#bush poet

[armorangels]

istg if i see another dps edit of army dreamers by kate bush i will —

[decisions-at-3am]

Look upon the sky, Where birds fly free. Two who are dancing Look like you and me.

[aiteanngaelach]

Ómós do Shomhairle MacGill-Eain le Paddy Bushe / Homage to Sorley MacLeann by Paddy Bushe

Thig crìoch air an t-saoghal ach mairidh ceòl is gaol / There comes an end to the world, but not to music, nor love

[imgayyk]

Four men in uniform, to carry home my little soldier.

What could he do? Should have been a rock star (Nuwanda)

but he didn't have the money for a guitar. (didn't have time)

What could he do? Should have been a politician (a poet)

but he didn't have a proper education.

What could he do? Should have been a father (an actor)

but he never even made it to his twenties..

What a waste, army dreamers

Ooh, what a waste of army dreamers.

(hopefully it makes sense & no one had done it before me, I'm just tooo into this song and I need to see a dps edit of it asap but sadly I do not have the abilities to make it myself)

[deadrottengirl111]

The rain will fall and hit the glass of the old womens window, even after her death.

Even after the world had turned their back to the little cottage on the hill.

The cottage where an old woman sits in an armchair in front of a long gone cold fireplace.

Even after shes dead.

[marcusagrippa]

poet spotted 🫵

[honeyednotes]

Waiting

the clicking trill of a bush cricket sounds against the night like a car alarm, loud and insistent, waiting for someone to notice and turn him off

but his calls go straight to voicemail everytime, no matter how much he rings

so he hangs up and tries again, permitting a few moments of silence while he redials the only number he knows

the shrill dial tone picks up where it left off, deafening in it's proximity as he calls out again into the night

waiting

by Brie Thomson

[glorf1ndel]

Am I the only one that gets Kate Bush vibes from this Taylor Swift photo? Specifically the Babooshka music video! She wanted to test her husband/ She knew exactly what to do.

[lovech1ld]

army dreamers by Kate Bush is so dead poets society it makes me SICK

[daltonchronicles]

Band codes for the poets

I’m just stuck on thoughts about how a lot of the poets, if not all of them, are band coded.

Neil: Neil is most definitely Taylor Swift. More so a lot of her Folklore/Evermore stuff is so inherently Neil and both Taylor/Neil talk a lot about the pain life brings but the love that it brings in reward. 

Todd: Todd is hard because he in actual fact doesn’t come into his own until the end of the movie but most Fanon Todd ideas centre around his love for reading and writing. This might not resonate with everyone but I feel he’s Kate Bush. Whimsical, and taking inspiration from literature, but also so in tune with life ad how to create art, not just a song.

Charlie: I couldn't decide on just one. Charlie in the good old tunes is Queen. It’s that rock and roll lifestyle but teamed with friendship and unfortunate loneliness for a romantic. But Charlie also fits in with a lot of modern music, because he doesn’t fit his own time period. He’s so Matty Healy coded it’s untrue. Could you imagine Charlie at a The 1975 concert? He’d be fucking living. I had this dream where Charlie and the Poets go to the concert and, somehow, Charlie ends up on stage, singing with Matty on The Sound, and serenading Knox, and they end up kissing during Robbers, which forces Knox to go on stage and snog Charlie because he's jealous.

Knox (Fanon because Canon doesn’t exist in my head for him): The Beatles. Imagine early 60s Paul McCartney. He wants to be in a happy classy love story, and very upbeat, but also he’d appreciate all the pining heartbreak songs.

Meeks: ABBA. If Meeks wasn’t American, he’d definitely be Swedish and I just can’t explain it. Maybe it’s the friendship with Charlie but he’s the other side of the 70s music coin to Charlie. It’s the happiness of songs like Dancing Queen and Super Trouper. I could imagine him having a breakdown to Slipping Through My Fingers.

Pitts: Pitts would be Jersey Boys. He’s smooth and he'd break out those sweet dance moves while still remaining calm and collective. I LOVE IT. 

Cameron: Silence. Not because I don’t think he matches with any band, he just strikes me as the Poet that will listen to everyone else’s music taste and think it’s all just ok. He hasn’t got strong opinions on that and doesn’t care about whether music is on or not, he could live quite easily without music. That’s ok! Music isn't for everyone and Cameron lives his life with only a couple of things that makes him stand out.

[dreamings-free]

Oliver Keane and Andrew Cushin are going to the All Of Those Voices London premiere tomorrow 16/3/23

[betweenthetimeandsound]

Divine Messenger

--prompt from @nosebleedclub "kindling" (5 January)

"There the angel of the Lord appeared to him in flames of fire from within a bush. Moses saw that though the bush was on fire it did not burn up. So Moses thought, 'I will go over and see this strange sight—why the bush does not burn up.'" -- Exodus 3:2-3

A beacon of light deludes us into thinking we will receive the truth on feathery wings. No--we will only know it after the whips cut out our muscles and rip out the gore which makes up our home.

