sunnythesunflowersalmon - Tumblr blog

[sunnythesunflowersalmon]

Huntin’ mice n smokin cigars

(A DND character I made for a cowboy themed campaign!)

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I remember a lot of the repeated dreams I had as a child, and my favourite was one where I sat in a blue desert at night, staring at a house with the lights on listening to my family and loved ones inside.

I spent a lot of time considering the afterlife at that age, so when that tweet about death feeling like a kind childhood memory came around, I remembered the dream I had :)

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Sleeping maidens by sir Edward burnes-jones

(Except I drew it)

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I love poetry so much but sometimes the English language can do no better than ‘fuck off’

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I drew a little something for the Hiveworks micro comic summer~

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hey rose by son little, thank me later

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While Playing Hamlet at the National Theatre, Daniel Day-Lewis Leaves the Stage, Having Seen the Ghost of His Own Father

A poem for Sunday

Mairead Small Staid

He does not return: not to the evening’s performance,

where his understudy gains a standing ovation, & not

to the theater, where the treasonous stage is made

for turning one place into many, one person to another.

Ten men become an army, halved coconuts a cavalry;

the absence of vastness & sky is transformed

into vastness & sky: field, forest, cliff, sea, a castle

& its ramparts: What if it tempt you toward the flood, my lord …

And draw you into madness? Though each night he cried out, each night

no angels came, no ministers of grace to save the son

from the spotlight glare of grief. Day-Lewis later claimed his vision

less hallucination than a metaphor: To some extent, I probably saw my father’s ghost

every night. A metaphor, then: how he collapsed, his long body

his own again & folded into three parts, like a letter. Dear Father—

Dear Ghost—What is he doing here, in Elsinore? The planks

of the London stage grow cold beneath the actor’s face.

Haunt merely meant to frequent, until Shakespeare gave

the word to all the dead. They frequent us, a favorite pub

my head. And when my head is gone? Say, why is this?

Wherefore? What should we do? This too is more a metaphor,

& makes the grieving man a room to linger in

or leave. Poor ghost, dependent on a restless crowd’s imaginings.

How pale he glares! The seats grow stiff; the floodlights seem to fade.

The speeches spin out into air. Far below on the little stage, an actor falls

just as he might be meant to, but is not. And in the breath-held pause

before the castle vanishes entirely—the vastness narrowing, a roof

where there was sky—we struggle to recall the words just heard:

Hamlet, remember me—the line almost, if not quite, forgot.

[sunnythesunflowersalmon]

[sunnythesunflowersalmon]

I went to church

The other day

And thought,

Or more so remembered,

‘There is horror in mundanity’

I looked a polite smile

In the teeth

And thought,

Or more so remembered,

‘I am not welcome here’

[sunnythesunflowersalmon]

Bad habit

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(but only sometimes.)

[sunnythesunflowersalmon]

Page 3. A skeleton is present. The gray shading is mainly just to get the effect I want on this page. I don't really like it that much on the others.

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From a good day looking towards even better ones

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Not to sound like vulnerable or anything but when the violin wobbles the same way your lip did as a child when you were overwhelmed

And the rising of it feels like the burning in your throat when you try not to cry

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A poem composed during lunch praises the glory of salami