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Poem by Elora Dodd

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Here I am, Cassandra. And this is my city under ashes. And these are my prophet’s staff and ribbons. And this is my head full of doubts.

It’s true, I am triumphant. My prophetic words burn like fire in the sky. Only unacknowledged prophets are privy to such prospects. Only those who got off on the wrong foot, whose predictions turned to fact so quickly— it’s as if they’d never lived.

I remember it so clearly— how people, seeing me, would break off in midword. Laughter died. Lovers’ hands unclasped. Children ran to their mothers. I didn’t even know their short-lived names. And that song about a little green leaf— no one ever finished it near me.

I loved them. But I loved them haughtily. From heights beyond life. From the future. Where it’s always empty and nothing is easier than seeing death. I’m sorry that my voice was hard. Look down on yourselves from the stars, I cried, look down on yourselves from the stars. They heard me and lowered their eyes.

They lived within life. Pierced by that great wind. Condemned. Trapped from birth in departing bodies. But in them they bore a moist hope, a flame fuelled by its own flickering. They really knew what a moment means, oh any moment, any one at all before—

It turns out I was right. But nothing has come of it. And this is my robe, slightly singed. And this is my prophet’s junk. And this is my twisted face. A face that didn’t know it could be beautiful.

Soliloquy for Cassandra by Wisława Szymborska

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See some more poems by Loryn Brantz!

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“Tenochtitlan,” by Elisa Chavez.

Cortes’ men thought the Mexica’s floating city must be a dream: stone temples jutting from the water, voracious bright gardens and grand estates.

My sun-worshipping ancestors kept their gods close, heeded their rapt whispers. In their names, they built marvelous canals and walked on the waters.

It shouldn’t then surprise that artists have tried to recapture Tenochtitlan, brooding on the dream journals of Spaniards: they imagine her bright causeways, the lush gardens paving her streets like enchantments.

The Spanish, steely god-mongers that they were, knew well how to deal with enchantment: They burned Tenochtitlan to ash.

Leí que los Mexica ahogaban a mujeres de cercanos pueblos para apaciguar a la diosa de las lluvias. Su templo mayor tenía dos estantes de cráneos.

Mis antepasados que adoraban al sol mantenían a sus dioses cerca, escuchando a sus voces rapaces. En sus nombres, perpetraban maravillas y atrocidades.

No debe sorprender entonces que los pueblos a fuera de Tenochtitlan les daron la bienvenida a cualquiera que prometiera un final al sol cruel, las flores mentirosas, los aguas pavimentados con los huesos de tributas.

El dios de los Hispanos fue el oro, y él les mandó a quemar Tenochtitlan, enviándola para reunirse con las doncellas ahogadas.

Is this translation inaccurate? You bet! Miss Translated is a meditation on culture, identity, and the things that get lost in translation by Elisa Chavez. To support this project, check out my Patreon.

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"Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards." --Soren Kierkegaard

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Whereabouts do you live, roughly speaking, and what drew you to that place in particular?

I'm in Michigan, and that's as specifically as I will answer that question! We have really lethal lakes.

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“If you are a woman and dare to look within yourself, you are a Witch. You make your own rules. You are free and beautiful.” — Margot Adler

“I am a witch, by which I mean that I am somebody who believes that the Earth is sacred; and that women and women’s bodies are an expression of that sacred being.” — Starhawk

“A Witch seeks to control the forces within her/himself that make life possible in order to live wisely and well without harm to others and in harmony with Nature.”— The American Council of Witches

“A witch, first and foremost, is a woman in her power.” — Lisa Lister

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marie howe, in an interview with krista tippett of on being

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“Stories you read when you’re the right age never quite leave you. You may forget who wrote them or what the story was called. Sometimes you’ll forget precisely what happened, but if a story touches you it will stay with you, haunting the places in your mind that you rarely ever visit.”

— Neil Gaiman (M Is for Magic)

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“Every man who knows how to read has it in his power to magnify himself, to multiply the ways in which he exists, to make his life full, significant and interesting.”

