#Calling All Young Poets: Come Write a Poem

[arrr-im-a-dead-poet]

tyty!! NEEEEED keatcanons!!!!!! (everyone within a 3 mile radius gasps in shock at mona requesting to write abt keating, children cry, women faint, cars crash, etc)

Mona! I’m finally starting on these today! This got pretty long but here you go!

Mr. Keating Headcanons

We all know his favorite poet is Uncle Walt. But what about John Keats? I mean come on, it’s too close to be a coincidence. Perhaps he changed his name when he was young, but tweaked it a bit so that people might not make the connection.

A famous quote by John Keats: “ The poetry of earth is never dead.” Dead Poets anyone? Also, the dead poets would meet outdoors, literally inside the poetry of the Earth. Keating also said: “The name simply referred to the fact, that to join the organization, you had to be dead. Full membership required a lifetime of apprenticeship. The living were simply pledges. Alas, even I am still a lowly initiate.” Therefore, once you are truly a dead poet, you get to live on through the poetry of the Earth, and the words you’ve left behind for others.

He nicknames himself, to have more control over how people address him, probably because he didn’t like his original name to begin with. I imagine his past is full of trauma. So relating to the last point, they called him “Keats” when he was going to Welton, and “Captain” when he was a teacher.

When he went back to Welton to apply to teach there, Mr. Nolan remembered exactly who he was, and all the mischievous legends he had left behind. Keating had to bring up all the receipts and professionalism to prove that he wasn’t that little hell-raiser anymore. He lied.

Keating sees a lot of himself in Charlie, and sees how far Charlie could go down the wrong path, too far into an explosive mess. He wants to steer him away from that, save him from what he’s seen, what he’s lived, what he knows lies ahead from his own experience.

He knew how Todd felt about Neil. He could see it at the play, and when Todd recited his poem, too. Watching Todd watch Neil acting his heart out made Keating’s heart swell, because it was the first time he’d seen Todd be genuinely happy with no anxiety, and the first time he’d seen Neil be truly free.

When he broke the poet out of Todd’s shell in his spoken poem, he knew he was pushing him. He knew Todd would not like it, but he also knew Todd needed a push in the right direction. He knew he needed to know that his words meant something, that they were not worthless and embarrassing. And he was right. Todd gained more confidence after that.

He struggles with depression and suicidal ideation. That’s why he’s the spirit of fun and freedom and laughter. He doesn’t want anyone to have to feel that way. He sees it all over Neil even when he tries to hide it. He knew when Neil left with his father that he wasn’t going to make it through that. He wants to save him so badly that he barely hears Charlie ask if they could walk back after the play.

When Neil asked why he came back there to teach, he knew Neil wouldn’t understand because Neil was feeling so stuck there, but he had always had it in his head to change Welton after growing up there. He got his foot in the door and started a revolution within his students, all for the greater good.

If he could have, he would have taught there for years, until Mr. Nolan retired, and then swiftly took over that position. It would have been his life’s mission to run that place like it should have been, no paddling, no constant demerits, just a place full of creativity, inclusion, and bright young minds. The 1970s would have blossomed there.

[calisources]

𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑻𝑼𝑫𝑶𝑹𝑺. all sentences have been taken from the showtime drama, the tudors. change names, locations, pronouns as you see fit. this is a redo of another meme.

“Without knowledge, life is not worth having.”

“I have come here to die. I die a Queen, but I would rather die the wife of Culpeper.”

“One day I shall lie beside you again, I promise and we shall sleep together for eternity.”

“Your Majesty's life is far too precious to be put at risk against such a common rabble.” 

“Of course, if you choose to go, you'd be like a lion among wolves.”

“My friend, if all ambassadors were beautiful women I'd be serving my country day and night.”

“You hate him like a scorpion. And why? Because he would not satisfy your ambition.”

“Diplomacy is nearly always settled by such proximity.”

“I call Mary my English mare, because I ride her so often.”

“You are a poet as I am a woman. Poets and women are always free with their hearts, are they not?”

“There's something deep and dangerous in you, Anne, those eyes of yours are like dark hooks for the soul.”

“As a humanist I share your opinion. As a King, I'm forced to disagree.”

“Though I love Your Majesty and I'm loyal to you, in every way, I cannot disguise my distress and unhappiness.”

"I should only ever tell the king what he ought to do, not what he could do. For if the lion knows his own strength, no man could control him."

"Blessed lady, Queen of Hearts, there will be even greater crowds than these to welcome you when you return to London."

"For every scholar that votes for you...I could find a thousand who would vote for me."

"You and I are both young, and with God's grace, boys will follow."

"You have no one to blame but yourself for this.”

“I was a true maid without touch of men. And whether or not it be true, I put it to your conscience.”

"Seduce me. Write letters to me. And poems, I love poems. Ravish me with your words. Seduce me."

"I have never known another man....and nor would I ever want to."

"If I had to choose between extreme sorrow and extreme happiness, I would always choose sorrow, for when you are happy you forget about spiritual things, you forget about God.But in your sorrow, He is always with you."

"Chastity? You talk to me about chastity when you have a mistress and two children, your Eminence."

“This, I vow, that my eyes desire you above all things.”

“As a humanist I have an abhorrence of war. It's an activity fit only for beasts yet practiced by no kind of beasts so constantly as by man.”

“What if the King doesn't know what's in his best interests?”

“If you want to keep the love of a prince, this is what you must do: You must be prepared to give him the thing you most care for, in all the world.”

“Lady Anne is so beautiful, it is the duty of every man to love her. Of course I loved her, but from a distance.”

“You treat me so unkindly and in public neglect me.”

“My only satisfaction is that in frustrating you I hasten your fall from the King's good graces, an outcome I desire above all others.”

“Mistress Boleyn, you should not abuse the Queen's honor with such language!”

“He was a lion in my defense. Now he will die ashamed and alone in a prison cell.”

“Then here's the truth. You must shut your eyes and endure  like your betters have done before you!”

“Don’t you know that I can drag you down as quickly as I raised you?”

“I am more convinced than ever that he is the agent of Satan. If I could, I would strip him from the King's side- and burn him.”

"I know of no Queen of England but my mother. And I will accept no Queen but my mother."

“If the King's mistress would intercede with him on my behalf, then I would be grateful."

"Lady, you must know how beloved you are to the people—as was your mother before you, God rest her soul."

“I'm a lot older than I was when I first knew you. And wiser.”

“have no heir. The Tudor Dynasty, all my father's work, finished, and it's MY fault!”

“He will tire of you, like all the others.”

“You know perfectly well what the King desires and what he shall have.”

“You can't have 3 people in a marriage!”

“I am surprised to receive such a request from such a wise and noble man as you.”

“ I am but a poor woman, lacking in both wit and understanding. How am I supposed to respond to such a request made to me out of the blue?”

“I know what you are trying to do, but do not think to take the King away from me. Let him play with you. Let him give you gifts. But he cannot give you his true heart.”

“I make you this promise. When we are married, I will deliver you a son.”

“I was wondering if you'd like to become my mistress.“

“The brat is now officially a bastard.”

“Everything will change for her. That kiss is her destiny and fortune.”

“People of England, your King is unharmed!”

“An important question, whether it is better for a king to be feared or loved.”

“I do imagine there are some at court who would like to see the Queen replaced.”

“Lady Bryan, if I cannot please the King, will he kill me?”

“For he who possesses the heir to the throne will very soon possess the throne itself.”

[kiyrian]

I love how Alan Wake II is so much more House of Leaves than the original was.

The theme of authorship, of authors being characters and characters being authors. Of echoes moving in time. Of mothers who try to ready their sons for the darkness.

And love. The love that doesn't save them but makes them push forward so they can save themselves.

For anyone ready to go on this journey with me, let's go.

So in House of Leaves, we have Johnny - our main character. He finds a book left behind by a recently deceased man. We get to read this book with Johnny adding his comments. Often those comments are stories from his own life. We get to learn how he feels observed and sometimes attacked by this dark presence. The book overtakes his life. He doesn't feel safe, he isolates himself from everyone. I see this part as what we can see in AW 1

It could be a simple story of being driven to madness by knowledge. Only Johnny admits that he is changing the original contents of the book. He outright says it with a not-that-important detail, but it makes us wonder - is he changing anything else? Are the parts that have been scratched out (!) done by Johnny or the previous owner of the book - Zampano. And here starts the journey explored in AW2.

But is Zampano even real? After all, Johnny also lies about the stories from his life (also a thing he admits to us). At the end of the book, we can read letters that Johnny's mother wrote to him when he was a teenager. He grew up with a foster family as his mom stayed in a mental hospital and his father died. His mom was hospitalized because of schizophrenia - in her letters, we can see her mental health fluctuating from better to worse, up until she commits suicide. During one of her episodes, she created a code she could use to communicate with her son without the hospital staff knowing. A code that can be also found in Zampano's book. There are other signs alluding to Johnny's mom in parts supposedly written by Zampano. So maybe it's not Zampano who is not real. Maybe it is Johnny. Maybe this is all written by a man who imagines someone finding his writing and commenting on it? Who created who?? An echo traveling back in time to change the future - a phone call from yourself that haven't happened yet. An author who writes a story with a poet in it. A poet who wrote poems about a boy who will come and continue his battle. A movie maker who may be a poet but isn't.

Johnny's mom tried to ready her son to face the world. She tried to show him the beauty of words, of reading and learning. She was always in his corner, ready to give him words of support to her best abilities. She told him the world may be hard but he is special and he will beat the odds. A mother that knows her son fears the dark so she gives him a light switch.

