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poetrysmackdown · 1 year ago

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what makes a poem a poem? does it have to be written in a certain way? is this question a poem if i want it to be?

Fun question! This is just my personal sense as an avid reader and less-avid writer of poetry, but for me it’s useful to distinguish (roughly) between poetry as a genre and poetry as an attitude or philosophy through which language and the world can be understood. And of course these two go hand in hand. I see poetry the genre as essentially a type of literature where we as readers are signaled, somehow, to pay closer attention to language, to rhythm, to sound, to syntax, to images, and to meaning. That attentive posture is the “attitude” of broader poetic thinking, and while it’s most commonly applied to appreciate work that’s been written for that purpose, there’s nothing stopping us from applying that attentiveness elsewhere. Everywhere, even! That’s how you eventually end up writing poetry for yourself, after all. There’s a quote from Mary Ruefle floating around on here that a lot of folks have probably already seen, but it immediately comes to mind with this ask:

“And when you think about it, poets always want us to be moved by something, until in the end, you begin to suspect that a poet is someone who is moved by everything, who just stands in front of the world and weeps and laughs and laughs and weeps.”

Similarly, after adopting the attentive posture of poetics, there’s plenty of things that can feel or sound like a poem, even when they perhaps were not written with that purpose in mind. I’ve seen a couple of these “found poems” on here that are quite fun—this one, for example. The meaning and enjoyment you may derive from the language of a found poem isn’t any less real than that derived from a poem written for explicitly poetic purposes, so I don’t see why it shouldn’t be called poetry.

That said, I do think that if you’re going to go out and start looking for poetry everywhere, it’s still important to have a foundation in the actual language work of it all. Now, this doesn’t mean it has to be “written in a certain way” at all! But it does mean that in order to cultivate the attentiveness that’s vital to poetry, one needs to understand what makes language tick, down at its most basic levels. It will make you better at reading poetry, better at writing it, and better at spotting it out in the wild.

Mary Oliver’s A Poetry Handbook is an extraordinary resource to new writers and readers, and a great read for more experienced folks as well. Mary Oliver’s most popular poems are all to my knowledge in free verse, and yet you might be surprised to find her deep appreciation for metrical verse (patterns of stressed/unstressed syllables), as well as for the most minute devices of sound. In discussing the so-called poetry of the past, she writes,

“Acquaintance with the main body of English poetry is absolutely essential—it is the whole cake, while what has been written in the last hundred years or so, without meter, is no more than an icing. And, indeed, I do not really mean an acquaintanceship—I mean an engrossed and able affinity with metrical verse. To be without this felt sensitivity to a poem as a structure of lines and rhythmic energy and repetitive sound is to be forever less equipped, less deft than the poet who dreams of making a new thing can afford to be.”

In another section, after devoting lots of attention to the sounds at work in Robert Frost’s “Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening”, she writes,

“Everything transcends from the confines of its initial meaning; it is not only the transcendence in meaning but the sound of the transcendence that enables it to work. With the wrong sounds, it could not have happened.”

I hope all this helps to get across my opinion that what makes a poem a poem is not just about the author's intention, and not just about meaning (intended or attributed), but also about sound and rhythm and language and history, all coalescing into something that rises above the din of a language we would otherwise grow tired of while out in our day-to-day lives.

I'll always have more to say but I'm cutting myself off here! Thanks for the ask

#ask #discussion #does this even answer the question? lol #anyways even if you're not huge on mary oliver i still highly recommend a poetry handbook #i admit her poetry is only to my taste about 60-70% of the time. but her handbook is a great resource and can stand alone #i actually think oliver wrote a whole other book just about metrical verse too. for people who are into that #also if you're someone who's less interested in the question 'what is poetry?' and more into questions like #why is poetry? can poetry survive? what the fuck happened to poetics in the twentieth century?#i recommend the witness of poetry by czeslaw milosz #an older book—actually a collection of lectures—but an absolute game-changer for me #not a poll

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joezworld · 8 days ago

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They re-laid the ballast and sleepers on Sunday, and by mid-day Monday, the last of the temporary rails were bolted together. It was, to quote a workman, a “hack job”, but it could be replaced after the busy winter hols.

Douglas pulled an inspection train across the newly repaired section shortly after supper, and it was with great jubilation that the Fat Controller deemed the line “fit to re-open.”

That night, Duck was the first to come back, running the last (and only) train of the day. He was ecstatic to be back in his own shed, and there was much merriment and joy as he shunted Alice and Mirabel into the empty carriage sheds. He whistled gaily to the engines on the small railway, who yelled at him to keep the noise down, didn’t he have any idea how late it was.

Then he turned to the yard, and his gaiety died down significantly. “Wha-what?�� He stuttered, staring in confusion and slight horror. “What have you done?”

Bear rolled his eyes, having endured quite enough of Duck’s personality in the last ten minutes. “I needed trucks for the track work.”

“Yes I see that. Did you fetch them with your eyes shut?”

Bear growled. The yard was only a mess if you had been indoctrinated into the Great Western Shunting System - which, in fairness, he had been - but he’d been told that the first train would arrive in the morning, not tonight. “No, the work just finished early, is all. I’m fine, by the way.”

“That’s no excuse!” Duck ploughed on, getting into a proper strop. “You should’ve been cleaning as you went! Single Workings 3:7 clearly states-”

“I know what it says, and I don’t care.” Bear snapped. “If we’re going to get into this, what about Emergencies 12:5, hmmm? Shouting chapter and verse at me isn’t going to make the yard cleaner.”

Duck tripped over his own tongue while Bear smiled spitefully. “Now, I was going to offer to help you clean the yard while my driver is still on shift, but instead I think I’ll let you fix things to your exacting specifications.”

Bear’s driver, who had been performing an inspection on his engine, looked at Bear in surprise, Duck in shock, and decided to reverse Bear into the shed to end the confrontation. In a few minutes, snoring could be heard through the closed doors.

“Well..!” Duck said, thoroughly surprised. “What got into him?”

“The fact that you haven’t figured it out is, quite frankly, appalling.” boomed a voice from across the goods yard. Duck glared, but the glare quickly turned to surprised suspicion when the trucks didn’t start laughing. They always laughed after someone got a one-liner in.

Instead, a sea of surly faces stared back at him. “What are you looking at?” he asked, suddenly off-kilter.

“That wasn’t very nice.” A flatbed scowled, backed up by a wave of agreeing murmurs.

Duck didn’t know whether to scowl or be frightened at the show of unity, and shunted the worryingly quiet trucks until the end of his driver’s shift.

When he was backed in next to Bear, he thought about saying something, to see if the diesel was still awake, but in the end he went uneasily to sleep.

The next morning, Bear woke up much later than he usually would. Duck was gone, the yard was organized, Oliver was receding into the distance, and there was a long line of trucks sitting by the goods shed.

His driver came over, train orders in his hand. “Right-o, first we’ve got these to take, then we’ve got passenger trains with Truro for the rest of the day. Excited?” He wasn’t one of Bear’s usual drivers, and he completely missed the smile that hid a scowl.

The trucks didn’t miss it. As he rolled past the train, the brake van - the SR Queen Mary, finally on his way back to whence he came - eyed him with sympathy. “Keep your guard up, once you’re with him.”

“Back to reality…” the low loader rumbled.

The Fish Van didn’t say anything, but gave him a look of sombre understanding.

A long line of hoppers, full of tunnel debris, were somewhat more cheerful. “You’ve got us, remember.” their leader whispered.

