#racism sonnet

[whatareyoureallyafraidof]

She can't be this naive!

[loudlylovingreview]

Ruth Muskrat Bronson: Two Poems

If You Knew If you could know the empty ache of loneliness,        Masked well behind the calm indifferent faceOf us who pass you by in studied hurriedness,            Intent upon our way, lest in the little spaceOf one forgetful moment hungry eyes implore            You to be kind, to open up your heart a little more,I’m sure you’d smile a little kindlier, sometimes,            To those of us…

[askaalaska-vdeppressed]

I Cannot Breath (So I Must Sing) Ch. 2

Alastor X Fem Opera Singer Reader

Masterlist

Please be warned this chapter does touch on some period accurate racism. Proceed with caution.

 Most people assume that being a performer is all about the audience. That if the audience leaves happy, with excitement in their voices and smiles on their faces, that the performance was a good one.  

Your father had instilled in you from a young age that most people -- were wrong. You could see him now, his dark hair styled neatly, gray bits beginning to sprout on the sides. His hair line high, pushed up after years of his mask irritating it. His shirts were always cotton and the warm leather of his sheep skin gloves was always a comfort. The smell of damp that permeated the house on the lake never bothered you. Nor did the eerie silence that stained the air, only ever broken by the odd squeak of Rodentia or hard splash from the waves.  

Or the sounds of a poor lost fool being drowned. 

Father was always pleased on those days.  

 "Ma fée” he would beckon you over to the piano. You always preferred it when he taught you on piano. ”Remember when you sing, you sing only for yourself and for me. If you sing for others you will become complacent, and a complacent artist is a dull one.”  

The memory of damp and sheep skin gloves faded as you approached the radio station. Walking in, the doors’ hinges squeaked alerting the receptionist to your presence. 

“Can I help you miss?” An excessively thin and dainty woman called out to you. You glanced over, spying the clock above her head. 2:15 p.m. Perfect. Just like you planned.  

“I‘m here for an interview. I‘m early a little. My name is Y/n Leroux” Your accent was back on in full swing, though you’d been toning down the breaks in your English since your bluff had been called by the radio show host. Doing it had been getting tedious anyway.  

“Oh wow, it’s a pleasure to meet you miss, the station’s been very excited to hear from such a seasoned performer.” It was hard to tell if the woman was genuinely excited to see you there or if she was just very good at her job. Perhaps a mix of both. You ultimately decided her earnestness wasn’t of import.  

“Thank you”  

“Don’t thank me yet” the woman’s eyes were tense as she read over a planner on her desk. “You’re more than a bit early honey. I don’t think anyone was expecting you here till 3 at the earliest” She peered up, trying to gauge your reaction to the news. “But you’re more than welcome to wait up here, or you could go take a walk and come back” She gestured to a very well-worn couch that sat in front of the station’s front picture window. The fabric was aged and stained, several patches covered it in varying colors and materials.  

It looked like they'd dragged it out of the trash.  

You assessed the current worth of the dress you had on before deciding to sit on the remnants of a couch. This little scheme of yours was worth more.  

The plan was simple really. Alastor Altruist was clearly a man that like being in control of the situation. He liked knowing what would happen, how things would go.  

You were going to throw him off his rhythm.  

Simple as a sonnet.  

If you were being honest, you didn’t hate Alastor- quite the contrary. From what little you had interacted with him he seemed sweet, terribly intellectual and keen to rise to the challenge. That’s what made him so fun to fluster. He was the first source of stimulating entertainment you’d had since coming to the country. He’d captured your attention in such a vivacious way, you were eager to do more mental sparring with him.  

“Who you chatting with Sandy?” A dishwater blonde gentleman stuck his head out of the door cattycorner to the reception desk. He looked to be in his 40’s, white, strong jawline, pouty lower lip, conventionally attractive by most metrics. Though some deep subconscious instinct in you couldn’t help but think- snake.  

“Oh this is Miss Leroux, the opera singer Al is interviewing.” The man’s eyebrows raised as he stepped into the atrium proper.  

“Well I'll be damned, here I though he was fibbing on us just to get a rise.” The man walked over his hand outstretched. “Gary Whitaker I do the morning run from 4 to 9, it’s a pleasure to meet you ma’am”  

“Indeed a pleasure, sir.” You stood and shook his hand. ”I’m afraid my apartment lacks a radio so I’m ehh ’no knowing’ most of your shows.” That one wasn’t even a lie, you didn’t own a radio, it would only serve as a distraction from the music you were already creating.  

“Well with as big as this opening is shaping up to be, I’d imagine affording one will be no problem afterwards” He gave a modest chuckle. His comment was telling. He knew you were a big deal but didn’t know why. If he did he’d have known you had no issue affording one now, you just lacked the motivation to do so.  

“Say Al’s show doesn’t start for some time, how about I introduce you to the boys in the back” His posture was nonchalant, one arm in his pants pocket, the other pointing his thumb at the door he’d appeared out of.  

The plan was to throw Alastor off his rhythm, you never specified how.  

“I’d be delighted”  

~  

Alastor’s day had not been a bad one. Nothing totally earth-shattering had happened. He didn’t almost lose a limb or get mugged. He didn't forget anything or stain his shirt. He didn’t even step in a puddle or receive an untoward glance.  

Alastor’s day had not been bad.  

So why did every mild inconvenience he encountered today spark within him an indignant rage? The laces on his shoes were too tight and he wanted to throw them into the bayou. His skin itched from the allergen invested air and he wanted to peal it off. The temperature wasn’t quite right in his coffee, and he wanted to strangle the poor sod that served it to him. Alastor was many things but blindly angry was not one of them. Neither was he prone to reckless acts of violence. Violence yes but reckless no. He was poised and planned. He knew his targets and he picked them meticulously. He knew how each and every stroke of the knife would enter them.  

That’s why he had become so annoyed with Y/n. She made him second guess himself. An error he was loath to make twice in front of her.  

‘Oh yes that’s almost certainly it’ he thought, his stride almost automatic as he made his way to the station. The interview with Y/n was the culprit for his hair trigger mood swings. The looming threat of having to possibly defend himself, or decipher her, while live on air hung over him. The fog it produced affecting his senses. If the games Miss. Leroux played weren’t directed at him, he’d probably enjoy watching them. But they weren’t so he didn’t  

 “What’s shaking Sandy?” He entered, cheery demeanor in place as he greeted the receptionist.  

“Nothing but the trees Al.” She replied, pausing what she was writing to properly acknowledge him. “Your interviewee came early.”  

Al stopped his stride abruptly, glancing at the clock. 3:15, he supposed she did mention coming at 3 to ensure punctuality in the airing of the broadcast. He appreciated her consideration in that regard. “How long has she been waiting?” he asked smoothly, bending to one knee as he did so to tie his shoelaces.  

“An hour”  

Alastor whipped his head up. 

“An hour?” His eyes were wide.  