Okay. Fine. But what is actually Zampano's book about. A family of four moves into a new home - a photo journalist and his wife with their two young children. Only that this House is a little weird. It is bigger on the inside. Its hallway keeps on growing until a whole new area can be found. More and more dark corridors sprawl in this space that shouldn't be. Will Navidson - the photographer - travels through this space trying to document it. At a certain point, his wife takes their children and moves away. But Will is obsessed with this place - it is his journey to face his own demons. He feels so much guilt for only being there to photograph tragedies without helping people who suffered. (an analysis of his character could take another whole post). He goes deeper and deeper into the house, down a spiraling staircase, up until he fully loses a way out. He is stuck, no way out, waiting to die. Only... his wife hasn't given up on him. For all their problems (the house move was supposed to give their marriage a new chance) she still loves him. She creates a movie solely dedicated to the happy moments they've had together. She goes back to this haunted house and tries to find him. And just like that a way back for him opens. He crawls back from the darkness. His wife's love made her go back to face her own fears (she's feared the dark for a very long time). Husband and wife who struggle but still love each other. Who survive after facing the dark, facing their demons. Who pull themselves out of depths of despair. Wives who take time to memorize those happy moments since they know the men they love are more than their worst moments (more of AW AN moment).

I am doing a great disservice to House of Leaves (and AW2) by trying to sum it up in those few points so please, please read it if you haven't. But I want to show those points that I can see reflected in AW2. Besides, of course once again using Poe's song (sister of the author of House of Leaves who did an album accompanying the book. Haunted from that album was used in AW1). And the motif of Yggdrasil at the end of the book.

There are probably so many things I am forgetting. I need to reread this book. It's this time of the year again.

[april-is]

April 3, 2024: Positivity, D.A. Powell

Positivity D.A. Powell

“Anyway, it isn’t forever,” Chris said, “eventually you’re dead.” And we laughed

Besides, everything is better now. Not us but implants, blenders, children, heart attacks. There’s never been a better time to be alive than when you are. If you are. Black-throated blue warbler says chewchewchewchewchewww drawing the last chew out like a sucking drainpipe to say he has mated and is satisfied. Say what you will about that. His joy is uncontainable

and yet it has a form, a measure, to make it clear he’s not upset or feeling anxious. And if he’s bragging, well, it’s no shame to brag that you’re happy.

Honeybees cavorting on the goldenrod are working toward a common goal they’ll never see achieved. They lay down the walls of their cathedral of honeycomb and will not cope the spire, busy in the present task, trusting that the work continues. I’d like to write a children’s book called everybody dies. Upbeat, of course, and pragmatic. You only got so many days. Don’t think about death; when you’re ready, death will think about you. Go out tonight with your friends, like Chris, who went out big or not at all. Have a ball. Plan ahead.

--

Hear the poet read this aloud.

also by D.A. Powell (shared in year 1 of this project!): [this is what you love: more people. you remember]

More like this:

Overjoyed, Ada Limón

you can’t be a star in the sky without holy fire, Frank X. Gaspar

Today in:

2023: Picture This, Jiordan Castle 2022: Alba, Madeleine Cravens 2021: July, Cristin O'Keefe Aptowicz 2020: Poem Beginning With A Retweet, Maggie Smith 2019: Waiting for Happiness, Nomi Stone 2018: United, Naomi Shihab Nye 2017: If You Are Over Staying Woke, Morgan Parker 2016: High School Senior, Sharon Olds 2015: Dog in Bed, Joyce Sidman 2014: Persephone Writes to Her Mother, Tara Mae Mulroy 2013: Hook, James Wright 2012: How to Build an Owl, Kathleen Lynch 2011: Expecting, Kevin Young 2010: The Choir, Luke Kennard 2009: I Come Home Wanting To Touch Everyone, Stephen Dunn 2008: Visible World, Richard Siken 2007: Anywhere Else, Maggie Dietz 2006: After Work, Richard Jones 2005: The Sheep-Child, James Dickey

[kvetchlandia]

Poet Delmore Schwartz, New York City Uncredited and Undated Photograph

O Delmore how I miss you. You inspired me to write. You were the greatest man I ever met. You could capture the deepest emotions in the simplest language. Your titles were more than enough to raise the muse of fire on my neck. You were a genius. Doomed.

The mad stories. O Delmore I was so young. I believed so much. We gathered around you as you read Finnegans Wake. So hilarious but impenetrable without you. You said there were few things better in life than to devote oneself to Joyce. You’d annotated every word in the novels you kept from the library. Every word.

And you said you were writing “The Pig’s Valise.” O Delmore no such thing. They looked, after your final delusion led you to a heart attack in the Hotel Dixie. Unclaimed for three days. You—one of the greatest writers of our era. No valise.

You wore the letter from T.S. Eliot next to your heart. His praise of In Dreams. Would that you could have stopped that wedding. No good will come of this!!! You were right. You begged us—Please don’t let them bury me next to my mother. Have a party to celebrate moving from this world hopefully to a better one. And you Lou—I swear—and you know if anyone could I could—you Lou must never write for money or I will haunt you.

I’d given him a short story. He gave me a B. I was so hurt and ashamed. Why haunt talentless me? I was the walker for “The Heavy Bear Who Goes With Me.” To literary cocktails. He hated them. And I was put in charge. Some drinks later—his shirt undone—one tail front right hanging—tie skewed, fly unzipped. O Delmore. You were so beautiful. Named for a silent movie star dancer Frank Delmore. O Delmore—the scar from dueling with Nietzsche.

Reading Yeats and the bell had rung but the poem was not over you hadn’t finished reading—liquid rivulets sprang from your nose but still you would not stop reading. I was transfixed. I cried—the love of the word—the heavy bear.

You told us to break into __’s estate where your wife was being held prisoner. Your wrists broken by those who were your enemies. The pills jumbling your fine mind.

I met you in the bar where you had just ordered five drinks. You said they were so slow that by the time you had the fifth you should have ordered again. Our scotch classes. Vermouth. The jukebox you hated—the lyrics so pathetic.

You called the White House one night to protest their actions against you. A scholarship to your wife to get her away from you and into the arms of whomever in Europe.

I heard the newsboy crying Europe Europe.

Give me enough hope and I’ll hang myself.

Hamlet came from an old upper class family.

Some thought him drunk but—really—he was a manic-depressive—which is like having brown hair.

You have to take your own shower—an existential act. You could slip in the shower and die alone.

Hamlet starting saying strange things. A woman is like a cantaloupe Horatio—once she’s open she goes rotten.

O Delmore where was the Vaudeville for a Princess. A gift to the princess from the stage star in the dressing room.

The duchess stuck her finger up the duke’s ass and the kingdom vanished.

No good will come of this. Stop this courtship!

Sir you must be quiet or I must eject you.

Delmore understood it all and could write it down impeccably.

Shenandoah Fish*. You were too good to survive. The insights got you. The fame expectations. So you taught.

And I saw you in the last round.

I loved your wit and massive knowledge.

You were and have always been the one.

You can lead a horse to water but you can’t make him think.

I wanted to write. One line as good as yours. My mountain. My inspiration.

You wrote the greatest short story ever written. In Dreams

-- Lou Reed, "Oh Delmore How I Miss You" 2012

----

*Autobiographical Character in several Schwartz works

[gabessquishytum]

Did you know Oscar Wilde and Walt Whitman once spent an intimate evening together? Which makes me wild, if you'll pardon the pun, and also reminds me of Poet!Dream from Moorishflower's recent cowboy au.

My particular riff would be similar. Dream is a young poet on a speaking tour of the UK and the US espousing the ideals of a more bohemian lifestyle versus one grounded in reason and security. One should strive to see all of his dreams come true. He doesn't quite know what his tour exists partially to promote a rather scathing play based on him and his enclave back in London, but the seats fill themselves and he's getting a very nice pay. One such person who attends his talks is Hob.

Hob is not a young man anymore. He's spent the better part of his life working the trades and molding himself into being the sort of intellectual that he wants to be. He's entirely self-taught in most of his artistic matters and has only recently become a national sensation after a volume of poetry he has written about his life as a poor workman and of the intense friendships he's had with other men becomes a best seller. He thinks Dream is a little naive, but appreciates his fight for the arts.

They both happen to know the same literary agent and said agent gets them to correspond with each other. Both make horrible first impressions as Dream, who has never read a line Hob has written, basically stands in awe that someone without a formal education could be so good. Hob responds in kind that living a life focused solely on art must be heaven when he doesn't have to worry about paying his rent. They volley back and forth for a few weeks, trading well-humored insults and falling ever so closer in love than before. That is until Dream's speaking tour comes to an end and he must leave. Hob concedes then and invites him over for dinner.

At dinner, they drink wine and talk philosophy. Dream is much more humble in person than he is via correspondence. Hob also is much more learned than he comes across. Dream is actually in awe of him making the best of his life no matter the situation. Which Dream simply didn't think was possible. He places his hand on Hob's knee and one thing leads to another. About three months after he's returned to London, he reads a new poem from Hob that's just been published in a highly respected magazine and while it's titled "An Ode to Somnus", he knows it's about him his heart just soars.

- 🤜 Anon

This is a great AU, I absolutely love it. If you guys are interested in reading more about Oscar and Walt's romantic evening, there's a fantastic little article in The Toast which I'll link here.

Anyway, I can't stop thinking about Dream putting his hand on Hob’s knee. And Hob calling Dream a "great, splendid boy". God, yeah. Hob taking Dream into his lap and telling him that he's so pretty and clever. Dream pressing coy kisses to the edge of his mouth until Hob takes him properly in hand, slides rough fingers into his neatly combed hair, and kisses the soul out of him.

Dream lies in bed at home and luxuriates in the memory of Hob’s touch, and he has never been so happy. He takes a clipping from the magazine and presses it against his heart. The next time he writes to Hob, he leaves kiss marks stained with rouge on the paper. And he's already begging for another speaking tour - he already has so many new thoughts to present, about following one's dreams and the nature of love. And he wants very much to give Hob a private performance.

