#There is some kind of poetry in it?

[achillesuwu]

Hey but what if Arthur is waiting for the people's he hold dear in the after life 👀

At first he just asks to the newly death people how Camelot is doing, what is happening, etc. Then he began to see people that he knew, knights and nobles at first, (he lied the first "person" he recognised that die after him was that damned Dragon and he is going to have words with Merlin—), Gaius, Hunith,... 40 years after his death he saw his queen again too.

He also see people he doesn't know but cherish anyways : his wife's new husband, their children, his knights' children, their children's children,...

And yet, he does not see Merlin. He does not wish that he dies but it has been 150 years surely Sorcerer can not live that long?

Slowly but surely, Merlin began to loose his connection to Camelot's children. He began to travel, he began to leave and Arthur becomes afraid. Arthur does not know where he will go, Arthur is losing his track. Arthur is dead and Merlin is alive. All he can do is asks, asks and asks again.

Until one day, one day, no one can answers him anymore and so he waits...

[inkskinned]

at some point it's just like. do they even fucking like the thing they're asking AI to make? "oh we'll just use AI for all the scripts" "we'll just use AI for art" "no worries AI can write this book" "oh, AI could easily design this"

like... it's so clear they've never stood in the middle of an art museum and felt like crying, looking at a piece that somehow cuts into your marrow even though the artist and you are separated by space and time. they've never looked at a poem - once, twice, three times - just because the words feel like a fired gun, something too-close, clanging behind your eyes. they've never gotten to the end of the movie and had to arrive, blinking, back into their body, laughing a little because they were holding their breath without realizing.

"oh AI can mimic style" "AI can mimic emotion" "AI can mimic you and your job is almost gone, kid."

... how do i explain to you - you can make AI that does a perfect job of imitating me. you could disseminate it through the entire world and make so much money, using my works and my ideas and my everything.

and i'd still keep writing.

i don't know there's a word for it. in high school, we become aware that the way we feel about our artform is a cliche - it's like breathing. over and over, artists all feel the same thing. "i write because i need to" and "my music is how i speak" and "i make art because it's either that or i stop existing." it is such a common experience, the violence and immediacy we mean behind it is like breathing to me - comes out like a useless understatement. it's a cliche because we all feel it, not because the experience isn't actually persistent. so many of us have this ... fluttering urgency behind our ribs.

i'm not doing it for the money. for a star on the ground in some city i've never visited. i am doing it because when i was seven i started taking notebooks with me on walks. i am doing it because in second grade i wrote a poem and stood up in front of my whole class to read it out while i shook with nerves. i am doing it because i spent high school scribbling all my feelings down. i am doing it for the 16 year old me and the 18 year old me and the today-me, how we can never put the pen down. you can take me down to a subatomic layer, eviscerate me - and never find the source of it; it is of me. when i was 19 i named this blog inkskinned because i was dramatic and lonely and it felt like the only thing that was actually permanently-true about me was that this is what is inside of me, that the words come up over everything, coat everything, bloom their little twilight arias into every nook and corner and alley

"we're gonna replace you". that is okay. you think that i am writing to fill a space. that someone said JOB OPENING: Writer Needed, and i wrote to answer. you think one raindrop replaces another, and i think they're both just falling. you think art has a place, that is simply arrives on walls when it is needed, that is only ever on demand, perfect, easily requested. you see "audience spending" and "marketability" and "multi-line merch opportunity"

and i see a kid drowning. i am writing to make her a boat. i am writing because what used to be a river raft has long become a fully-rigged ship. i am writing because you can fucking rip this out of my cold dead clammy hands and i will still come back as a ghost and i will still be penning poems about it.

it isn't even love. the word we use the most i think is "passion". devotion, obsession, necessity. my favorite little fact about the magic of artists - "abracadabra" means i create as i speak. we make because it sluices out of us. because we look down and our hands are somehow already busy. because it was the first thing we knew and it is our backbone and heartbreak and everything. because we have given up well-paying jobs and a "real life" and the approval of our parents. we create because - the cliche again. it's like breathing. we create because we must.

you create because you're greedy.

