#Something O'er the HIll

[chiropteracupola]

sing me silence, my soldier / sing us gently into death...

[imyourbratzdoll]

Ooh ohh! DarkSiren reader x pirate ransom!!! Pleasee

hello honey! this was fun to write, and I hope you like it!

summary - you are the siren that wants the famous pirate ransom drysdale, and the moment you get close to getting what you want, the universe decides otherwise.

warning - slight angst, stalking, dark content, mentions of whores, seducing, mentions of kidnapping.

the gif I use isn't mine, divider by @newlips

You had known of the famous pirate that roamed the seas. You had followed him, watching from afar as he ordered his crew around. You watched as the many whorish human women tried and failed to gain his attention. Some only managed to get to his bed and were sent off the same night. You could see how dissatisfied the pirate was. As if he yearned for something more, something… Unique. You watched from the shadows. Your body is submerged deep in the cooling water. You knew that the humans had heard and created stories based on what you were, some even hunted you, and sometimes they succeeded in catching your kind. Your sisters had been taken, locked away to be experimented on. 

You wanted the pirate. He was a dream. You wanted to claim him as your own. So you followed him the next morning, not getting too close to the ship as you didn’t want the others to spot you. You had a plan, knowing he sometimes ventured off alone once they reached land, enjoying time to himself. What better way to finally get what you want. You swam to shore, perching yourself on a rock away from the pirates but close enough to get the one you want to hear you. You waited until you heard him approaching the area, his mind elsewhere. 

“Upon one summer's morning, I carelessly did stray,

Down by the Walls of Wapping, where I met a sailor gay,

Conversing with a bouncing lass, who seem'd to be in pain,

Saying, William, when you go, I fear you will ne'er return again.”

You watch as he turns to look in your direction. You can see him slowly fall under your spell as the words flow from your lips. You beckon him over, giving him an innocent smile as you don’t want to set off any alarms in his head. The pirate begins to make his way over dazedly, a lovestruck look in his eyes.

“His hair it does in ringlets hang, his eyes as black as sloes,

May happiness attend him wherever he goes,

From Tower Hill, down to Blackwall, I will wander, weep and moan,

All for my jolly sailor bold, until he does return.”

He stares, softly swaying as you continue to sing. Your siren voice makes the song sound smooth and seductive, calling to the pirate like water calls him. You sound like the waves crashing against the rocks and birds singing. You sound like perfection to Ransom. You were both a pirate’s dream and nightmare, all mixed in one. In the back of his mind, he knew he should try to fight this, that Ransom was in danger if he continued getting closer to you. He was captivated, his eyes taking in how beautiful you looked, your hair flowing freely in the breeze, your skin glistening against the sun, your breasts pushed together perfectly, and your tail was so close to perfection, the gold reflected wonderfully against it all. 

“My father is a merchant—the truth I now will tell,

And in great London City in opulence doth dwell,

His fortune doth exceed ₤300,000 in gold,

And he frowns upon his daughter, 'cause she loves a sailor bold.”

Your voice travels, swirling around his head and pulling him closer to you. You were so close to finally getting the man you have been wanting. You grin as you reach your hand out and stroke his cheek, sighing a soft sigh as you finally feel his flesh against yours. He had to be the cleanest pirate out there, his face clean-shaven and his hair slicked back. You lean closer, your lips nearly touching his as you continue seducing him with your siren song.

“A fig for his riches, his merchandize, and gold,

True love is grafted in my heart; give me my sailor bold:

Should he return in poverty, from o'er the ocean far,

To my tender bosom, I'll fondly press my jolly tar.”

Ransom’s pupils enlarge, causing his blue eyes to nearly turn black. His eyes are half-lidded, and his gaze flickers between your eyes and your plump lips, feeling the deep desire to seal your words with a kiss. His mind was filled with love, wanting to take you far away from the other pirates, wanting you all to himself. His fingertips itched with needing to grab you and take you far away, keep you chained to his bed as he worshipped you. 

“My sailor is as smiling as the pleasant month of May,

And oft we have wandered through Ratcliffe Highway,

Where many a pretty blooming girl we happy did behold,

Reclining on the bosom of her jolly sailor bold.”

A soft whine escapes Ransom’s mouth as you slowly slide off the rock and into the water, grinning as he begins to follow. He steps into the cooling ocean, and his shoes and pants become soaked. You swim back, continuing to sing to him. You were so close to achieving your dream, so very close.

“Come all you pretty fair maids, whoever you may be

Who love a jolly sailor bold that ploughs the raging sea,

While up aloft, in storm or gale, from me his absence mourn,

And firmly pray, arrive the day, he home will safe return.”

Ransom goes deeper into the water, coming closer until your bodies touch, and his hands move to cup your cheeks, stroking them with his thumbs. He sighs, falling deeper and deeper under your spell. No longer worried about the world around him or that he is in incredible danger, Ransom didn’t know that his crew had begun to look around for him, wondering where their Captain had gone for so long. 

“My name it is Maria, a merchant's daughter fair,

And I have left my parents and three thousand pounds a year,

My heart is pierced by Cupid, I disdain all glittering gold,

There is nothing can console me but my jolly sailor bold.”