Bear felt somewhat uplifted by this, but, as he waited for his driver to perform a brake test, his spirit began to wane. There was a crowd of passengers on the platform, already waiting for the next train. A large group of them were wearing shirts with the Great Western Railway logo stitched into them. They had cameras, of course, and were taking pictures every which way, except his.

One pointed a lens his way, and was promptly shoved by several friends. “Don’t waste your film,” they said, “on that box on wheels.”

By the time the signal dropped, Bear felt deeply morose. He set off, leaving the station behind, each turn of his wheels bringing him closer to the big station, and City of Truro.

The train halted at Haultraugh station. The inbound train was Duck’s, and as more passengers flowed in and out of the train, someone made a comment, loud enough to be heard over the hustle and bustle, that “this was straight out of the sixties.”

As the last passengers boarded, someone else replied, “yeah, the 18-60s.”

Bear stared at the GWR branding covering the station. There’s no place for me here.

Next to them, Duck was off in his own world. One of the porters had asked him how Truro was doing, and this had led to a lengthy and animated description of how bored and disrespected Truro felt in the yard at the big station. Gordon was the apparent ringleader, finding great fun in pushing Truro’s buttons. Bear’s engine note took on a notably staccato beat, and the trucks began grumbling to each other. The porter paid this no mind, but Duck began looking quizzically across the platform, trying to figure out what, if anything, was the matter.

Meanwhile, Bear’s driver was looking up and down the platform. “What’s the holdup? Where’s the signal?” He scoffed, climbing out of the cab and knocking on the door of the signal box.

Inside he found the signalman, looking quite aggrieved and holding a pair of flags. “Signal lever’s jammed. Points are good. Go out and I’ll wave you through.” He kicked the lever for good measure, a resounding clang emanating from the lever frame. “Piece of junk…”

Bear’s driver exited the box, noting for the first time that anything seemed to be amiss with his engine. “You alright?”

“Are we going?” Bear’s short, clipped tones could be mistaken for anticipation if you weren’t that bright.

“Yeah! Yeah, hold your horses.” The driver jumped back into the cab, and set off the instant the annoyed looking signalman waved the green flag.

Bear set off sluggishly. He didn’t care if he got there, or how long it took.

Behind him, the brake van could sense the disappointment and despair radiating down the brake line, all the way at the end of the train. Slowly, steadily, and stealthily enough to not alert the guard, he began slipping on his own brakes.

The other trucks in the train felt this, and realized what was happening. Slowly but surely, the train began to get heavier and heavier as Bear kept going.

The train made it halfway up the tunnel before grinding to a halt on the grade. There was no radio reception in the tunnel, and with Bear’s engine belching out more diesel exhaust every second, the driver made a quick determination to back down to Bulgy’s Bridge and try again.

Slowly, with the brakes mostly released, the train rolled back into the clear air, slowly click-clacking over the new jointed rails as it rolled back towards Bulgy’s Bridge. The tunnel mouth was now a jagged hole in the side of the rock, scarred and pitted in spots where the decorative portal had been chiselled away.

“So,” Bear addressed the train, taking care to not be heard by his driver. “Does anyone want to explain why we stalled out in the tunnel? Something that hasn’t happened with stone trains that are twice as heavy?”

There was a moment of guilty silence on the brake line, then:

“We can’t let you go without a fight.”

“You shouldn’t go back to that.”

“We like you too much to subject you to the snake.”

Bear was struck absolutely dumb by that, and felt a warm and fuzzy sensation in his fuel tanks. As his driver brought the train to a halt by the bridge, he couldn’t help but feel incredibly… honored? Was that the correct word? Liked? He pondered on this for some time, and was finally brought back to reality by his driver banging on the control desk in the cab. “Wakey wakey! Time to do some work!”

Bear chose not to dignify that with a response and instead allowed his engine to rev up to full power, to get the train moving up the hill and through the tunnel at a sufficient speed.

Then, nothing happened.

Or rather, nothing seemed to happen. Bear was pulling against the train with quite a lot of force, but it just didn’t move. His engine revved, his wheels slipped, and the train went nowhere.

It did not take a brain surgeon to figure out what was wrong: the trucks were quite serious about not letting Bear go back to Truro, and were doing everything in their power to stop him.

“We’re not joking…” came a low voice up the brake line.

Bear didn’t think they were, and was quite willing to sit out here for some time. It was a nice day compared to most of last week - the sun was out, and it was a few degrees above freezing - and if the railway had to send another engine to help him up the hill, then so be it.

“Ah, for the love of pete!” Unfortunately, Bear’s driver was a dedicated sort, someone who had a lot of interest in doing his job to the best of his ability, and someone who had no interest in being labelled as “the one who stalled in the tunnel”. He was going to get this train to Tidmouth come hell or high water, and so he didn’t let off the throttle, much to Bear’s annoyance.

“We’re not going anywhere like this. Call for a banker.”

“Absolutely not!” was the retort. What happened instead was that the train was put into reverse, and backed up even more to let the slack in. Bear knew what he was doing, and also knew that it wasn’t going to work. The trucks did too, and there was a bit of light laughter from most of the train. They even let him move the train a bit, rolling well beyond Bulgy’s Bridge without a fight.

The exception was the lead truck, who was looking at the coupling chain with worry. “That’s starting to stretch a little…”

Then, as has happened many times before, there was trouble.

Bear’s driver released the brakes, set the reverser to “forward”, and then jammed the throttle as far forward as it would go.

Bear set off with a great cloud of smoke and clag, his engine roaring like a wounded animal. The first five trucks on the train, realizing that something very bad could happen to them if they kept the brakes on, had let up. The slack went out of the train with a quintuple bang! as those trucks were yanked into motion. Then, the coupling to the rest of the train, who were not going to move under any circumstances, was pulled on.

They did not move, and the train screeched to a halt, Bear’s wheels spun furiously, sparking on the rails.

Then the coupling chain snapped.

Bear shot forward, suddenly free of the rest of the train. Fortunately, the vacuum brake hose also separating meant that his brakes came on automatically, and he came to a shuddering and screeching stop less than a hundred feet away, atop Bulgy’s Bridge.

“Now look at what’s happened!” He barked at his driver. “I told you to stop hammering on the throttle like a neanderthal!”

Then, things got worse.

When the rails had been re-laid after the derailment, the workers had done everything properly… except on Bulgy’s Bridge. The bridge, which still bore its scars from when Bulgy had gotten stuck underneath it almost twenty years ago, was known to be a fragile structure, and couldn’t withstand heavy or sustained vibrations.

“Heavy or sustained vibrations” is exactly what would happen when a ballast tamper machine was brought over the line. It “tamped” ballast by extending vibrating rods into the gravel and shaking them until the ballast had become smooth and level. This wasn’t possible on Bulgy’s Bridge, and so the workers had smoothed everything down as well as they could by hand before re-opening the line to traffic. And, for the trains that had gone over it so far, it had been fine - mostly because it had been light engines like Duck and Oliver, who moved over it quickly.

Bear, on the other hand, weighed as much as Duck and Oliver combined, and had just come to an abrupt stop directly on top of the mostly un-leveled ballast.

As Bear began to berate his driver for the problems that he had most certainly caused, the gravel underneath the sleepers began to shudder and shake.

Suddenly, and with distressingly little noise, the gravel on the right side of the line subsided, the sleepers and rails sagged as one, and Bear found himself tilted at an extremely worrying angle on top of Bulgy’s Bridge.

His driver closed his eyes in horror, and didn’t open them again until everything in the cab had stopped moving.

Bear, meanwhile, was so utterly overwhelmed with what was happening that he couldn’t even muster up a bit of shock. “Driver, this is your fault.”