[sweetdreamsjeff]

The poetry that inspired Jeff Buckley

Aimee Ferrier

Sun 1 October 2023 21:15, UK

Voices as incredible as the one belonging to Jeff Buckley don’t come around too often. Unfortunately, after releasing one record, Grace, Buckley, with all his potential, was taken away too soon. At the age of 30, the singer went for a swim from which he never returned, drowning in the Mississippi River.

Yet, his legacy lives on as one of the most influential artists to emerge from the 1990s, and his music is widely celebrated today for its emotional and lyrical complexity. Not only did Buckley possess an otherworldly voice, but he was also an extremely gifted guitar player and writer, with all his talents combining to create a masterful body of work.

Even when Buckley was covering other artists’ songs, such as ‘Lilac Wine’, ‘The Other Woman’ and ‘Hallelujah’, he imbued the pieces with his own distinctive style. Yet, his penchant for covers wasn’t a reflection of an aversion to writing. Buckley knew how to pen a stunningly poetic track, with songs like ‘Lover, You Should’ve Come Over’ and ‘Morning Theft’ suggesting that even if Buckley didn’t have the vocal pipes he was gifted with, he’d get by just fine as a writer.

Buckley took inspiration from many different writers and musicians when writing his own songs. Musically, Buckley looked back to folk artists like Leonard Cohen, Bob Dylan and, of course, his own father, Tim Buckley, from whom he was estranged. Elsewhere, he loved the work of Pakistani singer Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, the rich tones of Nina Simone, and Led Zeppelin, calling Robert Plant “my man”.

However, when it came to his literary inspirations, Buckley had an extensive book collection, which he no doubt looked to for ideas when writing his lyrics. He owned a lot of poetry, with Rainer Maria Rilke proving to be a particular favourite. Not only did Buckley own Dunio Elegies, Rilke on Love and Other Difficulties: Translations and Considerations Poems from the Book of Hours, but he also owned his epistolary collection Letters to a Young Poet.

Buckley was also a fan of the classic American poet Walt Whitman, owning Leaves of Grass and From the Soil. Of course, no poetry collection is complete without copies of Arthur Rimbaud’s A Season in Hell and Illuminations, alongside some Charles Baudelaire – Buckley-owned Paris Spleen. The singer also owned the Selected Poems of confessional poet Anne Sexton and modernist writer T.S Eliot.

Check out Buckley’s complete poetry collection below.

The poetry that inspired Jeff Buckley:

Dunio Elegies – Rainer Maria Rilke

Poems from the Book of Hours – Rilke

Rilke on Love and Other Difficulties: Translations and Considerations – Rilke

Leaves of Grass – Walt Whitman

From This Soil – Whitman

The Odyssey – Homer

Early Work, 1970-1979 – Patti Smith

You Get So Alone at Times That it Just Makes Sense – Charles Bukowski

Selected Poems of Ezra Pound

The Complete Lyrics – Hank Williams

A Haiku Journey: Basho’s Narrow Road to a Far Province – Matsuo Basho

Paris Spleen – Charles Baudelaire

The Captain’s Verses – Pablo Neruda

Selected Poems – T.S. Eliot

A Season in Hell and Illuminations – Arthur Rimbaud

Writing and Drawings – Bob Dylan

Ode to Walt Whitman – Federico Garcia Lorca

New Poems: 1962 – Robert Graves

Fear of Dreaming: The Selected Poems – Jim Carroll

Selected Poems of Anne Sexton – Anne Sexton

Selected Poems – John Shaw Neilson

Selected Poems: Summer Knowledge – Demore Schwartz

The Collected Poems of Frank O’Hara – Frank O’Hara

Poems – Pier Paolo Pasolini

Space: And Other Poems – Eliot Katz

Tim Buckley Lyrics

[kluskinoodles]

PART 2!!!!!!!

Sorry this one is a bit shorter because I don’t really have that much stuff for these two but I’m open to ideas!!!! Warnings for underage drinking, child abuse, and period typical homophobia. But anyways, NEXT UP IS KYLE!!

He was born Kyle Leslie Jacob Fitzpatrick on July 24, 1938 in Buffalo, New York. Kyle was born to a family full of musical prodigies and as an only child. Kyle started to play the piano at a young age and by the time he was 8 he started playing the piano for the local church that his family went to (He was Christian). His mother was diagnosed with cancer when he was just 6 years old and she died a few months later. By the time he was 11, his father, who was a famous pianist and conductor, got invited to Rapture. Of course his father took the offer, left their faith, and by mid 1949 they traveled down. HIs father took him to shows so he could shadow him while he played. Kyle hates his middle name and changed it to Jacob when he was 14. It wasn’t til 1956 his father fell ill and also died (he doesn’t have great luck with parents). And that’s where Cohen came about, now that Kyle was vulnerable, Cohen could now persuade him to be his disciple. By early 1957, Kyle agreed and started working for Cohen (who has his eyes on him since he watched him play, NOT IN A CREEPY WAY. More like “I need that talent”). Kyle’s personality is a little difficult. He follows all Cohen’s orders, no matter how horrible they are. If Cohen tells him to stay, Kyle stays. If Cohen tells him to electrocute performers, he’s going to do it. The only order he did not follow was when Cohen told him his freckles were an eye sore and to go get fixed up like Cobb did. He didn’t do it but he did develop body image issues. He might be a bit chubby but at least Cohen hasn’t commented on that. Like the other of Cohen's disciples, Kyle has done drugs before, and he may or may not be a little bit addicted to cocaine. He says it helps him "focus", but the last time he did a line, he started running around, trying to pick his freckles off til he bled, and writing on the walls and floor of the Fleet Hall stage. Cohen did make him scrub it up. His relationship with the other three is weird. Him and Martin bitch at each other a bit but make up in the end. They just don’t see eye to eye sometimes especially when Kyle starts complaining and Martin tells him to shut the fuck up. Kyle and Silas is a bit complicated. Silas annoys the shit out of everyone, calling everyone pet names, all that jazz. But Kyle has a crush on Cobb, so for some reason he just CANNOT act normal around him. He’s always at least a bit flustered, but Kyle knows that Silas and Martin are jealous of him and the attention he is getting from Cohen. But Kyle would and WILL break Silas’ nose next time he tries touching him or basically flirting with him. Him and Hector are on neutral terms, Kyle is super worried about Hector’s drinking but the others say it’s fine and that he has been drinking for a while now, which worries Kyle even more. Kyle has never seen Hector sober before. Kyle and Cohen we all know their dynamic, Cohen takes advantage of him, yells at him, all that stuff. Then bro gets blown up, Cohen KYLE TRUSTED YOU AND YOU DO HIM LIKE THAT?????? 

Lastly, It’s our favorite alcoholic HECTOR!!

Hector Gutérrez Rodríguez was born on February 14, 1922 in Spain but moved to New Hampshire when he was 5 years old. Being the youngest of 4 kids, Hector did not have a good home life. Like at all, his father was verbally abusive, and his mother did not do anything to stop him from beating his siblings and him. He was inspired to be an author or a poet when he got older, or a playwright, he couldn’t decide. Hector started writing poems for his mom when he was just 7 years old, but his dad would tear them up and hit him for being a f-slur. His father called him “perverted” and a “peodophile” because he was gay. Like Martin, Hector was basically forced to come out when he was 17 when his father caught him with the boyfriend he had at the time. After that, he ran away from home and paid for a bus to New York. After a while of not finding work and sleeping on the streets, he turned to alcohol to cope with stress. And to make money, like Silas, he started selling his body for cash and a place to sleep. He met Cohen at a bar one night in 1940, and after he showed Cohen his writings, Cohen loved what he saw and took him in. He condensed his name down to just “Hector Rodriguez” losing the accent over the i so it would be more “americanized”. After a bit of working under Cohen (1943), Hector had stopped drinking and was a recovering alcoholic, it did take him a bit long to do because he was an addict but that’s okay. After Cohen went mad and started abusing his power, Hector turned back to the bottle and relapsed. Hector had a little bit of an anger problem but he was improving (BY DRINKING). His relationship with others has already been explained in the others explanations but I wanted to add one thing. He doesn't understand why Martin doesn’t know when people are flirting with him, but he’s probably just too drunk to care. He barely writes anymore, Cohen took all the creativity he had when he drove him to drink and took advantage of him. Hector is not really picky of what he drinks, but he really does miss real alcohol and not the water down stuff. EDIT: Hector is bilingual he speaks Spanish and English THE END!! Cohen when he sees an artist with daddy issues and struggles with sexual identity:

Part one here

@js-sexchange-surgeon-steinman @arsont-t Here's part two 😊 (sorry for tagging)

[igotanidea]

Inspiration: Matt Murdock x fem!writer!reader

request : poet reader who has a blind sister/father, so she publishes her poetry also in braille, she and Matt met in a park and he unknowingly became her muse. He doesn't know about it, that's until Karen takes him and Foggy to some poetry night and then the cat is out of the bag

Thank you for the request @somest1. <3

***

When the words does not fit in my mouth

I found a way to let them out

Without speaking out loud

Just barely above the whisper

Scribbling on paper

“Hi, Dad.” A young girl appeared in the door of the day center room, throwing her backpack on the couch and focusing solely on the person sitting by the table “How was your day?”

“Surprisingly busy” the man answered smiling widely “I’ve been reading your newest works. Good thing those come in Braille now. Otherwise you would be forced to spend all your days here and read it to me.”

 Y/N’s father started losing his sight when the girl was about 15, and three years later became fully blind. With Y/N’s mum gone and her being an only child all the duties and the care responsibility of her dad fell upon her. Those were dark times, when they were both struggling to keep afloat since the annuities were never enough for the expenses. The girl was studying and working, leaving her dad with the unhealthy amount of guilt that were to stay with him forever. However, one good thing came from all that situation. Y/N started writing. Poety, prose, all of it. It was her emotion outlet,  a way to escape the reality. Initially, she kept it a secret, but one day, her English teacher found the notebook she left on the desk, leaving school in haze  rushing home to take care of her dad. With the slight amount of guilt the lecturer read a few paragraphs of her work and got thunderstruck – this girl definitely had talent. The one he hasn’t seen for a long, long time and he made it his personal mission to help his student show it to the world. Knowing her family situation she could use help in the matter.