You are so close, your lips inches away from each other. You sing the last words of your song, knowing you finally have him in the grasp of your hands. Yours and Ransom’s eyes flutter closed as you are about to kiss. But before your lips can touch, there are shouts, men running toward the area you are in. Your eyes fly open, and you snarl. Your cat-like eyes snap to the pirates, hissing as they shout at you, their weapons raised. You look sadly at Ransom, his eyes opened and watching you, and you quickly launch forward, placing a soft kiss on the corner of his mouth before flying back and deep into the depths of the ocean. You quickly swim away as the pirates begin to throw their weapons and help pull their Captain out of the water. 

Ransom shakes his head, snapping out of the trance he was in and looking out into the water. His men are talking, pulling him from the ground, but all Ransom can focus on is you. You had now taken over his mind, and he didn’t know if it was because of your siren qualities or you. His face sets into a scowl, growling at his men to return to the ship and leave him alone. Ransom shrugs them off, brushing the sand off his clothes and glaring at the water. He watches as your head pops up a ways away. He can tell you are looking in his direction, and the challenge has started. He knows you want him, but now he wants you, and he will stop at nothing to get what he wants. It’s how he is the better pirate out there. No one can tell him no.

Stories would be told many generations later about the pirate and the siren. 

thank you for reading!

feedback and reblogs are greatly appreciated.

[andhumanslovedstories]

hey!! just wondering, is your blog @ from a longer quote/piece of writing, or is it something you came up with yourself? i feel like i've heard it somewhere before, and it would be really useful to know for a project i'm working on!

thanks <3

my url is from Terry Pratchett's Wintersmith, a Tiffany Aching book:

“To animals they were just the weather, just part of everything. But humans arose and gave them names, just as people filled the starry sky with heroes and monsters, because this turned them into stories. And humans loved stories, because once you'd turned things into stories, you could change the stories.”

My blog title "I'm here but once to the marrow of my bones" is a line from a translation of Polish poet Wisława Szymborska's poem, which I've seen called "Attempt" and also "An Effort". Most of the versions you can easily find online have a different translation of the last line ("I’m one-time-only to the marrow of my bones") but I've always preferred the other translation, which is the first one I encountered when I was very young in my aunt's copy of Sounds, Feelings, Thoughts: Seventy Poems.

"Attempt" Ah yes, sweet little song, how much you mock me, for even if I go o'er hill, I won't bloom as a rose. Only a rose blooms as a rose, no one else. That's for sure. I tried to put out leaves, to turn into a bush. Holding my breath--so it would happen quicker-- I waited for the moment of budding as a rose. O sweet little song, you show no mercy toward me: I have a body that's unique, immutable, I'm here but once to the marrow of my bones.

versus this translation

An Effort Alack and woe, oh song: you’re mocking me; try as I may, I’ll never be your red, red rose. A rose is a rose is a rose. And you know it. I worked to sprout leaves. I tried to take root. I held my breath to speed things up, and waited for the petals to enclose me. Merciless song, you leave me with my lone, nonconvertible, unmetamorphic body: I’m one-time-only to the marrow of my bones.

[chibiseakraken]

I feel like I am collecting pieces that use the phrase "no nightingales". It may or may not be relevant, but the poem is beautiful and worth a read. Take what you will from it: a hint, a clue, or just a lovely read.

The Solitary Reaper

By William Wordsworth

Behold her, single in the field,

Yon solitary Highland Lass!

Reaping and singing by herself;

Stop here, or gently pass!

Alone she cuts and binds the grain,

And sings a melancholy strain;

O listen! for the Vale profound

Is overflowing with the sound.

No Nightingale did ever chaunt

More welcome notes to weary bands

Of travellers in some shady haunt,

Among Arabian sands:

A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard

In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,

Breaking the silence of the seas

Among the farthest Hebrides.

Will no one tell me what she sings?—

Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow

For old, unhappy, far-off things,

And battles long ago:

Or is it some more humble lay,

Familiar matter of to-day?

Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,

That has been, and may be again?

Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang

As if her song could have no ending;

I saw her singing at her work,

And o'er the sickle bending;—

I listened, motionless and still;

And, as I mounted up the hill,

The music in my heart I bore,

Long after it was heard no more.

I did find some interesting parallels myself, which I will keep mostly to myself. I feel like poems are much like songs. We see ourselves in the lyrics, because the meaning is flexible. 'No nightingales' being a big part of the final fifteen, I feel like there are a number of ways it could be a code, whether Shakespearean, a link to the 1940s song, a hint at an obscure 1940s comedy, or something completely different. I think it is fun to explore all of the options.

Poem analysis here:

[marietheran]

LotR reread - book 2, chapter 1 - Many Meetings

That awakening scene and Gandalf's grumbling are iconic.

"You have talked long in your sleep, Frodo, and it has not been hard for me to read your mind and memory" - more potential mind-reading. Yes, Frodo was talking, but the phrasing implies more than that.

