green_dreams: A green picture of a rainy city street at night in the rain. (green rain)
I am feeling odd tonight,
and cold. It was a warm night;
they liked my hair
--cold purple, warm purple, amethyst and plum--
better than I thought,
and it was good to listen,
and Sarah left me a spindle and a bag of fiber
I don't even know the name of.
It's not-white and faintly scratchy. A princess
would spin it into diamonds. Gold only comes from straw.

But I have
so many things to do, so many nearly done
and books begun
and cleaning undertaken
and rooms and jobs and plans and good intent
that I can feel them teetering above me
just one more
just one more
and they will come down and paralyze me in a pile.
The word is tsundoku. I think of time in terms of books.

and so tonight I will finish one step. Just one.
And go to sleep, and waken lighter in the morning
and feel the sillier for writing all this down
with line breaks studding it like beads
in an enthusiast's first clumsily assembled earrings.
green_dreams: (we're all mad here)
...I found it, I found it, I green-and-yellow found it.

There's a poem I read once in an old SFF anthology, years ago--at least a dozen--and I could never find it again, and wished I could. Posted about it here a couple of times (and am kinda proud to say that my quote from memory of the second stanza was off by one word, yay).

I found it today.
Cordelia's Song

The moon shines whitely; I shall take
My silk umbrella, lest the moon
Too warmly fall upon the lake
And cause my bridal flowers to swoon.

The sparrow’s sorrow is in vain,
And so does he his bridge forget.
I wed the long grass and the rain,
And seven sailors dripping wet.

And shall not you and shall not I
Keep tryst beside this silent stream,
Who thought that we should rather die
Than wed the peacock’s amber dream?

The moon shines whitely; I shall take
My silk umbrella, lest the moon
Too coldly fall upon the lake
And chill my bridal flowers too soon.

    - Vincent Starrett, published in 1938
It's from The King in Yellow, too, which I smiled to see. For which there is a wikia. I am well-pleased.
green_dreams: (OMG)
There was a poem I ran across a few years ago. Fairly short thing--I have an impression of eight lines or so--and I don't think it rhymed. It was a discussion of lovely colours, and how they weren't so lovely in the right (wrong?) context; the only line I can remember is something along the very loose lines of "And green is lovely, but not so lovely in a wound."

My Googling skills have failed me. Anyone?

ETA: Found! It's "Pathology of Colours" by Dannie Abse. Thanks, aurora_verde.
green_dreams: (TARDIS label)
Because, again and always, poetry came up. And it seemed worth it to toss one out.
Dylan Thomas, 'And Death Shall Have No Dominion' )
Don't know if it's my favourite, but it's up there.

(Anyone recognize where the title's from, without Googling? ;) )
green_dreams: Books, and coffee cup with "Happiness is a cup of coffee and a really good book" on the side. (clearer sad teddy in rain)
Apparently I've gotten *way* too used to waking up to let Sierra out.

Tired, and awake, and sicker of job applications than I could possibly have conceived. Also vaguely hungry, and thinking Whitman's "I Sing the Body Electric" is one of those poems that I suspect is vastly more referenced than read, and that is saddening.

Also cold.

Going to go have tea--something without caffeine--and hopefully then I can get back to sleep.


Nov. 27th, 2008 09:24 pm
green_dreams: (books and glasses)
So, quote-hunting for titles for a friend, and I found this;
I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.
- Pablo Neruda, "Sonnet XVII"
...I think I need to be looking up this author, now.
green_dreams: (lilac 25th may)

Death devours all lovely things:
Lesbia with her sparrow
Shares the darkness, — presently
Every bed is narrow.

Unremembered as old rain
Dries the sheer libation;
And the little petulant hand
Is an annotation.

After all, my erstwhile dear,
My no longer cherished,
Need we say it was not love,
Just because it perished?

- Edna St. Vincent Millay

For the sake of explicit clarity; no, I am not having relationship issues. Everybody relax.
green_dreams: Books, and coffee cup with "Happiness is a cup of coffee and a really good book" on the side. (Default)
Cooking up riddles.[1]

1. Answer is three words long, a small phrase which may seem nonsensical out of context (originally Biblical, although it shows up elsewhere, rarely).
You can first through my third, and my second is small.
My third's clear as air, and keeps open the wall.
In my first you drift under or hide from the sun.
My second is tiny. This clue has a pun.