“Yes sir” Sandy replied sheepishly  

“Good God why?” He stood once more, his arms making vague gestures as he tried to fathom if this woman really had nothing better to do this afternoon, then wait for him. Sandy’s only reply was a display of throwing her hands and eyebrows up in confusion. Alastor twisted around, noticing the lack of opera singer on the parlor couch.  

“Well, where is she then?” he asked.  

“Gary took her back to meet everyone. She hadn’t been sitting here five minutes before he swooped in here and snatched her and-” Alastor made his way to the back, the sound of Sandy quickly fading. His eyebrows furrowed in frustration and anxiety.  

Alastor’s day had not been a bad one, but it had just gotten much much worse. 

~ 

So, you’re telling me the only reason Al snagged you was because of a buddy of his? Ha! Just goes to show you how far having the right friends will get ya!” The salt and pepper haired radio host—whom you had learned was named Ernie—laughed animatedly as he spoke. His assistant and wife--whom you had learned was named Sara-- was hanging on his shoulder.  You were sat with the two of them on a couch— in much better shape— that sat off to the side of several desks.  

You liked Ernie well enough. The whole lot that Mr. Whitaker had introduced you too, you liked well enough. Though you could sense down in your core that they were all business people at heart- Ernie perhaps the only exception. The cordial nature they put on only a front in order to network. They were fine for a day, but you wouldn’t want to see them every day.   

No wonder Alastor seemed exacerbated.  

As it had been explained to you, the station ran regular content Monday, Wednesday and Friday, with different specials interspersed on other days. There were four main hosts at the station that worked these days from what you could gather. Gary Whitaker, and his assistant Kim Parsons had early mornings. They also did broadcasts Tuesday nights, usually episodic radio dramas. When talking about it Gary had proudly stated that he had started the trend at the station and others such as Alastor followed in his footsteps. Though when he said this, Kim had rolled her eyes and fixed him with a ‘sure you did’ look.  

 Ernie Welch and his wife Sara took mid mornings to early afternoon. Ernie was the oldest at the station at 56. He was also one of the owners, the station was owned by him and two of his brothers. Ernie didn’t do any other specialty programming, probably spending most of his free time running the place or dealing with the metaphorical fires his son was starting. You only knew about the latter because a call had interrupted your initial meeting with Ernie and Sara. A police officer on the other end of the line.  

Franklin Marks and his assistant Stacie Quick had afternoons to evenings. It was clear to you from the onset that Stacie was the one really running the show and Frank was just her mouthpiece. It was also clear to you that Franklin had a raging and obvious crush on the onyx haired woman. You could tell just from the way he looked at her, though it became glaringly obvious when he mentioned he came in at the ass crack of dawn on Tuesdays and Thursdays to do broadcasts because Stacie liked doing the morning shows.  

Alastor had evenings into the night, no assistant that you had seen. His and Franklin’s normal spots were the cream of the crop so to speak, since people were at home relaxing from a hard day at work and were more likely to sit and just enjoy some radio. Alastor also did evening broadcasts Thursday and Saturday. From what you had heard he was the only one to work on Saturdays. For as cocky as he was, he at least had the work ethic to back it up.  

“So Cal Al lucked into success once again, what a surprise.” Gary said, frustration evident in his voice, he had turned and walked away before you could question him further on the comment.  

“Cal Al?” You asked confused.  

“Callous-er Alastor, an unfortunate nickname he’s earned himself with a lot of the staff, though I wish they wouldn’t call him that in public.” Ernie huffed and shook his head. The two of you were now alone. You spied the retreating form of Sara behind him, looking like she was headed to the front to speak to Sandy.  “He does it to himself though. I keep telling him to just keep the peace, but he lets that mouth of his run. And it certainly hasn’t made him any friends” 

Ernie grabbed his ever cooling coffee from the table and leaned back, letting the mug rest against his lips in contemplation. “He’s a grown man though, I can’t make that decision for him.” He took a sip. “I used to though. He came in here when I first started, begging to work for me. He was just a kid, tall as a pole and looking like he’d be all of 50 pounds soaking wet. Heh, we used to use him to get shit out from between walls or in the crawl space.”  

You laughed at the image; a young Alastor being held by his ankles being used to grab things. Ernie was off in his own world though. “Yet for all the hard work he’s put in, he does nothing to keep it. He’d rather work harder, not smarter. I keep telling him he needs to open up, talk to people, get in the good graces of the right folks.... I’d given anything just to get him to listen. Just to get him to succeed the way I know he can.”  

You stared at Ernie, sentiment saturating your gaze. The stare seemed to wake Ernie out of his trance. “Oh, you don’t wanna hear the troubles of some silly studio head”  

“No” you interrupted. “It's nice, reminds me of someone I know”. The memory of sheep skin gloves resurfaced once more. The hard look of determination in your father’s eyes as he was adamant to ignore every good piece of advice your adoptive uncle tried to give him.  

The loud clunk of the front door shutting caught both Ernies and your attention. You assumed it was Sara, returning from wherever she had darted off too. Instead, you saw the quickly approaching form of Alastor. One side of your mouth perked up.  

“Ready to start” Alastor quipped curtly. His smile was strained, and his gloved finger tapped incessantly on his crossed arms. Your smile grew into a full grin.  

Y/N: 2, Alastor:0 

~ 

The interview had gone swimmingly. Though Alastor by the end of it looked like he never wanted to see you again. A shame really, he had been quite fun. Though you suppose you could understand his frustrations. Considering his lack of wanting your attention, receiving a letter from his station delivered to your dressing room came as quite a surprise. The paper was crisp and heavy, making such satisfying noises as you opened it.  

Miss. Leroux, I must say it was quite a delight meeting you yesterday. I was not able to catch your interview with Al, but I’m told it was quite an intriguing listen. Though I think there may have been better hosts available for you to speak with. Forgive me if this seems odd, but I will be clearing up some paperwork at the station today, and I would like to see you there. I have some business propositions that I think you may find interesting.  

Regards,  

Gary Whitaker  

You set the letter down, thinking. Mr. Whitaker had been a bit brash, but he seemed fine. It seemed a little tacky trying to book you so soon after his coworker, but he seemed the type. You rose, grabbing your bag.  

There was no harm in hearing him out, you supposed.  

~ 

The skies had decided it was high time for them to open up as you walked to the station to meet Gary. The rain not dropping down in streams but rather falling from the sky in sheets. Your outfit was soaked as you entered, water dripping onto the worn carpet of the reception area. You tried opening the door to the back you’d gone in the day prior, only to find it locked. Three hard resounding knocks were given in your frustration. After a moment you decided whatever, he was trying to sell you wasn’t worth it, searching in your purse for your apartment keys. As your hand feebly searched you saw the distinct picture of them sitting on your dressing room vanity. You’d had them in your dress pocket, and had set them there when you were changing.  

Great, perfect! Now you were going to have to go back in the storm to retrieve your keys from the theatre. You only prayed someone was still there to let you in, or you’d be picking a lock with your hairpin again.  