Honestly Frodo is rather unperturbed for someone who keeps getting told "oh, and by the way, I read your mind"

Frodo's disbelief that Gandalf could ever be held captive :))

Frodo having thought all the "Big People" stupid before meeting Aragorn. He doesn't seem to have considered Gandalf as one of them, though.

"Fortune or fate have helped you" - something for the Mysterious Allusions Counter?? Let's leave it at 3.5.

That the Shire could withstand Sauron until all else might be conquered, almost as much as Rivendell, according to Gandalf!

"To what he will come in the end not even Elrond can foretell." - Proof that Elrond has foresight? Or just referring to his knowledge of healing?

"He may become like a glass filled with a clear light for eyes to see that can" - beautiful phrasing; what does it mean?

Some of the elves are "as merry as children"! -> me @ Peter Jackson

"We are sitting in a fortress. Outside it is getting dark." "Gandalf has been saying many cheerful things like that."

"On his brow sat wisdom, and in his hand was strength"

Elrond is "ageless, neither old nor young"... "venerable he seemed as a king crowned with many winters [Elros! 🥲💔], and yet hale as a tried warrior in the fullness of his strength." Hmm, half-elven heritage seems to show.

His hair "dark as the shadows of twilight" - compare: Lúthien ("dark as shadow was her hair"); Arwen being both a carbon copy of her illustrious foremother and like her father in female form.

"Mighty among both Elves and Men"

Arwen also has this "young and not" quality. Both she and her father are said to have the light of stars in their eyes.

Hmmm... Grey rainment with no ornament save a silver girdle + headdress. Not Noldorin fashion, I believe.

Bilbo definitely knows about Arwen and seems to tease Aragorn. Not sure if it counts as an allusion, being semi-overt... counter at 1.5

When I was 13 I decided to learn the Eärendil poem by heart and got halfway through - later I learned the rest of it through music settings.

Hmm... I doubt Bilbo should be taken as an expert on Eärendil's journey, but it does seem the Mariner almost crashed himself on the Helcaraxë (From gnashing of the Narrow Ice) where shadow lies on frozen hills.../He turned in haste, and roving still, etc.). And then there's the mysterious "Night of Naught"; I'm not sure if it was mentioned in the Silm.

O'er leagues unlit and foundered shores/ that drowned before the Days began *:･ﾟ✧*

He came into the timeless halls/ where shining fall the countless years ✧*:･ ...Brings to mind elements of Galadriel's song later on...

The Silmaril as lantern light/ and banner bright with living flame/ to gleam thereon by Elbereth/ herself was set, who thither came (!!)

And over Middle-earth he passed/ and heard at last the weeping sore/ of women and of elven-maids/ in Elder Days, in years of yore... haunting...

But, yes, Bilbo dies have cheek in reciting that in the house of Elrond

Aragorn very overtly talking to Arwen, cleaned-up and all. The scene is specifically drawn attention to; I hesitate to add this to my AragornxArwen allusion counter because it's not even an allusion! Mmm... 1.75

"I'll take a walk, I think, and look at the stars of Elbereth in the garden" -- oh, Bilbo, you're getting very Elvish

[starsuncounted]

@tortoisesshells tagged me–thank you!

Make a 24h poll with the names of your wips, let it run its course, and then write a sentence for every vote the winner receives.

Tagging @dreamingthroughthenoise @theghostinthemargins/@thelordofgifs @searchingforserendipity25 @thescrapwitch if you'd like to do this!

[elkenbulwark]

@wildskissed cont.

It wasn't that he had possession of the harpy pecked plushie for such a short order that he knew exactly to bring it over to her the moment he wrested it out of an abandoned and bone filled nest along the ocean lapped cliffs of the coast. He had suspected the tide soaked toy might have belonged to the tiefling child that he and few of the frontliners of the party at the time had narrowly missed wading out and mesmerized by the foul flock's song, but by the time the onslaught of talons had finally ceased and Birvor had picked himself up face-down in the light swirl of a tide pool, the child was long hurried up the hill to the grove and leaving question as to where the trinkets and remains in the nest had come.

Ren was usually keen on tucking such items away in his tent, and Birvor made it a point to collect any he found along the road to use as peace offerings to his brother's multitude of 'mad at him' moods. But even though he'd given the orphan a firm scrubbing in the river and a wringing out that left it looking a bit less like a chew toy for Scratch, Ren simply wouldn't accept it as if he'd found something softer to hold to his heart in the mean time.

Birvor had taken to slowly purging his bag and his tent of all the extra feather-light weight that simply soured his mood when he caught sight of them and only improved it when he could watch their seams split and burn away in the campfire. At least he told himself it did, and that assurance was better than nothing.

So when he spotted Eve by the fire that evening with his final sacrifice in hand, he had to wonder if it was worth her thinking him horrible for using a soft toy to feed the flames. Namely, why did he care if she did? It wasn't like his personal vendetta was her concern, and yet...the pull of a smile when she noticed what he was carrying over gave him pause, and the familiar twinge of feeling like he'd done something worth while returned.