Having already dealt with a calamitous derailment on the Little Western once this week, the railway was extremely quick in responding to the accident, and both a crane and the Fat Controller were there before lunch.

“Bear,” he said seriously. “I mean this in as non-insulting a manner as possible, but the fact that this was not your fault astounds me.”

“Don’t worry sir, the others will find a way to blame me for it anyways.”

“I-” The Fat Controller didn’t know how to respond to that, and had to choose his next words carefully. “I see.” He paused again. “I would actually like to mention something, now that you’ve brought that up.”

“Sir?”

“Yes.” Again, he had to choose his words carefully. “Due to… recent circumstances, British Rail has agreed to let us trial City of Truro on his own merits.”

“Sir? Does that mean that I don’t have to run trains with him anymore?” Bear’s tone was suddenly ecstatic, which the Fat Controller unfortunately didn’t understand the full connotations of.

“Indeed.” he said, eyes twinkling slightly. “Apparently his ability to be “more reliable than a diesel” was quite a point in his favor.” A pause. “Not that it is a mark against you in any way.”

“Of course sir, thank you sir!” Bear looked like Christmas came early, which did not mesh well with the fact that he was perilously close to falling off of a bridge.

“I’m glad you understand.” Charles Hatt smiled warmly. “And one more thing - I have been informed by the foreman that… removing you from this situation will involve damaging your paintwork in some way. Obviously, that cannot stand, and so I will have you sent to the works tomorrow or the day after for a temporary touch up. Once the holidays are over, you will receive a new coat of paint in any color you like. You’ve earned it.”

Bear’s smile was the biggest it had been in almost a month, and it stayed there throughout the cleanup process, even as the lifting chains gouged long silvery stripes all over his paintwork.

It took until well past dinnertime for the tracks to be put right again, and once Bear was checked over by works staff (again), he was immediately put to work with the permanent way gang, who worked throughout the night. Finally, at one in the morning, the work was declared “done!”, to much celebration, and the workers went home to bed.

Bear still had a job to do, though, and it wasn’t until two-thirty that he arrived at Tidmouth station with his now very contrite goods train, who didn’t say a word as he shunted them into the goods yard.

The diesel shed was empty, and Bear was asleep before his driver could fully set the brakes.

The next morning was cold but sunny, with still, crisp air soaking up the sun’s weak rays.

Bear, who had been woken up at seven in the morning after less than five hours of sleep, quite frankly could not bring himself to care about that, and grumbled all the way to the fuel depot, the station, the goods yard, and then most of the way to Haultraugh. He only stopped grumbling once he was awake enough to remember, as he burst into the sunlight at the end of the tunnel, that he was finally free of this wretched branch line and could go to the works soon!

This massively improved his mood, and he almost forgot how tired he was, as he rolled across the temporary speed restriction at Bulgy’s bridge, and through Haultraugh station. As he rolled into Arlesburgh, he was almost smiling.

“Well well well,” A stern voice immediately quelled any chances of enjoying the morning. “Look who shows his face around here!” Duck, a distinctly upset expression on his face, puffed into view. “You break my branch line, leave me stranded here all day - let’s not even get into what the passengers had to endure - and then just waltz off to the big station without so much as a by-your-leave? What sort of Western work ethic is that?”

He was really getting into full flow now. “And this is after you leave my yard a complete and utter disaster for more than a week! Whatever do you have to say for yourself?”

Bear was a patient engine, he really was. He could understand Duck’s position, he really could. He was even willing to hear him out, and talk with him like an adult. After all, they were both what people would call “grown-ups”. For goodness’ sake, he was twenty years old - far older and more mature than most of the diesels on the mainland!

But then… he looked behind Duck.

There, in the shed, was City of fucking Truro’s smug fucking face. He looked thrilled at what was happening.

And something in Bear went snap.

“Duck.” He said firmly, cutting the steam engine off mid-word. “You can take your Great Western work ethic and you can shove it down your boiler tubes. I do not care any more.”

Duck’s face moved like he was trying to say something, but he seemed unable to process what was happening.

“Furthermore,” Bear continued. “I didn’t break anything.” He glared daggers at Truro, who blinked in surprise. “The great green disaster over there is responsible for all of that. Unless you think that I shattered my gearbox out of a sense of whimsy.”

“I… I… I…” Duck couldn’t seem to put syllables together.

“In a similar fashion, I didn’t derail the Siphon wagons - if we’re really going to hand out blame like Christmas presents, it was Donald’s fault for not checking anything before he set off down the line with a bunch of plain-bearing equipped vans like it was the 1930s. Although, to go even further back, it was that one’s fault for moving the Siphons across the yard for no clear reason other than that he felt like it!”

Truro could hear everything, and blinked like he was offended. Good.

Duck looked like someone had smacked him across the face.

“Of course, let’s just blame it on me, why don’t we?” Bear could feel the indignation coursing through his systems, and let it flow. “As I can do nothing right, and only bring about confusion and delay! Yes, of course I wanted to almost fall off of Bulgy’s Bridge yesterday; it was part of my larger plan to learn to drive on the roads like an automobile, leaving the rails to wither and die on the vine like Doctor Beeching!”

“Bear, I-”

“Oh no! Don’t you “Bear” me! For all you know, that’s true! You’ve not taken your eyes off of Truro for a month now! “Truro” this and “Truro” that! If you like him so much, why don’t you give him the branch line and spend the rest of your life licking his buffers like the obsequious toady you seem intent on becoming! I thought you were my friend, but you can’t even notice something going on right in front of you!”

Truro was now glaring. The signalman had left his box, the trucks were silent, and Duck was so confused he was almost in tears. On the platform, the passengers started looking in their direction.

“Bear-”

“No, no.” He snapped, fire blooming in his eyes. “Use my goddamned number. You don’t have the right to use my name!”

Duck looked horrified. Good.

Bear pressed on, a month’s worth of frustration and aggravation spilling out uncontrollably. “So you know what, Montague? I’ve had it. That’s what this is. If you and Truro and Oliver want to play pretend in some fantasy recreation of a time that died a long time ago, be my guest! But I will have no part in it.”

The stationmaster appeared out of the station building and began making a beeline across the tracks.

“You can take your Great Western Railway, and all its idiotic traditions, and you can shove it someplace unpleasant!” He roared, engine growling menacingly. “But I’m done!” “And before I go…” The stationmaster was getting closer, and Bear could tell that he was going to be silenced one way or the other. He tried to think if there was anything else he wanted to say, but all he could see was Truro, looking so unjustly offended on Duck’s behalf. “Oi, you! Domeless wonder! I wish that they’d kept Great Bear, and scrapped you!”

#ttte #sodor #sodor shenangians #fic #christmas story

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sirenofthegreenbanks · 28 days ago

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Truth Or Dare <3: 🍬🥐🏜️🎨🦴🪐

🍬: post an unpopular opinion about a popular fandom character

hmmmmm. i don't think wkx was using his tears to tip the scales in his favour.