Next day, when Y/N got to school, tired, stressed and sleepy, much to her terror she was called to the teacher’s office.

“Mr. Thompson? You called for me?” she peeked through the door, concern on her face. She didn’t need trouble.

 “Y/N, yes, come on in please, we have something important to talk about.” The teacher pointed towards the chair in front of his desk and the girl sank in it.

“Did I do something wrong?”

“Wrong? Why would you think so?”

“I don’t know. I mean, I’m rather the quiet student. I try to keep a low profile so if you called me here that must mean I’m in trouble….”

“Oh my dear girl. It’s quite the opposite.” Y/N frowned not sure if she could trust the words coming out of her teacher’s mouth. “I think you left something in the class yesterday.” Thompson continued, reaching for her notebook.

“Oh….” She gasped, her eyes growing wide

“I hope you can forgive me, but I couldn’t help peeking inside …..”

“It’s fine.” She muttered retrieving her property and hugging it close to her chest. “Those are just stupid thoughts of a stupid person. A waste of time and paper.”

“Is that what you think?”

“Yes. I have a lot on my head and this graphomania keeps me sane. However crazy and pathetic this may sound.”

“I can’t believe it” Thompson shook his head “Listen to me, Y/N. This is really, really good. You don’t even realize the talent you have been blessed with.”

“Wha…. What?” she heard the words but somehow she lost the ability to understand the meaning behind them. “What are you talking about?”

“Take it from the person who read a lot in their life. Classic, modern, students’ essays, poems…. Some better and some worse. What you wrote has a huge potential. We may have to work on your grammar, punctuation and descriptions, but apart from that…. Y/N, have you ever considered becoming a writer?”

She did not. But she became one. Putting a lot of hard work into perfecting her creative workshop, improving metaphors and becoming lighter and more fluent with words. It came with a cost of rearranging her own life, making some ground rules for herself and her father and learning to accept help, but due to her persistency and ambition she finally published her first novel. It did not become a bestseller right away neither did it make her famous, but it helped her gather some much needed money to bounce back and cover some of the medical bills. A ray of sunshine she needed, a push towards her next novels  and the very first poetry book. Slowly, yet stubbornly she warmed her places into the heart of readers and started making real money. In her early twenties she had enough to provide her father with professional medical help and put him into special daycare with people who have been helping him during the day, while she was at work. Apart from her creative writing Y/N also had a job as a freelancer, writing for some magazines. She claimed it was giving her inspiration. Her dad was so proud and yet, so sad that because of his condition he was not able to get to know his daughter’s work. He was not a fan of audio recording, so after a while Y/N made it possible in her publishing company that every time her work came out, they made one personalized copy in Braille for her dad. And he loved the idea, using all of his free time to catch up on reading.  He was at the facility for a couple years now, becoming everyone’s favorite patient.

“You know I’m just a call away if you need your own lector, dad” she smiled, grabbing his hand. “I am never too busy for you.”

“Nah. I would never bother you with it. You gave up so much for me when you were a teenager. And now, you build a life for yourself, you should enjoy it. However, I would be even happier if you had someone special in your life….”

“Dad!” she gasped

“What? Is it a crime to care about one’s daughter well-being? I know you are strong, but carrying the weight of the world on your shoulder alone is not good. You deserve someone who will care about you and love you. Not just your characters, even if they are relatable.”

“good thing I did not decide to write fantasy.” Y/N laughed. “Bet you wouldn’t like that.”

“I would love everything coming out of your stable, honey. Speaking of which, are you going to publish something new soon?”

“I don’t know…. “ she sighed “I’m struggling with afflatus lately. Which is bad since my agent is staging a reading night for my fans and without consulting me, promised them I would present something new. A start of a new novel, unpublished and highly involving. I could kill her for doing shit like this sometimes.”

“Seems like you like her.” Her dad smiled, knowing his daughter well enough.

“She keeps me on my feet, that’s for sure” Y/N shrugged “but now, I have like three weeks to produce a few chapters of new book and I’m getting nervous.”

“Maybe you should take a day off from work? From what I remember, a solitary walks in the park were always beneficial for your inspiration.”

“Yeah, maybe you’re right…. I mean, what do I have to lose, right? If nothing better at least I will have a free day away from the work mayhem.”

***

Next day she took her notebook and favorite pen, bough a giant and ridiculously expensive coffee and went for a walk. Just letting her thoughts flew though her freely, feeling the spring air and chirping birds, trying her best not to get frustrated.

“Come on….” She muttered aiming at her brain “work…”

Sighing deeply, she sank onto the bench, closing her eyes and rubbing her forehead.

“You mind if I sit here?” a deep, male voice came from above her and she nodded. “I need a verbal confirmation” he laughed lightly and those words made her look up, realizing her faux pas.

“Oh, shit. I’m sorry. I didn’t realize…..”

“It’s all right. It’s actually a bit relieving knowing not everyone notice my blindness as the first thing. So, may I …..?”

“Yes, please, of course. I was just leaving anyway.”

“Why? Did I startle you?” he asked

“I’m not easily intimidated” she smirked “Just a bit frustrated.”

“And why is that?”

“Lack of inspiration. By the way I’m Y/N.”

“Matt” he reached out and she shook his hand “nice to meet you. Inspiration, huh? So what, you are a journalist?”

“Sort of. What gave me away?”

“You have ink on your fingers. And your wrist is slightly swollen, a clear sign of writing too much on the computer keyboard. And I heard rustling of the pages in the notebook. So, clear conclusion.”

“Oh, wow. Are you sure you’re blind or is that only a way to get girls interested and entice her to your house?”

“You got sharp tongue. Definitely a journalist. My friend, Karen is quite similar.” he grinned “I can assure you, I’m not a creep. I am blind, it just comes with heightened other senses.”

“Let’s say I believe you. I mean, my father is sightless too and his hearing is just incredible. But now let me guess, you are a detective, right? With such perceptive skills I can’t see you doing anything else.”

 “Close enough. I do a lot of detective work.”

“Really?”

“You wanna hear about it?”

***

Both of them believed this was a one-time accidental meeting and they would never see each other again. However, living in the same city, even big, led to another and another and another. Y/N never looked for Matt, never searched his law firm or stalk him on the Internet and Matt did not search for her name in the magazines. They were just meeting in the part occasionally, even if those occasions were more and more often. They just felt good in each other’s company. Simple as it was. What Matt didn’t realize was that those meetings where somewhat helpful in the light of her upcoming reading.

***

“Matt! Foggy!” Karen burst through the door to the office “have you ever heard of Y/N Y/L/N?”

“The writer?” Foggy muttered “meet my ear. Why?”

“Met your ear? Huh. She’s really talented and a lot of people try to reach to her but she just avoids interviews like a plague.”

“Seems like a reasonable person” Matt muttered, not connecting the dots. He knew Y/N, but not her last name and the fact that she was a journalist just slipped his mind.

“She has a author’s evening today and I was wondering that maybe I could get her to talk…..”

“Why do I have the feeling like you will force us to join you?” Foggy groaned

“Cause I will.”

***

Y/N was pacing nervously watching more and more people gather around at the meeting. Up to this point she didn’t realize how many fans she actually had and it sort of freaked her out.

“I hate you.” She mumbled towards her glowing agent “I hate you, Abby. You’re gonna put me in my grave. Or cause all my hair to go grey at my 20s.”

“Stop it. You’re gonna love it. These people here? They came because they love you.”

“Noooo. Correction. They love my work.”

“You are your work.”

“But…..”

“No buts…. It’s time.” She pushed Y/N towards the stage and followed right after her “Ladies and gentlemen! Welcome at the very first reading by Y/N Y/L/N!” the crowd cheered and Y/N blushed heavily “Are you excited?!”

“Will you calm down, Abs?” Y/N hissed through her smile “this is not a carnival and I am not a movie star.”

“You are a writing star, honey. Deal with it.”

***

“There she is” Karen smiled wildly and made her way through the crowd, getting closer to the stage.

“Remind me, why we agreed to that?” Foggy mumbled to Matt

“We didn’t. But she’s our friend.”

“A friend who forced us to join.”

“What were you expecting. It’s Karen. Besides, maybe we should catch up with some other kind of writing then statutes and cases?”

“Since when are you fond of prose? Does it have anything to do with that mysterious journalist you have been meeting?”

“I don’t meet her. I happen to cross paths with her from time to time.”

“Yeah, right, whatever you say, Murdock. Whatever you say.”

***

Life is funny.

Sometimes the most important and life changing events happen when you least expect them only because you were in the right place in the right time. Like when you meet a stranger in the park. A stranger who makes you change your view on so many things. Who, despite the fact that you only know his name, and truly cannot be sure if it’s the real one, becomes someone you dare calling a friend.

At some point I found myself waiting for those little meetings. He didn’t know it, but I was walking through that park way too often, wondering if people would consider me crazy for visiting it so often. I couldn’t care less tough. I just wanted to see him.

“Um, Matt?” Foggy whispered turning towards his friend who’s face suddenly became pale “Is there something you want to tell me about?”

“Shit!” Murdock hissed

“Why is she describing the way you have been acting for the last three weeks in a fem perspective?”

“She might be the journalist I told you about…..”

“Wait, what? You didn’t know her name?!”

“I did. Just not the last name!”

“God, Matt. How could you not connect the facts when Karen mentioned the reading by the writer Y/N Y/L/N?”

“I don’t know, all right!”

“You can’t lie to me, my friend.” Foggy patted Matt’s shoulder. “She’s cute and I know you can sense it even without your sight.”

“Stop it, Foggy. She is just making fun out of me there.”

“Is she really?”