That was only fun the first 40 or so times you’d done it.  

Just as a dramatic huff was on the precipice of exiting your lips, Gary opened the door.  

“There you are, sorry I wasn’t sure if there was knocking or if it was the storm.” Gary’s mood was light and joking, which right now, was mixing with your frustrated one like oil and water. He at least seemed to read the room quickly, letting out a crisp “Right” before leading you back. As you walked you couldn’t help but think the small space seemed so much bigger. The noise of typewriters and movement of bodies had taken up so much space before. Gary led you to an office, keeping the door open much to your delight.  

You didn’t fear being alone in a room with Gary. You didn’t fear being alone in a room with any man, or woman for the matter. All people breathed the same, and the expertly tied piece of rope that sat in the trick pocket of your dress stopped that breathing the same. But still, it was nice to have the escape route as a precaution.  

The hard polished wood of the chair in front of Gary’s desk was slick, combined with your soaked attire it was a chore to stay upright and not slide. You prayed to whatever deity could hear you that this wouldn't be long.  

“Well, I know you’re a very busy woman Miss, Leroux, so I won’t waste your time.” 

So, God was merciful after all.  

“I want you to be a voice on my radio drama”  

“Radio drama?” You raised an eyebrow. This was what he had dragged you out in the rain for? 

“Yes, I have this darling little dive character I’ve been wanting to introduce for a while, and you’d be perfect. You see the plot we have now is-” You tuned Gary out. You were already playing two characters here in America, one on the stage and one on the streets. You didn’t need to add a third in the studio. You tried your best to wait for a break in his pitch before stopping him.  

“Mr. Whitaker?” You said.  

“Please call me Gary.” You really didn’t want to, but you acquiesced none the nonetheless.  

“Gary, while I'm flattered you would choose me for this...” You gestured at him with your hand to give you the word he used, as if you didn’t remember it.  

“Radio drama” 

“Radio drama, right. While I’m flattered you would want me for this radio drama you have, it’s just not something I’m in the business of. I did the interview to promote the show, nothing more.” and for your own entertainment in flustering the host, but that wasn’t important.  

“Yes, you did it to promote the show.” Gary’s arms flailed as he spoke.  “This is to promote you. Your talents, your skills. This is for you.” His bid for goodwill was a facade you saw through immediately. He was doing this to use your name for his own advantage, not the other way around.  

“It’s just not something I can see myself doing Mr. Whitaker.” You reinforced the no, you’d dealt with this type of man before, if you gave them any lead, they’d never leave you be.  

Gary pushed himself away from the desk with a huff. “Figures. You’ll show up two hours early for Cal Al but won’t even hear me out when I’m trying to help you.”  

“Radio is just not something I’m interested in seriously branching out into” You crossed your legs, hand resting on your abdomen, inching ever closer to the trick pocket. Just in case.  

“Heh I wouldn’t be either if my first experiences with it were from Alastor blooming Altruist. Blast it all, I can't believe he lucked into success once again. He’s got Ernie in his pocket, and he walks around here like he’s invincible. Acting like some better than us big shot, when he’s the reason we have to keep the door locked! We can’t do photography with the press, have to do limited live events, all because he had to go and get famous as someone with his ’heritage’. We all have to suffer and be lesser just because Ernie still sees him as 13. Somebody outta tell him that he shouldn’t be running a business if he doesn’t see his employees as men. And somebody outta tell Alastor that he shouldn’t have gone into public broadcasting if all it takes is a second glance at him to tell that there is definitely one in the woo-” 

“Enough!” The chair slammed onto the floor, as you shot up. Your eyebrows furrowed and nose scrunched in disgust. This little tantrum of Gary’s had gone on long enough. And someone outta tell him what he needed to hear.  

~ 

Alastor reveled in the peace that came with broadcasting on Saturdays. The air was clean of noise, just him, the booth and radio waves. His co-workers all made digs at him, choosing to come in on a day they didn’t typically broadcast, but Alastor adored it. That’s what set him apart from his peers, he didn’t do this for the money, he did it for the love of the art. To hell with what those fools thought, outside of when he was feeling the life draining from someone's body, when it was just him and the mic was when he felt most alive.  

So, he was disappointed and surprised to find that he was not the only one at the studio today. Sitting in his office alone, it was easy to make out the noises of someone else mucking about the place. No matter, they probably didn’t even know he was there. He was a good few hours early for the show.  

Having Y/n in his space had made him realize just how disorganized it was. And how self-conscious Y/n pointing that fact out to him had made him feel. Now was as good a time as any to remedy that situation so it never happened again. Not that he planned on inviting Y/n back again but still.  

He wasn’t taking any more chances with that woman.  

Three loud knocks gave Alastor a jolt. He got his bearing once more and rose. Perhaps the other person did notice that he was there and had locked themselves out. Just as he made his way to open the office door, he heard a male voice speak. He couldn’t quite make out who it was. He then heard two sets of feet walking into the building. One in shoes, one in heels. A man and a woman.   

Alastor waited as the sound of footsteps passed his office. He waited till the sounds of clicking stopped completely before cracking open the door and peering out. He could hear voices coming from down the hall. Intrigued, he crept his way out slowly, silencing himself much like he did on hunts. As he neared, he made out the male voice to be Gary’s. The rhythm of his speech familiar. He was pitching his radio drama to someone.  

Boring. 

Alastor turned on his heel making his way back, still being cautious to be quiet. The last thing he needed was Gary to find him here. He was just about back when a long, rough squeak of a chair being pushed back caught his attention. Gary’s voice had risen in pitch and sounded upset.  

No longer boring. Alastor made his way over again, quicker this time, using the raised voices as a cover for his footfall. He knelt down outside of Gary’s door, hearing him in the midst of an angry rant.  

“- We all have to suffer and be lesser just because Ernie still sees him as 13. Somebody outta tell him that he shouldn’t be running a business if he doesn’t see his employees as men. And somebody outta tell Alastor that he shouldn’t have gone into public broadcasting if all it takes is a second glance at him to tell that there is definitely one in the woo-” 

“Enough!” The unexpected sound of the chair hitting the floor nearly knocked Alastor off his balance, thankful he was flush against the wall.  

“Mr. Whitaker, I’m not sure if you conduct all business meetings this way but I must say I do not find it in the least bit amusing.”  

Alastor knew that voice. That was Y/n. That sneaky son of a bitch was trying to recruit less than 48 hours after his interview.  

Tasteless tactless hack.  

“Now since you have thoroughly wasted my time here and ruined my shoes, I’d advise you to listen up, so at least someone gets something from this evening. “Alastor could hear her take in a harsh breath.  

“If you were half the radio host you say you are, you wouldn’t need to put your coworkers down to lift yourself up. I say if you're as grand and good as you say you are why don’t you leave? Certainly, another station would love to have such a fine gentleman on their staff. And then you wouldn’t be bogged down by such supposed restrictions. But something tells me that you tried that. And no one would have you, so you just have to suck it up and stew in your pity party here. Because you're not good enough, and you can’t stand that someone else is.”  