"Course I would-" He grumbled softly, only un tucking his gaze once he felt her gently tug the thing out of his grasp, a hint of her teasing mirrored in an upturned curl in the corner of his mouth. "Gave me a fun'y look, it did. Can't have that, now." A shuffle and a rub to the back of his neck had him considering his feet as if he worried the ruse would be too easy to detect should he meet her eyes. "...but I guess if you can teach it some manners, I'll go an let it slide-...since you're good as smitten o'er there."

He felt her arms around his shoulders first before her lips on his cheek drew a snappy look up that she could watch burn partially purple while his jaw drifted open partially as if to protest, but merely ended up locking up stubbornly. Thank you was just something he didn't hear often enough, if ever to know what to even say back. Though his moment of dumbfoundedness dissipated just enough for him to thankfully close his mouth and offer her a curious smile with his eyes.

"...used to-wha? Be able 'an turn down ratty kind'lin?"

[wpmorse]

He rode through the streets of the city,

down from his hill on high,

O'er the wynds and the steps and the cobbles,

he rode to a woman's sigh.

For she was his secret treasure,

she was his shame and his bliss.

And a chain and a keep are nothing,

compared to a woman's kiss.

Tyrion IV -PG 430

Tyrion attempts to buy off Symon Silvertongue, but Symon wants more. He presents the song he will perform if Tyrion does not cooperate, Hands of Gold.

I am very fond of this song. It's easy to get it stuck in one's head as shown by Tyrion humming it multiple times throughout the rest of the book, despite having only heard it once. My biggest disappointment with the third season of Game of Thrones was its absence. They didn't even bother with the subplot.

This was a shame. I had hoped to see the show use it as a leitmotif, the way they used The Rains of Castamir in the second season, starting as something people are heard humming in the background to eventually growing to operatic levels when Tyrion kills Shae.

Ed Sheeran's version in the last season was nice but it just wasn't the same.

[emyn-arnens]

WIP Game

Rules: Post the names of all the files in your WIP folder regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. Let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them and then post a little snippet of it or tell them something about it! And then tag as many people as you have WIPs.

Thanks for the tag @melestasflight! These are all the ones I was able to round up, but I know I have some more squirreled away in mislabeled docs somewhere:

Untitled Merry & Elladan and/or Elrohir oneshot

and dark things silent crept beneath

In the Golden Light of Summer

Raise My Hands, Paint My Spirit Gold

Something So Magic About You

Untitled Boromir & Faramir ficlet/oneshot

courage be thy comfort

in the halls of the moon o'er the hills of the sea

Untitled Nerdanel & Anairë ficlet

Untitled Aegnor/Andreth oneshot

long are the waves on the last shore falling

Untitled Arwen ficlet

The Wild Hunt

when the cold wind blows in from the north

you knelt beside my hope torn apart

I don't know nearly as many writers as I have WIPs, so I'll just tag @southfarthing @starry-mantle @dreamingthroughthenoise @runawaymun @arofili @lesbianhaleth and anybody (yes, anybody!) who sees this if you'd like to do this!

[violettesiren]

The rivers that sweep to the sea Bear to it the heart of the land— The eyes of the gods in the stars The thoughts of my heart understand.

And the joy in the heart of the rose, The song in the heart of the rain, The glory of gladness that flows O'er the billows of tall ripened grain,

The strength in the heart of the hills, The unmeasured lament of the sea, The low happy laugh of the rills,— All answer to something in me, To something in me!

Song of the Pagan Princess by Irene Elder Morton

[eltortaszilvafa]

Lines Composed a Few Miles above Tintern Abbey, On Revisiting the Banks of the Wye during a Tour. July 13, 1798

BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

Five years have past; five summers, with the length

Of five long winters! and again I hear

These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs

With a soft inland murmur.—Once again

Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs,

That on a wild secluded scene impress

Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect

The landscape with the quiet of the sky.

The day is come when I again repose

Here, under this dark sycamore, and view

These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts,

Which at this season, with their unripe fruits,

Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves

'Mid groves and copses. Once again I see

These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines

Of sportive wood run wild: these pastoral farms,

Green to the very door; and wreaths of smoke

Sent up, in silence, from among the trees!

With some uncertain notice, as might seem

Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods,

Or of some Hermit's cave, where by his fire

The Hermit sits alone.

These beauteous forms,

Through a long absence, have not been to me

As is a landscape to a blind man's eye:

But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din

Of towns and cities, I have owed to them,

In hours of weariness, sensations sweet,

Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart;

And passing even into my purer mind

With tranquil restoration:—feelings too

Of unremembered pleasure: such, perhaps,

As have no slight or trivial influence

On that best portion of a good man's life,

His little, nameless, unremembered, acts

Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust,

To them I may have owed another gift,

Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood,

In which the burthen of the mystery,

In which the heavy and the weary weight

Of all this unintelligible world,

Is lightened:—that serene and blessed mood,

In which the affections gently lead us on,—

Until, the breath of this corporeal frame

And even the motion of our human blood

Almost suspended, we are laid asleep

In body, and become a living soul:

While with an eye made quiet by the power

Of harmony, and the deep power of joy,

We see into the life of things.

If this

Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft—

In darkness and amid the many shapes

Of joyless daylight; when the fretful stir

Unprofitable, and the fever of the world,

Have hung upon the beatings of my heart—

How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee,

O sylvan Wye! thou wanderer thro' the woods,

How often has my spirit turned to thee!

