vanitashaze: A Weeping Angel in Amy's eye. (in the corner of your eye /)
THE HAND IN THE SPECIMEN JAR

This is an introduction to someone whose face you won’t recall.
This is goodbye without the rest of the body.
This is what stopped having a pulse.
This is a reason to go on living.
This is a specimen of loss. This is finders keepers.
This is Thursday when actually it's Monday.
This is coming home to a dog and one-third of the neighbor’s cat.
This is a departure from Rachmaninov.
This is possession.
This is letting go.


- Arlene Ang
vanitashaze: Mal looking through an elevator grate. (every lover is terrifying /)
WE ARE HARD ON EACH OTHER | Margaret Atwood

i.
We are hard on each other
and call it honesty,
choosing our jagged truths
with care and aiming them across
the neutral table.

The things we say are
true; it is our crooked
aims, our choices
turn them criminal.

ii.
Of course your lies
are more amusing:
you make them new each time.

Your truths, painful and boring
repeat themselves over & over
perhaps because you own
so few of them.

iii.
A truth should exist,
it should not be used
like this. If I love you

is that a fact or a weapon?


...Somewhere in this poem, there is an Eames/Arthur story desperately crying out to be written.
vanitashaze: Girl on a dark beach. (girl if you're a seascape i'll be a boat)
1. Insta!rec: Hanna Is Not a Boy's Name. Magnificently cute supernatural webcomic with fun characters, great art, an incredibly sweet burgeoning friendship between the title character and the narrator (who is a KIND-HEARTED ZOMBIE, OMG), and storylines that are not only amusing, but intriguing.

2. Bought Richard Siken's Crush. I'll let you all know how awesome it is after my heart starts beating again. (And, yeah. It's that good.)

3. Voice meme! Here's how it works: Comment with as many questions as you want, on pretty much any subject. And I'll answer it in a voice recording! Fun for you, and fun for me, 'cause I get to hear myself talk, which is a SURREAL experience. ♥ And now, answers!

For [profile] stubbel:

Question #1: How Did You Get Into Fandom?

Question #2: What Fandom Do You Love the Most?
vanitashaze: Ambiguous hands around a throat. (liminality of violence and tenderness /)
Before we get to the sex, I have a funny story to tell you guys. I think I first encountered fanpoetry about spring of 2008. Needless to say, I was completely blown away that someone - more than one person! - had the talent to actually write fanfiction in poetic form. Wouldn't that be cool if I could do that? I wondered, and then immediately thought: oh, don't be stupid. That'll never happen.

It's a good thing no one in authority listens to my predictions, that's for sure.

So: Supernatural free verse of the Dean/Castiel variety and a very definite R-rating. And yes, the title does refer to the sexual position. In fact... sex, death, eating, orgasm, implosion, possession, language, sixty-nineing - I think I hit them all. But non-squicking, unless you're freaked out by blowjobs.

Somewhat related but not addressed in the poem - as far as death goes, Cas is in a pretty unique place, isn't he? Because angels are (barring being murdered) immortal, and so I would think death would be an incredibly foreign concept to them - not just foreign, but weird, in a way that human death... isn't, as much as we'd like to think so. But Castiel died (and was then brought back); I wonder if this affected his perceptions of humans any? In many ways - powers, relationships, dying - I feel as if he's becoming more and more Anna's obverse, alike and yet not. But maybe that's just me.


69

Love is the natural oblivion for us, not death: / the finality of utter consumption, as planets / are eaten by their suns, a tongue transposed by fire / into a thousand-part harmony of gravity and rock. )
vanitashaze: Ambiguous hands around a throat. (liminality of violence and tenderness /)

[livejournal.com profile] gid_hanasheh!


Yeah, I love it a lot.
vanitashaze: Profile of Teyla. (we burn our boats each new year /)
ICE BOUND
Walter Bergen

Sky's gray sheet spreads icy rain.
Through the night we heard the branches cracking.
Now the bend with the bowed ache of apostrophes.
Backs to the window, sitting on the couch, we listen
as the radio announces the list of schools closed.

An hour earlier I inched my way along
the road, tires spinning toward the ditch.
Now I read aloud to a teenage daughter,
who tolerates my foolishness, my claim
that Lao Tzu traversed a more slippery world.

With two books open on my lap, one in my hand,
two on the floor, I'm surrounded by imperfect
translations: a gathering chaos; something
mysteriously formed; without beginning,
without end; formless and perfect.

