#if poems are glimpses at what the poet is like then you must be beautiful and insightful and kind

[twopercentboy]

I think the cats and dogs and deer had it right

Because affection only works when it's rubbed off on someone

Lord I ask you give me time to show him what his words do to me

Lord how he warms me

He's a heat rock

And I, a stupid, foul, cold-blooded creature cursed to crawl on my belly

for the rest of my days

Lord I'd crawl to him till the end of days

PoetAnon

me when religious imagery in poetry

if ur cursed to crawl on ur belly does that make me Eve?

[the-lost-girl-in-the-tardis]

Eater Of Time

Pairing: Eleventh Doctor x Gender Neutral Reader

Song: Babylon- Barns Courtney. Darkness of the Day- Cadalay

Warnings:

An: This is something that I plan on re-writing in the future. Maybe even making it into a short story. But it's an idea i've been toying with for a long time now so please consider this as a first draft of sorts. Any feedback will be appreciated.

Tags: @simplymurdock

Word count:4586

Last part first

"Help me. Remind me why I'm here."

-Kim Addonizio, from 'Death Poem', Wild Nights: New and Selected Poems.

"What are they?" Your voice shakes. The creatures in front of you move and shift along the shadows. Their eyes are hungry. Feeding off of the very being of you.

"Eaters of time." The Doctor spoke from beside you. Quiet. Soft. Almost scared if one could believe it. You glance up at him as he still stares back at the creatures.

"Eaters of time?" You ask. One of them lurches forward and the Doctor places you behind him. His sonic whirs uselessly against them. The darkness they spread swallows the little green light. "Doctor." You whisper. "Doctor please. What are they?"

You have never seen that look on his face before. So broken. Empty. You've seen his joy, his anger, his sorrow. This. It.

"They eat time, Y/n. Specifically the time someone has lived. They eat it. Consume it. Almost immortal because of their hunger." He pulls you away from him and towards the open forest the two of you had trekked god knows how long ago. "I'm sorry." He gives you a hug. Presses a kiss to your brow. "I am so sorry. But I need you to run. Go. To the Tardis. She'll take you home."

"I'm not leaving you!" The creatures surge as your voices rises. "Doctor. I will not leave you." You voice is hoarse. Your body strung tight. Muscles and a base primal fear begging you to do just that. Run.

His face hardens and you catch a glimpse of the Doctor that only those who whisper his name in fear have witnessed. Not at you. No. But that foolish heart of yours. The one that begs to stay. To help.

"I need you to run. Now." He begins to push you away from it all. Away from the baying creatures. The forest seems to grow. To swallow the both of you as he pushes you further and further away. "Go! Before they-"

First part second

"Let me sit here, on the threshold of two worlds. Lost in the eloquence of silence."

-Jalalud'din Rumi (1207-1273) 13th century mystic and poet.

"One of the most beautiful forests in this galaxy." The Doctor whirls as he steps in front of you. Throwing the Tardis doors open with a flourish he grins. "Y/n I give you Tenebris Silva."

Beautiful indeed. The forest had a dark ethereal beauty to it. Shadows clung to the spaces in-between. White fog flowed and clung to the trunks of the trees. Deer like animals peered from around them. Their large eyes catching the light from inside the Tardis before darting off into the darkness.

The trees were such a deep green they matched the eternally night sky. The tops brushing the sky as if they were painting the smattering of stars and clouds high above. They moved and swayed with the breeze. Creaked and groaned as the wood fought against the wind far above.

All you could do was look in aw. Spinning on the spot as your feet dug into soft earth and pine needles. The air was so sweet. So clear and clean. It was if you were taking a breath of air for the first time. You breathed in deeply. As if you were trying to etch this air into your lungs. Commit it to memory so you would never forget.

You could hear the Doctor laugh as you did this. You must have looked a little silly you thought. Spinning about like a child. Still, you didn't stop. Trying to drink in every bit of this place you could. Trying to remember it so that one day you could look back. Such a happy memory it would be.

The Tardis doors closed and for a brief moment you were plunged into darkness. The half moon provided little light. As did the stars far away as they were. You jumped when you felt the Doctors hand land on your shoulder. A flashlight was pressed into your hands as the Doctor turned his own on.

"Come along then. There's a cabin here." The two of you began to walk. The Doctor stopped. Muttered to himself then began walking in the complete opposite direction. You couldn't help the laugh that escaped you. "Oh hush you. Unless you don't want to see the once in a lifetime meteor shower." You really did laugh at this.

"You wouldn't." You nudged his shoulder with yours. He tried to keep that angry look on his face but it soon fell.

"No. Not to you." His free arm wrapped around your shoulder. "But you'll love it. When they fall they light up every color you could ever imagine. It's like a firework show but better." His head dipped low. "And I can guarantee whatever you are imagining isn't even going to compare to what you are about to see." He pulled his head up. "Although that doesn't mean that you lack imagination. Or that you don't have a brilliant mind or." You stopped him by shining your flashlight in his face.

"Stop it you." You turn your head shining your light about the lightly worn path the two of you were taking. It was more of a deer trail really. A thin worn dirt path with a decent amount of brush on either side. "How far is it to this cabin?" You shiver. The planet may have an eternal night but it was no colder than a normal night on Earth.

"Not far." The Doctor responded. "Tired already? The fun hasn't even begun! We're supposed to." He stopped. Shined his light away from the path. You followed yours with it.

"Doctor?" You ask. Peering around him as he plucked something off of the brush next to him. You heard him hum as he brought it in front of him so you could see.

"Fabric. That's strange. No one else is supposed to be here. Or have been here for a long time." The fabric was a dark denim. Similar to the jacket you were wearing now. The Doctor moved it about. Checking it every which way. He brought it to his nose and gave it quite the loud sniff.

You arched a brow and chuckled. "That smell any good?" The Doctor looks to you. Shakes his head. He looked as if he were trying to recall something. He pockets the fabric and pulls you along the path.

"It's nothing. Probably. Maybe." The two of you broke through the brush. The tree line opening up to an open field with the cabin in the center of it. The ground breaks off to a cliff face with mountains jutting above the horizon. "And no. It didn't smell good." The both of you laugh.

The cabin is dark and very very big. It toward at least three stories and spread the length of a football field and then some. There was no electricity either. Candles and lanterns lined the walls. The Doctor flicked his sonic as the two of you entered. The inside of the cabin bathed in soft orange light.

The floor was carpeted. Paintings hung on every available inch of wall. Only broken by cabinets or hanging plants. The air smelled of something familiar to you. One you couldn't place.

You took the time to look around while the Doctor scribbled away in what you assumed to be a log book. Like the kind that hotel owners have. You brushed your fingers along the frame of one of the paintings. Was this place a hotel? You would have to ask the Doctor.

"Alright! Off to our rooms then." The Doctor spun bringing his hands together. The lanterns lit themselves as the two of you climbed a flight of stairs to the next floor.

You couldn't help but get a weird sense of deja'vu as you walked. Something bugging you in the the back of your mind. You shrugged your shoulders as a shiver ran down your back. While the Doctor was unlocking the door to one of your rooms you glanced back down the hallway. The further down it went it seemed like the darkness swallowed the light.

Your ears began to ring as your continued to look about. Something. Something wasn't entirely right. One of the lanterns flicked before going out briefly. Cold washed over you and you couldn't help but feel like you were being watched.

"Y/n?" The Doctor's head popped over your shoulder as he looked down the hallway with you. You jumped and spun on the spot. A hand over your know rapidly beathing heart.

"Jesus Doctor! You scared the life out of me." He looked from down the hallway to you. A curious look on his face. 

"Are you alright?" His hands were on your shoulders. Eyes searching your face as if he could find the answer he was looking for there.

"Ya. I." You stuttered out. "I was just lost in thought in all." At this he gave a soft huff. 

"Must have been some thought." His voice was quiet. "Anyways. Your room!" The door swung open to reveal a lavish room. A large canopied bed with sheer, wine red curtains. A dark chestnut chest sat at the end of it. As you walked through the door you saw a plush couch that matched the color of the bed. In the center of the room was a small table with chairs at either side.

"This looks like something my parents would love to be in." You said. You turned. Brushing your hand along the fabric of the couch. Then again. That smell. Something so familiar you could almost place it. It was stronger here. "That being said. It's beautiful Doctor." The Time Lord in question  was leaning against the door frame. A soft smile on his lips. "Thank you for taking me here." You genuinely meant it. Everything this man has shown you. You wish you had more than just words you could say. 

"No need for thanks y/n." He pushed himself away from the doorframe. "Cards?" He pulls a deck from his pocket. How deep those things are you'll never know. You've seen him pull out things that range from childrens toys to tools, and the oddball snack.

"You always win though." You grumbled. "It's not fair." Despite your protests you sat down at the table. The Doctor had already been dealing out the cards.

"Ace of spades?" You asked with a yawn. The cards blurred in your hand. It could have been ace of spades. It could have been the queen of hearts. 

"Go fish." Another yawn. You pull out a card from the half hazard pile on the table. 

"Doctor?" You ask. Shuffling the cards around in your hand. You had well over ten cards. Maybe more. The Doctor hummed in response. "It's late." You laid the cards face down on the table.

The Doctor turned his wrist. Checking the time. "That it is." He shuffled his cards. Picked his head up.  "Oh." His mouth rested in a small o. Slightly looking away. "Oh! You need to sleep!" He laid his own cards down. Standing up as he took in your tired state. Head rested on your hand. Eyes struggling to stay open. Slightly nodding as you tried to stay within the waking world. "Oh you need to get to bed." 

You were laughing as the Doctor lifted you to your feet. "Come on to bed with you." You through your jacket on the table. "Humans. Really I forget sometimes." You doubted that. The poor man was apologizing left and right as you unlaced your boots. Tossing them to the left of you somewhere. 

"Doctor its fine." You were sat on the edge of the bed. You almost sunk into it the mattress was so soft. "Really." Instead of listening he was rattling off everything that could happen with sleep deprivation and "Really. It's ridiculous how much you lot need to sleep. Oh what am I going to do." You tuned him out after a bit.  Instead choosing to lay back onto the bed.

There. Again. That familiar scent. Sort of woodsy. It was clean and bright with something spiced at the end. What was it? You turned your head.

Oh. Your bag.

When did you bring that?

Sure enough there was your backpack. The poor thing was worn in a lot of places but you used it every time you stayed the night somewhere. It was essentials mostly. Toiletries. Extra clothes. Phone charger and camera. And your perfume.

You sat up abruptly. The Doctor stopped his rambling then. He was watching you as you pulled the bag into your lap. You were digging around when he came next to you. There. The bottle.  

You pulled your perfume out of the bag and looked at the bottle. It was something you used almost all the time. This one was brand new though.

The bottle was halfway empty. Did you put the wrong one in?

