#subject: poetry

[sissy-salon]

Transvestia, Vol. 01, No. 02 (March 1960) contains a reprint of a 1913 forced femme poem called "Roy Violet, the Boy-Girl", credited to "an English periodical called NEW RUN [uncertain transcription; first letter of second word illegible], April 15, 1913". No author name is included, though the word Another is featured in quote marks at the end of the poem like it might be a pseudonym. It fits into the "Bad Boy to Good Girl" genre, with a bullying teen boy being feminized as punishment, coerced into it by dominant sisters by withholding food, and him eventually settling into that role. It's reproduced below:

ROY VIOLET, THE BOY-GIRL

Roy was most unruly, in a most unpleasant way. At school, at home, he never would the simplest rules obey But when he was expelled his sisters' backs were up, They'd try another plan to tame this most unruly pup.

If he would not be pleasant and obedient as a boy, He'd have to learn to be a girl— Violet, not Roy. They would give him pretty lingerie and petticoats & frocks And the smartest of silk stockings, 'stead of trousers, shirts and socks.

They would lace him up in corsets, 'til he could barely sit They would train him to be dainty, to sew & mend & knit. At first there was some trouble, but this silly pup soon found That hunger wasn't pleasant and to give in he'd be bound.

So he got into his lingerie and petticoats and stays And as a girl in dainty frocks he learned to mend his ways. At first he did not like to be a boy dressed as a girl, To learn his face to powder, and his hair to neatly curl.

He was sulky and resentful, tried an air of the bravado, But he found tomboyish manners with girl's clothes didn't go. However, he behaved himself since as a girl he'd got to live He just made up his mind to that— there was no alternative.

Girl's clothes were rather nice if one forgot one was a boy, And in the future he was Violet, he'd ne'er again be Roy. So Roy gave up his struggle and gave up his boyish name And soon a very charming, fascinating girl the lad became

He learned to wear his pretty clothes in a pretty girlish way He learned to mend his sister's things, and dance and sing and play. He found that it was rather nice to be a girl, and so He resigned himself completely to the life he was to know

Nine years have passed, he's still a girl, a most complete success. And nothing would induce him in his boy's clothes now to dress. After frocks and dainty underclothes and petticoats awhirl No, Violet he'll always be, and proud to be a girl.

So ladies read and mark and learn, unruly males to tame, By making them wear petticoats and adopt a girlish name. For every boy and every man is female more or less. When other methods don't succeed, why try a change of dress.

..."Another"

(source)

[sleepyeule]

Deja vu 🥺

[leahnardo-da-veggie]

The blazing sun

I cannot forgive           you my love                       for things that             wound me should not be              so tantalising                   yet still you stand like the blazing sun    twice as glorious                                      as pathetic little me.

(just wanted to try my hand at poetry that can be read multiple ways hehe)

[andstuffsketches]

a selection of robins

[liorlen]

Pyr y’n gwna ni byrhoedled? / Digawn llawryded, / kywestwch a bed.

[fictionadventurer]

Newborn

Living is enough adventure for now. I'm used to constant comfort and my mom's eternal heartbeat.

Life's too bright out here. I can feel hunger, sometimes cold and pain. Even gravity's a new sensation for one whose world was water only a few days ago.

Give me time to sleep and grow. I'm sure the world is wonderful, but it's rather big and I'm very small.

The world will still be there for me when I find the courage to open up my eyes.

[the-hot-zone]

recommendations for @mail-me-a-snail & honestly everyone who follows me bc y'all know i give out recommendations like candy. i think especially you may like I think love is something that happens to other people and HOW TO BE A DOG (the latter is similar to Your Faithful Servant).

[lifeinpoetry]

What to do now is clear, and wordless. / You will bear what can not be borne.

— Denise Riley, from “A gramophone on the subject,” Say Something Back & Time Lived, Without Its Flow

[jesterbabey]

and you know what, it pisses me off when these dipshits are critiquing data's poetry and they're all like, "oh its too technical, its not emotional enough" fucking shocker? that it sounds like it was written by the guy that wrote it?? "it isnt deeply connected to you" or whatever, like ?? oh the guy writes a poem (first time btw like damn) that is technical and unemotional, when he struggles with seeing himself as technical and unemotional, and thats not connected to him?? god forbid he use poetry to process his thoughts and identity like the rest of us and you dont happen to like it, fuck off

[apoemaday]

Poetic Subjects

by Rebecca Lindenberg

The capital city. Arrowroot. Water-bur. Colts. Hail. Bamboo grass. The round-leaved violet. Club moss. Water oats. Flat river-boats. The mandarin duck.                         — The Pillow Book of Sei Shōnagon