[theminecraftbee]

also you know what feeling something about how, given that cleo is the person with the inexplicably huge wolf pack this season, for once it's not a lone wolf who has it. hell, with the wolf spawner, they even share it. don't even know what to do with that just. staring at it with some kind of emotion. they shared it. they shared the wolf pack. the thing that had almost always previously been associated with a weird loner who replaced friends with dogs they shared it--

[blackjackkent]

The stories say to touch her is to feel Yourself consumed by flame upon her skin.  They say her blood is made of molten steel Charged with infernal fire from within.  They call her many things, those fucking pricks: The Devil's Advocate, the Demonsbane,  Archdevil's Torch, the Terror of the Styx,  Attack dog of Avernus, child of pain.  So many monstrous names… and then the truth-- A loyal soul who was not made for war,  Betrayed and mutilated, robbed of youth,  And forced to live untouched and soaked in gore.  Ten years she fought and struggled not to die…  Till hope came in a ship that split the sky. 

[the-real-list-of-ominous-threats]

I’m going to make you find out that your old friend who you miss but stopped talking to and grew apart from years ago is wildly more successful than you and realize with sadness that you’re jealous rather than happy for her like you would have been in the old days

[orpheuslament]

Dead Stars, Ada Limón

[simmyfrobby]

― Little Softness, samsketchbook

Hockey Poetry Post 34/?

(Photo credit: Mark Blinch, Kevin Sousa, Mark Blinch, Kevin Sousa, Mark Blinch, Andrew Lahodynskyj, Andrew Lahodynskyj, Kevin Sousa, Kevin Sousa, Mark Blinch)

Also I've been made aware that baby's got Narrative. This edit owes a not-insignificant amount to @sergeifyodorov's 2015 draft summary.

[nwarrior777]

this is how i feel after writing 130 pages of my poem which include 22 chapters ending ACT II thinking ahah i need to write just a little more, deciding to count how i need to write in theory to understand that i need to write about 20 chapters more

[Image description: gif, loop of rotation of sandwich, subway kind of way, on white background,. it is half open and smashd with ingridients in, not very clear what ingridients are exactly - some meet, greens, and, maybe tuna but mayby cabbage - some colorless thing, ingridients are messy and getting out of it. the sandwich looks like it will just explodes with whatever in it, also very not presentable like it was smashed so the physic form of this creature is pathetic. end of id]

[leapdayowo]

them <3 but as dragons :D

I’m not at all familiar with drawing dragons, but the idea was planted in my head and I cannot let it go! After some trial and error this is what I’ve got! I’m very happy with how the designs turned out, and I hope to expand a bit on the idea :3 The turned into animals prompts very much helped me commit to this too <3

[emry-stars-art]

Doodles after learning the different meanings of different wax seals; according to this infographic using blue wax indicates romance or passion, the darker the blue, the stronger the feelings. Abram only has red wax (the default option) if any at all, but luckily he knows exactly who to ask when he finally learns there’s a separate proper way to seal certain sweet letters to his prince

Find the royal au masterpost here 💕

[guhmshuda]

Folks 😭 my boyfriend just sent me three poems by Ghalib that he wrote himself in Urdu and it’s just too cute to see him make an effort to communicate with me. He always finds new ways to communicate and convey his feelings and honestly I am just too lucky to have him. I don’t think I could have ever had someone who adores me the way he does he’s just perfect ❤️

[canisalbus]

My love mine all mine fits your boys so well in my opinion, especially that one line, so soft and tender, one waking up while the other still sleeps and seeing his peaceful face, feeling his warmth so close, watching a smile and a laugh, the sun reflecting off fur, eyes glowing in candlelight, nails (claws?) running through fur, melancholy as tears drip down the other's face, hands clenched too tight, jaw taut

.

[trashdragon4]

Having incredibly Jason Todd flavoured thoughts in regard to Toi Dericottes poem “Speculations About “I””

I read this poem in class the other day and immediately thought ab my boy Jay. So i finally sat down today and messily vomited the below words into a document, please enjoy.