"When did I bring this?" You whispered to yourself. Head tilting as you tried to remember when you had packed the bag let alone brought it with you. The Doctor said nothing as you placed the bottle back inside the bag. There was something in the air between the two of you. Something you were both forgetting. Something important.  

"Time for bed. Ya?" You spoke after a moment. You looked up at the Doctor. The two of you staring at one another for a moment. Something unspoken passing between the both of you. 

"Sleep well. I'm right across the hall." The Doctor told you. You didn't move even after he had left the room. The smell of chocolate and patchouli lingering in the room when he did. It fades after a few minutes. 

You're sat at the edge of the bed. The pajama's you planned to change into sitting in your lap. There was just something you were unable to shake. How was it you were able to smell your perfume when you've never been here before? And your bag. How was it here? You didn't remember grabbing it when you left the Tardis.

And that scrap of fabric. The one the Doctor had tucked away.  " No one else is supposed to be here. Or have been here for a long time." The Doctors words echo in your thoughts. Then how was it here? Just how long has this planet been alone for? 

A once in a lifetime experience. Then how come there wasn't more people? This place could house hundreds upon hundreds of people and their families. 

You change into sweats and a long sleeve t shirt.  Laying your old clothes on the table you had been playing cards on just moments ago. Your jacket. You couldn't help but stare. Something you wore quite often. An unassuming piece of fabric you had never really given a second thought to before. 

You shook your head and laughed at yourself. You were being silly. Thinking to deeply into something that wasn't event there. Drawing the covers back you crawl into bed. The Sheets were smooth and silky. Soft against you as you sunk down into the mattress.

Sleep came quickly and easily. Your body and mind to tired to be able to do much else. 

Second part Third

"I am fragile and Unholy. Open. Ravage. Eat."

-Tanaka Mhishi, Literary sexts II ( Via Ghost tears)

Something was horribly wrong.  What it was he didn't know. And oh how he hates not knowing. Especially  when the lives of one of his companions were on the line.

There were clues here. Blaringly obvious clues that go together. He just couldn't figure out how. There, in the woods. A scrap of fabric torn from y/n's jacket. It was clearly theirs. The scent of their perfume still clung to it. And it was here to, in the hotel. It floated in the air so thickly he could almost taste it.  What was normally a scent he found comforting and refreshing turned his stomach.

Why. Just why would they do that? Why would they do something that made it so clear that they were here before? 

Then there was the ledger. Names upon names from hours ago. The planet had a day night cycle that would last one earth week before plunging back into the day. They're names were at the top. So why was it dark? 

The Doctor found himself leaving his room. Stopping momentarily in front of y/n's door. His ear pressed against the wood. He could hear their breathing. The soft speaking they always did. Although they didn't admit it. Safe. They should be safe for now.

He opened one door. Then another. And another. 

Each one was filled to the brim of life. A lack of people but clearly it had been lived in not to long ago.

The last door he checked he opened so harshly it smacked against the walls. The door bouncing back with a mock laughter as he entered. His sonic went wild as he scanned the room. His twin hearts began their panicked beating before his own thoughts could catch up.

They needed to leave. And now.

 Chronophage.  Chronophage . Chronophage . Chronophage .

The words were painted on every single wall and every available surface there was.  The Doctor brushed his fingers against the paint. It was tacky. Not quiet dried yet. 

"Time eater." His body rushed with cold. "Time eater." He spoke again.

That 's why. Oh they were most defiantly here before. It could have been days. Weeks. Months.  The Doctor turned on heel. Running back down the length of the hallway.  There was no knowing on how long it has been. But he knew that y/n had less time to give. They could gorge themselves on the lives he's lived. Let them take it all.

But them? Oh gods not them.

He was rounding the corner when he heard it. Palm pressed against the wall as he steadied himself. Paintings fell. Crashed to the floor. 

His body when ridged when a shrill scream echoed down the hall. 

If he could he would have ran faster. Willed his body to do so. Praying with the names he knew that they would be ok.

Crashing and banging. 

"Doctor!"

He has never heard them scream like that.

.

Something had woken you from your sleep. It wasn't that uncommon for you to wake multiple times when in a new place. You body to on edge to truly fall into a deep sleep. Every strange noise would have you tossing and turning. 

So the next time you woke you took  a moment to just lay there. Eyes closed as you listened to the sounds around you. There was the softness of your breathing. The creaking of the hotel settling. Somewhere outside and animal bayed. Calling out to the moon that filtered light through the curtains canopying your bed.

You were warm and comfortable. Cradled by the thick blankets and pillows surrounding you. You breathed in deeply. Sighed. Another deep breath and.

What was that?

Fabric rustled in front of you. The sound of skin gliding across silken material hit your ears next. You stilled. Cold washing over you as your began to realize that you were not alone.  The bed dipped next to you. The wood creaking and groaning from the added weight.

Your breathing stuttered. Everything stilled. 

For a moment you tried to convince yourself that it was the Doctor. That he was just playing a cruel joke on you. But you couldn't find the smell of chocolate and patchouli. A scent you found comforting. Safe.

No. No. No.

Something hovered above your cheek. Something so cold you could feel it before it even touched you.

Your body wound itself tightly. Your heart pounding a rhythm in your chest. Your fist balled beneath your pillow. 

And with a yell you struck. Cried out. 

The creature screamed as it scrambled backwards. Taking the curtains and the blankets with it. 

Move. You needed to move.

You were glued to the spot. Sitting near the edge of the bed but to terrified to move. You tried to. Tried to at least yell. To cry out for the Doctor.

Everything stilled. 

The fabric on the floor moved. Going up like a joked attempt of a sheet ghost before falling away from the figure it was draped on.

It was tall and skinny. Skin going from hues of grey to a deep rich black. That black seemed to swallow it. To consume the room. You could almost feel it. It was so close to being tangible that you could feel pinpricks hit your skin. It was painful. Almost fire like.

It's head tilted. Golden eyes widening when it saw you move. Just a twitch of your leg.

It leaned forward.

Move.

It's hand brushed the now bare mattress.

Move.

The darkness followed with it. Flowed over the white of the mattress.

MOVE!

And you did. Falling backwards onto the floor before scrambling to your feet. The creature stood to move with you but got caught on the railings for the curtains. You took this brief moment to grab your boots before darting to the door.

A shrill scream left you lips when you heard it growl and snarl. It toppled the bed in its anger. The tables and chairs being thrown to the side as you crossed the threshold of the door.

"Doctor!" A sob tore through your throat. Nothing but desperation left your lips.

'"Y/N!" The Doctor caught you in his arms. Held you closely as your body shook. "We have to go. We need to go. Now." The both of you turned towards what was once your room. The creature inside was yelling. Crying. Upset that you had left.

Quickly you pulled your boots on. Allowing the Doctor to take you hand the two of you ran from the hotel. Down the halls. All but flying down the stairs and towards the large double doors the two of you had crossed not long ago.

Third part Last

"If there is a light then I am going to swallow it. If there is a god then i'm going to make him cry."

-s.osborn, from "blasphemies as the 5th street station, " published in The Rising Phoenix review (vialifeinpoetry) 

The forest was dark. Deep and heavy as it swallowed the both of you. The creatures would not leave you be. They followed every step you took. Swallowed every sound you made. The two of  you were prey in the worst way possible. A horrid game of cat and mouse as they turned you around again and again.

The Doctor had explained the best he could. These paradoxil creatures. That the two of you had lived this moment more than once. They would send their victims back again and again with a little less of themselves each time. 

They consume the life you have lived and use it for themselves. They take and take and take until they are almost immortalized.  Their own veritable fountain of youth.

Their victims would becomes less of themselves each time. Losing pivotable live moments that shaped them into who the had become. Entire lifetimes lost until they became a husk. Unable to do anything  more that live on a robotic life.  And many did not last long afterwards.

You could see the path that others took. Deep footsteps pressed into soft dirt. They had dropped things ranging from clothes and jewelry. Childrens toys and the odd suitcase here and there.

"We helped them." The Doctor told you. Spinning in circles as he tried to use his sonic to find the Tardis. The poor girl was calling out to him. A victim in this just as much as you were.  "There." The Doctor stilled. The light of the sonic bright and green. It sung out a high pitched tune as you stumbled up next to the Doctor. 

You were tired and worn. Mentally exhausted and hurt from head to toe. Both of you were  in a sorry state. The Doctor had lost his dress coat. His bowtie  had been torn away and the white of his shirt was slowly being stained a muddied brown. You were no better. Holes in your shirt from where the brush tore it. There was mud stained from hip to ankle from when you tripped. 

There again. There they were. Slinking around the trees. Calling out to you. Hungry. They were so hungry.

You were pulled away from them. The Doctors hand was on your upper arm. His face was alight with worry. "Run." The word was whispered. Desperate as he spoke to you.

Run you did. Cut off time and time again the closer you got to the Tardis. They were not going to let you go. 

"Why won't they let us go." It was a broken sob that left your lips. To worn and tired to truly care about the way you sounded. You wanted to go back to the Tardis. To find comfort in her and the Doctor as the two of you tried to put this all behind you.

"Me. They won't let me." The Doctor drew you in close. "I am sorry. So so sorry." He hid you away from the world for just a moment. He could see the Tardis in the distance. She called out to him. Begged him to come back. To bring the two of you back to her where she could get the both of you to safety. To anywhere but here. 

He could feel you tremble and shake. The soft push you gave as you tried to get even closer to him. "No." He felt you mutter into his neck. "No. I know what you mean by that." You pulled away. "I will not let you sacrifice yourself. We leave. Together or not at all."

The Doctor, for the first time, cursed you humanity. Cursed the fact that you cared so deeply.  He pressed his head to yours. His hand curling around the back of your neck. You could hear him speaking. Muttering in a language that the Tardis refused to translate. Even now. In this moment. 

The creatures. The Chronophage. You could hear them. Speaking. Whispering. Calling out to you. Begging you to help them. That they were starving. Near death. How could you be so selfish just feed them.

For a brief moment you see it. The meteor shower the Doctor had brought you to see. The  reason why you were even here. It seemed the shower itself were in your eyes. It took your breath away as the air around you lit up in color. 

The Doctor had pulled away. Watched you as you watched the sky. Something you would never have seen in your lifetime if it had not been for him. He has seen this before. Time and time again he would come back. He was grateful that in this moment, despite the horror around him, he got to see it though you. Such a soft look on your face as you forgot about the beasts around you. 

Chronophage. Time eaters. Eater of time. There is only a few names that made the Doctor fear for his life. 

 It would be a miracle if you two made it out of here. Already the both of you had lost pieces of yourself that would never return. Moments in time that you will never get back. The simplest things shaping you into who you were. And not for the first time the Doctor mourns your loss.

There. The Tardis. Just feet away. 

Already he was losing you. The creatures were feasting even as the two of you ran. The Tardis had thrown her doors open. Calling out as loud as she was able. Soft yellow light bathing the ground in front of her. 

Not again. She would not lose the both of you again. 