You can first through my third, and my second is small.
My third's clear as air, and keeps open the wall.
In my first you drift under or hide from the sun.
My second is tiny. This rhyme has a pun.
My all would stretch crystalline under the sky;
An illusion of water, a trick to your eye.
2. Answer is one word.
I stand watching in wind and in sun and in rain,
Unmoving. Indifferent. And lacking a brain.
And brainless I guard there, and this may be why
My whole does my first, sends my second to sky.
I like doing these. They're trivial, but fun.
[1] There's a guessing game going over at [ profile] sinandsalvation; basically, if you guess the name of whatever's being riddled about, you (1) get the scent sent to you and (2) are expected to carry on the game. I'm just curious as to how well these riddles work for people who aren't familiar with the catalogue. I *think* they're pretty good--which is good, since the game is meant to be accessible to those not consumed by BPAL madness--but I'm curious.


Dec. 4th, 2007 03:51 pm
green_dreams: (Lilith photoshop)
It's been a very ragged sort of day. I always wonder how much the mood I'm in when I read something new affects my perception of it.
Only until this cigarette is ended,
A little moment at the end of all,
While on the floor the quiet ashes fall,
And in the firelight to a lance extended,
Bizarrely with the jazzing music blended,
The broken shadow dances on the wall,
I will permit my memory to recall
The vision of you, by all my dreams attended.

And then adieu, -farewell! -the dream is done.
Yours is a face of which I can forget
The colour and the features, every one,
The words not ever, and the smiles not yet;
But in your day this moment is the sun
Upon a hill, after the sun has set.

- Edna St-Vincent Millay
Past romance, jazz, and cigarettes. There's a dearth of sonnets on the subjects.

I should get new batteries for my camera. The pigeons have been abominably cute on the way to work the last couple of days.
green_dreams: (Oscar Wilde)
There is a poem.

I am pretty sure it is by Edna St. Vincent Millay, and am also pretty sure it is a sonnet.

The gist of it is "Yes, I slept with you--it doesn't mean I like you enough to spend time with you now that that's out of my system."


EDIT: Found! "I, Being Born A Woman and Distressed"
green_dreams: (nicodemus whateley)
Tossed up in response to lunchtime discussion. Am currently contemplating the degree to which IC poetry for a LARP relates to document creation--prop letters and seals, IC documents, that kind of fun stuff. (Apologies to those who see it twice.)

Yay, paper, in all its myriad forms.
IC poetry. )
Context. )
green_dreams: (lilac 25th may)
(I am being a *complete* lit geek right now. I understand if you would like to skip, although I am looking for suggestions, down at the bottom.)

He's such a gentle writer. The unquiet dead rising from their graves, horror blooming across the dead red sands of Mars for fine revenge, marriage turned to hate and murder, madness, lies, betrayal, lost youth, death--

--and the prose is warm and patient, and will be there when you finish. He writes stories where there's a sense of each moment standing alone, waiting, leading to the next but not falling away before it. Most things I read I want to see what will happen. With Bradbury's stories I just want to see. It's something I hardly ever find outside poetry, and never as consistently as I do in his work.

I was working through Quicker Than The Eye--and smiling over Gray's Anatomy Bar and Grill, owned by Dorian, before I was even a page into *that* story--and getting that odd sorrow/delight combination over Melville and Poe and Wilde in "Last Rites", and rereading "Free Dirt", which holds the single sweetest promise of animate dead I have ever met.

(Around this point, practicality shoved its foot in the door, dictating a break for dinner.)

After dinner, sitting around watching candles, possibly due to that whole attempting-to-find-a-location thing we were doing earlier, I asked John "Would 'And Death Shall Have No Dominion' be a little odd to read at a wedding?"

And he told me that no, it would be *very* odd to read at a wedding.