Alastor’s mind was racing. Was Y/n... defending him? He felt a small twinge in his heart. Of all the things he’d have expected her to do in this scenario, that was not one of them.  

This woman just kept throwing him for a loop.  

“And” Alastor could hear the clipping of heels on the floor. “If I catch even a whiff of you continuing to tout this Alastor’s heritage blame game bullshit, I think I may just find myself becoming quite loose lipped about the nature of yours and Mrs. Welch’s relationship.”  

Alastor’s eyes nearly popped out of his head. His mind to stunned in the moment to comprehend Y/n’s defense of his being mixed race--Ernie’s wife and Gary? No, it... Y/n couldn’t be implying what he thought she was implying.  

“How could you-” Y/n cut Gary off. 

“Oh please it wasn't that hard. You leave off yesterday all in a tizzy and suddenly she’s taking off without a word in the same direction? Then you both come back together looking quite pleased with yourselves? And Sara’s lipstick is gone off her face? You might as well slap her ass in front of the whole office. It'd be subtler. "  

Alastor was right, he did like Y/n’s games a lot better when they weren’t directed at him.  

~ 

The door to your dressing room slammed shut as you entered, stopping furiously as you snatched your keys off the vanity table. Someone was still here, or they forgot to lock up. No matter, that was the furthest thing from your mind. Steam was still rolling off you from your encounter with Gary. You took no joy in feeding him his lunch so to speak. It only angered you, because whatever joy you could derive from seeing him knocked down a peg, was quickly cancelled out by the realization that the world was being run by buffoons like him. At least when things like this happened in Paris, your father and you had outlets to let it out. Both savory and unsavory. Now you were wound up, a spring coiled with no release switch. A jack-in-the-box on its penultimate note.  

“Oh Miss Leroux, you’re still here. I could have sworn it was just me here” A middle aged costume woman called from the hallway. She was curt, fine if not a bit of a bitch. Then again, most customers were to some degree. 

As the rage festered and boiled within you, your hand instinctively rested over the trick pocket of your dress.  

Perhaps there was at least one outlet you could utilize.  

[spearmintyy]

Review on frank: sonnets by Diane Seuss

I'll be the first to admit I don't typically seek out poetry books, but this one came highly recommended to me by a professor, so I gave it a shot!

Ranking: ★★

For me, this collection started out really strong. The in-the-moment sequence of poems of her approaching the lighthouse were clever and resonant, with a good balance of humor and self-reflection.

However, she really lost me in the rehashing of her life story. It felt like she was trying to paint herself as a prototypical tortured artist, constantly trying to prove to the reader that she was born with some inherent poetic drive. It just didn't feel honest to me.

My favorite poem in this collection was "I Wanted to be Like the Boy in the Book." To me, this poem was immensely interesting and resonant. Rather than a rehashed cliche, I felt like Diane Seuss was tackling an incredibly personal, genuine struggle that I think many can relate to, though it is not often discussed.

It's possible I'm too harsh, or just don't understand this type of poetry. But in a book of 127 poems, she only spoke highly of another woman once. This felt like a life story told through the men in her life; often it felt like she was using their treatment of her as evidence of her worth. Furthermore, and this is a personal gripe, but I find the sentiment of "I haven't experienced love, so it must not be real and everyone else is deluding themselves/dumber than me" very juvenile and was actually surprised to see it so frequently in a book written by someone later in life.

Recommendations:

Now, it feels a bit strange giving recommendations based on a book I didn't like, so instead I'll give some recommendations of poetry and short fiction that I did like.

Smoke and Mirrors and Fragile Things by Neil Gaiman. These are two collections of short stories and poems written by Neil Gaiman. Gaiman has a (to me, at least) unique style of poetry with a more narrative approach, which makes it very accessible and engaging. Also, these collections contain some seriously amazing short stories, including my favorite of all time, The Goldfish Pond and other Stories. Genres vary from lovecraftian horror, to modern fantasy, to fairy tales.

The Book of Delights: Essays by Ross Gay. Similar to frank: sonnets, in that this is another collection of short, non-fiction works, Ross Gay takes an entirely different view on life. These short essays were written in a year, one a day (though not every essay was included in the published collection), and each reflects on something he experienced that day which brought him joy. Gay sees the artistic value in the expression and exploration of joy. However, he's not afraid to tackle challenging concepts like racism and the pressure of masculinity, which he does in a way that is somehow touching, educational, and entertaining.

[ubyr-babaj]

A list of Renfield I'd fist-fight Satan for in no particular order (tw for sexual assault mentions)

1977!Renfield. I love this man, he never did anything wrong in his life, he hit his asshole boyfriend with a chair, he's autistic, gay and quotes Blake. Everything about him is perfect, new adaptations want what this man has. I'd absolutely fight Satan for him.

2. Dwight Frye Renfield. I have feelings for the guy, ok, I'd like, write poetry about his face if I knew how to write anything that's not cringe sonnets in prose.

3. Pablo Alvarez Rubio Renfield. People shit on this guy too much and I know why they shit on this guy (it's the racism). But he's good and his Renfield is good and I wish he was allowed the same dignity Frye was allowed as a white pretty boy. Also I just like the thought of a rape survivor who's pretty ripped (the guy did serious boxing) and still couldn't avoid the assault:

4. Ballet!Renfield. I really like this man, he's very shaped. Although there're some choices choreography-wise that have some serious sexual assault innuendos (mostly between him and Seward and him and the rest of the Crew), so like... Yeah.

5. Penny Dreadful!Renfield. No reasons, I just want to fuck this guy, he looks warm.

6. Pfrozheim!Renfield. The punk king, absolutely mean gay, doesn't take shit from anyone. I don't think he needs me to fight Satan for him, he'd like choke the guy on his own.

7. Stephan Vinzberg!Renfield. Again, mostly for I'd smash reasons, but also because it's one of the few versions where Renfield actually looks older than Dracula, so it's a plus.

[boatemlag]

"...I'm making of the sonnet a conversation that insists on the inclusion of my language, as manifest not just through words but through experience. It's a bit like racism in the United States—a very long tradition indeed, woven into the very fabric of the nation—it is the fabric of the nation; my speaking up, my refusal to be invisible, and my insistence on being visible when and how I choose, all of these prevent history from being a one-sided unassailable fact and instead make of history and organic, restless choiring of provocation, recognition, dissent, nostalgia, inquiry, argument, an ever-shifting pact: we agree that something happened, but what, and how, and who is saying so, who gets to?"

– Carl Phillips, "Whose Sonnet (A Transgression)" [emphasis added]

[petrichor-moss-and-lightning]

Hi! Do you like poetry? Have a heartfelt and/or wrathful proclamation that can only be delivered in the form of prose?? Have you considered…

Commissioning a poem!?

That’s right, folx! With decade(s) of experience and a buttload of trauma, yours truly will write a customized poem for you, a loved one, or even your worst enemy!