Heres the poem link: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/poems/90292/speculations-about-i (in case u want to read it normally, as it is a banger of a poem)

Ok, so I feel like this is post death, early resurrection. This is Jason borderline catatonic, wandering the streets of Gotham having just dug himself from his grave, begging for the only safety he’s ever really known. This is Jason in the hospital, desperate for a comfort he’s unaware he ever had (Bruce, his dad, he's sorry, he's sorry, he's sorry).

This is post Lazurus pit, with the league, with Talia. Jason is hardly more conscious than before, but sometimes he feels things now, the adrenaline of a fight, the hot sharp pain of a blade, he’s something closer to alive. But he’s a mere observer in his own body, and he hardly ever observes (he doesn’t want to see the carnage).

He’s gaining control now, battling the Lazurus pit, gaining consciousness as well. He doesn’t know where he ends and it begins, and he’s not sure if cares, if he should care.

Who is he now? What does he remember? He clings to those fragments, however painful they are and are becoming, because they are all he has left of himself, of Bruce, of Robin. In a way they are still shaping him, they are the tools Talia wields to carve him into what she needs him to become.

The Lazurus pit, it stifles what remains of him, pushes it deep down, he lets it, helps it even. It’s easier this way. Now all he has is the anger, and the stories he’s been told, they fuel it.

A memory, his childhood, he found himself, in his first life, in the grime of crime alley. He grew up in the filth and abuse and neglect and he loved it despite it all because it was familiar, a comfort, he loves it still. He hides this piece of himself amongst the scattered fragments of his mind.

Sometimes he wonders if he should’ve stayed dead. He thinks that maybe it would be better if he hadn’t clawed his way up from the dirt, if he had crumpled up like so many others on Gotham’s streets, if Talia hadn’t found him. He’s here now though and through the poison he lets her feed him he plots. Memory and musings will do him no good, so he will let them fall away.

The prodigal son returns. Except not really, he’s back in the physical sense and he’s trying, trying so hard to do what no one else will. He will be the saviour to all those his Father couldn’t (wouldn’t) save. He’s building a new safer home from the ground up, brick by brick. He’s in control for the first time in years and then he’s standing on that rooftop facing Bruce His Dad Batman with a gun in his hand and a countdown on his wrist and he didn’t see the batarang coming but it slices through his throat and he can’t breathe.

He is not the Jason of his memories, not the little bird who thought Robin was magic. He is the cage that little birds get trapped in.

Internal conflict, the fragments of himself are locked in opposition, he does not know who to trust, what to do, how to move forward.

He has broken the one unbreakable rule he was raised with, over and over and over, and he will do it again. It wasn’t that he wanted to kill, he wanted someone to protect him. No one did. He will protect himself now, protect everyone that needs protection. And so he clips the little birds wings.

This is all he is, no matter the justification. His survival is not one to be celebrated, and as far as he’s aware it hasn’t been. He is life at the cost of life.

He has failed everyone he has ever cared for, broken every promise to them that he made. Bruce, His Mother (both of them), Alfred, Dick, Babs, everyone. He never cared enough to promise himself anything.

[deadpanwalking]

“I do not minimise the services of modern poets in exploiting the possibilities of rhymeless verse. They prove the strength of a Movement, the utility of a Theory. What neither Blake nor Arnold could do alone is being done in our time. ‘Blank verse’ is the only accepted rhymeless verse in English – the inevitable iambic pentameter. The English ear is (or was) more sensitive to the music of the verse and less dependent upon the recurrence of identical sounds in this metre than in any other. There is no campaign against rhyme. But it is possible that excessive devotion to rhyme has thickened the modern ear. The rejection of rhyme is not a leap at facility; on the contrary, it imposes a much severer strain upon the language. When the comforting echo of rhyme is removed, success or failure in the choice of words, in the sentence structure, in the order, is at once more apparent. Rhyme removed, the poet is at once held up to the standards of prose. Rhyme removed, much ethereal music leaps up from the word, music which has hitherto chirped unnoticed in the expanse of prose. Any rhyme forbidden, many Shagpats were unwigged.

