#first: The poem reading as written

[heroic-poetry]

Love, Sam

I spoke with him

His smile was bright,

His laugh bubbly

Made me feel light.

Back off he’s mine

Back off he’s mine

Back off he’s mine

Back off he’s mine

Revealed hideout

Up on the hill,

With isolation

Carry me still.

He’s leaving me,

He’s leaving me,

He’s leaving me,

He’s leaving me,

Destined great things,

He needs to stay,

How can I breathe

When he’s away?

You can’t have him

You can’t have him

You can’t have him

You can’t have him

But storms bring doubt.

I’m left to bawl,

Going to meet

Watch as I fall.

How could you B?

How could you B?

How could you B?

How could you B?

[tyriongirl]

Genesis 4:1-5, translated by S. R. Driver, from The Book of Genesis, 1905

A Clash of Kings, Prologue - Maester Cressen

Emanuel Krescenc Liška – Cain (1885)

Claus Westermann, Genesis : a commentary, 1984

Arthur Segal - Kain und Abel (1918)

A Clash of Kings, Prologue - Maester Cressen

Natalie Diaz, A Brother Named Gethsemane, from When My Brother Was an Aztec

Lovis Corinth - Kain (1917)

Genesis 4:6-9, translated by S. R. Driver, from The Book of Genesis, 1905

A Clash of Kings, Chapter 33 - Catelyn IV

Odilion Redon - Cain and Abel (1886)

A Clash of Kings, Chapter 33 - Catelyn IV

Genesis 4:9-14, translated by S. R. Driver, from The Book of Genesis, 1905

A Clash of Kings, Chapter 31 - Catelyn III

St. Omer, Benedictine Abbey of St. Bertin; c. 1190-1200

A Storm of Swords, Chapter 36 - Davos V

S.R. Driver, The Book of Genesis, 1905

A Clash of Kings, Chapter 42 - Davos II

Lazzaro Pisani - Death of Abel (1885)

S.R. Driver, The Book of Genesis, 1905

A Clash of Kings, Chapter 42 - Davos II

A Clash of Kings, Chapter 42 - Davos II

Cain and Abel - City of Zeven - 2015 (source)

Genesis 4:14-16, translated by S. R. Driver, from The Book of Genesis, 1905

[poetryoutloud]

sleep for the unfinished - v.w.

[northern-passage]

i wrote a 500 word dynamic poem for neo-twiny jam :-)

i rewrote this in a few different ways with a handful of different drafts before settling on just doing a poem; this originally came from a full branching narrative i've had stewing for a while, and i might come back to it one day. but for now i enjoyed channeling that into this poem, which has also been very influenced by the fact that i've been writing hungry vampires for almost 2 months now.... it was also my first time messing with audio in twine, which ended up being way easier than i expected (i'm sure it helped that i only used one audio sample tho)

faith does contain sexual content, and while not super explicit, it is the main theme of the poem.

anyways hope you enjoy and check out the other entries here!

[fella-lovin-fella]

In so many words - a poem by me

[im-an-anthusiast]

Grasp Of Gold

Eyes drawn to a gleaming, golden glow

It spreads with a pace not at all slow

From my fingers to all that I grasp

Spreads gold, eliciting a sweet gasp

All that I touch, it turns into gold

All that I touch, it betters tenfold

All that I touch, they love to behold

All that I touch, with my grasp of gold

Everything, so much better like this

Turned gold, filling anyone with bliss

Turned gold at a graze, at a mention

Why would that not be my intention?

Must be made use of, before it’s gone

Gold – they say – such a precious metal

Weight so crushing, far more than a tonne

Snapping my neck, with each new medal

All that I touch, it’s good, I’ve been told

All that I touch, like in tales of old

All that I touch, its fate, long foretold

All that I touch, with my grasp of gold

Gleaming hands trailing all in their reach

Drenching all things in a golden bleach

Shining fingers rammed deep in my core

So that I may be what you adore

Will you hold dear, all that I will hold?

In spite of? Because of? I can’t tell

Will you cherish, all that I turn gold?

Is there an end to this lustrous well?

All that I touch, is it what I’m told?

All that I touch, is it what it’s called?

All that I touch, will it rust, when old?

All that I touch, with my grasp of gold

Hands around my neck, glistening gold

Hot flesh and blood turn overly cold

A golden statue, for you to see

Isn’t that what you want me to be?

And if the gold ever goes matted?

Will you still be there, for me to hold?

Or has what I am never mattered?

Am I naught, without my grasp of gold?

All that I touch, has to be turned gold

All that I touch, must better tenfold

All that I touch, they have to behold

All that I touch, with this grasp of gold

Eyes drawn to a dreaded, golden glow

It spreads with a pace that feels too slow

From my fingers to all that I grasp

Spreads gold, eliciting that sick gasp

[jacksintention]

Still unwell about Rilke and PH

I love the dark hours of my being.

My mind deepens into them.

There I can find, as in old letters,

the days of my life, already lived,

and held like a legend, and understood.

Then the knowing comes: I can open

to another life that's wide and timeless.

So I am sometimes like a tree

rustling over a gravesite

and making real the dream

of the one its living roots

embrace:

a dream once lost

among sorrows and songs.