[scotianostra]

The Romantic Poet Lord Byron died on 19th April 1824.

George Gordon Noel, sixth Baron of Byron was born in London on January 22nd 1788 to Captain John Byron and Catherine Gordon, heiress of Gight in Aberdeenshire.

After his father, known as “Mad Jack”, had frivolled away much of her fortune, Catherine whisked her son away to Aberdeen in 1789 where he spent his formative years, it was this time that left a mark on the romantic poet, he always saw himself as a Scot after this.

  His father died when he was three, his half-sister was shipped off to live with their maternal grandmother, and he lived in miserable lodgings with his volatile, depressed mother and their abusive nurse. Aged ten his great-uncle William unexpectedly died in 1789, leaving young Byron to take up the reigns as sixth Baton Byron of Rochdale. The family moved to Newstead Abbey in Nottinghamshire, and he was later educated at Harrow and The University of Cambridge.

Despite enduring such ordeals as a young child in the north east of Scotland, the poet was empowered by his Scottish bloodline. Aged just 19, he wrote of his love for the northern countryside in ‘Hours of Idleness’, distinctly unimpressed by the comparatively barren landscapes of the south, the evidence is  in the third verse of the poem Dark Lochnagar, for those unconvinced about his “Scottishness”

  England! thy beauties are tame and domestic

To one who has roved on the mountains afar

Oh for the crags that are wild and majestic

The steep frowning glories o’ wild Lochnagar.

As the poet entered into his late teens and early twenties, his life was quickly overwhelmed by scandal – among his affairs with married women, actresses and young men, it is thought he had a child with his half-sister Augusta, five years his elder, a scandalous life at any time, let alone 18th century England!

In what is considered his masterpiece, Don Jaun, he again hankers back to Scotland, the work is over 500 pages long, split into canto’s. Canto X (ten) gives us another wee glimpse with….

But I am half a Scot by birth, and bred A whole one, and my heart flies to my head, —

As “Auld Lang Syne” brings Scotland, one and all,     Scotch plaids, Scotch snoods, the blue hills, and clear streams, The Dee — the Don — Balgounie’s brig’s black wall,     All my boy feelings, all my gentler dreams Of what I then dreamt, clothed in their own pall,     Like Banquo’s offspring; — floating past me seems My childhood in this childishness of mine: I care not — ‘t is a glimpse of “Auld Lang Syne.”

And though, as you remember, in a fit     Of wrath and rhyme, when juvenile and curly, I rail’d at Scots to show my wrath and wit,     Which must be own’d was sensitive and surly, Yet ‘t is in vain such sallies to permit,     They cannot quench young feelings fresh and early: “scotch’d not kill’d” the Scotchman in my blood, And love the land of “mountain and of flood.”

Byron's body was embalmed but his heart buried under a tree in Messolonghi in Greece. His remains were sent to England for burial in Westminster Abbey, but for some reason the Abbey refused.

He is buried at the Church of St. Mary Magdalene in Hucknall in the family vault.

In later years, the Abbey allowed a duplicate of a marble slab given by the King of Greece, which is laid directly above Byron's grave. In 1969, 145 years after Byron's death, a memorial to him was finally placed in Westminster Abbey.

[adventureofalifetime-writing]

Manifesto: We Are What We Express

Words most times are a reflection of the mind and heart. They are the act of capturing what is longed for, when the voice often does not give for more. It is a refuge, to express reality and not feel so sorry or guilty. They are oneself. Reading a work is reading the author, and having a slight taste of what he or she is in person, soul and heart.

With poetry, I consider that it is an even more personal and close contact. Thinking, feeling and writing. And on the other side, reading, understanding, envisioning. The parallels. Depth, rigorous expressions, considering alternatives and consequences, seeking a momentary escape from mental and emotional madness.                    Manifesto: Harmony Holiday – “Somebody who loves me” expresses what poetry is, for that poet, one perspective, of a million. A small mind trying to reflect itself, through a song and an artist, Whitney Houston, and her famous song I Wanna Dance With Somebody. Converting two arts into one, music and poetry,  a greater force of expression. Releasing, finding non-existent places on this earthly plane, opening the mind to other dimensions, going through scary paths and facilitating the trajectory through embodied thoughts, balancing the analytical and the creative, providing space to listen to that voice, having a moment of personal intimacy, beyond the physical, awaken the intuition and heal. 

“It’s like the first time you catch a glimpse of yourself through eyes that notice and really believe, how beautiful you are, and the way that realization cannot be shut down by doubt or tentativeness ever again, and so must be lived, the poem is that moment of enchantment and its endlessly unruly future.” (Manifesto: Harmony Holiday). The magic of appreciating writing expands to appreciate oneself, the abilities, and needs to express. It is hard work to write with courage, and when this is understood and appreciated, it all makes even more sense. Everything is suddenly better understood, and cleared than water. The tunnel between the human interior and exterior is shortened, and then we learn that we are what we express.

[redorich]

for the hermit canyon, i humbly request:

Etho messing with Karl and maybe like, Lazarbeam or Fundy, by pretending he’s moth man.

Quackity stalks through the woods, blissfully unaware of its other inhabitants-- not that he would care, if he knew. No, tonight, under the full moon (because it's romantic) he makes his move.

The Hermit, as Quackity is completely sure of, is a beautiful young woman with long flowing hair as white as snow. Because she is a creature of untold power and beauty, fairy tale logic obviously applies. Therefore, if Quackity can steal her clothes, she will have no choice but to marry him and they will live happily ever after as big booty bitches in love.

Nodding to himself, Quackity feels assured in his logic. He's wearing his favorite assless chaps, his best pair of knockoff Yeezys, and no shirt. He is ready for what is to come.

---

Karl lurks deep in the forest, illuminated only by the moon. He leans against a tree, taking care not to disturb his outfit-- he is camouflaged as a bush. Dangling strips of green and brown fabric cover his body, and his limbs are completely hidden in the costume so long as he stands still. It's a daunting task, standing still in the dark, dangerous woods at night. Nevertheless, Karl knows that this is what he must do.

"Triclops Mothman, my beloved," he whispers into the night. He will find Mothman, and he will marry Mothman. There is no alternative.

---

Far away from both Karl and Quackity, though still in the same spruce forest, Sapnap angrily prowls. Well, he'd describe it as a prowl. Truthfully, it's more of a pouty stomp. He knows that this forest has had multiple "Hermit sightings", and Sapnap wants-- no, needs what he's after.

"Hermit!" he screams into the night. "Come out and fight me, you little bitch! Man on man!"

To emphasize his point, he bangs a pot and a pan against each other several times. Sapnap is getting his revenge for that little ravager prank, one way or another.

---

Deep within the canyon walls, the Hermit complex looks like an overturned anthill with all its activity. It's Halloween night come early.

"I'm not wearing a dress," Etho insists.

Grian whines, "But Etho, I made it just for you! It matches Stress's outfit."

Stress, upon hearing her name, looks up from her book and waves. Cleo is currently fiddling with the thick mane of synthetic white hair Stress is wearing, styling the wig into a princess-y type braid.

"I'll say it again," Cleo says, looking very intently into Etho's eyes, "I could take your place."

"No," Etho sighs. "If what Puffy said about these guys is true, you'd probably bite someone's face off by the end of the night."

"You're no fun," Cleo huffs, but acquiesces.

"At least put on the wig," Grian demands.

Grian and Etho have a staring contest for a solid ninety seconds before Etho snaps his fingers in front of Grian's face, causing him to flinch and blink. "You cheater--!"

"I'll wear the wig," Etho interrupts Grian. Instantaneously, Grian loses his outraged moue.

Cleo sighs. "They're the same wig, right? Do I have to braid Etho's hair, too?"

"I think I'll be fine with my new flowing, luscious locks," Etho says with a humorous crinkle to his eyes.

They all laugh as Etho dramatically flips his fake hair, whipping himself in the face with it in the process. He also receives a thumbs up from Joe, who is in the process of searching for his contact lenses because "Herobrine doesn't wear glasses", according to Bdubs.

Night falls, and the Hermits are prepared. They hope their victims aren't.

---

Quackity catches a glimpse of silver-white after so long searching in the woods. With a little gasp, he eagerly pursues it. His beautiful maiden, ethereal and distant like the moon, darts between trees and leaps across creeks like she is flying, like her feet barely touch the ground.

He follows her to a clearing, but when he bursts through the brush into the open space, she is nowhere to be found.

“Mi rey!” he wails, “Fantasma hermosa! Come to papi!”

Etho, hiding in a tree about five feet away, has no clue what any of those words mean. He affects a terrible falsetto and throws his voice. “Hello, Quackity.”

Quackity jumps, looking around wildly for his beautiful girlboss queen. “Hermit?! You know my name?”

“Of course, Quackity,” Etho says, hefting a large rock in his hand. “Come closer, I have a cask of Amontillado we can share.”

Quackity turns toward Etho's voice just fast enough to catch a glimpse of the Hermit's mask, his (fake) long white hair, his decidedly not female appearance. Quackity looks the Hermit up and down. Etho has never felt more Perceived.

"What's a place like you doing in a guy like this?" Quackity says, flirtatiousness dripping from his voice.

Etho eyes the man's assless chaps with distaste from his crouched perch in a tree. Quick as lightning, he chucks the heavy rock in his hand at Quackity's head, knocking him out instantly.

Etho jumps down from his tree with a huffed sigh. "Well," he says, grabbing Quackity by the ankle and dragging him, "time to get to work."

---

"Pspspsps," Karl whispers, "heeeere Mothman..."

The sound of a twig snapping to his right makes Karl freeze, then turn ever so slowly. There's no one there. Karl holds his breath for what feels like an eternity, but is eventually forced to admit that the noise was probably just an animal. Surely, a creature of Mothman's size would make more noise when he walks, given the weight of his strong legs.

"Mothman," Karl says. "I wrote you a poem!"

Joe, who was up until this point hiding behind trees and ominously snapping twigs, feels a twinge of morbid curiosity. As a poet, he absolutely has to know what Karl considers an adequate love poem for Mothman.

With red cheeks, Karl professes his love:

"Your feelers make me feel so sweet

Your hindwings set my heart aflame

Fern-like antennae make me melt

And Mothman, you're to blame."

Despite himself, Joe is a little bit impressed. It almost makes him feel bad about what he's about to do-- almost.

A soft eerie glow seeps into the forest, catching Karl's eye. He investigates, creeping forward until he turns around a tree and sees glowing white eyes. He screams, but there is no sound, and the forest has disappeared. Only those eyes remain, and they too flicker out of existence.

There is a dim corridor ahead of him, narrow and lit by redstone torches. At the end, there is an iron door. He runs to the exit, but as soon as his hand touches the door it disappears and he is engulfed by swirling purple-- like a Nether portal, but so much more terrifying.

The purple is gone and he can just barely make out the menacing image of a man with glowing white eyes T-posing in the blackness. Karl opens his eyes and wakes up on the forest floor, prone and sore.