I can see his point, although I really do think it's a very uplifting poem. (Mind you, I think my perspective has been skewing slightly on occasion when it comes to the wedding. Like when I was wondering how the funeral home a few blocks south would react to being asked if they would rent the space. I mean really, they're set up to handle large social groups, they understand the potential gravitas of social rituals, they're easily accessible, they're all on one floor--


So I went and dug it up, so I could have more than just the lines
Though they sink through the sea they shall rise again;
Though lovers be lost love shall not;
And death shall have no dominion.
running through my head, and sat down and reread the poem.

And it's reminding me very much of another poem, by Sara Teasdale, "There will come Soft Rain". Which, incidentally, was featured in the Ray Bradbury short story "There Will Come Soft Rains", which bears the same relation to most post-apocalyptic settings as "Free Dirt" does to most zombie movies.


I'm hunting for other poems, or song lyrics, or short stories, with that same kind of sense--not Bradbury's, but the one from the poems. The idea that man is gone, and will die, and the end of things will come; and yet the world will continue, and death may be the end of it but is really fundamentally not that important. Like rain on bank holidays.

green_dreams: (maggie skull)
I do believe I'm getting old.

Boring knee pain. )

S'yeah. I'm waiting for my doctor's office to call back. I'm going to Victoria on Wednesday unless they say something like "My god, you've got knee cancer and we *absolutely* have to operate on Thursday! Knee cancer can only be excised by the dark of the moon!"[3], but it would be nice if she (or someone in her office) could take a look at that and possibly prescribe a brace[4] or anti-inflammatories or something before I go.

*sigh* I just want to go home, put my leg up, and curl up with a nice chunk of horror fiction.

In other news, my sister got a job (yay!), I'm pretty sure I didn't (but there will be another), and some of H.P. Lovecraft's poetry has this really catchy beat, like Poe. I think "The Bride of the Sea " is rapidly becoming my favourite. Grimjack is still entertaining, Katharine Dunn's Geek Love is engaging, the French rugby team (and guests) quietly blew my mind, and I still don't hate my job.
[1] During which I did not actually get coffee, but a jumbo pack of TicTacs. I've developed this weird fondness for them as a snack, which given how cheap they are and how many you get in a box is something I am simply not going to question.
[2] Of course, if I had indications that one of my *cats* had been having trouble putting their weight on one leg for a day and a half, I'd've been calling the vet by then.
[3] Actually, if they say *that*, I'm getting a second opinion. But you take my point.
[4] Although I think braces are over-the-counter, I am happy to take recommendations from health professionals.
green_dreams: Books, and coffee cup with "Happiness is a cup of coffee and a really good book" on the side. (Default)
It is National Poetry Day in Britain.

Since for the life of me nothing is coming to mind save Edwin Arlington Robinson's Richard Cory, I am instead posting a Martin Newell poem (courtesy of [ profile] tyrell, pointed out to me by [ profile] theweaselking).

In praise of poetry )

The line about "loitering with the other tarts" conjures up the image of poetry and English hanging out on a street corner somewhere, splitting a cigarette and gossiping about something tawdry but incredibly engaging. How he made someone cry the other day, perhaps, or what she heard French talking about in his sleep.
green_dreams: Books, and coffee cup with "Happiness is a cup of coffee and a really good book" on the side. (Default)
Reading Yeats is like standing in a wet winding sheet on a desolate moor with winter coming down through the sky, in the transition between numb immobility and the wind letting you feel you're alive by slicing you open to the core.

I wonder how much of the mediocre fiction I've read has been immesurably improved by the fact that the good writers and poets have gotten to my brain first and tramped it up into a state that better responds to evocation through words--how much writing works because I *want* it to work, because it's so good when it does.
green_dreams: Books, and coffee cup with "Happiness is a cup of coffee and a really good book" on the side. (Default)
'Tis now the very witching time of night,
When churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out
Contagion to this world: now could I drink hot blood,
And do such bitter business as the day
Would quake to look on.
...damn, I think my interest in Vampire and vampires just got resparked all over again.

Woke up forty minutes ago, and I can't be feeling this good after only four hours of sleep.

