn’t he, at this point? He has to, he has to, he has to. Edwin’s not much for boxing, Charles is well aware. But he doesn’t get better no matter how often they spar, though he ought to be at least as good as Charles, by now. Charles has to wonder: is this more than just indulgence, to him?

Because Edwin is patient, so patient and only a bit incredulous, as each time Charles has got a new story, a new and ever-flimsier excuse. The mad driller, the brassed-off poltergeist, the reanimated pugilist.

C’mon, Edwin, he says, every time, in the end. And somehow, that always seems to do it.

Edwin stands there in his boxing gloves time and again, still as a stone at first and then pulled into reluctant, tentative, elegant movement by Charles’ glancing touch. He lets Charles have this, brilliant, generous friend that he is. Lets Charles circle him, goad him, skirt the shape of him, lets Charles look at him, look and look and look and—

It would be worse, Charles thinks, without the gloves. More pretty pieces of Edwin to spin Charles in circles round. Still, sometimes he imagines unlacing the gloves. He’d let them fall to the floor. He’d catch hold of Edwin and never let him go, catch the impact of Edwin’s bare hands against his own—each of his half-hearted strikes landing because Charles wants them to.

Sometimes Charles thinks Edwin might let him do more than other times, when they’re like this. And he doesn’t want for much. Just to kiss him once would be enough. To press their mouths together and take into himself Edwin’s surprised gasp, his sardonic laugh, his muffled noise of assent.

It crashes through him, the want, sometimes, like waves against a shore, so strong this is the only way to dull it. He wants so badly he jitters, and darts from foot to foot, and can only take in Edwin in fragments—each one settling inside him to form an echo of an ache called—

Love.

[derangedrhythms]

Carol Ann Duffy, Ritual Lighting: Laureate Poems; from 'The Beauty of the Church'

[shisasan]

She drinks the shadows, Her lips stained with the secrets of venom gods, A dark hymn laced through her breath, Sinking her teeth into the sacred night.

~Aleksandra Alba  

[thepoemeater-blog]

The Yearner

I stacked three pillows, made sure my head was heavy with bills, wine, yesterday’s deadline, and I slept hard, tight as cement on my left arm. The needles came. At dawn, I dragged it like a salmon from under my body. A part of me is dead. Now I can shake my own hand, meet myself again for the first time. How my fingers feel to one another, strangers, for a tingling moment, I am another. Promise? This time will be different.

Rachel Long

[bones-ivy-breath]

Light Thickens by Elizabeth Biller Chapman

[digitalerrabe]

SACRED QUEER RITUALS, Sept 2022

Text reads, in German: (...) Then I would be part of you (...) takes (...) free hands, so that they make a circle with the arms (...)

[ID: Illustration of three people sitting in a circle. The first Person has pink skin, yellow hair, is topless and wearing big, blue trainers. They have several scars and no body hair. They are tattooing letters onto the second persons thigh. The second Person has light brown skin, curly blue hair in a bun, is wearing a turquoise binder and no pants. They have several tattoos, among them animals, flowers and text reading "no peace until no police", "burn" and Magic. They are fat and have hair on their arms, legs and belly. They are braiding the third persons hair. The third person has dark brown skin, long, black hair in several braids and top-surgery scars on their chest. They are wearing blue jeans and shaving the first person's hair. There are plants in shades of blue around the people, a round, yellow circle behind the third person's head, a pink background, some dolphin stickers in the corner. Above the image is a text, part of which is blacked out. It reads: Dann wäre ich Teil von euch. (...) nimmt freie Hände, so, dass sie mit ihren Armen einen Kreis bilden. End ID.]

[pinehutch]

The Silt Verses my absolute beloved: I'm relistening and was so excited to get back to Chapter 17, and the way that most of the episode just sweeps over you with an unexpected degree of kindness. Important to be reminded that kindness — or something like it — is possible, even in this brutal world.

[itscontinental]

W # 533

Seriously.

[maeviuslynn]

This is my reading of a beautiful poem, "The Adoration of Nuit" by Phyllis Seckler. This is a meditative, artistically inspired type video and part of my ongoing efforts to read through texts I find meaningful for people to enjoy.

[derangedrhythms]

Carol Ann Duffy, Ritual Lighting: Laureate Poems; from 'The Beauty of the Church'

[majestativa]

His heart wants to be tied to another heart, even by deep stitches.

— Jaroslav Seifert, The Poetry of Jaroslav Seifert, transl by Ewald Osers, (1998)

[broomsick]

Script for a blót to Freyr

We honor today the son of Njörðr:

He who sits on the throne of Álfheimr,

He who’s love burns bright,

He who travels like the wind,

And who, for the giantess Gerðr,

Has laid down his sacred sword.

Praise be the Guardian of the fertile season:

Praised be his holy name:

Yngvi-Freyr, Kinsman of the Vanir,

Who makes the earth come to life.

Hear us call your name,

King of Kings, paragon of peace,

Who rules the land of elves,

And listen well:

All who step on land

Walk in your sacred garden

In which bloom every plant

And where all lives are lived.

We light fires as offerings

Where we sacrifice today

That which was freely given

By your endlessly generous hand.

For we know of your gift:

The winds, the soils and the seasons

All follow you in your dance

And are thus roused from winter’s sleep.

We call to you in devotion and love:

Come forth, God of Wealth-Gifts,

Come forth and fill the land with seed,

And bless us with a prosperous summer!

[waitingforlostsouls]

Lost Souls

Break of dawn and I'm already up Brush my long hair Put it up into a bun Put on some lipstick A little bit of blush Open the closet door And find something to wear I think I'll do something nice I'll do that little black number With the cut out in the back I don't care it's still summer Pull on my boots Tie up the laces Just another day Helping people through the mazes Seems like a nice day To help guide some lost souls

[leyswitchblr]

"All life on Earth participates in the dance of Moon and Sun. And we, engendered in the oceans, feel in our blood the pull of our Moon upon the tides. We are sunlight transformed by trees into fruit and plasm, and we are so intimately of the Earth that our collective dream is paradise. Thus we are moved to celebrate the ceaseless play of the seasons and to ensoul ourselves, landscape and heaven."

—Frederick Adams in Drawing Down the Moon: Witches, Druids, Goddess-Worshippers, and Other Pagans in America

[jadeinfused]

Ritual Love 9.9.24

Whispering my love into your ears as you sleep, wondering where within your mind it seeps

Does it crush those negative self-talk beliefs?

Does it soothe your resting heartbeats?

Kissing your forehead, your pineal gland, wondering if you feel where it lands

Does it awaken your tender soul?

Does it gently comfort the places left cold?

Does it soften, does it sink in, does it...show you, does it fill you, does it linger and hold?

original poem by @jadeinfused