The sky. And the sky above that. The exchange of ice between mouths. Other people's poems. My friend says we never write about anything we can get to the bottom of. For him, this is a place arbored with locust trees. For me, it's a language for which I haven't quite found the language yet. The dewy smell of a new-cut pear. Bacon chowder flecked with thyme. Roasted duck skin ashine with plum jam. Scorpion peppers. Clothes on a line. A smell of rain battering the rosemary bush. The Book Cliffs. Most forms of banditry. Weathered barns. Dr. Peebles. The Woman's Tonic, it says on the side, in old white paint. The clink of someone putting away dishes in another room. The mechanical bull at the cowboy bar in West Salt Lake. The girls ride it wearing just bikinis and cowboy hats. I lean over to my friend and say, I would worry about catching something. And he leans back to say, That's really the thing you'd worry about? We knock the bottom of our bottles together. How they talk in old movies, like, Now listen here. Just because you can swing a bat doesn't mean you can play ball. Or, I'll be your hot cross if you'll be my bun. Well, anyway, you know what I mean. Somewhere between the sayable and the unsayable, poetry runs. Antidote to the river of forgetting. Like a rosary hung from a certain rearview mirror. Like the infinite rasp of gravel under the wheel of a departing car.  Gerard Manley Hopkins's last words were I'm so happy, I'm so happy. Oscar Wilde took one look at the crackling wallpaper in his Paris flat, then at his friends gathered around and said, One or the other of us has got to go. Wittgenstein said simply, Tell all my friends, I've had a wonderful life.

[puckpocketed]

Maybe, if you're with a group of friends who'll never be together again, all your lights will shine at the same time and you'll know, and then you can hold each other and whisper, "This was so good. Oh my God, this was so good."

Quotes: Meet the trio of linemates leading a fantastic USNTDP class into Nashville // Ryan Dixon || Familiar Line Will Lead Team USA in World Juniors // Russ Cohen || Meet the All-Star Freshmen that Could Boost Boston College Men’s Hockey to a Huge Year // Steven Principi || U-18 Worlds: USA’s Top Line a Match Made in Heaven // Tony Ferrari || Anticipatory Grief // Marissa Conrad || The Three Musketeers // Alexandre Dumas || The Light That Shines When Things End // Iain S. Thomas.

Headlines: x // x // x // x //

Photos: Rena Laverty || Richard T Gagnon via Getty Images || x // x // x //

Special thanks to @oensible my avocado dip my watermelon dish soap my vinyl sticker collection for the Iain S. Thomas quote <3

[caligarish]

The Choice by Nikolay Gumilev (transl. by Evgenia Sarkisyants) // The Terror, 2018

[cultpastorkevin]

aftg characters as button poetry quotes 🤲🏻

Andrew || Neil || Kevin

Nicky || Aaron || Renee

Allison || Seth

Dan || Matt

Riko || Jean || Thea

Jeremy || Robin

Wymack || Abby || Bee

[unsat-and-strange]

jonny d'villes heart ticks audibly. the crew can hear it during the few and far between quiet moments on board the aurora. it's so steady, tick tick tick, a reminder that he is there and they are all alive together, never speeding up or slowing down. sometimes they joke about using it as a metronome during practice.

jonnys heart ticks. he can hear it every waking moment. tick tick tick. it never slows down, even in the deepest sleep according to the rest of the crew. it never speeds up even when his blood is more adrenaline then actual blood, times when normal peoples hearts would be racing. whether he's laughing his ass off or terrified for his life (I guess old habits die hard?) it. never. speeds. up. sometimes it's fine, he can ignore it but there are days when the constant tick tick tick tick tick tick tick is too much. the days when he has to drown out the sound with gunfire and screams or music loud enough to make his ears bleed. some days even that barely cuts it and he debates putting a bullet in his head just to make it quiet for a few hours. the rest of the crew has gotten pretty good at recognizing those days, and they know how to help him get through them, just like he knows how to help his crew through their bad days. nastya will bring him into the near deafening engine room and theyll play with power tools until their hands are covered in grease and grit, or Tim will sit him down on a speaker and play the bass so loud the whole ship can feel it, or Marius and raphaella will tell him about unethical medical practices they've witnessed/performed or Brian will just hold him close until the rhythms of the metal man's body distract from the tick tick tick tick of his own heart. the constant tick of immortality is loud. jonny can't deny his luck in finding a crew that is almost always louder.

[dumblr]

Imagine being the subject of someone's poetry.

[fictionadventurer]

After learning that it was Fibonacci Day and reading about the Fibonacci sequence and the Golden Ratio in nature, I just had to write a Fibonacci poem to celebrate. The syllables in each line follow the Fibonacci sequence.

Since I wanted it centered, you get the poem in an image, but I'll put the text under a cut.

Upon Learning About the Golden Ratio in Nature

God's

Math

Paints worlds

In patterns.

Spiral galaxies

Down to trees and flower petals

Showing off His love of beautiful arithmetic