And now, with gleams of half-extinguished thought,

With many recognitions dim and faint,

And somewhat of a sad perplexity,

The picture of the mind revives again:

While here I stand, not only with the sense

Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts

That in this moment there is life and food

For future years. And so I dare to hope,

Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when first

I came among these hills; when like a roe

I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides

Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams,

Wherever nature led: more like a man

Flying from something that he dreads, than one

Who sought the thing he loved. For nature then

(The coarser pleasures of my boyish days

And their glad animal movements all gone by)

To me was all in all.—I cannot paint

What then I was. The sounding cataract

Haunted me like a passion: the tall rock,

The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,

Their colours and their forms, were then to me

An appetite; a feeling and a love,

That had no need of a remoter charm,

By thought supplied, nor any interest

Unborrowed from the eye.—That time is past,

And all its aching joys are now no more,

And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this

Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur; other gifts

Have followed; for such loss, I would believe,

Abundant recompense. For I have learned

To look on nature, not as in the hour

Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes

The still sad music of humanity,

Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power

To chasten and subdue.—And I have felt

A presence that disturbs me with the joy

Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime

Of something far more deeply interfused,

Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,

And the round ocean and the living air,

And the blue sky, and in the mind of man:

A motion and a spirit, that impels

All thinking things, all objects of all thought,

And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still

A lover of the meadows and the woods

And mountains; and of all that we behold

From this green earth; of all the mighty world

Of eye, and ear,—both what they half create,

And what perceive; well pleased to recognise

In nature and the language of the sense

The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse,

The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul

Of all my moral being.

Nor perchance,

If I were not thus taught, should I the more

Suffer my genial spirits to decay:

For thou art with me here upon the banks

Of this fair river; thou my dearest Friend,

My dear, dear Friend; and in thy voice I catch

The language of my former heart, and read

My former pleasures in the shooting lights

Of thy wild eyes. Oh! yet a little while

May I behold in thee what I was once,

My dear, dear Sister! and this prayer I make,

Knowing that Nature never did betray

The heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege,

Through all the years of this our life, to lead

From joy to joy: for she can so inform

The mind that is within us, so impress

With quietness and beauty, and so feed

With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues,

Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men,

Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all

The dreary intercourse of daily life,

Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb

Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold

Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon

Shine on thee in thy solitary walk;

And let the misty mountain-winds be free

To blow against thee: and, in after years,

When these wild ecstasies shall be matured

Into a sober pleasure; when thy mind

Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms,

Thy memory be as a dwelling-place

For all sweet sounds and harmonies; oh! then,

If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief,

Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts

Of tender joy wilt thou remember me,

And these my exhortations! Nor, perchance—

If I should be where I no more can hear

Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams

Of past existence—wilt thou then forget

That on the banks of this delightful stream

We stood together; and that I, so long

A worshipper of Nature, hither came

Unwearied in that service: rather say

With warmer love—oh! with far deeper zeal

Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget,

That after many wanderings, many years

Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs,

And this green pastoral landscape, were to me

More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake!

[poemoftheday]

Poem of the Day 11 May 2024

The Buried Life

BY MATTHEW ARNOLD

Light flows our war of mocking words, and yet, 

Behold, with tears mine eyes are wet! 

I feel a nameless sadness o'er me roll. 

Yes, yes, we know that we can jest, 

We know, we know that we can smile! 

But there's a something in this breast, 

To which thy light words bring no rest, 

And thy gay smiles no anodyne. 

Give me thy hand, and hush awhile, 

And turn those limpid eyes on mine, 

And let me read there, love! thy inmost soul. 

Alas! is even love too weak 

To unlock the heart, and let it speak? 

Are even lovers powerless to reveal 

To one another what indeed they feel? 

I knew the mass of men conceal'd 

Their thoughts, for fear that if reveal'd 

They would by other men be met 

With blank indifference, or with blame reproved; 

I knew they lived and moved 

Trick'd in disguises, alien to the rest 

Of men, and alien to themselves—and yet 

The same heart beats in every human breast! 

But we, my love!—doth a like spell benumb 

Our hearts, our voices?—must we too be dumb? 

Ah! well for us, if even we, 

Even for a moment, can get free 

Our heart, and have our lips unchain'd; 

For that which seals them hath been deep-ordain'd! 

Fate, which foresaw 

How frivolous a baby man would be— 

By what distractions he would be possess'd, 

How he would pour himself in every strife, 

And well-nigh change his own identity— 

That it might keep from his capricious play 

His genuine self, and force him to obey 

Even in his own despite his being's law, 

Bade through the deep recesses of our breast 

The unregarded river of our life 

Pursue with indiscernible flow its way; 

And that we should not see 

The buried stream, and seem to be 

Eddying at large in blind uncertainty, 

Though driving on with it eternally. 

But often, in the world's most crowded streets, 

But often, in the din of strife, 

There rises an unspeakable desire 

After the knowledge of our buried life; 

A thirst to spend our fire and restless force 

In tracking out our true, original course; 

A longing to inquire 

Into the mystery of this heart which beats 

So wild, so deep in us—to know 

Whence our lives come and where they go. 