What I do:

My specialty: poetry about love, yearning, mental health, environmental issues, and human rights.

Nature poetry, joke poetry, haikus, sonnets, etc. (Idk, pretty much any genre or format you want ¯\_(ツ)_/¯)

What I don’t do:

Anything nsfw (I keep things PG-13 as a result of where I land on the ace spectrum lol)

Anything bigoted/hateful (no racism, homophobia, transphobia, classism, ableism, fatphobia, etc.)

Anything I’m uncomfortable with (but feel free to ask if you're unsure!!)

IMPORTANT NOTES

I only accept payment through PayPal at the moment (sorry!!)

I still retain the rights to my writing, even after I've sent the commissioned piece (so please credit me if you choose to post/share it).

Pricing + examples:

OPTION ONE Up to 8 lines, but I'm willing to be flexible with this if the situation calls for it (e.g., if I'm in the middle of writing and I feel the poem would be benefited by a couple extra lines). $7 CAD

OPTION TWO Up to 16 lines, but again I'm willing to be flexible about the line limit under the right circumstances. $14 CAD

OPTION 3 Up to 35 lines -- less flexibility with this one, since it's a pretty big project (the below example is a little longer, but with standard line breaks, it would be within the limit) $28 CAD

If you've made it this far, thank you for reading! <3 If you're interested in commissioning poetry from me, my DMs are open!

[zimmer438]

Rant #1 : Mustard shortage

TW: SA, Mustard, colorful language, a little bit of racism???

It is so hard to be a good person. I try so hard and so far I am a decent human being, but every once in a while (every waking moment of my existence) god decides to throw another one of his bitch-ass creations (may I dare say human) at me full speed. For example I was in the cafeteria today and some random ass man with a thick jersey accent came up to me and started talking about the mustard shortage he legit said "you can only get get yellow 'round here, I just want some dijon to spice up my meal" BITCH FIRST OF ALL I DON'T KNOW YOU, SECOND OF ALL YOUR MEAL??? YOU MEAN YOUR HAM SANDWICH??? also we have this stupid class about 'mindful learning' its like how to use your planner and how to study but i swear the teacher is just spewing sonnets like he is just saying things to be said. He was talking about a word and he was like "you know..like to be ravished..like you're extremely hungry.." BRO YOU MEAN RAVENOUS???? Also I had a dream last night where I met Tokio Hotel and Bill, Gustav, and Georg and they were very nice but when I took a picture with Tom he groped me (this was just a dream I know he isn't like this in real life JUST A DREAM). Anyways I AM SO MAD THAT I MISSED TOM'S LIVE YESTERDAY! Did y'all see Bill's penis Slippers? Thats like actually so cunt of him. Also I was in art class and my bbg pookie dookie (my bestieeee) wasn't there so I had to group with these 3 boys and boy 1 was drawing and showed it to boy 2 and 3 and boy 2 was like "you're drawing is decently bad" and boy 1 responded with "you know whats decently bad? your mom's vagina." I almost pissed myself because like I couldn't laugh because i didn't want them to know i was eavesdropping. also boy 1 told boy 3 that "If it was the 1800's I would buy you and set you free' (boy 3 is black) is all happened while me and those boys had to draw that fucking red lumpy blood clot from yo gabba gabba (IDK WHY OUR TEACHER MADE US DRAW HIM). ALSOO my jeans are too big so everyone and their mama can see my undiesssss and i have to staple them up to they dont draggg. anyways it been a rough week and its only Wednesday but its okay because i have 3 things coming from TEMU 🤩 i am currently writing this in the corner of my school library during study hall. also im new to tubulr and the FANFIC ON HERE...anyways here is a cute photo i found...

[adickaboutspoons]

I used to be dancing with the madmen, now I'm just a dick about spoons

Masterlist of my contributions to fandom, both from this handle, and when I was @dancing-with-the-madmen.

Relationships Stede/Ed: The Art of Buggery

Speedrunning U-Haul Pirates

Stede: Stede and the Thanatos Drive*

cPTSD trauma responses in Ed and Stede

But Why Piracy?

Touchy-touchy

Talk it Through as a Crew (not for me, though, just for you)

Stede’s racism (“yes and”-ing in a tag novel)

Ed:

Spooky Scary Speculation (what if Ed thinks the reason Stede didn’t join him at the dock is because Stede is dead)

Scraps of Evidence, or the Maps that Lead to You

Fire Marshal Ed

When the Worksona Gets Co-Opted (“yes and”-ing in a tag novel)

Guilt and Struggling with Worthlessness (a “yes-and” reply)

Team Never A Plan (a “no but” reply)

Ed Knows about Mary (a “no but” reply)

Jim:

We Live in a State of Nature

Why The Kraken Kept Jim and Frenchie (and not anyone else): (a “yes and” reply)

Mary:

Mary is not without fault (and that’s a good thing) (“yes and”-ing in a tag novel)

S01ep06:

The Lamentable Tragedie of Hands-let

Why Are Fang and Ivan Backing up Izzy During the Doggy Heaven Scene?

S01ep8:

The Massive Aggression of Calico Jack

S01ep10:

The Significance of Ned

Set design: Ship-shaped, Part 1 - What We Know

Ship-shaped, Part 2 - Best Guesses

Ship-shaped Part 3 - Rampant Speculation and Vile Calumny

Ship-shaped Part 4 - A Proportional Response

Ship-shaped Part 5 - The Not-So-Secret Stairs

Ship-shaped: Part I Give Up

Ship-shaped: Part It’s Just A Tardis, Ya’ll

Ok, so I’m a dick about spoons

Gay Love on the Horizon

Costuming:

I Guess That’s Why They Call it the Blues (a response to and expansion upon weirdgirlcore’s meta on the use of blue in Stede’s wardrobe)

Orange (the conclusion to I Guess That’s Why They Call it the Blues. Brevity? I don’t know her)

Steal Ed’s Party Look: A Step-by-Step Hair Styling Tutorial with Pics 

Playlists:

Swedes to the Swede: an all Swedish artists homage to our favorite nameless character

Izzy the trash goblin homophobic closet case (affectionate)

Wanna Do Something Weird? (an Ed/Stede falling-in-love playlist)

Ed & Stede's Big Dumb Sad Breakup Playlist

Fan-vids: I’ve Got a Crush On You - a Hornberry/Stede fanvid

Being A Pirate - a little silliness (and a lot of dick jokes)

The World if Full of Bastards - Ed gets to have an angry punk girl phase

Off With His Shirt

Oh My God I Think I Like You

Season 2 speculation Bingo:

self-sabotage through over-specificity

Fic:

Dearly Beloved (a comedy of errors based on this exchange)

Something Weird (a silly little ficlet in which Ed makes a proposition & Stede makes an assumption.)