"Right," he mutters breathlessly to himself, "Mothman is not interested."

---

"--YOU BITCH ASS PUNK, I'M GONNA RIP YOUR LEGS OFF AND STICK 'EM ON YOUR HEAD!" Sapnap screams, banging the only pot he owns against a non-stick frying pan he stole from George.

"Well, that's not very nice, innit?" says a feminine voice. Sapnap looks left, right, behind him, up in the trees... then down.

Big brown eyes peer up at him through white bangs. A displeased pout set into a moon-pale face attached to an equally moon-pale woman chastises him without words.

"...You're the Hermit?" Sapnap says disbelievingly. He has his doubts that someone as small and pretty as this woman could wrangle a ravager onto his front lawn.

"You wanted a fight," she huffs. "And for the record, you totally had it coming, with Pamela's Revenge-- remember, the rava--"

"Yes, I know the ravager was named Pamela's Revenge! There were like eight hundred million death messages in chat about it, you jackass!" Sapnap snaps, trying to cover up his unease. It's not that he's hesitant to hit her because she's a girl; he would deck the shit out of Niki or Puffy with absolutely no provocation whatsoever. It's just that... she looks soft. Like a non-combatant. It would be too easy, too cruel--

Stress punches Sapnap in the jaw with a wicked right hook. "Stealing is wrong," she says.

While Sapnap is dazed and quite possibly mildly concussed, Stress follows up with a brutal kick to the shin. Sapnap makes a genuine effort to fight back, and he’s no slouch, but he’s been taken so thoroughly off guard that the best he can do with his head spinning as it is is to swing with a wild haymaker and hope it hits.

His fist makes contact with something soft and squishy. He hears a grunt, but Stress shoves him over onto the ground and dumps a bucket of glitter over his head. It burns his eyes, but more importantly it burns his pride. He doesn’t remember at what point he dropped his pot and pan (he must have at some point, because he punched the Hermit with an empty fist), but he’s angry enough to open his watery eyes through the magenta glitter and snatch George’s frying pan up off the forest floor, hurling it at the Hermit with devastating accuracy. She yelps, blocking with her forearm at the last moment.

“Knew I shoulda let Etho...” Sapnap hears the Hermit mutter. What’s an Etho?

Stress irritably bonks Sapnap on the head with the pan he threw at her. He goes limp like a ragdoll, and Stress sets about maneuvering his body into a sitting position leaned against a tree so she can do his makeup while he sleeps.

“Hope I don’t poke his eye out!” she says. “Ah well, he’s got two anyway. Now, should I go for a cute, summery look, or a dark evening look?”

---

In Atrium 1 of the Hermit Canyon complex, Puffy laughs loud and clear, clutching her paper cup tightly so she doesn’t spill her fruit punch. "No,” she chokes out, “he didn’t.”

Cub, holding a similar paper cup, waves his hand in a vague gesture. “Yep. That’s Etho for you. You know, one time he got Doc to run around with a snowman head on, eating spider eyes?”

“Oh man,” Puffy sighs, wiping a tear of laughter from the corner of her eye. “I’m so glad I snitched on Karl, Quackity, and Sapnap. I can’t wait to see their reactions!”

Cub grins evilly. “Stress got pictures before she left.”

Puffy gasps, stars in her eyes. “I’ll bake you a whole cake if you get me a copy.”

“I’ll bake Cub a whole cake if he gives them to me instead,” Grian interjects from across the room. “I don’t need them, I just want to take them from you.”

“Nooooo!” Puffy wails melodramatically. “Grian, please spare me!”

“Five diamond blocks,” Grian makes his demand.

Puffy continues to fake-sob, pretending not to notice Scar sneaking up on Grian until Scar drops an anvil on Grian’s head, like a Looney Tunes episode but slightly to the left. While Grian is distracted, Cub slips the pictures to Puffy, who puts them in her inventory without looking.

Etho walks into the Atrium, now dressed as his normal self, including his natural hair, which looks like an angry wet cat perched atop his head, just the way he likes it. Everyone cheers.

“So, how’d it go with Quackity?” Puffy asks with a smirk.

“Well...” Etho says.

---

Quackity wakes up with the sun in his eyes. In front of him is the public Nether portal, and standing right in front of it is a wide-eyed Sam, staring directly at him. Quackity looks down.

He’s naked, covered in half-dried honey, and tied to a pole like the world’s sexiest flag. And he’s got the world’s worst hangover-- it feels like he’s been hit in the head with a large rock.

“Not again,” he groans.

“...This happens often?” Sam asks.

“If I had a nickel for every time something like this has happened,” Quackity says, wiggling his way out of the ropes tying him to the pole, “I’d have enough money to go buy myself a pair of pants.”

Sam averts his eyes to the sky, abruptly aware of exactly why Quackity would feel the need to buy a pair of pants.

“Damn it,” Quackity says. “Those were my favorite pair of assless chaps.”

“Were they now,” Sam says numbly. The sky is quite blue today, it’s rather beautiful.

Quackity huffs in aggravation, finally having freed himself from his binds. “Yeah, they just don’t make ‘em like they used to, you know?”

“Not really, no,” Sam says slowly. “I wouldn’t know much about-- assless chaps.”

The naked man shrugs. Haltingly, Sam unclasps his cape, pulling it off his shoulders and offering it to Quackity.

“Nah,” Quackity says, “I’ll just streak.”

“Please don’t,” Sam says with pain in his eyes.

[finishinglinepress]

NEW FROM FINISHING LINE PRESS: Under Glass by Victoria Woolf Bailey

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Victoria Woolf Bailey’s poems have appeared in a number of publications including the Riverbend Review, Still, the Journal, Pegasus, The Heartland Review, Kudzu, and The Single Hound as well as the Motif 3 anthology All the Livelong Day published by MotesBooks. In 2012 she won Accents Publishing Short Poem Award from the Kentucky State Poetry Society as well as Honorable Mention in the Carnegie Center for Literacy and Learning’s Next Great Writers contest. Her first chapbook Dragging Gunter’s Chain was published in 2014 by Finishing Line Press. An upcoming chapbook Under Glass is scheduled to be released by Finishing Line Press in 2023.

ADVANCE PRAISE FOR Under Glass by Victoria Woolf Bailey

If you resist Marie Kondo and Swedish death cleaning, Under Glass is the poetry collection for you. Victoria Woolf Baily is the Pied Piper of Stuff. She celebrates the child peering from a garage sale frame, dead butterflies, and pickled poke. A 1933 photo of an insurance salesmen’s convention reminds her that no one can say any longer what happened. Her flute takes us on our own journeys with stuff and all those connected to it. This is a poignant and human book that you won’t put down.

–Gail Chandler, author of Where the Red Road Meets the Sky

Stuff, stuff, stuff. We all have it. Unique collections, found treasures, yard sale must-haves, “pictures of big-eyed girls”, “window frames.” Things we hold onto like lostrelationships, old memories — the beautiful, the bizarre. The poems in Under Glass by Victoria Woolf Bailey are like etchings on smoked glass. They make transparent the force to gather the discarded, the lost, what we may use some day, even a glimpse into the world of true hoarding. Bailey lets us peer into the inexorable light of a need without obscuring our ability to see “we are always searching for something we have lost.”​

–Georgia Wallace, Green River Writers poet, author of The Coming Fall

Victoria Bailey’s Under Glass is crammed with Things and stirs in the reader an urge to rush to the nearest Salvation Army store, dump, or up to the attic and start digging. These poems illustrate the sometimes-illusive truth that treasures wait everywhere, ready to be discovered.

–Mary E. O’Dell – author of A Dangerous Man and Poems for The Man Who Weighs Light

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[emowithoddsocks]

Moulin Rouge AU!!!!

Paris came alive under Jackie’s eyes. Lights everywhere chasing away the night, ready to welcome all who dared to live in the excitement of the ever changing city. The summer promised love and Jackie was determined to fall.

Moving to Paris hadn’t been advised by Jackie’s family. To them Paris was nothing but a place for sinners and criminals. Fears about their daughter falling in with the wrong crowd had been growing rapidly lately, after all, what young women flat out refused to get married and instead ran away to a city of sin.

Jackie didn’t see sin. She saw opportunities beyond the life expected of her, the chance to find freedom, beauty, truth and love. Words heard in whispers throughout the streets, words promising that change was coming in the form of an artistic revolution. Jackie needed to be at the center of it, craving the new ideologies and loosening of morals.

Cooped up in a tiny hotel room, Jackie’s fingers sparked out every experience onto the typewriter's faded keys. Writing had always been a passion of hers but on this one particular night something seemed to be missing. She thought being surrounded with an endless variety of artists from across the globe would spark inspiration.

Pushing away her dark curls from out of her face, Jackie leaned back in her chair and signed. A quick glance to the side saw the pocket of the city she’d chosen.

At it’s centre stood the infamous Moulin Rouge. More than a nightclub, a dance hall and bordello. A place people flocked to each night if only to catch a brief glimpse of the pleasures held in the walls.

Of course Jackie had heard the stories, the dancers who offered more than a backstage tour by the end of the night. That the eccentric owner had their favourite girl nicknamed the “Sparking Diamond.” Rich or poor, the citizens of Paris kept coming back. Jackie longed to know what would await her inside. Could it be love and beauty or maybe truth and freedom? A small obsession with love had brought her here but one problem stood in the way.

Jackie had never been in love.

There was very little time for her to ponder this thought, as an unconscious woman came crashing through the roof. She was followed by another woman dressed as a nun.

“Sorry about that!” The, clearly not a real nun judging from the back stockings showing under her skirt, yelled down. Her red hair whipped around her face like fire as she also made her way down to my room. Though, with much more grace than her sleeping friend. “Gigi Goode, pleased to meet you my friend.”

“Jacqueline Cox, but please just call me Jackie.” Jackie blushed at the young girl’s confidence in taking her hand and bringing it to her lips. “Is she okay?” Jackie gestured back to the woman still laying an inch from where she’d previously been sitting.

“Crystal’s a tough one, she’ll be fine.” Gigi kneeled down next to the one named Crystal, lifting her face to hers in a kiss. “Awake my sleeping beauty.”

With a whisper Crystal’s eyes shot open and she launched herself from the floor as if nothing had happened in the last few minutes.

Jackie, taken aback, just stood there and nodded, eyes flashing between the two women.

“I can’t apologise enough for what has happened.” Gigi flicked some dust from off of Crystal’s shoulder. “We were rehearsing a play upstairs, you see.”

“A play?” Jackie perked up with interest. The magic of theatre had always intrigued her, ever since she was a child. “May I ask what sort of play?”

Crystal grinned from ear to ear, pulling Jackie close to her and Gigi as she began to explain.

“We find it to be a very modern play. It’s called Spectacular, Spectacular. Set in Switzerland for some reason but a good play nonetheless.”