And many a man in his own breast then delves, 

But deep enough, alas! none ever mines. 

And we have been on many thousand lines, 

And we have shown, on each, spirit and power; 

But hardly have we, for one little hour, 

Been on our own line, have we been ourselves— 

Hardly had skill to utter one of all 

The nameless feelings that course through our breast, 

But they course on for ever unexpress'd. 

And long we try in vain to speak and act 

Our hidden self, and what we say and do 

Is eloquent, is well—but 't is not true! 

And then we will no more be rack'd 

With inward striving, and demand 

Of all the thousand nothings of the hour 

Their stupefying power; 

Ah yes, and they benumb us at our call! 

Yet still, from time to time, vague and forlorn, 

From the soul's subterranean depth upborne 

As from an infinitely distant land, 

Come airs, and floating echoes, and convey 

A melancholy into all our day. 

Only—but this is rare— 

When a belovèd hand is laid in ours, 

When, jaded with the rush and glare 

Of the interminable hours, 

Our eyes can in another's eyes read clear, 

When our world-deafen'd ear 

Is by the tones of a loved voice caress'd— 

A bolt is shot back somewhere in our breast, 

And a lost pulse of feeling stirs again. 

The eye sinks inward, and the heart lies plain, 

And what we mean, we say, and what we would, we know. 

A man becomes aware of his life's flow, 

And hears its winding murmur; and he sees 

The meadows where it glides, the sun, the breeze. 

And there arrives a lull in the hot race 

Wherein he doth for ever chase 

That flying and elusive shadow, rest. 

An air of coolness plays upon his face, 

And an unwonted calm pervades his breast. 

And then he thinks he knows 

The hills where his life rose, 

And the sea where it goes. 

[unfoldingmoments]

Ballade of the Bookworm

Far in the Past I peer, and see A Child upon the Nursery floor, A Child with books upon his knee, Who asks, like Oliver, for more! The number of his years is IV, And yet in Letters hath he skill, How deep he dives in Fairy-lore! The Books I loved, I love them still!

One gift the Fairies gave me: (Three They commonly bestowed of yore) The Love of Books, the Golden Key That opens the Enchanted Door; Behind it Bluebeard lurks, and o'er And o'er doth Jack his Giants kill, And there is all Aladdin's store,-- The Books I loved, I love them still!

Take all, but leave my Books to me! These heavy creels of old we bore We fill not now, nor wander free, Nor wear the heart that once we wore; Not now each River seems to pour His waters from the Muses' hill; Though something's gone from stream and shore, The Books I loved, I love them still!

ENVOY.

Fate, that art Queen by shore and sea, We bow submissive to thy will, Ah grant, by some benign decree, The Books I loved--to love them still. - Andrew Lang

[martian-garden]

Stormwake

So up the hill at nightfall stride the sailors, engineers some have 'ready freed their tongues, are jostling their peers. And o'er it all two captains gaze each touched by different gods one clear skies, fluorescent suns the other lightning rods. And one is in the firelight, their spirit glowing bright. the other seeks to watch alone and blend in with the night. So tell us all a story, shouts a voice above the din. and softly now the server laughs and gestures with a grin. And shadows dance upon a face electrified and wild and from their perch on tabletop you'd swear they might've smiled. (shift in overall feel of music. at your discretion.) oh, oh, don't you know, don't you know? When comets fall and stars roar, and moonbeams tear the world away. You can see it all before it happens, but stopping it's beyond your sway. Don't you know, don't you know? the radar pixels, whispering warnings into your skies don't have a feel to the wood or steel. those clouds mean anything after a while shadows of storms that could've been or might be, ripping open your reality. you tighten your fingers on the rigging and wonder. you can smell the air change but the quiet won't quit, ozone isn't scary is it? long, long after you've memorized the scent you understand what it meant. skies open wide, wailing, crying, and your hand on the throttle hurts, hurts bones as old as you are screaming something is wrong, something is wrong, ribs shudder under oceanic compression: how many times now? enough that you know you won't capsize. instead the lightning traces burns in your eyes. Radio static cracks louder than thunder, louder than spouts or whirls or groaning metal, wicked isolation: you should have called, you should have called, but the line between a glare and grim prospects does not exist. keep the channel quiet, 'cept when needed. oh, don't you know? you don't know. You don't know, you don't know, as the wind slices paint off the bow twists your body in the water nearly sideways, and the voices in charcoal cry, are you drowning now, my dear, are you drowning ? You are in the cabin and none of it touches you, but you will die with the wreckage if you turn the rudder wrong. you don't know you don't know, you don't know, don't you know? And at some point the whirlpool of unknowing steals the strength from your veins your sabre fangs rust and not even a false god could make you hate another man quite the way you'd need to kill him. you are ringed in jewelry not for show but in the way the hull is reinforced beyond reason, the way your runs are slow: unsung, but altogether guaranteed. you don't know, you don't know Is this what it means to become the lynchpin, is this what it means to wish for stillness, feel your body sinking with your armor when you aren't fast enough. no chair for you now, no shape of you carved out and holding space, don't you know? don't you have a home? and all you want is to stand still. you want a story? you are meteors, and all I could hope remains by now is ash and vapor trails.