🥐: name one internet reference that will always make you laugh

"Ein MUFFIN." i remember quoting that quite a lot, esp when my sister made cupcakes! i knowwwwww. most of the initiated will probably favour "SWEET. Ein BAUsparvertrag!" but that never spoke to my secret, silly soul. whereas "Ein MUFFIN" offers unlimited possibilities

🏜️: what's your favourite type of comment to receive on your work

any kind of response is welcome as long as it's without malicious intent, but i enjoy it when people are reduced to spontaneous outbursts, followed up by an analysis of what they enjoyed and why! <3 i don't have a lot of ao3 experience so i'm interpreting this question generously

🎨: link your favourite piece of fanart and explain why you like it

the kiss (woh wenzhou edition) by pocketmilo. it is so tender and whimsical and loving, and i love the little floral details and wkx's waterfalling white hair, and how vibrant it is

🦴: is there a piece of media that inspires your writing?

hehehehehehe. word of honor. BUT THAT'S OBVIOUS so. i keep returning to the poetry of mary oliver. i like how she combines everyday mundanities with nature and her own internal landscape, the specific way she talks about her difficulties and her weaknesses. she interweaves these things as if it is all one and the same, or all (inter)connected. that's also how i like to view the world. dogfish in particular is a poem i keep returning to. her storytelling seems to unspool the stories that are locked away in my own chest.

🪐: name three good things going on in your life right now

my relationship to writing is really improving!! i cried about it in your dms a while ago, but now that i'm out of that depression hole i can clearly see that, while it's sometimes still difficult, i can say i fucking enjoy it so much! and it's been like that for a while now! (((: the difficulties i face have mostly changed from The Horrors to inconsequential, harmless things that can be easily solved. i still don't know what i want for the most part, but already a few things have been revealing themselves to me and i'm excited to explore that more.

i love small talk and talking to random strangers, but because of The Horrors i've been in a constant state of terror and dissociation whenever i'm braving the great oudoors and talk to people i don't already trust unconditionally. recently, i realized that a lot of that terror is irrational and outdated; i feel like i can finally start believing that i'm safe.

winter is great so far <3 plsplspls stay that way thank u and goodnight

writers truth or dare (i don't mind answering the same question twice!)

#ask game #cryptid #writers truth or dare ask game #muddling in words and stuff #daily life thingies #inbox #talking to the moon

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idylls-of-the-divine-romance · 4 days ago

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Dropping some more of the Paschal Canon in because I loved your analysis of "Magnify, o my soul, Him Who suffered willingly..." and I think you'll like this as well.

Having beheld the Resurrection of Christ, let us adore the Holy Lord Jesus, the only sinless One. We venerate Thy Cross, O Christ, and Thy Holy Resurrection we praise and glorify; for Thou art our God, and we know no other than Thee; we call upon Thy name. O come all you faithful, let us venerate Christ's holy Resurrection. For behold, through the Cross joy hath come to all the world. Ever blessing the Lord, let us praise His Resurrection. By enduring the Cross for us He destroyed death by death.

Yes! More canon analysis hehehe. I’m glad you like my other one :)

This one is longer because my mind is moving a million miles a second today lol.

“Having beheld the Resurrection of Christ” I like to close my eyes and imagine myself into scenes while reading or singing or engaging in any form of liturgy. With this one I immediately feel like I am Mary of Magdala or one of the disciples who saw the recreated/resurrected Jesus. In particular the next line of “let us adore the Holy Lord Jesus, the only sinless One” reminds me of the end of Matthew where the disciples are on, I believe, the Mount of Olives and they worship him before receiving the Great Commission

“We venerate Thy Cross, O Christ, and Thy Holy Resurrection we praise and glorify” the theme of glory and glorifying is like really important. I actually just got done listening to a podcast episode about a book called “Bearing the Name: Why Sinai still Matters” by an absolutely brilliant and insightful woman Carmen Imes. In her book she talks about the commandment “Y’all shall not carry the name of Yahweh without effect” (I think, nassa hashem lo-YHWH lashav. Don’t quote me I could be wrong). She connects the concept of “carrying the name” to Israel’s role as a “kingdom of priests” and how the high priest bore on his chest plate (“on his heart”) the names of the tribes of Israel, and on his forehead he bore “kodesh lo-Yahweh” “holy belonging to Yahweh”. But the point of that is that as the chosen royal priesthood, Israel has a special role in the the “making holy” of Yahweh’s name by representing him to the nations. So while all humanity is made in the tselem elohim, God’s covenant kingdom-family has a particular role of bearing the name and thus glorifying God in a more pronounced way. But ofc all humanity is called to glorify God by ruling and reigning; subduing non-order and darkness and, creating goodness and beauty and life.

Ultimately living a life crucified and resurrected in the Spirit is, I think, the supreme way of glorifying God even though in some traditions it’s been thought of primarily of signing. It is so much deeper than that. It is fundamentally about living. The incarnation, life, death, and resurrection of Jesus makes God’s name holy and it is thru living like him that I glorify God. Anyway, like I said, I think a lot about glorifying God and the imago dei so

“for Thou art our God, and we know no other than Thee; we call upon Thy name.” There is just something so marvelous about “the name”. Hashem. I was writing about Genesis 3 yesterday and the importance of the divine name Yahweh/Ehyeh (third person/first person). How God’s name is wrapped up in his identity. It’s the reason I use the divine name so much aside from just thinking that ceasing doing so was a mistake: to say “He Will Be” is so important for me. My God will be passionate. My God will be compassionate. My God will be favorable. My God will be etc etc etc just keep going down the Ex 34 list. I do not think it’s a coincidence the divine name is said twice in that paragraph back to back. “Yahweh, Yahweh, a God compassionate and favorable, etc etc”. My God will be what he said he will be. Because he is faithful. And he always will be, because he is eternal. And what did he say he is? Ex 34, 1 John 4. Our God will always be all the things he has said he is. And to call on his name is in itself an act of faith to me. What other god is like ours?

“O come all you faithful” I refuse to believe that it’s a coincidence that this is the name of a rather famous Christmas song and is being said in this Easter liturgy. The two seasons are so important for such similar reasons: it’s when our God did the unthinkable.

“O come all you faithful, let us venerate Christ's holy Resurrection.” Again, I am mentally on the Mount of Olives, worshipping Christ our Living Hope.

“For behold, through the Cross joy hath come to all the world.” And again, the mixture of birth and death (and rebirth) is being played into here, which is my favorite thing ever. In particular this makes me think of the Gospel According to Luke, which atm is my favorite, where joy is just such a big theme. Luke begins his gospel with lots of joy (Zechariah, Elizabeth, baby John, Mary, Shepherds, Anna) and then it just keeps going. The second to last time you hear about joy is right before the triumphant entry (after which Jesus is first crying and then throwing tables. Definitely not joyous) and then you do not see it again for chapters until the last sentence of the book after the resurrection. And then the Jesus Community in the Acts is famous for their great joy. And that silence of joy at the cross is then completely turned around by the resurrection which then turns the cross into a great sign of joy for all who believe! Because through this death and resurrection will come renewal for the entire world.

“Ever blessing the Lord, let us praise His Resurrection. By enduring the Cross for us He destroyed death by death.” CHRISTUS VICTOR REX!!!!!! Our God is victor and king!!!!! Destroying Death by letting Desth destroy Him!!!! Incredible. Absolutely marvelous ending.

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be-side-my-self · 3 months ago

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Rewatch of ONLY Murders In The Building to prepare for season 4 (V)

Block #OMITBRewatch if you don’t want to read notes that will have spoilers up to seasons 3. Just to make it clear, while quoting, I use M, O, C for the main characters.

Also I’m putting this under a read more because it gets long. (also, also this is the fifth part and I finally added "only" to the title.)

S2 E7

Episode of Mabel.

There is Theo and that is a really nice apartment.

M: "Is that me? Did I stab someone? Again?"

Detective Williams baby is so cute! Keith.

Mabel: "Nice accesory." Theo: *Looks down at his ankle* Mabel: "You steal jewelery from dead people, and the state gives you and anklet. Kind of poetic." Theo: *slams the mug, pissed off.*

THEO DIMAS I'm deaf. I write, or use ASL _I catch only 1/3 of what you say,_ through lip-reading.