***

After two hours Y/N felt like she would never say another word in her life and there was still Q&A session coming up. Thank god, Abby realized what was happening and run onto the stage (almost tripping over her own feet due to the enthusiasm) announcing that Y/N would be only answering a couple of questions because of the lack of time.

“Where you describing real-life events there?” Karen used the opportunity “I mean is the park where the action is placed the park in Hell’s kitchen or is it purely fiction?”

“It’s a mix, actually. Some of those meetings happened in real life. The rest, the rest that you don’t know about is just a variation of possibilities.”

“So, the main male character was based on someone you know?” Karen insisted

“A bit. It was just a nice guy I met. Smart and kind. I think I can call him a friend, but possibly I’m just another unimportant girl to him.”

“I would beg to differ” at this point, the blonde girl knew who Y/N was writing about as much as Foggy and Matt.

***

“Y/N?”

“Yes?” she turned around and her eyes grew wide “Oh… it’s you.”

“So, you are a writer. The writer, apparently. “

“Don’t be angry” she started

“I’m not.”

“No?”

“No. If anything, I would like to know how the rest of the story plays out. Did your characters end up together?”

“I…. I don’t know yet. The book is not finished and …..” she stuttered

“Is it because you lack inspiration?” Matt asked referring to their first conversation from weeks ago.

“Maybe a bit” she smiled “I’m Y/N. Y/N Y/L/N. I’m a writer.”

“Nice to meet you. I’m Matt. Matt Murdock. I’m a lawyer.”

 “So much of a detective work, huh?” she smirked

“Detective –like. I told you. But I know a few things about copyright if you need any advice and want to discuss it.”

“Is it your way to seduce girls?” she narrowed her eyes.

“At this point, only one.” He answered making her blush a bit “So? What’s it gonna be?”

“Let’s taste your knowledge Mr. Murdock. You already know what type of coffee I like, counsellor.”

@pinksirensong

[thedecadenceofwar]

The Kiss of the Muse: Young Royals. A meta.

Alright. So I was rewatching young royals (stream young royals lets make season 3 happen) and I noticed at the end of episode one, Wille is doing his homework! (Good for him!) And his book is open on this page:

Oh, what an interesting painting, I thought. And then I thought, it’s Young Royals; nothing is by accident. So I went searching for this painting, and I found it. It’s by Cézanne, and it’s called The Kiss of the Muse.

The wonderfully informative cezannepaintings.com had this to say:

The Kiss of the Poet shows a poet who is experiencing difficulty in his writing process. Although the scene doesn't include a writing implement, a piece of paper is resting on the desk. It appears as if the poet was in the middle of creating a poem and got stuck. Exasperation is written all over his face. His entire form screams of a man tired of what he is doing. Dream of a Poet is an apt alternate title for the painting because it describes this scene perfectly. The poet and his eyes closed so the muse on his shoulders could be part of a dream.

Pretty sure they meant Kiss of the Muse at the beginning (whatever, errors happen) but one of the things I want to point out is that the ALTERNATE title for this painting is Dream of a Poet. In this essay I will -

talk about how both titles are symbolic for Wille and Simon, and how they are both the poet and the muse in this painting.

Disclaimer: I don’t have a degree in art history. I don’t know anything. Feel free to disagree with me entirely. Enjoy!

Simon as the Poet; Kiss of the Muse.

Immediately before this scene in Wille’s bedroom takes place is the first time Simon sets a boundary before Wilhelm. I’ve been thinking about you all break, he said, but it’s nice to have some space. You can see in that interaction how exhausted Simon is, how he’s entirely fed up with Wille not being able to understand where he’s coming from.

(Apologies for my godawful Netflix screenshots.)

While Simon might be faced away from his muse, clearly sick of this mental block, Wille is always behind him, always with him. The poet’s muse inspires him to write, just as Wille inspires Simon to write the new Hillerska song. But at this point, Simon has not yet begun; the artist in the painting notably does not have a pen or quill.

It speaks as well I think to Wille’s constant presence in Simon’s life. The poet has given up on his poem. He’s sick of throwing himself at the wall and never being able to get through. And Simon constantly tries to take back his agency; through Marcus, through the Hillerska song, through the boundaries he sets with Wilhelm. But it’s never enough. Wille is constantly with him. The muse stands behind the poet; he cannot see her, but he can feel her presence. Dream of a Poet (the alternate title) implies that he wishes she was there, that he yearns for her constantly and the creative impulses she brings, but he cannot access them.

I feel ascribing the poet to Simon is a fairly obvious comparison; two creators, both feeling stuck and art-blocked. Simon as poet and Wille as muse represents Simon’s artistic and emotional journey through the season; he tries to look the other way, but Wille is always drawing him in, constantly with him.

And oh, the kiss. Simon cannot sing his song without Wille there. The muse is vital for the art.

In episode 4, when Simon realizes Wille has left the ball, he goes in search of him. Wille, the song is about you. He needed Wille to be there, to hear him sing those words because without him there the full impact of the premier is lost. What would happen if the muse left the poet? The kiss must happen. Wille must be present for the song.

Simon goes searching for him because he knows this. If Wille is not present to hear it, the point of Simon writing it is lost. He may not have known it until Wille threatened to leave, but he knows it when he goes after him. He seeks the kiss of the muse. Once he receives it, he is free to make his art again.

Wille as the poet; Dream of the Poet.

Speaking of that kiss. I’m sure we’re all aware at this point that the music that plays during this kiss plays during Wille’s dream at the very beginning of the season. He’s dreamed of this moment for so long, this kiss, and to finally receive it is such ecstasy he’s speechless.

(Look at that queer fucking joy. My god. I nearly cried.)

But I digress. We must return to the point at which he flips the book to the painting. Then we return to Wilhelm’s dream.

So, where is Wille coming from at the moment this painting appears? He is certainly under extreme duress. I would compare him to Cézanne at this moment:

Here, the defeated demeanour of the poet could represent how Cézanne faired during his early days as an artist. It looks as if he has lost hope until a muse bestows inspiration. It took a while for the French painter to gain recognition for his talent and maybe a muse of inspiration had something to do with it.

So Cézanne, like Wille, like the poet, was stuck in a cycle where he was doing his best, trying his hardest at something, and still nothing came of it. Wille is terrified of being crown prince – it affects him so physically he vomits simply at the thought of speaking in front of others. He is fighting as hard as he can but the forces surrounding him are far too big for him to ever prevail against them.

Time and time again, he tries to reason. He tries to threaten. He begs. And always, nothing real comes from it. He gets to stay at Hillerska, he gets his bodyguards moved. He still has to make the speech. Still Crown Prince. Still forced into a role he doesn’t want. With Wille as the poet, the block is less creative and more literal. He wants to be able to do what he wants, to be who he is, but he’s not allowed to be. And he’s allowing this to happen to himself. He begins to mold himself into the shape of the Crown Prince.

But for the dream. The dream of a kiss of inspiration. The one thing driving Wille up until this point (at the ball) is this dream that he can, somehow, win Simon over. His whole motivation is to get Simon back – the means may be questionable at times, but it’s undeniable that Simon IS the force behind Wille’s actions. His muse.

Similarly to Simon, it’s not always necessarily a good thing. In the end, Simon inspires Wille to come out on his terms, but up until the ball, where Wille first tries to let go, what he inspires is a relatively selfish feeling in Wille, the I want of winning Simon back. Likewise, Wille as Simon’s muse almost hangs over his shoulder in every interaction, causing guilt and anger and helplessness. It’s the kiss that changes everything.

Wille dreams of being free. Simon is stuck behind an emotional block. The kiss of these two poets’ respective muses represents the freeing of both of their blocks. Wille’s dream becomes a reality; Simon is able to perform his song. Moving forward, as inspirations for the other they become better versions of themselves as they push away the mental, physical, emotional, and creative blocks that kept them away from each other.

Paul Cézanne’s The Kiss of the Muse, also entitled Dream of the Poet is representative of both Wille and Simon in both roles of the painting, as muse and poet. Both act as inspirations to help the other overcome some kind of block, and one quick flip to a page showing this painting in Wille’s textbook acts as foreshadowing for the entire rest of the season.

[obey-me-disaster]

Descend to me, my Morning Star (Part 1)

A/N: This is basically an AU heavly inspired by the Luceafăr poem! I should be studying it for exams but it just reminds me so much of Lucifer that I had to write it..

Synopsis: MC is part of a royal family while Lucifer is the star they call on each night so they could be together. But one is mortal stuck to earth while the other belongs to the sky, how will they manage to make their relationship last? Especially when the royal magician keeps pursuing MC?

Lucifer x gn!MC x Solomon(eventually..)

There was once upon a time

Like it was never before

Born from a powerful king and a beautiful queen

A human like no other.

They got both the power and the beauty of their parents and were beloved by others.

But even with all of that, they seemed oh so distant. Their eyes always looking at the sky, like they were waiting for someone to come.

This is the story of a royal heir that fell for an angel, a star. But could they transcend their human nature and live their happy ever after, or will they find their happiness in someone else and remain mortal?

MC shivered as the breeze of the night hit their skin. Their nightwear was thin, not ment to protect from the cold of the night. It was made so it wouldn't bother the young royal's sleep, something they should be doing at that hour.

But instead, they were staring expectedly, looking at the stars. Out of all of them, one was shining the brightest, the Morning star. From dawn to even past sunrise, if one looked at the sky they could see it, but only during the night, its light was the brightest.

It was often told, in human legends, passed through generations, that stars are actually the angels looking to protect humanity. Most would think those are only empty legends, stories to tell children and a subject for poets to write about. Few were those that knew how to call those angels down to earth, if only for a short time.

"Descend down here, my Morningstar, thou cast your light on me, and spend the night right here with me." Learned by heart, MC recited the charm that was thought to them by the star himself.