And this liberation from rhyme might be as well a liberation of rhyme. Freed from its exacting task of supporting lame verse, it could be applied with greater effect where it is most needed. There are often passages in an unrhymed poem where rhyme is wanted for some special effect, for a sudden tightening-up, for a cumulative insistence, or for an abrupt change of mood. But formal rhymed verse will certainly not lose its place. We only need the coming of a Satirist – no man of genius is rarer – to prove that the heroic couplet has lost none of its edge since Dryden and Pope laid it down. As for the sonnet I am not so sure. But the decay of intricate formal patterns has nothing to do with the advent of vers libre. It had set in long before. Only in a closely-knit and homogenous society, where many men are at work on the same problems, such a society as those which produced the Greek chorus, the Elizabethan lyric, and the Troubadour canzone, will the development of such forms ever be carried to perfection. And as for vers libre, we conclude that it is not defined by absence of pattern or absence of rhyme, for other verse is without these; that it is not defined by non-existence of metre, since even the worst verse can be scanned; and we conclude that the division between Conservative Verse and vers libre does not exist, for there is only good verse, bad verse, and chaos.”

T.S. Eliot, from 'Reflections on Vers libre' (New Statesman, March 3, 1917)

[boilingheart]

Been watching Breaking Bad little by little lately. Why do Walter White and Gale Boetticher read as the most dramatic slowburn ever with the little screen time they have together. wtf. was that just me seeing that? this is my destiel.

[same-skies]

Emotional symphony

I threw a party today, and all the emotions came, 

Each one of them unique, none quite the same, 

Joy arrived first, walking in with a radiant smile, 

Spreading laughter and cheer all the while.

Surprise bounced in, with a gasp and a start, 

Turning heads and quickening everyone’s heart, 

Anticipation buzzed, with eyes so bright, 

Waiting for the music, the magic of the night.

Trust held hands with steady grace, 

Offering comfort in the busy space, 

Curiosity peeked in, with eyes so wide, 

Eager to dance, and to never hide.

Enthusiasm danced around with a lively cheer, 

Filling the room with fun, the energy clear, 

Contentment sat quietly, with a serene smile, 

Enjoying the moment, there the whole while.

Gratitude bowed with heartfelt cheer, 

Thankful for all those who were gathered here, 

Pride stood tall, with a confident air, 

Celebrating achievements, beyond compare.

Inspiration danced in, with a spark so bright, 

Igniting ideas, filling hearts with light, 

Courage was found in the warmth of the light, 

Joining the dance, no sign of fright.

Love entered with a gentle grace, 

Welcoming everyone with a warm embrace, 

Hope lit up the room with a gentle glow, 

Making promises when the music did slow.

Serenity floated in, with a calming breeze, 

Bringing peace and putting minds at ease,

Empathy moved through, with a gentle touch, 

Understanding others, caring so much.

Sadness slipped in, with a gentle sigh, 

Bringing some tears, but not asking why, 

Grief walked in with a heavy heart, 

Dragging in memories that tear us apart.

Loneliness lingered, feeling out of place, 

Then she found solace in a friendly face, 

Fear tiptoed in, with shadows in tow, 

Hesitant and quiet, moving slow.

Anger approached with a simmering heat, 

Yet soon found calmness, somewhere to retreat, 

Disgust wrinkled its nose at the sight of the spread, 

Finding solace in a corner, where it quietly tread.

Envy glanced around with a longing on her face, 

Yet she softened in others' warm embrace, 

Jealousy peeked in, with eyes of green, 

Wishing for things it had never seen.

Regret entered softly, with a backward glance, 

Wishing for a second chance, 

Shame hid in shadows, with a downcast gaze, 

Hoping to escape the judging haze.

Confusion wandered in, with a puzzled look, 

Trying to understand the paths it took, 

Nostalgia arrived, with memories in tow, 

Revisiting moments from long ago.

As the night wore on, they danced and they played, 

Each emotion, in its own way, stayed.

A tapestry of feelings, woven tight, 

In the heart's grand ballroom, shining bright.