Got a FedEx package from Larry Elmore Productions. This would be very cool, except I already had one--I ordered a copy of the druid vs. necromancer litho--and have no idea why I have two. Will double-check my credit card to see if they charged twice and shipped twice, or what.

(Haven't opened it yet. Will be saving that for later, as an incentive to get stuff done.)

Need to bike down to South Keys. It'll be good to get out of the house. Even if it's decided to top 25'C for the first time all week (dammit, I was enjoying my lovely cool weather).


Jun. 24th, 2005 04:22 am
green_dreams: Books, and coffee cup with "Happiness is a cup of coffee and a really good book" on the side. (Default)
There's a type of candy called blue wires. Maybe six inches long, half the width of my finger, a thin blue-raspberry coating around a white-coconut core, like the stuff you can find in Licorice Allsorts.

I want some. Right now. The sort of "I'd get the bike out of the closet and bike the half-hour to South Keys if there was anyplace open down there that sold it" want that is just not being negotiable. Fortunately there are no inadequate substitutes in the house. It's a very specific want.

I looked up Richard Brautigan's "All Watched Over by Machines of Loving Grace", and found it suitably hyperlinked off a ?personal? site at the Department of Computer Science at the University of North Carolina at Asheville.

Why didn't anyone tell me there was poetry about the Internet? I mean, I don't think it's all that great--it seems too stuck in parallelling online to the physical world, a hunt for data, a landscape charred by flamewars, a world that's just a metaphor away from one you can walk around it. But the metaphors feel jammed in, forced to fit.

tangent )

It's that kind of disconnect. Shouldn't there be some way of seeing this other than as a physical land?

Sondheim's What Happens When Dreams Look at the World is interesting, though; still with the physical metaphors, but they seem more Dali/Never-Ending Story-esque, a more delirious world. More of a feeling of a setup fuelled by desire; and for all its practical value, I think that's what fuels most of the interaction and experience online. I want to see this. I want to show you this. I want to know this, find this. I want to know that someone's died in London seven minutes after it happened, I want to see what someone I've just run across had to say five years and two countries ago, I want to extract the original documented appearance of that lovely funny quote about English being as pure and pristine a language as a cribhouse whore.[2]

Ellis described a representation of the connections once as a blue rose opening, a diagram that added a point of light every time a connection was made spreading out, unfolding in a kind of brilliant blue glory as the world woke up and the data sank in. All mapped across someone's eye in a high-tech decoration for a contact lens. Because it's fun, it's fashionable, it might be useful but by damn it's mostly there for what you want and what you want are pretty things, distractions, connections.

Random four a.m. thoughts.
[1] "O embleer Frith! [...] And kill them, you say, and help ourselves to the great burrow? We shall help ourselves to a roof of bones, hung with shining wires! Help ourselves to misery and death!"
Fiver always rocked.
[2] Because she is. Lovely lady, wonderful tricks, but a damn thieving tramp who'll roll you and rifle your pockets for linguistic nonsense if you happen to walk by her in the street. Now I'm doing it with the physical-world metaphors. It's really hard to escape. I'm tempted to label it Jungian.
green_dreams: (lilac 25th may)
6 Currently Favourite Songs (in no particular order, and honestly, they'll probably change in a bit...)

1.) Axxis - Heaven in Black
2.) William Orbit - Samuel Barber's Adagio For Strings
3.) Johnny Cash - The Man Comes Around
4.) Duane Elms - Dawson's Christian
5.) Bruce Springsteen - Thunder Road
6.) The Pogues - Fairytale of New York

6 People I Want To Post Their List of 6 Favorite Songs

No. But... hrm...

New meme. )
green_dreams: Books, and coffee cup with "Happiness is a cup of coffee and a really good book" on the side. (Default)
Will you meet me in the middle?
Will you me meet me in the air?
Will you love me just a little,
Just enough to show you care?


Apparently, saith yet another quiz, I'm a generally unfuckwitted, liberal, disgustingly generous, relatively well adjusted human being.

Stupid time-eating quizzes. I'm such a cliché that they're never even far enough off to be funny.


Assorted quotes. )

Christ I'm tired.
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