As the words left their mouth, the light in the room started to waver, a figure slowly appearing. At first it was only multiple pair of wings, shifting into one another. Their mind could never comprehend this form of his at this stage, that's why he always took the form of a human, more or less.

"Lucifer, you're finally here." MC ran and hugged him tightly, burying their face into the crook of his neck. At first glance he appeared human, but his cold red eye, his pale skin that seemed to radiate a soft light and his six wings were a dead give away.

"Why wouldn't I be here, my love, after all you were the one to call me." He returned their hug and wrapped all six of his wings around them, shielding them from the cold of the night.

For how intimidating his wings looks, they were extremely soft and warm to touch. Looking around Lucifer observed how they have already prepared tea and something to eat for his visit. Sighing, he kisses their head and goes to pour himself some tea. "You didn't have to prepare all of this for me, your body is already starting to feel the effects of losing sleep. You really shouldn't push yourself like that, you're only human after all."

MC rolled their eyes but couldn't help the smile on their face at his worry. "You worry too much. At this rate I might have to start calling you the Anxiety star instead of Morning star." Lucifer shook his head at their attempt of a joke but if MC looked closer, they would see the corner of his mouth twitch up.

"You're just as reckless and with no regards of the rules as my younger brothers, you truly would get along with them.." At the mention of his brothers, MC's ears perked up. Lucifer rarely spoke of his home. At most, he would tell some stories about his brothers or complain about work passed on by Michael, but even then, he was sure to keep things vague.

Most of their nights were focused on MC and how he could make them feel good. All his attention was on them. Most of the time, his touch was more than welcomed, his embrace always made them feel safe. But there were some times were his touch would serve as a reminder that he was not mortal. MC couldn't always describe this feeling, after all, humans didn't have it in their vocabulary to describe the touch of beings beyond their comprehension.

As much as they have both tried, the disconnection that came from being fundamaetally different, would make its presence known at the worst time at possible.

"Say, Lucifer, what are your brothers like? You always talk with so much fondness about them, it's clear as day that they mean a lot to you." Seeing the pleading look on MC face, he couldn't bring himself to refuse them. It was an innocent enough request and it was natural that they were curious about his family.

"Where should I begin...all of them can be quite the headache to deal with, always running around doing whatever they want." Just thinking about all the trouble his younger brother can cause make his head hurt. "But they can also be nice, when they try..."

Hours passed, as he shared stories of his brothers. MC didn't really intervene outside of a few questions and jokes. As much as he claimed that his brothers were trouble makers, he did love them dearly. He would have probably went to talk about them even more if it weren't for MC nearly collapsing for exhaustion.

Despite their protest of not being tired he gently led them to their. "I've told you to take better care of yourself. You're body can only last with so many hours of sleep being lost." MC was too tired to actually argue and deep down, they knew he was right, so they complied with his request to go to sleep.

"Please stay with me a little more, until I fall asleep. I don't want to be alone just yet." MC grabbed the sleeve of his shirt and tried to tug him into bed with them. Giving a kiss on their forehead, he made himself comfortable into their bed. "I will be here to hold you until you drift off to sleep, so now hurry up and do it. You need all the sleep you can get."

MC mumbled some things he couldn't quite catch on as they fell asleep. Despite being so close to his loved one he couldn't relax. These meetings they keep on having can't go on. While to Lucifer it's not that hard to keep coming down on earth for their call, MC's body couldn't keep on going with sleepless nights and day dreams throughout the day.

They deserve to have an actual relationship, where they can be together as much as they want and not only on borrowed time. They both deserve that. To not have to hide and keep this whole affair a secret. At least on MC's part. All of Lucifer's brothers knew what was going on after one night they have decided to spy on him. His Father was also aware of his frequent visits to a certain human.

He was so caught up in his thoughts about how to resolve the situation, that he didn't realize that the night has passed and the sun's light was illuminating the room. Casting one last glance at his lover, he disappeared into the sky again, where he could think of a way to make their relationship be an actual thing, that didn't need to be hidden.

[dk-thrive]

This forgetting feels like treachery

Here is the most shameful thing I could confess: I forget about the land all the time. I forget about the sea. I forget about the stones stacked into houses, forget my grandparents and great-grandparents lived next to water. I forget about their sage, their za’atar, their olive trees. I forget about their sunsets. This is connected to a larger grief: I forget about land in general. I’ve spent my life in cities. I am American and Arab, but come from a long line of farmers and peasants and merchants – a great-grandfather who traveled the sea for textiles and garments, another who spent his life caretaking the earth, people who knew the land and water intimately, as recently as two generations ago.

This forgetting feels like treachery. When I finally do dream of Gaza, after weeks of nightmares about shrieking children, nightmares about debating talking heads, my dream-self drives down a road, finds a rooftop, kneels to touch water, with the same thought echoing: This is a place and I’m here...

What is the role of the diasporic witness? To remain steadfast in what she has seen, what she has understood and learned. To remain undistracted. I write a poem. I write another poem. I cut my hair. I watch a young child’s skin burn from white phosphorus. I spend my time on the L train clicking through headlines. I construct arguments that go nowhere. I give talks about endurance, about reorienting our thinking around care, about building our capacity to keep watching. Then I go to a holiday gathering and spend two hours trying to convince a woman why withholding water in Gaza is a war crime. Eventually, she acknowledges that this is terrible – if that is the case. I decide this scaffolded concession is the best I’ll get, and pretend to take a phone call.

— Hala Alyan, form "‘I am not there and I am not here’: a Palestinian American poet on bearing witness to atrocity" (The Guardian, January 28, 2024)

[kiki-de-la-petite-flaque]

He was called "filthy" because his skin was dark, unintelligible because he could barely speak English. When he arrived in this country, he was placed in a special class for immigrants. But, a few of his teachers saw something in the way he expressed himself, through his drawings, through his view of the world. He would soon master his new language.

His mother had made a difficult decision to take him, his two younger sisters and a half-brother to America, seeking a better life for their family. They settled in Boston's South End, at the time the second-largest Syrian-Lebanese-American community. The family would struggle and the young boy would lose one sister and his half-brother to tuberculosis. His mother would die of cancer.

He would write, “Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars.”

He was born in poverty on January 6, 1883 in what is now modern day Lebanon.

He believed in love, he believed in peace, and he believed in understanding.

His name was Kahlil Gibran, and he is primarily known for his book, "The Prophet." The book, published in 1923, would sell tens of millions of copies, making him the third best-selling poet of all time, behind Shakespeare and Laozi.

Published in 108 languages around the world, passages from "The Prophet" are quoted at weddings, in political speeches and at funerals, inspiring influential figures such as John F. Kennedy, Indira Gandhi, Elvis Presley, John Lennon, and David Bowie.

He was very outspoken, attacking hypocrisy and corruption. His books were burned in Beirut, and in America, he would receive death threats.

Gibran was the only member of his family to pursue scholastic education. His sisters were not allowed to enter school, primarily because of Middle Eastern traditions as well as financial difficulties. Gibran, however, was inspired by the strength of the women in his family, especially his mother. After one sister, his mother, and his half-brother died, his other sister, Mariana would support Gibran and herself by working at a dressmaker's shop.

Of his mother, he would write:

"The most beautiful word on the lips of mankind is the word 'Mother,' and the most beautiful call is the call of 'My mother.' It is a word full of hope and love, a sweet and kind word coming from the depths of the heart. The mother is everything – she is our consolation in sorrow, our hope in misery, and our strength in weakness. She is the source of love, mercy, sympathy, and forgiveness."

Gibran would later champion the cause of women’s emancipation and education.

He believed that “Safeguarding the rights of others is the most noble and beautiful end of a human being.”

In a poem to new immigrants, he would write, "I believe you can say to the founders of this great nation. 'Here I am. A youth. A young tree. Whose roots were plucked from the hills of Lebanon. Yet I am deeply rooted here. And I would be fruitful.'"

He would write in "The Prophet":

“Let there be spaces in your togetherness, And let the winds of the heavens dance between you. Love one another but make not a bond of love: Let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls. Fill each other's cup but drink not from one cup. Give one another of your bread but eat not from the same loaf. Sing and dance together and be joyous, but let each one of you be alone, Even as the strings of a lute are alone though they quiver with the same music. Give your hearts, but not into each other's keeping. For only the hand of Life can contain your hearts. And stand together, yet not too near together: For the pillars of the temple stand apart, And the oak tree and the cypress grow not in each other's shadow.”

[secondblooms]

He was called "filthy" because his skin was dark, unintelligible because he could barely speak English. When he arrived in this country, he was placed in a special class for immigrants. But, a few of his teachers saw something in the way he expressed himself, through his drawings, through his view of the world. He would soon master his new language.

His mother had made a difficult decision to take him, his two younger sisters and a half-brother to America, seeking a better life for their family. They settled in Boston's South End, at the time the second-largest Syrian-Lebanese-American community. The family would struggle and the young boy would lose one sister and his half-brother to tuberculosis. His mother would die of cancer.

He would write, “Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars.”

He was born in poverty on January 6, 1883 in what is now modern day Lebanon.

He believed in love, he believed in peace, and he believed in understanding.

His name was Kahlil Gibran, and he is primarily known for his book, "The Prophet." The book, published in 1923, would sell tens of millions of copies, making him the third best-selling poet of all time, behind Shakespeare and Laozi.

Published in 108 languages around the world, passages from "The Prophet" are quoted at weddings, in political speeches and at funerals, inspiring influential figures such as John F. Kennedy, Indira Gandhi, Elvis Presley, John Lennon, and David Bowie.

He was very outspoken, attacking hypocrisy and corruption. His books were burned in Beirut, and in America, he would receive death threats.

Gibran was the only member of his family to pursue scholastic education. His sisters were not allowed to enter school, primarily because of Middle Eastern traditions as well as financial difficulties. Gibran, however, was inspired by the strength of the women in his family, especially his mother. After one sister, his mother, and his half-brother died, his other sister, Mariana would support Gibran and herself by working at a dressmaker's shop.