*insert that video from american psycho about the business cards.

Theo: "When you got off the train, you were in shock so I took you to my place like creep."

Theo is really nice.

Detective Williams is so great.

.... they are so stupid it's amazing... but also that apartment is poorly soundproofed

Talking about a two-men job on the toilet is a really weird thing to say.

M: "Ah, yes. The adventures of a teenage grave robber. Got it."

Theo likes the simple solutions. Nice.

Someone with frustration is playing Whak-a-mole

Crane game... my sister is so good at it. Better than Theo.

So, how did he manage to get the ring in the crane-game? Sleight of hand? He could have put it in there when Mable did not look.

Oliver probably has probably flash-back to the time Will was a baby.

The dads are consulting.

Oh Mabel :(

Of course she is angry, her dad is dying and he can't keep his promises and she does not know.

Uh oh... glitter.

That is such a good scene.

So, the background on Mable's phone... is that her fursona?

Omg... please... I know you need to look at the lips Theo, but please look at the street.

M: "Thank you for stealing my fish."

Oh right! A blackout!

S2 E8

Sith-Avenue Slasher

Something about this was correct...

Also love the fan-made merch. All the tie-die stuff.

You always get Oliver with dips.

Howard! Go for it!!

Psycharatist: "There may be more to life than cats."

... lmao Charles and Oliver bonding over the guy who operated their knees. Besties.

Howard: "Sevenlyn Marie Morris, num num!"

Smooth, Howard!

It's actually nice to see some side-characters in that episode...

Howard and that other guy are a match made in heaven... pity it does not last :/

Also the scene with Nina and the door-man is really good.

Oh... the whole house singing sound of silence. That is such a nice scene.

Mabel takes the dips with her!

lmao everyone getting drunk in the lobby XD

M: "But why are you here? Other than interrogating teenage girls? Detective Kreps: "That's just one part of the job I happen to like."

YIKES YIKES YIKES

The GLITTER!!

S2 E9

Rose Cooper and Leonora Folger are the same person iirc.

Well the alimony is probably partly your fault, Kreps.

Kreps: "And she, or he, if that is your thing, they smile at you, and your whole goddamn universe turns upside down. And that's when shit gets really crazy."

M: "That is ASL for glitter." C: "Oh, that is kind of fun."

Congrats Oliver! You are the father!

O: "There's no real difference. All the European countries are esentially the same."

... boy.

Hey, Alice!

As I said, I did not like Alice but this is really tragic. It would have been nice for Mabel to have an artist as a girlfriend.

Oh lol... Rose just acted like she was Leonora.

And... now I think I remember that Oliver is lying about being greek... but it's a white lie?

25 Willow Dr Lake Placid New York

"Excessive Force Fighting Gym" ... that sounds fun and not serious at all. But gosh the upcoming scene is so good.

Hey, Teddy!

Lmao... Oliver just going for Teddy's throat.

O: "You're my son's father, you piece of shit!"

Kreps: "If I'm so stupid, how come I was able to land the smartes woman on the planet?"

It they weren't murderers their story would have been kinda cute.

Teddy: "Ow!" O: "Can I get you something!? Coffee? Water? A swift kick in the dick?" Teddy: "Look, Oliver, let me explain--" O: "Oh no, no, no. You know you don't have to. I was up all night talking to Roberta. She told me what happened." Teddy: "Did she tell you it only happened once?" O: "She said twice." Teddy: "One night, two times." O: "Well, now you're just bragging."

Mabel figures it out but comes to the wrong conclusion... I mean I would too.

Teddy's whole family was a bunch of crooks.

Teddy: "Aren't we square at this point? You send me to jail, I fuck your wife?"

Well, shit.

S2 E10

I remember that I really enjoyed the episode.

Poppy really had a shitty life.

The Mayor... yikes, yikes, yikes...

Cinda is such a bitch.

O: "Torture? Can we torture her? Charles, get your concertina and whatever you consider your 10 most intersting stories." C *rubbing his nose with his middle finger*: "Hm, let me just muse on that, uh, for a second." O *smirks*: "Mm."

No, Oliver it does not feel like a finale yet... but at least we got to see Poppy's background story.

M: "Oliver, what did we agree on?" O: "You and Charles do the talking."

I know people who are disgusted by the inside of the tomatoe but also someone who gets an allergic reaction when eating unprocessed tomatoes. I on the other hand can eat a tomatoe like an apple. And I enjoy it.

Liverwurst? Yum. Marmelade? Yum. Togther? ... nonono

Uma is great.

Lester's (Doorman) story is hardcore.

Oliver is so fast with giving away Charles' money.

O: "The sexual energy between you two was obvious. I'd say more, but this is a family murder podcast."

Charles and Oliver doing slow motion is so hilarious.

Don't waste food.

... love how Mabel ist using the ego of Poppy to confess.

Holy shit what a scene.

I remember the first time I saw that I was so freaked out.

And the fact that Cinda is now complimenting Mabel...

Again... if they weren't murderers, I would have wished Krebs and Poppy all the best.

C: "Hallelujah! It's a miracle cure!" Lucy: "Nice. you got de-dementia'd."

LMAO... How Charles tries his best to ask out Joy and luckily she understands his grunts.

Pity, that the mural is painted over.

Also it seems like Mabel and Alice stayed friends at least. Maybe dated some longer, who knows?

Awww... Will and Oliver having a moment.

I screamed when I saw Paul Rudd in that role.

But like what kind of ass do you have to be to get on the bad side of Charles?

*dramatic yodeling*

#omitb #OMITBRewatch #only murders in the building #Only Murders in dhte Buildig Season 2 #Only Murders in tthe Building Rewatch #The next posting might only come on Sunday because I'll be away on the weekend to play DnD with friends

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septembersghost · 1 year ago

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maybe it's because i'm melancholic, maybe it's because i'm a Romantic romantic, maybe it's some innate jewishness latched onto the DNA of remembrance, but noting "lasts" to me is valuable, even if there's a sorrow in it, in the finality. the wisp of fear and grief. it makes me think a bit of that mary oliver quote (and i know i'm giving it different meaning in saying this) - someone i loved once gave me a box full of darkness. it took me years to understand that this too, was a gift. it makes me think of why, in death, we say: may their memory be a blessing. it's the hope that we keep and lift up the flame. moments are precious because they end.

the thing about a last is no one ever knows when they're having one until long after the fact, and if you're here to recognize it, then it becomes a treasure. if someone isn't here to understand, then we hold it for them. you can only see it looking back at it. almost no one knows when the very last is going to be, but there are so many other little pearls of them before that. they stopped making something that was your favorite, but you had it one last time. lovers parting not knowing they've had a last kiss. a friendship that drifts apart and they didn't realize they were sharing a last laugh. a writer unwittingly penning their last word. a singer doesn't know when they've given an audience their last song.

except. someone new takes a hand, reads the passage, puts on the last song decades later and sways in their room, and then it's neverending. i think that's why i hold onto dates, look back at memories, even final ones, sad ones. it's not closing the door forever, it's reverent. they may take on a gloom or an iridescence, depending on the view, but if we don't remember they were the last, it steals something. tight hugs, hand-written letters, tail wags, cups of tea, sunrises, melodies. these are the ephemeral things that make up a life, and the more we think they don't linger forever is the more they actually do. there are things which are lasts, and there are things which last. for always. sometimes they're the same.