I am already blind because I wandered to the darkest places-- navigating only through the light of the wolf moon, diluting in the clouds due to the thickening fog. I only returned on frostbitten feet, not because the watchmen call for my hands, but to receive this message and run.

Paper falls onto the ground-- their spells are already broken, for they are transmuted to mere kindling for an empire of gears and codes, unaware of the aesthetics of passion. Beyond the glowing hands and frequent prayers for a more perfect society, they know not the suffering of the subjugated-- those who bear the crown of thorns for purposes other than theatrical, those who alert others through speaking tongues-- poetry must always speak truth, unless it puts out the divine flame.

I do not confess here, for I know what I've done is just. I release my binds, leave them to the smoke, and let my memories collect dust.

From ashes I'm born, and to ashes I will come back to when I die. But I do not know why a merciless god would smite out of vengence against a country who indulges in beauty and art. I bear witness, purging the sea of tears to give solace to the hedonistic but truthful amongst us. They know the limits of denial, and let them feel the colors brand on themselves-- the color of pomegranates, bursting, bleeding, blooming in the winter night...--Elda Mengisto

[thewondermentofillustration]

The Old Wife and the New He sat beneath the curling vines That round the gay verandah twined, His forehead seamed with sorrow's lines, An old man with a weary mind. His young wife, with a rosy face And brown arms ambered by the sun, Went flitting all about the place- Master and mistress both in one. What caused that old man's look of care? Was she not blithe and fair to see? What blacker than her raven hair, What darker than her eyes might be? The old man bent his weary head; The sun light on his grair shonel His thoughts were with a woman dead And buried, years and years agone. The good old wife who took her stand Beside him at the altar-side And walked with him, hand clasped in hand, Through joy and sorrow till she died. Ah, she was fair as heart's desire, And gay, and supple-limbed, in truth, aAnd in his veins ther leapt like fire, The red-hot blood of lusty youth. She stood by him in shine and shade, And, when hard-beaten at his best, She took him like a child and laid His aching head upon her breast. She helped him make a little home Where once were gum-trees guant and stark, And bloodwoods waved green-feathered foam- Working from dawn of day to dark. Till that dark forest formed a frame For vineyards that the gods might bless, And what was savage once became An Eden in the wilderness. And how at first vintage time She laughed and sang- you see such shapes On vases of the Grecian prime - And danced a reel upon the grapes! And ever, as the years went on, All things she kept with thrifty hand, Till never shone the sun upon A fairer homestead in the land. Then children came - ah, me! ah, me! Sad blessings that a mother craves! That old man from the seat could see The shadows playing o'er their graves. And then she closed her eyes at last, Her gentle, useful peaceful life Was over - garnered with the past! God rest thee gently, Good Old Wife! His young wife with a rosy face, And laughs, the reddest lips apart, But cannot fill the empty place Whithin that old man's lonely heart. His young wife has a rosy face, And brown arms ambered by the sun, Goes flitting all about the place, Master and mistress both in one; But though she sings, or though she sighs, He sees her not - he sees instead A gray-haired Shade with gentle eyes- The good old wife, long dead, long dead.

He sits beneath the curling vines, Through which the merry sunrays dart, His forehead seamed with sorrow's lines - An old man with a broken heart. - Poem by Victor J. Daley (1858 – 1905), illustration by Benjamin Edwin Minns (1863-1937), The Lone Hand, Vol. 2 No. 12, 1st April, 1908

[yasniger]

GREATNESS

[rose-weaxley]

Oh lei, oh lai, oh lei, oh lai, oh Oh lei, oh lai, oh lei, oh lai, oh

@homenum-revelio-rpg

ft. @craz-insanity, @g-lawrence

[ohwaitwhatdamn]

Whoops.

Accidentally came across that fucking Kate Bush song.

God dammit Tracy. Fuck cancer.

I know you're here with me.

Preservance, Preservance written on a card with a red pen.

You always come to me in my dreams wearing the blue hoodie that somehow was as blue as your eyes.

When I see bees I am still terrified.

I think it's you flying around and reminding me we heal with time. The toxin leaves our body, and our skin covers the puncture.

I felt you when I was climbing up the steep hill to get to the other side of Nicholls Oval Park.

I heard a "woot" and wondered if you were an owl perched on a branch observing.

Reassurance that I am safe in this place.

Preservance. Preservance.

I hate using past tense to think about you.