Of his mother, he would write:

"The most beautiful word on the lips of mankind is the word 'Mother,' and the most beautiful call is the call of 'My mother.' It is a word full of hope and love, a sweet and kind word coming from the depths of the heart. The mother is everything – she is our consolation in sorrow, our hope in misery, and our strength in weakness. She is the source of love, mercy, sympathy, and forgiveness."

Gibran would later champion the cause of women’s emancipation and education.

He believed that “Safeguarding the rights of others is the most noble and beautiful end of a human being.”

In a poem to new immigrants, he would write, "I believe you can say to the founders of this great nation. 'Here I am. A youth. A young tree. Whose roots were plucked from the hills of Lebanon. Yet I am deeply rooted here. And I would be fruitful.'"

He would write in "The Prophet":

“Let there be spaces in your togetherness, And let the winds of the heavens dance between you. Love one another but make not a bond of love: Let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls. Fill each other's cup but drink not from one cup. Give one another of your bread but eat not from the same loaf. Sing and dance together and be joyous, but let each one of you be alone, Even as the strings of a lute are alone though they quiver with the same music. Give your hearts, but not into each other's keeping. For only the hand of Life can contain your hearts. And stand together, yet not too near together: For the pillars of the temple stand apart, And the oak tree and the cypress grow not in each other's shadow.”

○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○○

● THE PROPHET ●

Do not live half a life

and do not die a half death

If you choose silence, then be silent

When you speak, do so until you are finished

If you accept, then express it bluntly

Do not mask it

If you refuse then be clear about it

for an ambiguous refusal is but a weak acceptance

Do not accept half a solution

Do not believe half truths

Do not dream half a dream

Do not fantasize about half hopes

Half the way will get you no where

You are a whole that exists to live a life

not half a life. ~Khalil Gibran

(Book: The Prophet https://amzn.to/3SnIaZd )

[theprogrockbstheorist]

BS Analysis no. 2: The Parody of Thick as a Brick

“Really don’t mind if you sit this one out…”

This may be the most ambitious analysis I’ve done yet, which is going to be a breakdown and analysis of Jethro Tull’s 1972 album Thick as a Brick, notable in the prog community for being an entire album comprising of a singular song: the titular “Thick as a Brick”. This song is divided into two parts, however, the only reason for the split was due to the limitations of vinyl records: a singular side of vinyl can only hold around 20 minutes of music, therefore the song needed to be split in two. “Thick as a Brick” pt.1 and pt.2 are a combined 43 minutes in length, with the album package as well meant to be taken as part of the piece. To highlight the meticulous creation of the iconic newspaper album cover, the album's recording took less time than the cover!

The newspaper album cover is important because it relays the story of Gerald Bostock: a fictional 8-year-old child prodigy whose poem, “Thick as a Brick” was disqualified from winning an award due to being too abrasive and, according to the article on the album cover, “unwholesome”. Bostock’s character was made up by frontman and flutist Ian Anderson, who wrote the lyrics to the song in character, describing Bostock’s choices as a young man: either to become a soldier and go into the military like his father or to follow his own wishes and to become a poet. Already present is this sort of layered story of creating a character, writing from that character’s perspective, creating a newspaper article detailing the character's life, and including an article in the newspaper that claims that the band set Bostock’s poem to music. It’s honestly a bit convoluted, which may have been on purpose. 

The song itself criticizes British society, specifically that of the middle and upper classes, both satirizing the concept of being a proper gentleman that went into the military, and also being self-aware that poets, artists, and musicians can be too idealistic. The title of the song is essentially calling out the pretentiousness of supposed wisemen in society that assume they know everything with the lines, “So you ride yourselves over the fields/ And you make all your animal deals/ And your wise men don’t know how it feels/ To be thick as a brick”. These lines are in the song's first verse and are repeated at the very end, emphasizing the message and tying the whole piece together. It is interesting that the song deals so explicitly with class and one’s place in society, when prog rock itself primarily developed from people with middle-class British backgrounds, with a few exceptions, and that the main character is a prodigy, and several prog musicians have been called virtuosos at their instruments. This is especially notable since Ian Anderson has claimed in the past that the song is a self-aware parody of the genre, coming about after critics interpreted Aqualung as a concept album (which I’ll definitely share my opinions on at some point!). In response, he created Thick as a Brick. 

Now, what is notable about Thick as a Brick is that it is a relatively early development in the history of prog: it was released on January 7th, 1972, which was before: 

Foxtrot by Genesis (released in the spring of 1972)

Close to the Edge by Yes (released in the summer of 1972)

Trilogy by ELP (released in the summer of 1972)

Dark Side of the Moon by Pink Floyd (released the winter of 1973)

Larks’ Tongue in Aspic by King Crimson (released in the spring of 1973)

Tales from Topographic Oceans AND Brain Salad Surgery, by Yes and ELP respectively (both released in the autumn of 1973)

This begs the question: if this is indeed a parody… what was it parodying? 

Now, there were epic songs and concept albums in existence before Thick as a Brick: both of ELP’s prior albums had contained an epic song (“Tarkus”, released in 1971, and “Take a Pebble”, 1970), Pink Floyd had already done “Echoes”, and The Nice had done “Ars Longa Vita Brevis” all the way back in the 60s. However, the epic wasn’t really central to the prog genre yet, although the suite had existed for some time, and bands were experimenting with longer song forms. Besides, Jethro Tull wanted to move in a more progressive direction anyway, so why parody the form of music? 

The parody of Thick as a Brick is not necessarily the music itself, although you could argue that it was exaggerating the music that already existed for comedic effect. However, Jethro Tull is considered a prog band after all, and this would not be the last of their prog works; what it is primarily parodying is the attitude of some prog musicians during the time period: to make their music longer, more experimental, more difficult to play, and more inaccessible to audiences. It does this by using jarring time signature changes, studio effects, some odd experimental sections, specifically in the second half, and of course, the length being double anything that came prior. Part of the parody, as well, is the concept: a child prodigy, writing about class conflict is reminiscent of both the backgrounds of many prog musicians and also reflective of how underqualified many of them are for making statements on political affairs, while also being the creation of a prog musician. They are simultaneously the overly confident and pretentious “wise men” that are described in the lyrics, and Bostock himself, making fun of the “wise men” while being a literal child and debating his own place in life. It is not a scathing criticism, however: the whole album does come from a place of respect for the musicians. Jethro Tull toured with several other prog bands and struck up friendships with various members of those bands, so it’s more of a reminder for prog musicians to take themselves less seriously. 

Did they do that? Well… uh… no, not really. As evidenced by seeing what came out after Thick as a Brick, the music the prog musicians were making became even more ambitious and challenging, creating almost a self-fulfilling prophecy of Thick as a Brick being a parody. In fact, I’m willing to bet that at least one member of Yes saw this album, went, “Shit, Jethro Tull just made an album consisting entirely of one song, we’ve got to one-up Ian and the lads!”, and then proceeded to make Tales from Topographic Oceans. That’s not a diss towards Tales…, by the way, because I do love that album, but it is basically the very thing that Thick as a Brick was parodying, and it came out over a year after Thick as a Brick. 

The unique thing about Thick as a Brick is that it is simultaneously a parody of the genre, while also making a genuine effort to make a prog album, so there is some sincerity in the themes that Anderson wrote about. It is comedic: how could anyone not laugh a little at the lines, “Your sperm’s in the gutter/ your love’s in the sink”, especially coming from a character that’s supposed to be a child? But, like any good parody, it also does have real messages and criticisms of not only progressive rock, but also British society in the 20th Century. 

[iphigeniacomplex]

লিখি লোৱা, মই এজন মিঞা ("Write Down 'I am a Miyah'", 2016) by Hafiz Ahmed, translated from Assamese to English by Shalim M. Hussain, began a movement of resistance poetry among Assamese Muslims of Bengali descent, referred to as Miya Poetry after a slur used to describe this community. From Abdul Kalam Azad, for Indian Express ("Write...I am a Miya", 2019):

This poem went viral and other young poets started responding to him through poems. The young poets also started reclaiming “Miya”, a slur used against us, as our identity with pride. This chain of Facebook posts continued for days, reiterating the violence, suffering and humiliation expressed by our community. As time passed, more poets wrote in various languages and dialects, including many Miya dialects. The nomenclature ‘Miya Poetry’ got generated organically but the poets and their associates have been inspired by the Negritude and Black Arts movements, and queer, feminist and Dalit literary movements, where the oppressed have reclaimed the identity which was used to dehumanise them. The trend transcended our community. Poets from the mainstream Assamese community also wrote several poems in solidarity with the Miya poets while some regretted not being poets. Gradually, this became a full-fledged poetry movement and got recognised by other poets, critics and commentators. The quality and soul of these poems are so universal that they started finding prominence on reputed platforms. For the first time in the history of our community, we had started telling our own stories and reclaiming the Miya identity to fight against our harassers who were dehumanising us with the same word. They accused us of portraying the whole Assamese society as xenophobic. The fact is we have just analysed our conditions. Forget generalising the Assamese society as ‘xenophobic’, no Miya poet has ever used the term ‘xenophobic’ nor any of its variants. The guilt complex of our accusers is so profound that they don’t have the patience to examine why we wrote the poems.

Amrita Singh, writing for The Caravan ("Assam Against Itself", 2019), detailed the political backlash against Miya Poetry, in particular the above poem.