“And you fell through the ceiling because?” Jackie finally decided to enquire about the odd situation that had led to their even odder introduction.

“One of the other actors walked out this morning and Crystal here thought it a good idea to try to play two parts at once while simultaneously drunk as a sailor.” Gigi glared at Crystal for a few seconds before softening her gaze and letting out a heavy sigh. “We were supposed to be presenting to the financier tomorrow but where on Earth would we be able to find someone to play a young, beautiful and sensitive poet at this hour?”

-

Before Jackie knew it she was pushed up stairs by Crystal and Gigi. An uncept script thrown into her hands leaving very little time for protesting against them.

“Read.” Gigi encouraged.

With the clearing of her throat Jackie began.

“The hills animate

With the euphonious symphonies

Of descant.”

“Well that sounded better written down.” Crystal giggled, narrowly avoiding being swatted with Gigi’s copy of the script. “I never said I was a writer, my love, just a musician with a dream.”

“I once again apologise for my idiotic girlfriend.” Gigi just caught Jackie flinching at the conformation of her and Crystal’s relationship. “Jackie, it’s okay if you’re not like us. We believe in equal love here, we won’t judge.”

Jackie swallowed a lump in her throat she hadn’t realised had formed. Long prior to her search for love, a secret locked in Jackie’s heart threatened to come undone. A small truth in moving to Paris meant she may be met with the opportunity to finally express how she felt about women.

“I-I am.” She paused. “Like you, I mean.” The pressure in her chest released itself like music notes from a piano. “I must admit, that’s the first time I’ve ever said it out loud.”

“Well done.” Crystal beamed. “Now about this poem, any suggestions on how to make it, not terrible?”

“What about this?” Jackie shrugged.

“The hills… are alive.

With the sound of music.”

“Keep going.” Gigi encouraged once again.

“With songs they have sung

For a thousand years.”

“Jackie! Jackie! Jackie! That is absolutely perfect! You must write the play for us, please.” Crystal must have had the most convincing face in all of France, as Jackie found herself agreeing without so much of a second thought.

The three raised a toast to themselves and their new found friendship.

“Now all we need to do is convince Child to let us do the play at the club.” Gigi took a swig from the bottle Crystal handed her.

“Which club?” Jackie once again found herself looking out onto the lights of Paris.”

“Why, the Rouge of course.” Crystal clapped her hands. “Jackie my darling, I think it’s time your search for beauty, truth, freedom and love officially begins.”

“Oh no, Crystal has a plan.” Gigi facepalmed.

“Tomorrow night wear your best outfit, ready to enter the sinful circus herself as we welcome you to the Moulin Rouge!”

[vampiresuns]

What’s In A Name?

WHAT’S IN A NAME?

1,036 words. In which Milenko runs after Nadia. Nadia x Milenko.

Milenko’s Side of “Fine Arts And Even Finer People”.

Milenko cupped his hands around his face as he half turned to yell back at his counsis. “She is what beauty itself should be like!” He heard someone wolf whistle but he didn’t notice whom, too focused on resuming his race. He must catch Nadia before she goes, he must see her again. When was the last time he had? Too long, for sure. Anything was too long when it came to Nadia, and Milenko would try and chase every opportunity bestowed upon him. 

“‘Scuse me, ‘scuse me,” he muttered left and right as he made his way through people, until he finally caught a glimpse of Nadia’s carriage. Even if it was one of the inconspicuous ones, it was easy to tell it apart in the streets of Goldgrave. 

“Countess!” 

A window of the carriage rolled down as Milenko slowed down to a halt, at a decent distance from the carriage. It had already happened to him that in his eagerness to catch Nadia, he ran straight into the door of it, or the guards that stood beside the vehicle did not appreciate his sudden closeness. 

An orange haired woman greeted him first. “Oh, are you a friend of Dia’s?” 

“Who is it, Navra?” 

“A fine, mysterious— gentleman?”

“Gentleman,” Milenko confirmed with a small bow. “I’m Milenko Radošević-Tesfaye, at your service, madam.” 

“Mr. Radošević!” Nadia’s surprised voice made Milenko jump on instinct. “I did not know you were among the spectating crowd tonight. This is my sister, Princess Navra Satrinava. Navra, this is Milenko Radošević, Aelius’ cousin.”

Both of them exchanged hellos again, but Milenko’s attention was on Nadia, and Navra clearly noticed.

“Nor I of you, Countess.”

“Mr. Radošević, I have asked you many times to call me Nadia.”

“And I have asked many to call me Milenko, Countess— I did not know your sister was in town. Please, I won’t hold you any longer.”

“Why don’t you come with us?” Navra suggested. “Unless you’re going the other way. If you caught up with us it must have been for a reason.” 

“As long as it’s alright by the Countess.” 

Nadia said yes a little too quick, clearing her throat right away, regaining her usual demeanour. “I do believe we have room for one more.” 

Without anything to lose he stepped into the carriage, which began its journey towards the Palace and the Heart District. 

Along the way Navra’s visit came up, as did hers and Milenko’s occupation. Nadia called him the finest poet in Vesuvia, and Milenko jokingly told her not to flatter him. 

“It’s not flattery if it’s true,” Nadia insisted. This time, Milenko let her win. 

The talk was pleasant, it flowed easily, but underneath lay a tension; Milenko and Nadia exchanged looks when the other wasn’t looking, and swiftly looked away when discovered. Nadia looked outside of the window, Milenko at his hands. Nadia’s hand rested on her knee, it would be so easy for him to reach out for it. 

Between pottery and poetry talks they arrived at the Palace. Navra excused herself right away, claiming the excitement of the Play had tired her, and she was eager to go to bed and dream marvellous dreams because of it. 

“Write me a poem one day,” she told Milenko.

“I’d be happy to, Princess,” he replied with a smile; one that cracked with nervous laughter as Nadia and himself found themselves alone. 

“Are you going home yet? Please do give Amparo my congratulations.” 

“Will do, Countess. ” 

“Nadia.” 

Milenko licked his lips, smiling as he looked down. “I suppose I could go home, Nadia.” 

“If you’d like we could have tea together, you and I. The night is delightful, and I have found myself longing for your company.”

Milenko looked at her, beautiful in the moonlight like a goddess someone might have worshipped once, but not really. So very human right in front of him, so very her as he got a waft of the lavender scent of her hair. He couldn’t find it in him to say no, in the same way he couldn’t find it in him stopping playing with the fabric of Nadia’s dress all the way to the veranda, where she had requested tea to be served. 

Talking to Nadia had always been easy. Milenko had feared it would be hard — while he didn’t mind amusing royalty or nobility with their titles, he found very little use for them, and more often than not, very little affection for the people in such positions. Yet Nadia was bright, intelligent, funny, beautiful, if sometimes a little out of touch. Still she tried. He loved listening to her about trinkets and mechanisms he wouldn’t normally pay attention to (but now that he did because of her, discovered in them great poetry subjects); he loved talking to her about literature and poetry, and crazy and unlikely things which have happened to him here and there. 

Nor for the first nor the last time, Nadia caught him staring at her. 

“Is there an issue, Mr. Radošević?”

“Milenko.”

“I would call you by your name, Milenko,” Nadia began, hiding a smirk behind the rim of her cup, “but you frown so adorably when I insist on not doing it.”

“You play with me, Countess.”

“By the size of your smile, I would dare say you’re enjoying yourself.”

Milenko laughed. He had no issues with admitting defeat to Nadia. “I might as well be.”

He moved his chair closer to her, leaning closer with his body too, a loose smile in his face as his heart hammered on his ears. A soft ‘hello’ fell from his lips as he let Nadia take his face by his chin. 

“I have missed you, and that is not an admittance I would usually make.”

Milenko’s eyes fluttered shut as Nadia’s thumb softly stroked his lower lip. “Nadia?”

“Yes, dearest?”

“Please kiss me.”

Nadia’s laugh was silky, musical even. If Milenko were in another scenario, he’s sure he could concentrate enough to gather a metric out of it, but right now Nadia was kissing him, her hands holding his face and directing him, as Milenko’s own hands found her waist. Finding metrics out of laughter could wait. 

[laemony]

What I’ve read in 2020!

Welcome back to this thing I started in 2017 and still don’t know WHY it should matter!

2017  2018  2019

This year has been a shit show but I must admit I’ve read quite a lot (who knew that staying at home with nothing else to do, except watching the world burn, could lead to this?!) Anyway! This is it, enjoy!

WAR AND PEACE, L. TOLSTOY – biggest book I’ve ever read in my life, I don’t know how but it’s never boring, I loved the characters and I adored the historical knowledge; the two subjects mix, when people are at war they miss peace, and when they are at peace they miss and look for war; it’s full of time skips in a very Russian fashion… only thing it bothered me, in my edition at least, all the paragraphs written in French didn’t have a translation, I hope I didn’t lose too many infos lol 8,5/10

PERSUASION, J. AUSTEN – this book! A surprise, a revelation, a discovery! Brilliant! Funny! Lovely! Anne’s expressions of her family are hilarious; one of my favourites so far, even if “lost love who is not as forgotten as you thought they would be” sounds way too much like the story of my life 10/10

THE YEARS, V. WOOLF – it felt lonely, yet lively; a bit hopeless, but not too sad; the chatter, the teasing, is all very familiar, as if she wrote about my own family; simple in its day-to-day life; felt like autumn (if it makes sense????) 8/10

THE DEAD SOULS, N. GOGOL – ridiculous characters, ridiculous conversations, I loved the ironic way it depicts Russian society and its people; the last chapter is a mess, I couldn’t imagine how it could end and to be honest I still have no idea 7,5/10

THE PROCESS, F. KAFKA – no time-line; not a single emotion, not from the characters neither from the author; a cold, indifferent depiction of a series of facts, which are everything but clear; not an inch of silence, just words; it tired me out, I just needed a bit more silence 5/10

THE WHITE GUARD, M. BULGAKOV – I simply love how he writes (wrote??) and his characters are always so unique and interesting; I adore the references to Tolstoy and Dostoevskij; this book has more of a painting than a book; it’s an impressive recount of a fundamental historical moment; the end is not clear but beautiful 9,5/10

THE HANDMAID’S TALE, M. ATWOOD – I thought I wouldn’t have been able to stomach it, and then I found out that there’s a right way to tell a story about violence and she mastered it; cruel people are just that, no craziness, no dark past, just thirst for power and the confidence of knowing what’s best for everyone; it gave me chills, it made me angry; I love how she writes, it’s the first time a first person pov doesn’t make me want to tear my eyes off my face… people who watched the series: do you know what’s the real name of Offred? I need it 10/10

PRIDE AND PREJUDICE, J. AUSTEN – as usual, her books must be read in one breath; Jane and Charles’ story is my favourite; I love Mr Bennet as much as I can’t suffer everyone’s sisters (except Miss Darcy of course); it has an amazing mix of characters, I absolutely love the drama that follows Mr Darcy; I honestly expected a more dramatic confession at the end but it was great 9/10