#what is a legacy. it's planting seeds in a garden you never get to see #(nothing ever really ends)#hey do you want to guess why i wrote this two days ago.#with always on my mind on piano playing low in the background #anyway #bubble wrap around my heart #sail on silver girl; sail on by #jess.mess #*#q

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moraxsthrone · 2 years ago

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Violet, Crocus (ehe), Bluebell and Tigerlily goooooo -w-

ohhhhkay...you asked for it!

violet— do you like to cook or bake? if so, what is it that you like to make?

i do like to cook! it's one of the few things i'm good at lol! my favorite is japanese cuisine (esp rice bowls and chirashisuhsi), but with the drought in california (the us's main sushi rice supply source) it's been so difficult/expensive to get any and you kinda need rice to make most japanese dishes lol? so i've been making italian food instead (and it shows in the way my clothes fit tighter 😩). not so much into baking, but i will sometimes.

crocus— do you have any significant dreams that you remember? what were they about?

bruh. all my life, i've had crazy ass dreams. and i remember a lot of them. probably the most vivid/profound was one i had 15+ years ago. i was a little girl (in the dream; i can't remember if i was late teens or early 20s irl) and there were 2 snakes: one red, one black and they were kinda wrapped around each other? they were HUGE but i wasn't scared of them. in fact, i was sliding down their backs, laughing and having a good time. i got the sense that they were protecting me? i came to learn much later on that what i dreamed about was a double ouroboros, which looks like this and is a very powerful symbol with several meanings:

bluebell— do you have any pets? if so, what are their names?

nope, no furbabies. but i do have a lot of plant babies! probably close to 50 of them. between them and my son, i don't need anything else to take care of lol.

tigerlily— do you have any favorite quotes from any movies, tv shows, books, or poetry? (or from people in real life)

gahhhh so many! here are a few...

"repugnant is a creature who would squander the ability to lift an eye to heaven, conscious of its fleeting time here" - lyrics from the song "right in two" by tool (fave band ever)

"build a man a fire and he'll be warm for a day. set a man on fire and he'll be warm for the rest of his life." - sir terry pratchett

"light thinks it travels faster than anything but it is wrong. no matter how fast light travels, it finds the darkness has always got there first, and is waiting for it." - sir terry pratchett (again)

"great spirits have always encountered violent opposition from mediocre minds." - albert einstein

"i am not what you think i am. you are what you think i am." - the buddha

"someone i loved once gave me a box full of darkness. it took me years to understand that this, too, was a gift." - mary oliver

+ listen, buddy wakefield is my favorite poet. there are so many of his that i love so much, but here are my faves:

"i no longer need you to fuck me as hard as i hated myself. make love to me like you know i am better than the worst thing i ever did."

"...the moon...it did not have to be full for us to love it."

"we can stretch van gogh paintings from seattle, washington to binghampton, new york and you still won't find the brilliant brush strokes it takes to be a single mother."

"it takes a long time to make love with someone who hates themselves."

...there are so many more, but i've already listed too many!

#kel.answers 💌#precious.moots: crys 🦋#ask game #kel.plays

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steelycunt · 2 years ago

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love the sirius talk he really is just so all over the place in fact I think one of the reasons I like r/s as much as I do is because of the fact that genuinely no body else knows sirius as well as remus does no one else knows exactly how kind and cruel he can be and through it all remus is still obsessed with him. even when he doesn’t know if he’s a good person or even when he thinks he’s a terrible one and same honestly he’s got me wrapped around his finger even if I wish he didn’t. and I’m always thinking about that scene in POA when he’s talking to harry about the ministry administering the dementors kiss and he doesn’t want sirius to get the kiss even though he doesn’t know he’s innocent yet, or just how emotional and jumpy he was whenever sirius was brought up at all.. and then how completely cold he was to peter when he learnt the truth. even though he loved him once like family and spent 12 years mourning him he’s completely unattached and cold to peter but he’s spent 12 years hating sirius and still couldn’t detach himself from him. he had 12 years to move on and he just! couldn’t! he’s obsessed!! i love the way that they didn’t have the kind of relationship that could withstand anything cause they’re barely able to keep themselves together let alone a relationship and they were just always in the worst circumstances but no matter what they always came back to each other. it’s like the complete opposite of destined lovers or whatever it’s called it’s like they weren’t supposed to be together but there was nothing the universe could throw at them that would make remus not be completely consumed by sirius no matter how much he might hate him or how long they were apart he could never move on. it reads like such a Tragedy, reminds me of that post on here that’s like the love was there even if it couldn’t save the day or didn’t make a difference in the grand scheme it was there and that’s what’s important. he was nothing short of devoted to sirius truly the Best sirius is the one through remus’ eyes cause he could look at this insufferable posh asshole and know the hurt he could evoke better then anyone and be in a constant loosing fight against fucking fate itself and still go ‘yeah he’s worth it’

hii yes especially love ur point about remus' varying responses to peter and sirius when he thinks they're each the traitor!! insane!! and such a testament to how inescapable his feelings for sirius are like. that's it that's the whole thing he could never manage to rid himself of it...twelve whole years and he couldn't cut it out of himself they're just SO. yeah. they don't by any means fix each other but they need each other anyway because honestly the alternative is just as bad. they are just as useless without each other. remus went without him for twelve years and that still did no good. i don't like the term soulmates nor do i necessarily believe in higher powers/the kind of predestination that might be implied by the term fated, but i don't know what else to call them they're just stuck with each other. and there comes a point where they are sooo tangled up in each other's lives--that mary oliver quote about not knowing where to drop the knife of separation--that everything will inevitably come back to each other. time and the course of their lives ensures that they remain the only two people who could possibly understand each other, and in that way they're sort of fashioned into soulmates. not in the sense that they were predestined but that they had little control over how absolutely their relationship consumed them both, past the point of choosing to love each other when they were fucking. sixteen or something.

#and then one of them dies! wah!#i feel like i just said a lot of stuff and exactly none of it makes sense. sorry x do u sort of get what i was trying to say i hope u do x #i get such interesting + articulate asks and u guys make such good points and my answers are usually just me sort of clumsily #prev tagging everything you just said but xx essentially anon i agree with you i do xx #remus will always choose to love sirius until it is barely a choice anymore. he just doesn't know how to not do it #n he is too tired 2 try n figure that out or attempt 2 mutilate the bit of him that refuses to let sirius go. i dont think he truly wants 2 #i dont even think he truly ever tried. not even during the lost years. its easier to loathe himself for loving sirius than to stop doing it #r/s #anon #telegram

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fairycosmos · 2 years ago

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I don’t get how you can be so kind to people, I’m not like a mean bitch to people but I’m definitely a hateful jealous bitch and I don’t think I’ll ever know peace or heal, I’m probably gonna end up by killing myself and the thought always brings such peace to me anyway I admire you cause I would have exploded by now.