Stede Sonnets (I have a problem. It’s everyone’s problem now. Based on this exchange)

Beautiful and Useless (Missing scene; wound care after the Stab Me scene)

Your Achilles (Ed’s perspective on the events of Beautiful and Useless. Longer and hornier)

Hook Head Man Tale (short one-shot resulting from an ofmd-daily challenge)

Put Your Kraken Arms Around Me (inspired by @wearfinethingsalltoowell: Imagine Stede not knowing bed-sharing etiquette and so he rolls over to the side to give Ed space, and then Ed is just like “nope. I’m getting a hug Stede no escape”)

[daughter-of-sapph0]

Okay Sonnet but scrolling through the notes there is someone on whencartoonsruletheworls post saying “I’m a Jew and if you see the goblins as antisem Eric that’s your problem”

Like I’m sorry? Are they trying to speak for all Jewish folks? So fuck The Jewish folks on that very same post agreeing with the op? Fuck the Jewish folk that have pointed it out since we got a glimpse of the blood libel plot? Fuck the Jewish people that have been discussing the antisemitism in HP for a long long long time?

Evidently because ONE goy repeats the concerns of multiple Jewish people suddenly it’s null and void. That’s some “If you think this is racist then you’re the racist one” bullshit

right?!? it's the epitome of identity politics. they think that "only oppressed people are correct. therefore, I need to pretend to be oppressed so people will listen to me"

it's the same with people claiming "heterophobia" or "reverse racism". it's them pretending to be oppressed to justify their bigotry.

"well actually all the Jews are the antisemitic ones. not me" it's fucking pathetic. it's so blatantly obvious. they know exactly what they're doing. they don't want a reasonable debate. they don't want to actually discuss how antisemitic ideas perpetuate and exist in a modern society. they just want us Jews to shut up.

[ofmddecembverse]

OFMD Decembverse 2022 Challenge

Hello everyone, and welcome to OFMD Decembverse! It’s time to try our hand at some poetry. Please read the entire thread before participating! Our hashtag: #ofmd12verse (alternate: #ofmddecembverse).

First, link to the ao3 collection for this event: https://archiveofourown.org/collections/ofmd12verse22/profile

Official Twitter for this event:

OFMD Decembverse (@ofmd12verse) / TwitterOFMD Poetry Prompt Challenge for December 2022.TWITTER

Information:

OFMD Decembverse is a month-long prompt-based challenge to write some poetry for your fandom. Poetry is seen as something intimidating and “not for people like us” to most people, but that couldn’t be farther from the truth. Poetry is for everyone.

Each day of December will have two prompts associated with it: A type of poetry (with instructions provided for how to write it) and a lesser-known quote from the show Our Flag Means Death that you can use as inspiration.

You do not have to follow either prompt if you do not want to. You can choose to focus only on the poetry type or the quote, or say screw it and write the poetry you want, how you want. If it’s a poem related to OFMD (or that uses these prompts), it qualifies for this challenge.

This challenge is taking place on Ao3, Twitter, and Tumblr.

Note: Some of these poetry styles (such as Shi) were developed to only work well in certain languages. I will be posting ways to adapt these to English for those who are interested. I don’t think poetry should have to be Euro-centric just because this is a predominantly English-speaking fandom.

Prompt List:

Day 1: Slam: “Wait until you hear about my life as an accountant.” Day 2: Ballad: “I loves me a thief.” Day 3: Sonnet (Iambic Pentameter): “The love of a pet makes a man weak.” Day 4: Pastoral: “We’re gonna have fun today, and that’s an order.” Day 5: Terza Rima: “If I can help this crew grow as people, then I’ve succeeded in being a pirate captain.” Day 6: Ottava Rima: “You should have stayed still, that’s kinda on you.” Day 7: Enclosed rhyme: “The rest was just gravity.” Day 8: Soliloquy: “So this whole time you were a woman?” Day 9: Blank Verse: “I’ve got more riches than you can shake a fucking stick at!” Day 10: Free Verse: “I never said that they floated.” Day 11: Ode: “You all look the same, you know.” Day 12: Lyric: “Is this all there is?” Day 13: Ballade (not the same as Ballad): “A widow’s life isn’t nearly as bad as it’s made out to be.” Day 14: Villanelle: “Mutiny is a-brewin’.” Day 15: Narrative Poetry: “I can’t believe you made me do this.” Day 16: Dissonance: “Since we’re on the subject of bad vibes…” Day 17: Assonance: “We love an audience.” Day 18: Satirical: “I’m a dirty, filthy murderer!” Day 19: Haiku (or Tanka): “And you cried all the time, and liked to pick flowers.” Day 20: Elegy: “Murder is a natural cause.” Day 21: Imagery: “We could’ve made magic.” Day 22: Alliteration: “Knives are knives, meat’s meat.” Day 23: Free Verse: “I heard the most insane rumor.” Day 24: Couplet: “You don’t get food if you’ve been invaded.” Day 25: Shi Poetry (see guide for English interpretation of rules): “I’m the Black Cat of Death.” Day 26: Fable: “Read it and weep, my friend! Adventure awaits!” Day 27: Ghazal: “God’s not a fan.” Day 28: Limerick: “The vengeancer and the vengeancee.” Day 29: Tercet: “You’ll sign a confession to that extent, hmm?” Day 30: Monorhyme: “Avast ye!” Day 31: Epic: “My Wondrous Journey: A Life at Sea.”

Rules: 1. Please tag properly and liberally for common/reasonable triggers. Mark explicit verse as explicit for those of us who browse social media at work.

2. No racism/homophobia/transphobia that isn’t both tagged AND used in the storytelling process (such as to express discomfort with these concepts or to show characters being victims of these concepts).

3. If your poetry is explicit, tag that shit please!

4. Don’t worry about getting it perfectly right, poetry is about expressing yourself and feeling free as fuck while doing it.

Frequently Asked Questions:

What if I've never written poetry before/am not very good? Poetry is one of the oldest art forms in the world. People used poetry to pass down wisdom, stories, and share their culture before they could write. It is truly for everyone, including you. It has a stereotype for being gatekept and that only certain people can appreciate it, but I promise that that is a lie. If you can type words, you can do this.

Do I have to participate in every day/prompt? No, and it's likely that it will be really difficult to keep up with them all. Do what speaks to you and makes you happy.

What if I don't want to make the kind of poetry in that day's prompt? Then screw it, pick another kind that speaks to you. This challenge is supposed to help you learn to express yourself in different ways, but if you can't express yourself properly through a haiku or a sonnet, do something else that speaks to you. All poetry is good poetry.

Do I have to follow the quote prompt for each day? No. Some people don't know where to begin, so I've provided quotes from the show that generally aren't used/referenced much in fandom. But if you have a better idea you are obligated to use that one instead, because again, expressing yourself through verse is the most important part.

Do my poems have to rhyme? No, not all poetry rhymes, and some kinds explicitly don't.

Can my poetry be explicit/sexy? Hell yeah. Just tag that shit, please.