— Aldous Huxley (via kurt-l-fahrenheit)

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““But having more freedom she only became more profoundly aware of the big want. She wanted so many things. She wanted to read great, beautiful books, and be rich with them; she wanted to see beautiful things, and have the joy of them for ever; she wanted to know big, free people; and there remained always the want she could put no name to? It was so difficult. There were so many things, so much to meet and surpass. And one never knew where one was going.””

— D.H. Lawrence (via suzywire)

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“When I have fears that I may cease to be Before my pen has glean’d my teeming brain, Before high-piled books, in charactery, Hold like rich garners the full ripen’d grain; When I behold, upon the night’s starr’d face, Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance, And think that I may never live to trace Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance; And when I feel, fair creature of an hour, That I shall never look upon thee more, Never have relish in the faery power Of unreflecting love;—then on the shore Of the wide world I stand alone, and think Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.”

— “When I Have Fears” by John Keats (via caoimhesophia)

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The Microscope

Maxine Kumin

Anton Leeuwenhoek was Dutch.

He sold pincushions, cloth, and such.

The waiting townsfolk fumed and fussed

As Anton's dry goods gathered dust.

He worked, instead of tending store,

At grinding special lenses for

A microscope. Some of the things

He looked at were:

mosquitoes' wings,

the hairs of sheep, the legs of lice,

the skin of people, dogs, and mice;

ox eyes, spiders' spinning gear,

fishes' scales, a little smear

of his own blood,

and best of all,

the unknown, busy, very small

bugs that swim and bump and hop

inside a simple water drop.

Impossible! Most Dutchmen said.

This Anton's crazy in the head.

We ought to ship him off to Spain.

He says he's seen a housefly's brain.

He says the water that we drink

Is full of bugs. He's mad, we think!

They called him dumkopf, which means dope.

That's how we got the microscope.

"Reflections on a Gift of Watermelon Pickle... And Other Modern Verse" - compiled by Stephen Dunning, Edward Lueders, and Hugh Smith

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The Emily Dickinson poem "I'm ceded --" can be read as a spiritual description of adult baptism, but also as a woman's declaration of autonomy. And I just realized tonight that it's also great as a trans AFAB person's coming out and changing their name.

I'm ceded--I've stopped being Theirs-- The name They dropped upon my face With water, in the country church Is finished using, now, And They can put it with my Dolls, My childhood, and the string of spools, I've finished threading--too--

Baptized, before, without the choice, But this time, consciously, of Grace-- Unto supremest name-- Called to my full--The Crescent dropped-- Existence's whole Arc, filled up, With one small Diadem.

My second Rank--too small the first-- Crowned--Crowing--on my Father's breast-- A half unconscious Queen-- But this time--Adequate--Erect, With Will to choose, or to reject, And I choose--just a Crown--

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"The World Is Too Much With Us" by William Wordsworth

The world is too much with us; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;— Little we see in Nature that is ours; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon; The winds that will be howling at all hours, And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers; For this, for everything, we are out of tune; It moves us not. Great God! I’d rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn.

(Translation: Our culture is obsessed with the material world and money rather than spiritual beliefs. We don't get the emotional thrill from nature that pagans did, because we're too busy with other things. The speaker wishes he could be a prechristian pagan rather than a modern person, so that when he sees nature he could feel the spiritual and sublime aspects of it the way people used to in centuries past.)

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"Recuerdo" by Edna St. Vincent Millay

We were very tired, we were very merry— We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry. It was bare and bright, and smelled like a stable— But we looked into a fire, we leaned across a table, We lay on a hill-top underneath the moon; And the whistles kept blowing, and the dawn came soon.

We were very tired, we were very merry— We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry; And you ate an apple, and I ate a pear, From a dozen of each we had bought somewhere; And the sky went wan, and the wind came cold, And the sun rose dripping, a bucketful of gold.

We were very tired, we were very merry, We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry. We hailed, “Good morrow, mother!” to a shawl-covered head, And bought a morning paper, which neither of us read; And she wept, “God bless you!” for the apples and pears And we gave her all our money but our subway fares.

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if you are a fan of the poem "what resembles the grave but isn't," you might be interested to know that the poet, anne boyer, resigned her position at the new york times magazine today, and her letter is worth reading in its entirety.