[oflights]

The Two-Headed Calf

Tomorrow when the farm boys find this freak of nature, they will wrap his body in newspaper and carry him to the museum.

But tonight he is alive and in the north field with his mother. It is a perfect summer evening: the moon rising over the orchard, the wind in the grass. And as he stares into the sky, there are twice as many stars as usual.

Laura Gilpin

[plaintoast]

us above water

in one hand, a photo of you asleep this morning in the bed we shared but define as mine. below that, the atlantic nearly invisible through the window i lay my head against. i risk the press of my thumb to the wiry hair along your knuckles for just a minute longer. maybe another minute after that. everyone else is asleep but i know i will dream of my head pressed between your shoulder and chin and wake missing you before we go our separate ways, so i watch the sky. it fades into early morning blue, the ocean visible once more. it reminds me of the dry shine of my mother's eye catching mine, our fingers intertwined at the table across from my brother's discerning gaze. not soon, but in a future we can talk about now, we take every flight together and i am not afraid who sees us touch. for now we relish the novelty of only keeping half a secret. you awaken as we fly into the risen sun, and i am blinded by the soft set of your smile, the sleep-struck grey of your eyes. i have not yet pulled away my hand from yours.

a poem inspired by @msmargaretmurry's this is for keeps in the head above water 'verse. becky, thank you for bringing this matthew and leon into the world. not only is the story a gift, it led me back into your fandom space, where i am constantly thrilled to be. i hope you enjoy this work you brought out in me!

[toragay-writing]

Monsters

The monsters swirled around me.

I'm in my bed, I dare not make a single movement or sound.

I do not want to alert them.

The monsters might be manageable if there were only one, but there is not. I can not even count all the monsters.

I know I am needed outside this room, but there is no way past all of them.

[the-replacemints]

Allen Ginsberg and Neal Cassady

1.

2.

[blue-likethebird]

Something I’ve found interesting about my reading of the Iliad is that multiple times throughout the epic, attempts by both sides to reach some kind of peace are thwarted either by their leaders or the gods. When Menelaus and Paris agree to engage in single combat with the winner determining the victor of the war, the gods intervene and Aphrodite whisks Paris back to Troy before Menelaus can defeat him, which means the war continues. Agamemnon convinces Menelaus not to partake in a similar duel with Hector. Paris refuses to hear out the Trojan people when they begin to suggest returning Helen to the Greek forces might end the war. The deal the Trojans do attempt to offer the Greeks -every treasure taken from Sparta when Helen was abducted plus more goods from Paris’s own stores- is dismissed. Even when Menelaus attempts to spare the life of one man by taking him as a hostage rather than killing him outright, his brother Agamemnon chides him for being ‘soft’ on his enemies. So many people on both sides of the conflict are seen trying to put an end to the violence, but those in power -both divine and human- and their refusal to accept anything less than a complete and utter victory over their foes ultimately lead to more bloodshed in the long run.

[that-bi-bitch-writes]

Here's a collection of some of my poems. a few of them are really good in my opinion and the rest i am like an artist about (i hate them bc I wrote them). I have more poems and one day I plan to just collect a bunch and like publish them or something

[aromanticannibal]

when i would absolutely want to share my poems w/ the class but i think I'd get reminded suicide hotlines numbers if I did

[albeckett]

samuel beckett as paul klee's angelus novus (new angel; 1920)

+ laurie anderson, the dream before (1989) + walter benjamin, theses on the philosophy of history (early 1940s) + + s.d. chrostowka, angelus novus, angst of history (2012) + gershom scholem, Gruß vom Angelus (greetings from the angelus) (1921)

[ryteu]

Sestina de Amicita

How might I understand how some could love

Those countless parts of me I learned to loathe?

Despite the guiding stars of dearest friends,

The smoke of bridges back to family

Stings my eyes, turns my climb to seeming waste,

And deems my budding boughs as of no worth.

By Nature’s law, even the seed bears worth

Enough to warrant from Earth the love

For growth when lost ‘mid most desolate waste

Alone, though the fated soil it may loathe.

And while still formed from far-flung family,

Those twisted shoots shall shape a keep for friends.

Now unfurl blazoned banners of our friends—

Brave beacons for those halls of greatest worth—

Flanged with faded faded fetters of family;

Yet, not even the grandest hall of love

From Fate is safe; great love may turn to loathe,

And lay bright halls and all their joys to waste.

Amid such ruin, rot, most tragic waste,

Live still in haunting visage ghosts of friends,

Who ling’ring on long silent now must loathe

The one who surely saw them of less worth

Than they deserve, wasting instead that love

On voids devoid of friend or family.

I neither heat nor chill toward family

Feel; rather, like young flowers late frost would waste,

I recoil, shrink, hide in my bulb the love

I long but cannot give, e’en unto friends.

And so goes all semblance of my worth;

In mired mind, I myself begin to loathe.

I wander darkling down the path I loathe,

Sense stung with grief for failing family

And friend; worst, I twist their and my own worth,

Transposing all our happy days to waste.

Grief spurs anew! Through such abuse, my friends,

By you I swear your lasting grace to love!

My worth springs forth from what I cast as waste

To find for me a family of friends;

Thus shall all I loathe fall away to love.