for me it's that i think i find it much easier to communicate clearly and with patience online/in writing, whereas in real life i can be snappy and defensive and extremely closed off, and i have a bunch of my own boundaries and baggage that i think are going to take forever to work through, if i ever do. i can be extremely bitter, negative and thoughtless. i think it's just a matter of social media flattening your perception of me, maybe. i do want to be kind and i try to be. but it is not effortless when you are a really hurt person, and that's just the nature of the cycle i think. it's a good sign that you're able to recognise your negative behaviour and that you want to make a change. i think that is always possible, it's just slow and difficult and non-linear. a lot of work, you know? i'm really sorry to hear you're in such a bad place. it's alright to struggle with the whole spectrum of human emotion. it doesn't mean you're evil or beyond help or any of the shit your brain is telling you, and i mean that. it sounds like bullshit until you survive long enough to see it from a new perspective, which can happen gradually, or all at once. i really hope you're able to talk to someone you love or a mental health professional about this if these thoughts of harming yourself are beginning to take over your mind to the point that you can't function. you do deserve better and self-forgiveness is the first step toward building a life where pockets of peace are consistent. tell me to fuck off for quoting mary oliver in this situation if you want, but it's exactly like her famous poem "...you do not have to be good. you do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting. you only have to let the soft animal of your body loves what it loves." i think there is a lot of truth in that and i think it is worth at least trying to live by it if that's what is going to get you from one moment to the next. you really don't exist in one fixed state, doomed to be hateful or in pain. your life is fluid and malleable, the self is ever-changing whether or not we can see it. please, consider calling the authorities or a loved one if you are at risk of hurting yourself. learning how to cope with these thoughts in a healthier way, and processing them rather than internalising them, can make all the difference. it's not easy, and it is annoying as fuck. but the point is there are options, and i hope you never forget that. also, thank you for being sweet. i want to combust into flames, all the time. sending you a lot of love. please take care, and take it one day at a time. x

suicide hotlines

#tw suicide #anon

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catilinas · 2 years ago

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Any poems you like that are about fire? (Better even if it’s fire and travelling or going home or rebirth) I’m looking for ones and you always have good taste in poetry :)

would it be bad if i said like. the aeneid. the pharsalia. stoic ekpyrosis counts as Being About Fire, right??? but seriously thinking abt this question made me realise how much of the poetry i enjoy is more focused on water. whoops.

anyway:

vergil, aeneid books 2&4 :-)

also the third stanza of catullus 51 :-)

rosanna warren, bonfires (Roman epic is painted / in black fire on black ground. / When the rhythm holds, anything burns on those canted / lines: oxen, swine, the stunned // still bleeding human victims, hands tied / behind their backs. The hero's / head aches, his lungs sear as he stands aside / and greasy smoke billows. // fire by now has consumed an entire day.)

andrea gibson, tonight (offer your body as a burning building / without fire escapes)

mary oliver, the fire (then over my head the red timbers floated, / my feet were slippers of fire, my voice / crashed at the truth, my fists / smashed at the flames to find the door—/ wicked and sad, mortal and bearable, / it fell open forever as i burned.) (this one is probably closest to what you're looking for but. the home is perhaps a little bit On fire)

jay bernard, surge (the entire book. it contains a long sequence of poems abt the new cross fire in 1981 and is one of the best poetry books i've read in the past few years. here is a review that is better than what i can say! the emphasis on archives / how to remember/memorialise small details / decontextualisation and forgetting makes it feel weird to quote (and so decontextualise) like. one good stanza About Fire but extremely check this book out bcs it's amazing)

#book list #poetry #beeps

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roseforthethorns · 2 years ago

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“Wild Geese”

For the end of 007 Fest 2022 Nights are the hardest.

For James Bond, the nightmares never really bothered him. He simply accepted them as his due, a reward for being MI6’s best spy. He’d been everywhere, seen everything, done everything and (most) everyone. He had a list of kills longer than most in the business, and not all of them had been dispatched with a bullet. Sometimes, Bond would wake, body alert and mind racing, convinced he’d felt hands around his throat again, or the crushing weight of water, or his shoulder exploding in pain. Other times he would wake and have to check that he wasn’t still holding his gun.

When Bond and Vesper had been together, he’d still been so green as an agent; there had been some trauma, but nothing some Scotch and a good fuck couldn’t handle. Her death still hurt, but the dull ache of an old scar, and the nightmare of her drowning almost never happened anymore.

But when he started sleeping with Q? When the lanky boffin with a sharp tongue and a voice that always brought Bond home had found his way into Bond’s bed? When Bond had to finally begin to acknowledge to himself that he did, indeed, care for Q and was finding it harder and harder to understand what Q saw in him?

One particularly sleepless night found Bond standing near one of the windows in his flat, wrapped in his dressing gown. Snow was falling softly outside, blanketing the streets and muffling the sounds of a sleeping London. Bond took another mouthful of Scotch, the liquor burning with a pleasant familiarity as it went down.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Q walked up softly beside him, though not quite with the cat-like tread of a double-oh.

Bond glanced at him and then back out the window. “You should be sleeping.”

“As should you.” Q’s lips twitched slightly. “There, now we’ve both said something incredibly obvious.” He reached out and gently laid his hand on Bond’s shoulder. “You got up a while ago.”

“I thought you were sleeping,” Bond replied, taking another sip.

Q shrugged. “The bed’s colder alone.” They stood in silence for a moment, before Q spoke again. “But really, James, why are you up?”

The silence stretched for a long time before Bond finally sighed. “Why are you here, Q? Why are you here- with me?” He didn’t look at Q, just continued to stare out the window and sip his drink.

Squeezing Bond’s arm gently, Q said, “Because I want to be.”

Bond chuckled darkly. “You make it sound so simple, like it’s easy for you to be around someone like me.”

“You mean a spy?” Q asked.

“I mean a killer, Q.” The words hang in the air for a moment, finally said, and Bond drains his glass.

Q is silent for a moment, and if Bond had looked at his face, he’d have seen Q thinking. But when Q speaks, it’s not at all the response Bond expects.

“You do not have to be good.

You do not have to walk on your knees

for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.

You only have to let the soft animal of your body

love what it loves.

Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.

Meanwhile the world goes on.”

Squeezing Bond’s arm gently again, Q presses a gentle kiss to his cheek. “I didn’t write that, but I meant every word. I chose this, James, and I still choose to be here. No matter your past, I’m here. Now, come back to bed.”

The nightmares don’t ever end for a double-oh, but finding someone to share the burden with makes them easier to endure.

Author’s note: the poem quoted in the story is “Wild Geese” by Mary Oliver (hence the title)

#007 fest 2022 #team 00 #roseforthethornswrites #poetry prompt #mi6cafe

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derangedrhythms · 3 years ago

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hello, do you happen to have any quotes on being foolish in love (thinking of Joyce's "and yet her name was like a summons to all my foolish blood")?

thank you! your blog is such a nice place, I've gotten some lovely reading material from here ✨

I’m so happy to hear that! Thank you 🖤

"Friend, I am lost. She can do what she likes with me."

— Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, from ‘The Sorrows of Young Werther’ tr. David Constantine

"…for when I glance at you even an instant, I can no longer utter a word: my tongue thickens to a lump, and beneath my skin breaks out a subtle fire: my eyes are blind, my ears filled with humming, and sweat streams down my body, I am seized by a sudden shuddering; I turn greener than grass, and in a moment more, I feel I shall die."

— Sappho, quoted in ‘A Lover’s Discourse: Fragments’ by Roland Barthes, tr. Richard Howard

"This morning, I must get off an “important” letter right away—one on which the success of a certain undertaking depends; but instead I write a love letter—which I do not send. I gladly abandon dreary tasks, rational scruples, reactive undertakings imposed by the world, for the sake of a useless task deriving from a dazzling Duty: the lover’s Duty. I perform, discreetly, lunatic chores; I am the sole witness of my lunacy."

"What is stupider than a lover?"

— Roland Barthes, from ‘A Lover’s Discourse: Fragments’, tr. Richard Howard

"I dreamed that you bewitched me into bed / And sung me moon-struck, kissed me quite insane. / (I think I made you up inside my head.)"

— Sylvia Plath, “Mad Girl’s Love Song”

"I have become an idiot like Gertrude Stein. That’s what love does to intelligent women."