On 10 July this year, Pranabjit Doloi, an Assam-based journalist, filed a complaint at Guwahati’s Panbazar police station accusing ten people of indulging in criminal activities “to defame the Assamese people as Xenophobic in the world.” Doloi claimed that the ten people were trying to hinder the ongoing updation of the National Register of Citizens, a list of Assam’s Indian citizens that is due to be published on 31 August. The premise of Doloi’s complaint was a widely-circulated poem called, “Write down I am Miya,” by Hafiz Ahmed, a school teacher and social activist. “Write. Write down I am a Miya/ A citizen of democratic secular republic without any rights,” Ahmed wrote. The police registered a first information report against Doloi’s complaint, booking all ten persons for promoting enmity between groups, among other offences. [...] At the press conference, Mander emphasised that people in Assam are in distress because of the NRC’s arbitrary and rigid procedures. “One spelling mistake when you are writing a Bengali name in English … that is enough for you to be in a detention center, declared a foreigner,” Mander said. “If you are not allowing this lament to come out in the form of poetry, then where is this republic of India going?”

Ahmed's poem is influenced in structure by "Identity Card", a 1964 poem by by Palestinian poet Mahmoud Darwish which uses the symbolic figure of the Palestinian working man to confront Israeli occupiers. Darwish's identity card, a symbol of Israeli subjugation transformed into a cry of Palestinian national identity, is reshaped by Ahmed into the National Register of Citizens for Assam and the accompanying fear of statelessness and disenfranchisement for the Miya people.

This solidarity between writers from oppressed groups is, of course, not one that ends with Darwish and Ahmed, nor with the Black, queer, feminist, and Dalit influences of Miya Poetry. As long as there is oppression, there will be companionship and recognition reflected in art and activism. On December 13, 2023, Black Agenda Report reprinted Refaat Alareer's "If I Must Die", acknowledging the connection between Alareer's poem and "If We Must Die" by Claude McKay, written in 1919 in response to the Red Summer white supremacist riots. In 2000, Haitian community activist Dahoud Andre translated "If We Must Die" into Kreyòl, and the Black Agenda Report editorial honors Alareer in a similar way, reprinting "If I Must Die" with an accompanying Kreyòl translation. (POEM: If I Must Die, Refaat Alareer, 2023.)

Transcripts under the cut.

[Hafiz Ahmed Transcripts (Assamese and English):

লিখি লোৱা, মই এজন মিঞা

লিখা, লিখি লোৱা মই এজন মিঞা এন. আৰ. চিৰ ক্রমিক নং ২০০৫৪৩ দুজন সন্তানৰ বাপেক মই, অহাবাৰ গ্ৰীষ্মত জন্ম ল’ব আৰু এজনে তাকো তুমি ঘিণ কৰিবা নেকি যিদৰে ঘিণ কৰা মোক?

লিখি লোৱা, মই এজন মিঞা পতিত ভূমি, পিতনিক মই ৰূপান্তৰিত কৰিছোঁ শস্য-শ্যামলা সেউজী পথাৰলৈ তোমাক খুৱাবলৈ মই ইটা কঢ়িয়াইছোঁ তোমাৰ অট্টালিকা সাজিবলৈ, তোমাৰ গাড়ী চলাইছোঁ তোমাক আৰাম দিবলৈ, তোমাৰ নৰ্দমা ছাফা কৰিছোঁ তোমাক নিৰোগী কৰি ৰাখিবলৈ, তোমাৰে সেৱাতে মগন মই অনবৰত তাৰ পিছতো কিয় তুমি খৰ্গহস্ত? লিখা, লিখি লোৱা মই এজন মিঞা গণতান্ত্ৰিক, গণৰাজ্য এখনৰ নাগৰিক এজন যাৰ কোনো অধিকাৰ নাইকিয়া মাতৃক মোৰ সজোৱা হৈছে সন্দেহযুক্ত ভোটাৰ যদিও পিতৃ-মাতৃ তাইৰ নিঃসন্দেহে ভাৰতীয়

ইচ্ছা কৰিলেই তুমি মোক হত্যা কৰিব পাৰা, জ্বলাই দিব পৰা মোৰ খেৰৰ পঁজা, খেদি দিব পাৰা মোক মোৰেই গাঁৱৰ পৰা, কাঢ়ি নিব পাৰা মোৰ সেউজী পথাৰ মোৰ বুকুৰ ওপৰেৰে চলাব পাৰা তোমাৰ বুলড্‌জাৰ তোমাৰ বুলেটে বুকুখন মোৰ কৰিব পাৰে থকাসৰকা (তোমাৰ এই কাৰ্যৰ বাবে তুমি কোনো স্তিও নোপোৱা) যুগ-যুগান্তৰ তোমাৰ অত্যাচাৰ সহ্য কৰি ব্ৰহ্মপুত্ৰৰ চৰত বাস কৰা মই এজন মিঞা মোৰ দেহা হৈ পৰিছে নিগ্ৰো কলা মোৰ চকুযুৰি অঙঠাৰ দৰে ৰঙা সাৱধান! মোৰ দুচকুত জমা হৈ আছে যুগ যুগান্তৰৰ বঞ্চনাৰ বাৰুদ আঁতৰি যোৱা, নতুবা অচিৰেই পৰিণত হ’বা মূল্যহীন ছাইত!

Write Down ‘I am a Miyah’ Hafiz Ahmed, 2016 trans. Shalim M. Hussain

Write Write Down I am a Miya My serial number in the NRC is 200543 I have two children Another is coming Next summer. Will you hate him As you hate me?

write I am a Miya I turn waste, marshy lands To green paddy fields To feed you. I carry bricks To build your buildings Drive your car For your comfort Clean your drain To keep you healthy. I have always been In your service And yet you are dissatisfied! Write down I am a Miya, A citizen of a democratic, secular, Republic Without any rights My mother a D voter, Though her parents are Indian.

If you wish kill me, drive me from my village, Snatch my green fields hire bulldozers To roll over me. Your bullets Can shatter my breast for no crime.

Write I am a Miya Of the Brahamaputra Your torture Has burnt my body black Reddened my eyes with fire. Beware! I have nothing but anger in stock. Keep away! Or Turn to Ashes.

]

[Mahmoud Darwish Transcripts (Arabic and English):

سجِّل أنا عربي ورقمُ بطاقتي خمسونَ ألفْ وأطفالي ثمانيةٌ وتاسعهُم.. سيأتي بعدَ صيفْ! فهلْ تغضبْ؟ سجِّلْ أنا عربي وأعملُ مع رفاقِ الكدحِ في محجرْ وأطفالي ثمانيةٌ أسلُّ لهمْ رغيفَ الخبزِ، والأثوابَ والدفترْ من الصخرِ ولا أتوسَّلُ الصدقاتِ من بابِكْ ولا أصغرْ أمامَ بلاطِ أعتابكْ فهل تغضب؟ سجل أنا عربي أنا اسم بلا لقبِ صَبورٌ في بلادٍ كلُّ ما فيها يعيشُ بفَوْرةِ الغضبِ جذوري قبلَ ميلادِ الزمانِ رستْ وقبلَ تفتّحِ الحقبِ وقبلَ السّروِ والزيتونِ .. وقبلَ ترعرعِ العشبِ أبي.. من أسرةِ المحراثِ لا من سادةٍ نُجُبِ وجدّي كانَ فلاحاً بلا حسبٍ.. ولا نسبِ! يُعَلّمني شموخَ الشمسِ قبلَ قراءةِ الكتبِ وبيتي’ كوخُ ناطورٍ منَ الأعوادِ والقصبِ فهل تُرضيكَ منزلتي؟ أنا اسم بلا لقبِ! سجلْ أنا عربي ولونُ الشعرِ.. فحميٌّ ولونُ العينِ.. بنيٌّ وميزاتي: على رأسي عقالٌ فوقَ كوفيّه وكفّي صلبةٌ كالصخرِ... تخمشُ من يلامسَها وعنواني: أنا من قريةٍ عزلاءَ منسيّهْ شوارعُها بلا أسماء وكلُّ رجالها في الحقلِ والمحجرْ فهل تغضبْ؟ سجِّل! أنا عربي سلبتُ كرومَ أجدادي وأرضاً كنتُ أفلحُها أنا وجميعُ أولادي ولم تتركْ لنا.. ولكلِّ أحفادي سوى هذي الصخورِ... فهل ستأخذُها حكومتكمْ.. كما قيلا!؟ إذنْ سجِّل.. برأسِ الصفحةِ الأولى أنا لا أكرهُ الناسَ ولا أسطو على أحدٍ ولكنّي.. إذا ما جعتُ آكلُ لحمَ مغتصبي حذارِ.. حذارِ.. من جوعي ومن غضبي!!

Identity Card Mahmoud Darwish, 1964 trans. Denys Johnson-Davies

Put it on record. I am an Arab

And the number of my card is fifty thousand I have eight children And the ninth is due after summer. What's there to be angry about?

Put it on record. I am an Arab

Working with comrades of toil in a quarry. I have eight children For them I wrest the loaf of bread, The clothes and exercise books From the rocks And beg for no alms at your door, Lower not myself at your doorstep. What's there to be angry about?

Put it on record. I am an Arab.

I am a name without a title, Patient in a country where everything Lives in a whirlpool of anger. My roots Took hold before the birth of time Before the burgeoning of the ages, Before cypress and olive trees, Before the proliferation of weeds.

My father is from the family of the plough Not from highborn nobles.

And my grandfather was a peasant Without line or genealogy.

My house is a watchman's hut Made of sticks and reeds.

Does my status satisfy you? I am a name without a surname.

Put it on record. I am an Arab.

Color of hair: jet black. Color of eyes: brown. My distinguishing features: On my head the `iqal cords over a keffiyeh Scratching him who touches it.

My address: I'm from a village, remote, forgotten, Its streets without name And all its men in the fields and quarry. What's there to be angry about?

Put it on record. I am an Arab.

You stole my forefathers' vineyards And land I used to till, I and all my children, And you left us and all my grandchildren Nothing but these rocks. Will your government be taking them too As is being said?

So! Put it on record at the top of page one: I don't hate people, I trespass on no one's property.

And yet, if I were to become hungry I shall eat the flesh of my usurper. Beware, beware of my hunger And of my anger!

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