Can I participate by writing for other fandoms? Yes! While this challenge was created with OFMD in mind, all fandoms could use a nice injection of verse in them. All I ask is that you use at least one of the prompts for that day (be it the poetry type or quote) so it relates to this challenge in some way. I know that many people also write for WWDITS and those fandoms are more than welcome here. I purposely chose quotes that aren't a direct reference to characters in the show so that you could branch out.

Do I have to write a poem about the exact context of the quote? No, absolutely not. It can be about anything. The quote is just there to get your juices flowing.

Where can I post my work? Ao3: This collection is the place to post it. Twitter: Use the tag #ofmd12verse OR #ofmdDecembverse (the first one is neater in my opinion). The main account will retweet works under those tags. Tumblr: Use the tag #ofmd12verse OR #ofmdDecembverse (the first one is neater in my opinion). The main account will reblog works under those tags.

[sea-salted-wolverine]

I thought about this too hard and I came to the objective answer.

First, process of elimination. The ghost of an apartment dweller working breed will be a full on fucking nightmare. If the dog is haunting the apartment you may be ethically obligated to bring down firey justice on the owner. Not to mention if the dog can't leave the apartment because ghost rules both you and the dog are in hell.

The cat is a different situation because knocking shit over is what cats do. Immaterial ether or live pooping animal, doesn't matter, you basically just got an apartment with a cat. If you already have cats, they can see ghosts anyway so you're just adopting another cat. The issue is how it became a ghost. Theres a slight chance it just decided to linger, but lbr, its much more likely that there was some bitch doing heinous dark magic witchcraft on the premise that needed a cat skull. You are once again obligated to firey justice, this time with a witch. (You can kill witches with an obsidian knife the same way you can kill a geologists)

Creepy victorian child. On the plus side, even if you were obligated to firey justice, statute of limitations is more than passed. On the minus, are we parenting this kid? Do we have to unlearn class divisions and Victorian era racism? And when you say Victorian, I'm assuming you mean a British kid. Are we really gonna subject ourselves to constantly reminding a classist British kid that just because his nanny told him that the Englishmen are the superior life form doesn't mean he can try to slam the poor doordash drivers fingers in the door?

We weren't super specific about the dramatic poet/artist/theater kid. I think it's safe to assume they're somewhat melancholy mopey about the whole being dead thing. It really comes down to their skill. Haunting charcoal sketches on the wall depicting me at the moment of my death, I could live with. Achingly beautiful sonnets written in the dust about the ephemeral fragility of life, yeah sure. Big titty bad anatomy fursona drawn in the mist on the bathroom mirror, I could even deal with that up until they wanted praise. At which point, I will say something about how being dead seems to drive the themes of their work and then I get my organs turned inside out and hung from a chandelier as an introspective art peice.

The nosey granny. This is a deeply unpleasant living situation when both of you are alive. I feel like her coming back from beyond the grave to do your dishes would end, uhh, poorly. How exacting are these standards? Is she starching your sheets?

This leaves us with the guy who is most likely to have died doing something that he loved, even if that was something like breaking his neck doing a keg stand. Also depending on just what decade he came from, more than likely a draft dodger. All his weed contacts are out of date and he's probably got some infinitely nuanced opinions about old music you've never heard of, but he doesn't care how you decorate the apartment so long as you have people in it occasionally. And let's be perfectly honest, we could all use some more in person social interaction that isn't work.

[uvmagazine]

Poet, Activist, and Immigrant Creates a New Poetic Language to Confront Injustices

In a world of conflict and division, poet and activist Pelumi Olatinpo taps into the power of poetry to cut through the noise and focus attention on oppression, violence, the plight of undocumented immigrants, racism, hatred, and the urgent need for change.

In his groundbreaking collection, POETA: Sonetas and Sonnets (September 17, 2024; TogetherInWitness, Olatinpo offers a searing exploration of…

[chaotic-hypnotic-erotic]

Mesmero Misunderstood (AO3)

Author rant on.

They're much-maligned, it would seem, at least in my fanfics on AO3, but there is a reason why I put so much love into my version of Mesmero.

A long time ago, I read a book, The Magician by W Somerset Maugham, about a character called Oliver Haddo. I thank Nick Edwards, one of a few friends of mine from college days who's still with us, for getting me a copy of that book.

Haddo was a thinly-veiled parody of Aleister Crowley.

I remember a scene where Haddo wandered into a salon, and basically everybody there - who, just a moment ago, had been trying to outpose one another - started telling him to read the room and yelling at him that he wasn't welcome there.

They ridiculed his ambition to be a magician. They cast aspersions about his drug use, his bisexuality (which was illegal in the UK at the time), and his beliefs (which came from Buddhism, Taoism, and Hinduism, unheard-of in Western societies at the time).

The author was writing about Haddo, but he was screaming out his vitriol towards Crowley on the page.

Maugham wasn't the only one to take the piss out of Crowley. Aleister was "Mocata" in Dennis Wheatley's The Devil Rides Out (don't bother reading it - the racism just stinks), and "Karswell" in M R James' Casting The Runes which got turned into Night Of The Demon, a 1957 British horror film.

Oh, and the great poet W B Yeats commemorated Crowley with a scathing sonnet. Nah, just kidding, he threw Crowley down a set of stairs. How erudite.

That Maugham salon scene stuck in my head, a lot.

Which is where Mesmero came in, as a character.

The first Marvel Rare Pair challenge in 2022 invited me to write about pairings of Marvel characters whom nobody had yet paired before. The creation of my AU version of the X-Men:Evolution character Mesmero seemed the perfect opportunity to explore some truly rare pairings. But what was more, it gave me the opportunity to do something else.

I wanted to explore what it was like to be a mutant, shunned by other mutants.

I wanted to hold up a mirror to the general mutant community: you can't call yourselves the victim of hate if you yourselves hate others.

And inside the frail, diminutive body of this fictional Mesmero, I inserted myself.

The Mesmero you have been reading about in my AO3 stories are all elements of my personality. If Mesmero seems to have a thing for tall blondes, it could well be that that is something in me speaking. I'm apparently 155 cm tall, which makes me shorter than Wolverine - thus Mesmero is exactly the same height as me.

I've received some comments to my AO3 fic about Mesmero, and they have actually been hurtful. And they have come from people who support Loki. As in "God of Mischief" Loki.

This one comment stung so fucking hard.

Hopefully for Mesmero's sake, they stick to their garden and helping the people who go to them asking for help instead of seeking it out and "convincing" others they need their "help" when they haven't.

How "GO HOME TO WHERE YOU FUCKING CAME FROM" is that?

Anyway, I have a multi-part Mesmero story brewing. But you know what, I think I'll stay off AO3 altogether for a while. I don't really care much for comments like that, so I'm tempted to gather all my Mesmero stories and delete them from AO3, put them into a novel, post them to Substack or Bluesky, and stop writing Marvel and MCU stuff. Concentrate on my original characters, my fave settings, and maybe start up a Blogger blog to put them onto, also.