She responds, Sure,
I knew that, so what? I persist:
that existed before the heavens and the earth;
before the universe was born. She's ready to go
upstairs and listen to the radio. I ask,

What was her face before her parents were born?
she answers, Nothing. I ask again.
She says it again. Where are the angels,
nights on humble knees, the psalms of faith,
the saints of daylight? She walks out of the room.

I'm surrounded by thin books.
How pointless to go anywhere on this day,
or maybe any other, but then
the time comes when there is
no other way but to stand firm on ice.
vanitashaze: Ruby. (what at the heart of your engine's rage?)
When you see this, post a poem on your journal.

Surfaces serve
their own purposes,
strive to remain
constant (all lives
want that). There is
a skin, not just on
peaches but on oceans
(note the telltale
slough of foam on beaches).
Sometimes it's loose,
as in the case
of cats: you feel how a
second life slides
under it. Sometimes it
fits. Take glass.
Sometimes it outlasts
its underside. Take reefs.
The private lives of surfaces
are innocent, not devious.
Take the one-dimensional
belief of enamel in itself,
the furious autonomy
of luster (crush a pearl -
it's powder), the whole
curious seamlessness
of how we're each surrounded
and what it doesn't teach.

-Kay Ryan, "Surfaces"
vanitashaze: Girl on a dark beach. (girl if you're a seascape i'll be a boat)
This isgetting freaky, my friends.

In other news, Yusef Komunkayaa - HAHA YES I SPELLED HIS NAME RIGHT FOR THE FIRST TIME IN WEEKS - rules my soul, especially with the advent of his most recent volume, Warhorses. Like his earlier Talking Dirty to the Gods - which dealt with divinity and spirituality - this themed collection deals with war, both Komunkayaa's own experiences in Vietnam and the more eternal archetypes, the outer war and the inner. I do not often say this about war poetry, but here is a collection that is utterly gorgeous, and it is raw, and primal. So many interesting thoughts here about violence, struggle, love, passion, fury, intensity, conflict - the list goes on and on. It's magnificent; I can't recommend it highly enough. It's got guts, ya'll. All of Warhorses is hot with blood.

'One worked his fingers into the black soil / & could feel a wing easing out of his scapula.' One of my favorites. Jacob and the angel. )

'Sweetheart, was I talking war in my sleep again?' The language of conflict. )

'Like a captivity story / that circles back, corralled / inside the brain - Indian braves / riding ponies into the sunset / with a white woman.' Race, war, Iraq, and why you need to think about these things. )
vanitashaze: Text: "Idiot: member of large, powerful tribe whose influence in human affairs has always been dominant & controlling." (rampant! rampant!)
I do not love you except because I love you
Pablo Neruda

"I do not love you except because I love you;
I go from loving to not loving you,
from waiting to not waiting for you
my heart moves from cold to fire.

I love you only because it's you the one I love;
I hate you deeply, and hating you
bend to you, and the measure of my changing love for you
is that I do not see you but love you blindly.

Maybe January light will consume
my heart with its cruel
ray, stealing my key to true calm.

In this part of the story I am the one who
dies, the only one, and I will die of love because I love you,
because I love you, Love, in fire and blood."

Why, hello there, Sam and Dean.

And in other news, snow - almost two feet of it - is amazing, but ice is not, and wine is fun, but livejournal's new pop-up ads are annoying.
vanitashaze: Girl on a dark beach. (girl if you're a seascape i'll be a boat)
Unlike short stories - with which I have severe problems with too little length - I have problems keeping poetry short. It's difficult, you know? On the one hand, I feel like there's more to what I want to say, or even when there isn't, that people won't get it, and on the other hand, I don't want to clutter. I want to write, as Hemingway said, one true sentence, over and over, but damn it, sometimes that one true sentence is just one. I don't know. I think it's perfect, and then I blink and it looks like a great start but just that, a prequel.

And yes, this was inspired by Supernatural, which - despite all the skeevy gender issues which I am not even TOUCHING right now, because, well, AGH - is really fascinating and addictive and not nearly as scary as I'd thought. I still can't watch the haunted house episode, though. Or the more recent one with the dead schoolboys. Apparently I am severely creeped out by pale children.