NOTES FROM A DEATH HOUSE, F. DOSTOEVSKY – a bit too auto-biographic for my tastes, but I adored his depiction of a humanity which is often forgotten; it’s very disturbing in its actuality if you stop to think about it; he never tires himself saying that those “criminals” are also and foremost human beings 7,5/10

ASYLUM, P. MCGRATH – the first part is fast-paced, it leaves you breathless and with an anxious need to keep on reading; then it started to be a little more psychological and it kinda bored me; I liked the narrator very much, it was really disturbing 7,5/10

DOCTOR ZIVAGO, B. PASTERNAK – every Russian book I’ve read gave me a glimpse of Russian history and culture, yet they’re all different and I think that’s often underappreciated. Now, this book. This book is, simply put, breath-taking. The landscapes are immense and colourful, the talent of this man is unparalleled; it has a devastating end, it’s a book I’ll probably read over and over again just ‘cause reading it is “such a sweet sorrow” 10/10 (this rec is shorter than what it should have been in my mind, but I’d probably end up talking about this book and only this book so that’s it, it’s called self-control)

EMMA, J. AUSTEN – at first I was annoyed by Emma’s character, but then she proved herself so oblivious it started to become pretty funny; I can’t get over how much people talk in this book, the irony is SO on point, I love it; I probably like it more than Persuasion, because there are so many twists that the ending left me really surprised for once. And let me tell you, Jane Austen is THE BEST at depicting insufferable people 10/10

UNO, NESSUNO, E CENTOMILA, L. PIRANDELLO – look at me, reading Italian literature, world must be ending… to be honest? I don’t remember much of it? And I didn’t take notes as I usually do? I must’ve been bored out of my mind… I’ll give it a 6/10 on trust alone because I know Pirandello is great lol

HIS DARK MATERIALS, P. PULLMAN – finally got to this and it left me pretty confused; the first book is great, I loved the characters and the scenery, but in the other two I felt like too many things were left unexplained and Lyra’s character too lost some of its greatness; the end brought very little clarity, if at all, and of course I hated it with a passion; I don’t think he expressed the maximum potential of the world he built, but I liked it alright 7,5/10

1984, G. ORWELL – saying I was disappointed might be an understatement; I like how it’s written but the story in itself is frustrating, frankly boring, and disappointing, especially the end; you don’t build so much tension just to end it like that! Tho, maybe that’s exactly what he wanted to convey; everything is pretty much hopeless, made me angry 7/10

CARRIE, S. KING – first of his book I’ve ever read, AND I LOVED IT; it’s not a style I like very much, letting us know how it will end since the beginning, but it was great, magnificent, empowering; I don’t know if I’ll ever have the patience to read the others (they’re all so big) but this certainly got me curious 9/10

JACOB’S ROOM, V. WOOLF – confusing, very confusing, more confusing than anything of hers; of course it’s very beautifully written, but I have no idea what happened there 6,5 maybe 7/10?

THE WITCH, S. JACKSON – my personal Halloween challenge begins with this; short, CREEPY, VERY CREEPY, to the point (what point?); absolutely loved it 8/10

THE HAUNTING OF HILL HOUSE, S. JACKSON – listen, creepy houses are my jam, they’re the best; my first impression of the characters went like this: they’re all batshit crazy, I love them; it honestly gave me nightmares; I wish I would’ve read it in English tho 8/10

THE ABC MURDERS, A. CHRISTIE – the queen of plot-twists herself, she never disappoints; not my favourite, mind you, but it was great how she built the story of the murderer just to… well, you’ll have to read it 7,5/10

THE FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER, E. A. POE – I love when short stories such as this leave so much space around them to build whatever plot your imagination can come up with; it’s great, even left like it is 8/10

THE PENELOPIAD, M. ATWOOD – whatever guys, this woman has the ability to write the worst things in such a delicate way simply out of this world; I ADORE HER 9/10

THE UNCOMMON READER, A. BENNETT – hilarious from start to finish, kinda frustrating in the way only royal etiquette can be; I love how the Queen relates to others and I adored her inner monologue; the end is brilliant and the whole book (more or less 100 pages) feels like a breath of fresh air 8/10

THEATRE

THE COMEDY OF ERRORS, W. SHAKESPEARE – funny, brilliant, it became one of my favourite comedies (and there aren’t many of them) 8/10

CYMBELINE, W. SHAKESPEARE – nice little thing, with all the ingredients of a tragedy but with a happy ending; for a moment I thought it would end in a King Lear’s way, glad it didn’t 7,5/10

THE TAMING OF THE SHREW, W. SHAKESPEARE – the first of Shakespeare’s plays that I didn’t like at all, and I think the reasons are pretty clear to whoever has read it; it kinda felt “out of character” for him, but maybe I’m just an ignorant 4/10

POETRY and LETTERS

ARIEL, S. PLATH – raw, powerful, sad, everything I expected of it, I also have the best edition ever, she’s great 8/10

POEMS FROM THE MOOR, E. BRONTE – the talent, the power of this woman; I’ll cry the loss of the Gondal’s saga for the rest of my life 8/10

LETTERS TO A YOUNG POET, R. M. RILKE – amazing, the thins this man could write even in such a trivial thing as a letter, I love him 10/10

MARINA CVETAEVA – I must admit, I like her prose better than her poetry; her letters are heart breaking yet so full of enthusiasm you can’t help but feel for her; also, she loves Boris as much as I do, her letters to him are my favourite thing in the world 9/10

BORIS PASTERNAK – this man was the best present this year could give me, do yourself a favour and go read him 10/10

SPECIAL MENTION: THE SECRET HISTORY, D. TARTT – I may have a problem with her books, but I’ve started this in January and never got the patience to finish it; chapters WAY too long, characters that are so insufferable they can’t be real; pretentious, boring… I can’t give it a rating because I didn’t finish it and I’m not a monster, but the bar is very low

This is it I guess! I hope I gave you a little bit of entertainment, this is something I usually do for myself but I’m glad to share with you every year. I wish you a better end of 2020 than the whole, stay strong and stay safe!  A virtual hug to everyone 💚💚💚 

[dansedan]

Allen Ginsberg, Howl, Athens

Allen Ginsberg: who is your favorite poet?

oooh this is. A hard question. I don’t read a lot of books of poetry by the same person so I don’t think I reeeeaaally have a favorite one, but I suppose if we count like. Instruction art as poetry my favorite sole poet might be Yoko Ono? Otherwise, I like Mary Oliver’s style.

Howl: what is your favorite poem?

Okay there are so many and I love sharing poems so here are three versions of what a favorite poem is kind of cheating because one category is a draw!

the first thing I think about when I think poem is “Picture of a 23-year-old painted by his friend of the same age, an amateur”

He finished the picture yesterday noon. Now he looks at it detail by detail. He's painted him wearing an unbuttoned grey jacket, no vest, tieless, with a rose-coloured shirt, open, allowing a glimpse of his beautiful chest and neck. The right side of his forehead is almost covered by hair, his lovely hair (done in the style he's recently adopted). He's managed to capture perfectly the sensual note he wanted when he did the eyes, the lips... that mouth of his, those lips so ready to satisfy a special kind of erotic pleasure. 

My favorite national poem is “Incidente de cumbia”

Con queja de indio y grito de chombo, dentro de la cantina de Pancha Manchá, trazumando ambiente de timba y kilombo, se oye que la cumbia resonando está...

Baile que legara la abuela africana con cadena chata y pelo cuscú; fuerte y bochinchosa danza interiorana que bailó cual nadie Juana Calambú.

Pancha Manchá tiene la cumbia caliente, la de Chepigana y la del Chocó, y cuando borracha se alegra la gente, llora el tamborero, llora Chimbombó...

Chimbombó es el negro que Meme embrujara, Chimbombó es el negro de gran corazón; le raya una vieja cicatriz la cara; tiene mala juma y alma de león.

Y el tambor trepida! Y la cumbia alegra! Meme baila... El negro, como un animal, llora los desprecios que le hace la negra, y es que quiere a un gringo la zamba fatal!

Como un clavo dicen que saca otro clavo, aporrea el cuero que su mano hinchó; mientras más borracho su golpe es más bravo; ¡juma toca cumbia, dice Chimbombó!...

Vengador, celoso, se alza de un respingo cuando Meme acaba la cumbia, y se va -cogida del brazo de su amante gringo- rumbo al dormitorio de Pancha Manchá.

Del puñal armado los persigue, y ambos mueren del acero del gran Chimbombó, y la turbamulta de negros y zambos siente que, a la Raza, Chimbombó vengó...

Húyese hacia el Cauca el negro bravío y otra vez la cumbia trepidando está, pero se dijera que no tiene el brío de la vieja cumbia de Pancha Manchá...

Es que falta Meme, la ardiente mulata, y es que falta el negro que al Cauca se huyó; siempre habrá clientela y siempre habrá plata, ¡pero nunca otro hombre como Chimbombó!

 poems that genuinely haunt me every time I read are “Musée des beaux arts” and “the universe may stop expanding in five billion years”

About suffering they were never wrong, The Old Masters: how well they understood Its human position; how it takes place While someone else is eating or opening a window or just walking dully along; How, when the aged are reverently, passionately waiting For the miraculous birth, there always must be Children who did not specially want it to happen, skating On a pond at the edge of the wood: They never forgot That even the dreadful martyrdom must run its course Anyhow in a corner, some untidy spot Where the dogs go on with their doggy life and the torturer’s horse Scratches its innocent behind on a tree.

In Breughel’s Icarus, for instance: how everything turns away Quite leisurely from the disaster; the ploughman may Have heard the splash, the forsaken cry, But for him it was not an important failure; the sun shone As it had to on the white legs disappearing into the green Water; and the expensive delicate ship that must have seen Something amazing, a boy falling out of the sky, had somewhere to get to and sailed calmly on.

the universe may stop expanding in five billion years

at which point time will cease

to exist and i can finally stop

complaining. there's a fragile

world reflected in the glassy

pearl of your spit left

on my belly and i'm telling

you, i've never been so

old. the day sucks with leech-

teeth. even given the shreds

of your dead rind caked under

my fingernails there's the black

chasm of want expanding

in my chest the way a bead

of ink breaks, making me difficult

to touch without an exit plan.

imagine, please, a better

continuum. you say earlier

doesn't feel real and you're right,

not because there was anything

exceptional about the heath

in early afternoon, not because

our chins sticky with cider

was a notable pip in this

quivering glitch of a life,

but because it was too ordinary

to even dare remember,

because we'll someday ache

for any regular sunday in june

where the sun was a sure

thing and breath tasted like warm

grass and there was not a single

indication the cosmos would one

day shut like your eyes, tight

with pleasure.

Athens: if you could go anywhere right now, where would you go?