Don't tell my characters to go home. Don't tell them to stay in the garden or else. Don't tell my characters that they take without consent.

Don't project onto Mesmero. You've been hurting me.

[lboogie1906]

Countee Cullen (born Countee LeRoy Porter; May 30, 1903 – January 9, 1946) was a poet, novelist, children’s writer, and playwright, well known during the Harlem Renaissance.

After graduating from high school, he entered NYU. He won second prize in the Witter Bynner undergraduate poetry contest, which was sponsored by the Poetry Society of America; his poem was entitled “The Ballad of the Brown Girl”. He had some of his poetry published in national periodicals: Harper’s, Crisis, Opportunity, The Bookman, and Poetry, and he began to earn a national reputation. The ensuing year he placed second in the contest, and in 1925 he won. He competed in a poetry contest sponsored by Opportunity and came in second with “To One Who Says Me, Nay”. Langston Hughes’s poem “The Weary Blues” won. Sometime thereafter, he graduated from NYU and was one of eleven students selected for Phi Beta Kappa.

He entered Harvard to pursue an MA in English, about the same time his first collection of poems, Color, was published. Written in a careful, traditional style, the work celebrated African American beauty and deplored the effects of racism. The book included “Heritage” and “Incident”, probably his most famous poems. “Yet Do I Marvel”, about racial identity and injustice, showed the literary influence of William Wordsworth and William Blake, but its subject was far from the world of their Romantic sonnets. The poet accepts that there is God, and “God is good, well-meaning, kind”, but he finds a contradiction in his plight in a racist society: he is African American and a poet. His Color was a landmark of the Harlem Renaissance. He graduated with an MA. #africanhistory365 #africanexcellence #alphaphialpha #phibetakappa

[hervecomeau]

Breaking the Rules with Herve Comeau Syracuse: An Exploration of Free Verse Poetry

Poetry, with its rhythmic language and evocative imagery, has long been celebrated for its ability to stir emotions and provoke thought. Beyond mere words on a page, poetry holds the power to captivate hearts, challenge perceptions, and inspire change. In this blog, we delve into the profound impact of poetry on emotions and society with the help of poets such as Herve Comeau Syracuse, exploring how it serves as a vehicle for self-expression, empathy, and social commentary. From ancient epics to modern spoken word, poetry continues to shape our understanding of the world and ourselves.

1. Poetry as Emotional Expression

At its core, poetry is a medium for emotional expression, offering writers a space to explore the depths of human experience. Through carefully chosen words and vivid imagery, poets such as Herve Comeau Syracuse convey complex emotions such as love, grief, joy, and despair. Poetry has the unique ability to capture the nuances of the human psyche, allowing readers to empathize with the poet's innermost thoughts and feelings. Whether it's a sonnet lamenting lost love or a haiku celebrating the beauty of nature, poetry provides a sanctuary for both poets and readers to navigate the complexities of the human heart.

Furthermore, poetry serves as a cathartic outlet for processing and healing from emotional trauma. Writing poetry can be a therapeutic practice, enabling individuals to confront their inner demons and find solace in the act of creation. Through the act of writing and sharing poetry, individuals often find a sense of connection and belonging, knowing that their experiences are not unique. In this way, poetry fosters empathy and understanding, bridging the gap between individuals and fostering a sense of shared humanity.

2. Poetry as Social Commentary

Beyond its role as a tool for personal expression, poetry has long served as a powerful form of social commentary, challenging prevailing norms and advocating for change. Throughout history, poets have used their craft to shine a light on social injustices, political upheavals, and human rights violations. From the protest poems of the Civil Rights Movement to contemporary spoken word performances addressing systemic racism, poetry has been a rallying cry for marginalized voices and a catalyst for social change.

Through the artful use of metaphor, symbolism, and allegory, poets such as Herve Comeau Syracuse are able to convey complex social issues in a way that resonates deeply with readers. Poetry has the power to inspire empathy and solidarity, prompting individuals to reflect on their own privilege and take action to dismantle oppressive systems. By giving voice to the voiceless and shedding light on overlooked narratives, poetry has the ability to spark conversations, challenge the status quo, and ultimately drive societal transformation.

3. Poetry as a Reflection of Cultural Identity

Poetry serves as a mirror reflecting the cultural identity and heritage of a society. Through language, imagery, and themes, poets encapsulate the values, traditions, and beliefs of their communities, preserving them for future generations. Whether it's the epic poems of ancient civilizations or contemporary works exploring the immigrant experience, poets such as Herve Comeau Syracuse offer a window into the rich tapestry of human diversity.

Additionally, poetry provides a platform for marginalized communities to reclaim their narratives and assert their cultural pride. Poets from marginalized backgrounds often use their craft to challenge stereotypes, celebrate their heritage, and assert their right to exist unapologetically. Through poetry slams, spoken word performances, and online platforms, these voices are amplified and celebrated, enriching the literary landscape with diverse perspectives and experiences.

4. Poetry as a Catalyst for Empathy and Connection

Poetry has the remarkable ability to foster empathy and forge connections between individuals from different backgrounds and experiences. Through the act of reading or listening to poetry, individuals are transported into the inner world of the poet, gaining insight into their thoughts, emotions, and lived experiences. This shared experience of vulnerability and authenticity cultivates a sense of empathy and understanding, bridging the gap between strangers and fostering a deeper sense of connection.

Moreover, poetry has the power to transcend linguistic and cultural barriers, offering a universal language through which individuals can communicate and relate to one another. Whether it's through translated works or multilingual performances, poetry has the ability to unite people from diverse backgrounds in a shared experience of beauty and truth. In a world often divided by differences, poets such as Herve Comeau Syracuse serve as a unifying force, reminding us of our shared humanity and interconnectedness.

5. Poetry as a Form of Resistance and Resilience

In times of adversity and oppression, poetry has served as a form of resistance and resilience, giving voice to the silenced and empowering individuals to speak truth to power. Throughout history, poets have used their words as weapons against tyranny, injustice, and oppression. From the underground poetry of Soviet dissidents to the revolutionary verses of the Arab Spring, poetry has been a powerful tool for dissent and defiance.

Moreover, poetry serves as a source of solace and strength for individuals facing adversity, offering a means of self-expression and empowerment in the face of oppression. Whether it's through clandestine poems circulated in secret or public performances challenging the status quo, poetry has the ability to embolden individuals to resist oppression and assert their inherent dignity and worth. In this way, poetry becomes a beacon of hope and resilience in the darkest of times, reminding us of the indomitable power of the human spirit.     

Poetry holds a unique and profound power to shape our emotions, challenge societal norms, and foster empathy and connection. From its ability to evoke complex emotions to its role as a catalyst for social change, poetry continues to serve as a potent force for personal and collective transformation. As we navigate the complexities of the modern world, poetry remains a steadfast companion, offering solace, inspiration, and a glimpse into the beauty and resilience of the human spirit. Through its timeless verses and enduring impact, poetry reminds us of the power of language to move hearts, provoke thought, and change the world.