— Anaïs Nin, A Literate Passion: Letters of Anaïs Nin & Henry Miller 1932-1953

"…I have missed you greatly and I have been thinking of you at moments when, God help me, no sane, normal man ought to…"

— Henry Miller, quoted in 'Henry and June' by Anaïs Nin

"Falling in love, it seems, dislocates your view of what is significant. Aberrant behavior ensues. Rules of decorum go by the wayside. This is the common experience (pathos) of lovers, Sokrates says, to which men give the name Eros."

"As soon as eros enters his life, the lover is lost, for he goes mad. But where is the point of entry? When does desire begin? That is a very difficult moment to find, until it is too late. When you are falling in love it is always already too late: dēute, as the poets say."

— Anne Carson, from 'Eros the Bittersweet: An Essay'

"…it is folly to be sunk in love, / And madness plain to make the matter known,"

— Edna St. Vincent Millay, XIX from ‘Fatal Interview’

"I stared, I blushed, I paled, beholding him; / A sudden turmoil set my mind aswim; / My eyes no longer saw, my lips were dumb; / My body burned, and yet was cold and numb."

— Jean Racine, from 'Phaedra', tr. Richard Wilbur

"Here is my heart, raving mad and in love!"

— Rumi, Love Is My Savior: The Arabic Poems of Rumi; from ‘Have Mercy!, tr. Nesreen Akhtarkhavari & Anthony A. Lee

"Like a gale smiting an oak / On mountainous terrain, / Eros, with a stroke, / Shattered my brain."

— Sappho, Stung with Love: Poems and Fragments, tr. Aaron Poochigian

"My head is magnificently empty, / my heart dangerously full;"

— Marina Tsvetaeva, from Bride of Ice; from 'Girlfriend, tr. Elaine Feinstein

"Not anyone who says, “I’m going to be / careful and smart in matters of love,” / who says, “I’m going to choose slowly,” / but only those lovers who didn’t choose at all / but were, as it were, chosen / by something invisible / and powerful and uncontrollable / and beautiful and possibly even / unsuitable — / only those know what I’m talking about / in this talking about love."

— Mary Oliver, Felicity; 'Not Anyone Who Says'

"If I chase after you madly, implore you to listen, stand outside your door and wait for you, it is not that I am trying to humiliate myself. There is no humiliation for me in this struggle to keep you. This is only the proof that I am intensely aware, intensely alert, eager, profoundly eager and desperate to make you realize that my great love for you is a terribly real and beautiful thing."

— Henry Miller, from 'A Literate Passion: Letters of Anaïs Nin & Henry Miller 1932-1953'

#compilations #love

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seraphiism · 3 years ago

Text

𓆩 ღ 𓆪 𝐁𝐔𝐓 𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐍 𝐇𝐀𝐒 𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐎𝐈𝐑𝐒 𝐈𝐓 𝐊𝐄𝐄𝐏𝐒 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐈𝐓𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐅

( look, i want to love this world as though it's the last chance i'm ever going to get to be alive & know it. )

chara : viktor fandom : arcane quote cr : mary oliver ; darren hayes - a conversation with god

i. & they’ll tell you that love is a beautiful thing, that the poets sang of it in days past, that it filled the vacancies of your heart and made it to be something more than survival.

they won’t tell you that love is a double-edged sword: visions sought through rose-tinted glasses, an overwhelming happiness and joy and everlasting serenity, a high that slowly settles itself into a quiet contentment -- and then the shattering of your heart, unsalvageable fragments lost and never found ( but they’ll tell you that you’ll survive this, anyway, because not everyone needs all of their heart to live ).

you think love is frightening. love is vulnerability, chaos, and solace all in one. it makes sense and it doesn’t-- it doesn’t, not until you feel it and not until you know it.

you think love is frightening, your heartbeat ringing wildly in your ears in the midst of the silence. viktor’s fingers trail down your cheek, his other hand over yours, steady and stable. warm.

he rests his forehead against yours. you think about how far you have come. how he could hardly look at you beforehand without sputtering a thousand excuses that he was busy or he had to run to the lab. you smile at the memory; he smiles at the sight of your peace.

you think love is frightening, but it is also beautiful.

ii. & they’ll tell you that death is a forgiving thing, that it can be a kindness, a mercy, an easing of the suffering, that it was okay and that you will come to terms with what will never be.

they won’t tell you what the truth is because they know it hurts. that death evokes selfishness, that it makes you desperate to hang onto the life of another, pray to a higher being or someone, anyone-- that the person you love stays with you for just a little bit longer. just a little bit. is that too much to ask for?

you think death is frightening, too. death is the end, the finale, the goodbye, the i love you, i will keep you with me until our next reunion.

you think death is frightening, so you try not to think about it too hard. viktor’s grip on your hand is weaker nowadays, you notice, your gaze shifting from the monitor to the paintings in the hospital room. this place haunts you, forewarns you that perhaps the end is coming, but it won’t be what you expect.

( loss is not always in death, after all. )

“it will not be much longer.” viktor tells you this, apologetic. as if this was his fault, as if he placed a burden on you through his existence. in his eyes there is a you can go home. i will understand. you should not stay with a dying man.

you squeeze his hand, notice how it trembles slightly.

you want to cry.

“that’s okay.” the words stumble out. your voice breaks, and maybe you are talking to yourself more than you are to him. “that’s okay, viktor. i’ll be with you the whole time.”

you think death is frightening, and it fills your existence with dread.

iii. & they’ll tell you that life is a wondrous thing, that it’s always worth the pain and the hurt because it’s worth it in the end, that everyone is meant for living and not just existing until the flames die down quietly.

they won’t tell you that it’s difficult to live. because suffering is not stagnant nor universal, because you won’t always experience another’s pain or understand it. you won’t realize what you have until you are about to lose it. you won't know of all the things you cherish until they fall between your fingertips and dissolve into nothing.

you think life is frightening. life is staying at viktor’s side at 3am, watching him unravel from the delusions of a horrific nightmare and waking up in full blown panic.

you think life is frightening because it reminds you over and over again that some things are not in your power-- that you could do everything in this godforsaken world and it wouldn’t matter. you realize this, your hands over viktor’s shaking ones.

“vik, it’s alright now. it’s okay.” your throat constricts, your chest tight with apprehension. maybe you are lying. “what’s wrong?”

and his eyes-- wondrous colors that have always been filled with warmth, lose their brightness just a little bit when he looks at you. his lips part, but he struggles to speak, and the words fail him.

( I WANT TO LIVE, I WANT TO LIVE. I WANT TO LIVE I WANT TO LIVE I WANT TO LIVE I WANT TO LIVE I WANT TO )

“i want to live.” he chokes out, and he repeats it like a mantra that cannot be unspoken in the little time he has left.

it hurts. it hurts to see him suffer, to see him fade in and out, and it hurts knowing you are helpless. you would do anything and everything for your loved one and you know he would reciprocate it all the same. but you are so powerless.

you can’t do anything. you are sorry. you are.

so you stay silent in resignation, hold him close, wipe his tears, and mourn with him until daybreak. ( because that’s all you can do, and maybe the guilt will eat you whole if the sorrow doesn't. but he’ll tell you that it’s more than enough, that you’ve always been more than enough. but that won’t make the guilt go away, will it? )

you think life is frightening, your dying lover finally asleep in your arms, and you think it is the cruelest of all.

#arcane #arcane x reader #viktor league of legends #viktor arcane #viktor x reader #im goign to punch myself in the face . goodnight . he makes me very sad and i am very fond of him .#also it's been so long since i've done repetition in themes like this ... my brain is foggy now #if u told me i was gnna write for a league character i would have simply ran .#.: writing

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