Honestly? Somewhere quiet on the beach. Probably Contadora, would be nice. Alternatively, I desperately want to go to El museo del Prado again.

[frmartinshomiliesandreflections]

14th March >> Fr. Martin’s Gospel Reflections / Homilies on John 3:14-21 for The Fourth Sunday of Lent, Cycle B: ‘God loved the world so much’.

Fourth Sunday of Lent, Cycle B (Laetare Sunday)

Gospel (Except USA)

John 3:14-21

God sent his Son so that through him the world might be saved

Jesus said to Nicodemus:

‘The Son of Man must be lifted up as Moses lifted up the serpent in the desert, so that everyone who believes may have eternal life in him. Yes, God loved the world so much that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him may not be lost but may have eternal life. For God sent his Son into the world not to condemn the world, but so that through him the world might be saved. No one who believes in him will be condemned; but whoever refuses to believe is condemned already, because he has refused to believe in the name of God’s only Son. On these grounds is sentence pronounced: that though the light has come into the world men have shown they prefer darkness to the light because their deeds were evil. And indeed, everybody who does wrong hates the light and avoids it, for fear his actions should be exposed; but the man who lives by the truth comes out into the light, so that it may be plainly seen that what he does is done in God.’

Gospel (USA)

John 3:14–21

God sent his Son so that the world might be saved through him.

Jesus said to Nicodemus: “Just as Moses lifted up the serpent in the desert, so must the Son of Man be lifted up, so that everyone who believes in him may have eternal life.”    For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him might not perish but might have eternal life. For God did not send his Son into the world to condemn the world, but that the world might be saved through him. Whoever believes in him will not be condemned, but whoever does not believe has already been condemned, because he has not believed in the name of the only Son of God. And this is the verdict, that the light came into the world, but people preferred darkness to light, because their works were evil. For everyone who does wicked things hates the light and does not come toward the light, so that his works might not be exposed. But whoever lives the truth comes to the light, so that his works may be clearly seen as done in God.

Reflections (5)

(i) Fourth Sunday of Lent

My father loved fresh air. The bull wall was one of his favourite places. Like many men of his generation, he was a smoker and, sometimes, his breathing became a struggle. He loved to get out in the open where there was a good wind blowing that could fill his lungs. My mother was much less keen on fresh air, especially of the windy variety. It tended to leave her hair in what she considered a mess. After having experienced an abundance of fresh air at my father’s prompting, she was often heard to say, ‘I’m like the wreck of the Hesperus’. As children we were mystified as to what the ‘wreck of the Hesperus’ was. It was only many years later I discovered it was the name of a rather tragic poem about a shipwreck in a storm by the American poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, published in 1842. However, as children, we knew that when our mother came out with this expression it meant that she didn’t like the look of herself. In those moments, Saint Paul’s statement at the end of today’s second reading wouldn’t have cut much ice with her, ‘We are God’s work of art’.

Perhaps, we all find it difficult to really believe that we are God’s work of art. We admire the workmanship of great artists, like Michelangelo, Raphael, Caravaggio, and we recognize their creations as works of art. Many of these great artists were people of faith who were very aware that their ability to create works of art was a gift from God. They understood that God was the supreme artist, and they sensed that they were sharing in God’s creative power. Every new born child is God’s work of art, because they are an image and reflection of God, the supreme artist. In that sense, we are each God’s work of art. Just as a work of art can deteriorate over time and need cleaning and restoration, so, as we go through life, we do not always give full expression to our inner identity as God’s work of art. In that second reading, Saint Paul says that ‘we are God’s work of art, created in Christ Jesus to live the good life’. We don’t always live the good life that does justice to God’s work of art that we are.

Yet, what we do or fail to do does not fundamentally undermine who we are as people made in the image and likeness of the great Artist. Indeed, not only have we been created as human beings in the image of God, but that identity has been enhanced through God’s sending of his Son into the world and our communion with God’s Son through baptism and faith. Jesus was the perfect image and likeness of God. He was God’s greatest work of art. The closer we come to Jesus, the more he lives in and through us, the more we will grow into our true identity as God’s image and likeness, God’s work of art. We could imagine Jesus as the great restorer of God’s work of art, humanity. As Saint Paul says in that second reading, ‘when we were dead through our sins, he (God) brought us to life with Christ’. Through the life, death and resurrection of Jesus, God recreates us in his image and likeness, restores our identity as his work of art. Having created us out of love, God recreated us, restored us, out of love. That is the core message of today’s readings. The gospel reading declares that ‘God loved the world so much that he gave his only Son’. God’s renewing love embraces the world, all of humanity who have been made in his image and likeness, and, indeed, all of creation. Paul in the second reading states that God’s ‘goodness towards us in Christ Jesus’ shows ‘how infinitely rich he is in grace’. Paul goes on to remind us that God’s loving initiative towards us through his Son is pure gift; it is not a response to anything we have done, as if we had to build up credit with God first.

We are all aware of the good we have failed to do and the wrong we have done. As a result, we can be prone to condemning ourselves, and others can look in judgement upon us. Yet, God is not primarily in the business of condemning. In the words of the gospel reading, ‘God sent his Son into the world, not to condemn the world, but so that through him, the world might be saved’, might have life and have it to the full. The eyes of love always see goodness and beauty in the beloved even though he or she may leave a lot to be desired. Those we love deeply remain works of art to us, even though our shared journey may have had many ups and downs. God’s love for us, revealed in his Son, is infinitely greater than any human love. God continues to see us as his works of art, even though our lives may be tainted by sin. He continually gives us the gift of his Son and of the Holy Spirit so that can grow into that work of art more fully. All God of asks of us is that we keep opening our hearts to that gift of his Son, that we keep coming out into the light, in the words of today’s gospel reading.

And/Or

(ii) Fourth Sunday of Lent

 A painting hung for many years on the wall of a dinning room in the Jesuit house on Lesson Street. No one paid much attention to it until one day someone with a keen eye spotted it and realized that this could be something of great value. He had it further investigated by art experts, and it turned out that this painting was the work of no less a person than the great Italian artist Caravaggio. The painting of the arrest of Jesus in the garden now hangs in the National Art Gallery, and it is one of the Gallery’s great treasures. All those years it hung in the dining room of Lesson Street it was no less a treasure, but its worth, its value, went unrecognized. It hung there waiting to be discovered, waiting for someone to recognize its true worth, its true value as a work of art.

 In the second reading this morning, Paul states that ‘we are God’s work of art, created in Christ Jesus to live the good life’. Like the painting in Lesson Street, we can go unnoticed as a work of art, especially to ourselves. We don’t tend to think of ourselves as a work of art. Yet, as Paul reminds us in our second reading, God sees us as works of art. Like the person who spotted the painting in Lesson Street, God knows our true worth, our true value. As God said through the prophet Isaiah, ‘You are precious in my sight, and I love you’. We are as works of art to him, of great worth and value, precious in his sight.

 We can probably think of people in our own lives that are as works of art to us. These are people we value greatly, people we treasure, whose worth to us is beyond price. Today is Mother’s day, and most of us think of our mothers in that way, whether they are still living or are with the Lord. When someone is a treasure to us, we don’t count the cost in their regard. We will do anything we can for them. We will travel long distances to see them; we will stay up half the night to be with them if they are ill; we will defend and protect them with all our passion when necessary. We keep faith in them; we are faithful to them, even when that makes great demands on us. How we relate to those we value and treasure is not determined so much by how they relate to us. Even if they do something that annoys us, we tend to make all kinds of allowances for them. We say something like, ‘that’s just the way he is, she is’. Their worth in our eyes, their value to us, is rooted in something deeper than what they do or fail to do. We value them, simply, for who they are.

 Our experience of how we relate to those we value, and of how people who value us relate to us, gives us a glimpse of how the Lord relates to us. God loves us in a way that does not count the cost. The gospel reading today expresses that truth very simply: ‘God loved the world so much that he gave his only Son’. God sent us his Son out of love for us and that sending became a giving when his Son was put to death on a cross. Here was a love that did not count the cost, a sending that became a giving when that was called for. As Paul says in the second reading, ‘God loved us so much that he was generous with his mercy’. We are of such value in God’s eyes that God did not spare his own Son, but gave him up to benefit us all. It is not surprising that the cross has become the dominant symbol of Christianity. This is not because we glorify suffering in any way, but because we recognise that the cross is a powerful sign of how much God values us, how precious we are in God’s sight, the extent to which God is prepared to go to express love for us.

 Our love for those we value is bestowed on them for who they are more than for what they do. The same is true of God’s love for us in Christ. It is pure gift. As Paul says in the second reading, ‘it is not based on anything you have done’. Some of us find it difficult to really believe that. We find ourselves asking, ‘how I done enough?’ Yet, when it comes to someone in our lives whom we know truly loves us, we would rarely ask that question of them. Why should we ask it of God, when even the greatest of human love is only gives us a glimpse of God’s love? God loves us for who we are, people made in his image, and, therefore, works of art.

 What is asked of us in relation to God is that we receive God’s love, or in the words of the gospel reading today, that we come into the light. The light of God’s love falls upon us, but we can hide from it. Children fear the darkness very often. But as adults we often fear the light, because we suspect that the light will expose us in some way. Yet, the light of God is not a harsh light, the kind of light that is trained on a suspect in an interrogation room. It is a strong, yet warm, light that brings healing and generates new life. It is an empowering light that enables us to ‘live the good life’, as Paul says in the second reading. We pray that, as the hours of day light increase in these days, the life-giving light of God’s love would renew us and fill us with a desire to serve him.

And/Or

(iii) Fourth Sunday of Lent

 Children are often afraid of the dark, as the parents here in the church will know. A dim light is sometimes left on while children sleep, so that if they wake up it is not in pitch darkness. Many of us as adults find total darkness disconcerting too. Those of us who live in cities never really experience total darkness. It is different out in the country away from villages, towns and cities. I remember going on a holiday as a young person to the Arran Islands and being struck by just how dark it was at night. There was very little in the way of artificial light to dispel the darkness. The experience of near total darkness after night fell was disconcerting.

 Although most of us would claim to prefer light to darkness, in today’s gospel reading Jesus declares that some people ‘have shown they prefer darkness to the light because their deeds were evil’. Most crime is committed during the hours of darkness. Those who are intent on doing wrong are drawn to darkness because it provides them with cover. As today’s gospel states: ‘Everyone who does wrong hates the light and avoids it, for fear his actions should be exposed’. One of the many security measures that have become popular in recent years is an array of bright lights that come on at night whenever anyone steps into an area that is out of bounds. Light is considered, with good reason, to be a deterrent to the person who is intent on committing crime. Indeed, there is a sense in which we all fear too much light just as we do too much darkness. Many of us prefer to stay in the background, in the shadows; we don’t like the spotlight being shone on us. We all have secrets that we would wish to remain in darkness, away from the bright lights that human curiosity and inquiry might like to shine on them. There are aspects of our lives that we would prefer to remain in darkness because we are not sure how people might respond to us if a bright light were to be shone on them. We only bring our deepest selves out into the light in the presence of those we really trust.