GOOD NEWS

"ויהי אור," said God,
and as it was written,
so it occurred.

fin.
vanitashaze: Girl on a dark beach. (Default)
Me at 4AM: OH MY GOD, A PENIS HAS BECOME MY OVERARCHING METAPHOR!

Yeah. It's pretty obvious where my mind has been lately (read: in the gutter. Why is it that every time I write it ends up awash with sexuality?) Oh, and I've been reading a lot of Kay Ryan and Margaret Atwood. Not that it necessarily shows.


AND ROT

Fix'd like a plan on his peculiar spot,
to draw nutrition, propagate...
- Alexander Pope


It is not a new desire
to remake oneself.
Narcissus did it when satyrs
were still kicking up clods of Grecan hillside,
carrying off maidens, eating olives.
"You must be born again": that was Jesus.

Rebirth is only one of many options.
Not very popular.
Who would choose to scrabble up the red interior
slope of their life, and then
be heaved out again, bloody with phlegm,
head as flat as a shovel? You didn't.
Once was enough.

Transformation, then; that is the way to go.
When Hyacinth was beheaded by a discus, Apollo
made a flower from his splattered blood. At first
it seems rude, but it was a loving metamorphosis.
Full-bodied, pink, thrusting upwards: this is what
the sun-god saw, looking on him, and recreated faithfully.
Such is the general rule for these processes.
When God created man, it was in his image.
Not of it. We too are pink, full, vertical.

By the time of your grandfathers Hyacinth's body
will become a machine; a compilation
of materials common to these
systems, calcium, iron, oil,
blood. Humanity will become
a conglomerate of joints and hinges.
Like recreation, this is not a new idea either.
Descartes wrote of an earthen machine
when health was still ruled by humors.
"Recharge your body": we've heard that too.
Draw out the cables, the electrical
grid, the plugs male and female,
the lubricant, and insert.

Deere plows thrust themselves
into the blunt shape of locomotives.
Blood creates a circuit of your running flesh.
You palm the pale salmon pill, fish oil
to lubricate your system, and swallow
down the pink crush of your throat.

None of this is a science;
only an approximation.



fin.
vanitashaze: Girl on a dark beach. (it's just been that kinda day /)
...But I was wrong! Grievously so! To wit: this hilarious Ovid poem, as (rather liberally) translated by Peter Green.

The Amores: Book One, Poem Three

Fair's fair now, Venus. This girl's got me hooked. All I'm asking from her
Is love - or at least some future hope for my own
Eternal devotion. No, even that's too much - hell, just let me love her!
(Listen, Venus: I've asked you so often now.)
Say yes, pet. I'd be your slave for years, for a lifetime.
Say yes - unswerving fidelity's my strong suit.
I may not have top-drawer connections, I can't produce blue-blooded
Ancestors to impress you, my father's plain middle-class,
And there aren't any squads of ploughmen to deal with my broad acres -
My parents are both pretty thrifty, and need to be.
What have I got on my side, then? Poetic genius, sweetheart,
Divine inspiration. And love. I'm yours to command -
Unswerving faithfulness, morals above suspicion
Naked simplicity, a born-to-the-purple blush.
I don't chase thousands of girls, I'm no sexual circus-rider;
Honestly, all I want is to look after you
Till death do us part, have the two of us living together
All my time, and know you'll cry for me when I'm gone.
Besides, when you give me yourself, what you'll be providing
Is creative material. My art will rise to the theme
And immortalise you. Look, why do you think we remember
The swan-upping of Leda, or Io's life as a cow,
Or poor virgin Europa whisked off overseas, clutching
That so-called bull by the - horn? Through poems, of course.
So you and I, love, will enjoy that same world-wide publicity,
And our names will be linked, forever, with the gods.


While I understand that the more academic translation is perhaps not quite as ribald, I quite prefer this one. People don't seem to understand poems in a historical context - witness the Canterbury Tales. It's hard to remember that most of the Classical poems we read today were written in a different language and then translated, into a language that barely resembles what we speak today; that the formality we associate with epic poems and "thee" and "thou" wasn't, at the time, particularly formal at all. I suppose I like this version of the Ovid poem because, had I been around in 20 or so BCE, this is pretty much how I would have understood it to be: a funny, light-hearted, occasionally rude ode to love, certainly not worth the pompousness it's given today.

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vanitashaze: Girl on a dark beach. (Default)
vanitashaze

April 2012

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