[pigsriot-blog]

Day 2: Duel

The battlefield stank rich and sourly. ‘Twas enough to almost fool a man's mind into thinking it was something different, that you wasn't standing amidst the fields of the unburied dead, but then that taste of rot creeps up on your tongue from the back, and it sticks there, hot as tar, and it's all you can think about. It fills your lungs and waters you're eyes, and all the while it's always a little sweet. Just on the edges of the scent, like the first browning of autumn's leaf. 

It was sweeter still for the land o'er which the bastards fought. That place was once the gardens of the Castle of Joy, home of the richest lord of them old chivalrous times. The roses still flashed red 'twixt the corpses, in patches here and there, where the land weren't scarred by siege and fire. Them roses was ignorant of the violence around them, or leastaways uncaring, as nature likes to be, and shown pretty behind the smoke and limbs. 

They weren’t the only glance of beauty in this grim place. Canny Beclha herself rode through the garden at the head of her column, all regal and tall in shinisome armor, etched with scenes of angels in languorous repose and polished that very morning, despite the fact there weren't no sun what could peak through the haze. Her helmet, too, was shaped with God's own wings to either side. Aye, a noble picture she struck, our Canny Bechla, but only as noble as them roses. Her horse strode through death uncountable, they what fertilized the land on account of her high ambitions. She had a notion that this Castle should be hers, y’see, and so hers it would be by day’s end. The cost to her conscience was naught but a measure of ledger’s ink.

What was it I said? 'Twas enough to almost fool a man's mind…

Her visor was up on that winged helmet, and she held a snow white handkerchief to her nose as desperate as a drowning man what clutches to the flotsam. Never did like the taste of real battle, that Canny Beclha, or I suppose the scent of it in this case. Finest sword in the land, they said, and it weren’t a lie. A woman whose arm moved like wind and whose blade, like lightning. Undefeated, unmarred, untarnished, and unafraid, that was Canny Beclha’s reputation. But only on the tourney grounds. Only in sport, with rules and points and referees and gawking, fawning nobles come to watch warriors make play of war. Truth of it was she had no stomach for the real thing. Blood, especially, turned her guts on end, the sight and smell of it near causing her to faint. A knight afeared of blood? Aye, but stranger things have walked this land, and some she was destined to meet, at that.

Credit owed to them what earned it, she did her duty. Afeared though she may have been, she weren’t no stranger to taking a man’s life. But ‘twas still a mightisome chore to the knight. And there in the gardens of Joy, where dead men fed roses, Canny Beclha was brought forth for the handling of one such chore that none of the men that served her had the mettle to face.

Her steed came to halt at the foot of a mound of bodies. The dead crawled up each other here, or bits of them anyway, as they had each, to a man, been sliced apart in a dozen different ways. Hunks of meat they mostly were, hardly recognizable as human. Up past that mound came another rise, this of earth, a wide crown of hill where the roses grew unspoiled by battle’s touch. ‘Twas a clean spot of ground, just petals and thorn, and in the center of it sat a figure holding a blade.

Canny Beclha gazed upon this figure, half trying to make sense of what she saw, half trying to work up the nerve to move her handkerchief away from her nose. At last she took a breath ‘twixt her teeth and shouted, nobly, “I claim this land in the name of the Army of the House of Brass. I, their High General, Canny Beclha, am your conqueror. Present yourself so that we may discuss the terms of your surrender.”

Ah, well, I do a poor imitation of her voice, elegant as it was. You can use your imagination for that bit, I think.

The figure turned, slightly, at the sound of the conqueror’s voice. ‘Twas another woman, knightly perhaps, though she bore no mark of such title save the flag what draped o’er her shoulders. A red petal on green field, the symbol of the Castle of Joy, pulled from the battlements themselves before they fell. When she stood, she cast aside that standard to flutter in the rank wind like she herself was the conqueror, and not the knight what stood beneath her. She wore nothing, this stranger, not armor nor belt nor chain nor cloth, nothing but a ragged sash tied ‘round her waist to offer what bare modesty it could. Her right hand clasped a monster of a blade, near tall as she stood on that hill, its point dug into the ground and leaned upon as if it were a staff. Her left ran a thumb along the edge, to whet its thirst.

“Canny Beclha of the Army of the House of Brass,” said the stranger in a voice far less delicate than her foe, “What brings you to the Garden of Joy this morning?”

Canny Beclha weren’t sure what to make of such conversation, and she shifted in her saddle something uncomfortable. “Conquest,” she repeated, “as I said. What is your name and title? Are you lord here?”

“Aye, that I am.”

“I see.” This seemed to satisfy our knight, who took that moment to breathe behind her handkerchief again, a brief respite from the air before continuing her parlay. “Then your armies are beaten and your castle is taken. Why therefore do you still fight? Surrender with dignity, and let us be done with this foul day.”

“No,” said the stranger. “I won’t be doing that.”

Murmurs amongst the column. Soldiers and lesser knights whispering most worrisome over this predicament. “Then you will be arrested,” Canny Beclha said bluntly. “And held for ransom, assuming a fool lives who would pay for you.”

The stranger on the mound smiled at that, and gestured the Army of the House of Brass to come forth. This invoked more murmurs, more worry, more nervous glances between scared men. They all saw the mound of severed limbs. They all saw the blade this lord wielded. None of them wanted a part of it.

Canny Beclha sighed, and then gagged, for the breath she took was too greedisome for the battlefield air what disgusted her so. Another chore to handle, she thought to herself. Another fool to kill.

Her horse refused to advanced through the mound of severed men, despite her ignoble attempts to cajole it forth, and so the High General of the Army of the House of Brass was forced to dismount and wade, most literally, up the hill. Each step was more torturous than the last for the poor knight, each shifting avalanche of flesh and bone enough to send her squealing home. But duty was duty, and despite her fear and despite her disgust and despite the unfair burden of it all, Canny Beclha at last made the hill and stood before her foe.

“Well met,” said the Lord of the Castle of Joy. Her banner cracked like thunder with the wind.

“Fuck yourself,” said Canny Beclha, breathless. She then unsheathed her blade, as mirror clear as her armor, and leveled its tip in duelist’s form. “Let us be done with this.”

The stranger raised a hand. “A moment, before we do. I had a question for you, o’ conqueror. Consider it a last request.”

Frustrated though she was, and more than eager to see the day end, Canny Beclha was still a knight and so beholden to some certain etiquette. The tip of her blade dipped, politely, and she nodded her head but once.

“What will you do with my Castle,” asked its Lord, “after I am gone?”

“I intend to rule here,” replied its conqueror. “To make it the seat of my power. From here I will reign o’er this disparate country, a steadier hand than ever there was, and set old wrongs to rights.”

This amused the stranger. “Indeed? And what wrongs are those?”

Canny Beclha counted the wrongs with swordly gestures. “The wrong of disunity. The wrong of chaos. The wrong of mismanagement,” she said the last as if it were the worst offender of all, and to our Canny Beclha it very well might have been. She closed her free hand into a fist. “There will be only one house under my rule. One way. One people. Forever gone will be the fires of war, the danger of dark roads, and, aye, even the common distrust between neighbors. This battle will be the last seen under God’s sun in all of this fine land. I will make sure of it.”

The stranger had a hungry smile. Nothing Canny Beclha said seemed to phase her, much to the knight’s continued vexation. Not threat nor oath nor tepid insult. All she was given in response was that hungry smile.

“One more body for the pile, then?” the stranger said, at last presenting her monstrous sword.

“Aye,” replied Canny Beclha. “One more body for the pile. Is your last wish fulfilled?”

The Lord of Joy nodded.

And so Canny Beclha struck, once, and true, as she always did, for although the sight and smell and even the very notion of a body’s insides made her sick, Canny Beclha was still the finest sword in the land. Duty was duty, and in this single beat her duty was fulfilled.

The stranger’s head landed with the other severed parts at the foot of the hill. That monstrous sword clattered to the roses. Her body slumped, draped in its standard, a funeral shroud.

Canny Beclha brought a shaky hand to her face. Painted across her chin, and jaw, and nose, and mouth, and tongue, and dripped halfway down her throat, was a stripe of the blood what burst from her foe’s neck. Even as her men cheered behind her, even as her own standard was raised high over the Castle of Joy, our knight knelt in that naked crown of roses, alone, finger in her mouth and retching.

‘Twas the lone drop of poison that started it all.

[blondrichclosetwitch]

I think I just fell in love with a porn star

Turn the camera on, she a born star

Make a nun -, make her cremate, uh

Well I'ma levitate, make the devil wait, yeah!

You could hear the loudest screams, comin' from inside the screen

Runaway slaves all on a chain gang

Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang

She wanna role play, 'til I roll over

Have you lost your mind?

Tell me when you think we crossed the line

“But now I've powers o'er a woman's body, yes"

And then our arrows of desire rewrite the speech, mmh, yes

Everybody knows you and don’t hate that you’re around

Weekend waitress, high visibility

Everybody who knows you knows right where you’ll be

I think you know by now

Do it my way

Naughty Lolita is also what I called the fake Stella tapes when she came to me and told me she had a crush on Jakk, and about stuff she said about it. Basically for about 48 hours, well, let’s just say my Nervous system was not doing well because of the things I was being told. I haven’t put up any of those tapes because I can’t sit through them.

Note to practitioners who decide to take on magic work for others: reflect if you want to be known for what’s created.

Hope she took her bad deal and made a royal flush

Does she know how proud I am she was created with the courage to unlearn all of their hatred

people never care til it’s r.i.p.

We should sit down since you said things about me

Bitches wanted to kill me and y’all still with em

You don’t wanna have sex as friends no more

And I saw my reflection in the snow covered hills till the landslide brought me down

Well, I’ve been afraid of changing because I’ve built my life around you but time makes you bolder even children get older and I’m getting older too

some feel the heat and decide that they can’t go on

Some like it hot til we fry

Queen of lies

I know it knows there’s something wrong

“look at him still sleepin”