 The gospel of John frequently refers to Jesus as light. On one occasion, Jesus says of himself: ‘I am the light of the world’. In today’s gospel reading, Jesus says with reference to himself: ‘Light has come into the world’. The gospel reading also declares that the light that has come into the world in the person of Jesus is the light of God’s love. In one of the most memorable statements of the New Testament, the gospel reading declares, ‘God loved the world so much that he gave his only Son so that everyone who believes in him… may have eternal life’. The light of Jesus is not the probing light of the grand inquisitor that seeks out failure and transgression with a view to condemnation. Indeed, the gospel reading states that God ‘sent his Son into the world not to condemn the world’. The light of Jesus, rather, is the inviting light of God’s love, calling out to us to come and to allow ourselves to be bathed in this light, and promising those who do so that they will share in God’s own life, both here and now and also beyond death.

 At the beginning of today’s gospel reading, Jesus speaks of himself as the Son of Man who must be lifted up. It was on the cross that Jesus was lifted up, and it was above all at that moment that the light of God’s love shone most brightly. It is a paradox that those who attempted to extinguish God’s light shining in Jesus only succeeded in making that light of love shine all the more brightly. God’s gift of his Son to us was not in any way thwarted by the rejection of his Son. God’s giving continued as Jesus was lifted up to die, and God’s giving found further expression when God raised his Son from the dead and gave him to us as risen Lord. Here indeed is a light that darkness cannot overcome, a love that human sin cannot extinguish. This is the core of the gospel. This is why the fourth Sunday of Lent is known as Guadete Sunday, Rejoice Sunday.

 When we are going through a difficult experience and darkness seems to envelope us, it can be tempting to think that we will never see the light again. This is the mood that is captured in today’s responsorial psalm: ‘By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat and wept’. Today’s readings assure us that there is a light that shines in the darkness and that the darkness will not overcome, a light that heals and restores, in the words of today’s second reading, a light that brings us to life with Christ and raises us up with him. It shines in a special way whenever we celebrate the Eucharist. As we gather around the table of the word and the table of the Eucharist, the light of God’s love revealed in the death and resurrection of Jesus shines upon whatever darkness we may be struggling with in our lives.

And/Or

(iv) Fourth Sunday of Lent

 A painting hung for many years on a dinning room wall in the Jesuit house on Lesson Street. No one paid much attention to it until one day someone with a keen eye realized that this could be something of great value. It was further investigated by art experts, and it turned out that this painting was the work of the great Italian artist Caravaggio. The painting of the arrest of Jesus is now hangs one of the National Gallery’s great treasures. All those years it hung in the dining room of Lesson Street it was no less a treasure, but its value went unrecognized. It hung there waiting to be discovered, waiting for someone to recognize its true value as a work of art.

 According to the particular translation of the letter to the Ephesians we read from this evening, we are all ‘God’s work of art, created in Christ Jesus to live the good life’. We don’t tend to think of ourselves as works of art. Yet, like the person who spotted the painting in Lesson Street, God knows our true worth, our true value. We are works of art to God; we are of great worth and value in God’s sight.

 We can all think of people in our own lives whom we value greatly, whose worth to us is beyond price, because to us they are works of art. Today is Mother’s day, and most of us think of our mothers in that way, whether they are still living or are with the Lord. When someone is a treasure to us, we don’t count the cost in their regard. We will do anything we can for them. We will travel long distances to see them; we will stay up half the night to be with them if they are ill; we will protect them with all our passion when necessary. How we relate to those we value and treasure is not determined so much by how they relate to us. Even if they do something that annoys us, we tend to make all kinds of allowances for them. We say something like, ‘that’s just the way he/she is’. Their worth in our eyes is rooted in something deeper than what they do or fail to do. We value them, simply, for who they are.

 Our experience of how we relate to those we value, and of how people who value us relate to us, gives us a glimpse of how God relates to us. God loves us in a way that does not count the cost. The gospel reading today expresses that truth very simply: ‘God loved the world so much that he gave his only Son’. God sent his Son out of love for us and that sending became a giving when his Son was put to death on a cross. Here was a love that did not count the cost, a sending that became a costly giving when that was called for. As Paul says in the second reading, ‘God loved us so much that he was generous with his mercy’. We are of such value in God’s eyes that God did not spare his own Son, but gave him up to benefit us all. It is not surprising that the cross has become the dominant symbol of Christianity. This is not because we glorify suffering in any way, but because we recognise that the cross is a powerful sign of how much God values us, how precious we are in God’s sight; it shows the extent to which God is prepared to go to express love for us.

 Our love for those we value is bestowed on them for who they are more than for what they do. The same is true of God’s love for us in Christ. As Paul says in the second reading, ‘it is not based on anything you have done’. Some of us find it difficult to really believe that. We find ourselves asking, ‘how I done enough?’ Yet, when it comes to someone in our lives whom we know truly loves us, we would never think of asking them, ‘Have I done enough?’ Why should we ask such a question of God, when even the greatest of human love is only gives us a glimpse of God’s love? God loves us for who we are, people made in the image of God’s Son, and, to that extent, works of art.

 What God asks of us is that we receive God’s love revealed and made present in Christ, or, in the words of the gospel reading today, that we come into the light. The light of God’s love falls upon us, but we can hide from it. Children fear the darkness very often. But as adults we often fear the light, because we suspect that the light will expose us in some way. Yet, the light of God is not a harsh light, the kind of light that is trained on a suspect in an interrogation room. It is a strong, yet warm, light that brings healing and generates new life. It is an empowering light that enables us to ‘live the good life’, as Paul says in the second reading, ‘to do good works’. As the hours of day light are increasing in these days, we pray that the life-giving light of God’s love would renew us and fill us with a new desire to serve him.

And/Or

(v) Fourth Sunday of Lent

 We have become very aware in recent weeks of how much longer the days are getting. We are half way through the month of March and already it is bright up until after six o’clock. We have even brighter days to look forward to, especially as the clock goes forward next weekend. The brighter evenings brings everybody out. With the increase in light, there is also an increase in growth. The first blossoms of spring have already come out. Nature is coming to life after a time of hibernation.

 The gospel reading this morning is in keeping with what is happening in nature. It declares that ‘light has come into the world’. The light there is a reference to the light of God that has come into the world through Jesus. Both the second reading and the gospel reading make clear that the light of God is the light of love. The second reading declares that God loved us with so much love that he was generous with his mercy; it speaks of God’s goodness towards us in Christ, the infiniteness richness of God’s grace in Christ. The gospel reading declares that God loved the world so much that he gave his only Son. In the light that Jesus brings from God we find mercy, compassion, great love, kindness, infinite grace. Sometimes we don’t like too much light. There is a certain kind of light that can expose us mercilessly, like the light of the interrogator’s lamp. However, Jesus brings a light that need hold no fear for us; it is a divine light that lifts us up, just as the Son of Man was lifted up, in the words of the gospel reading. Here is a light that assures us of our worth and that helps us to see the goodness that is within us and the good that we are capable of doing. It is a light that, in the words of the second reading, allows us to recognize that ‘we are God’s work of art, created in Christ Jesus to live a good life’. It is the light of a love that shines upon us regardless of what we have done or failed to do. As the first reading reminds us, God’s grace, God’s love, comes to us not on the basis of anything we have done. It is not something we earn by our efforts; it comes to us as a pure gift. When God gave his Son to the world, did not ask whether the world was worthy of his Son or whether the world was ready for his Son. Even when the world crucified God’s Son, God did not take back his Son from the world. Rather, God continued to give his Son to the world, raising him from the dead and sending him back into the world through the Holy Spirit, through the church. Here is a light that shines in the darkness and that the darkness cannot overcome, in the words of the gospel of John.

 We all long for that kind of light, a light that is strong and enduring, a light that can be found at the heart of darkness and that is more resilient than darkness. We have all experienced darkness in one shape or form. It may be the darkness of sickness, or of the death of a loved one or the darkness of failure; we may struggle from time to time with the darkness of depression, with those dark demons that tell us that we are worthless and that life is not worth living. Something of that darkness of spirit finds expression in today’s responsorial psalm. It was composed from the darkness of exile in Babylon. ‘By the rivers of Babylon, there we sat and wept, remembering Zion’. We may have known our own experiences of exile in its various forms, times when we felt cut off from what gives meaning and purpose to our lives. The readings this morning assure us that in all those forms of darkness, a light shines - the light of God’s enduring love that is constantly at work in our lives so that we may have life and have it to the full. In the words of the gospel reading again, ‘God gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him... may have eternal life’.

 Even though this wonderful light has come into the world and wants to shine upon us all, we can be reluctant to step into that light, and allow it to shine upon us. In the words of the gospel reading, ‘though the light has come into the world, people have shown that they prefer darkness to the light’. This is the mysterious capacity of human freedom to reject the light, to turn away from a faultless love and a boundless mercy. Yet, our coming to the light is often a gradual process; it can happen slowly, at our own pace. The Lord is always prepared to wait on us; he waits for our free response. We are not used to a love that is as generous, as merciful, as rich in grace and goodness as God’s love; it takes us time to receive it, to believe in it, to embrace it. Receiving God’s love and then living out of that gift is the calling and task of a life time.

Fr. Martin Hogan.

[larrydrosalez]

I like relaxed language and I like blackness. This anthology is a celebration of both.

tawk  

Sometimes we’re afraid to talk. Yes, WE. This might be about black talkin, but this here is for you too Sandy-Sue and Jin-Woo.  I know you’ve had those days when somethin forces you to speak or preach or teach something you’d be much better off talkin about. You scour your brain in search of synonyms you learned in an English class (some time ago) or for some phrase you picked up from your favorite politically active musician – all for nada – because, in your scavenger-hunt for eloquence, you end up with 1000 syllables that don’t say anything.  Trust me, I know the feeling. (Deleting those Gs and forgoing those apostrophes a few lines up still has me wary of some impending doom.  O_o)  [imagine the courage it took to include an emoticon.]

    It is this fear of writing the way I feel most comfortable expressing myself that convinced me that this anthology needed to be compiled. It needed to be compiled and needs to be delivered to every writer that thinks their words aren’t good enough and to every reader that thinks some writer’s metaphors are too big and meaning too small. I want this anthology to combat any notion that in poetry white high-language is right language and that slang is to be reserved for Langston Hughes and Maya Angelou. This anthology, black-tawk, is intended to act as an examination of Black-American identity in contemporary poets through their specific use of colloquial vernacular, to be referred to as black-talk. These poems are compiled in order to reject “high language” (white-talk) as the only suitable means of intelligent and normative expression and that slave-talk is the only example of recognizable black expression. I seek to find a contemporary river of black voices that flow somewhere between a Mattie and a Michael Eric Dyson (and certainly above a Tyler Perry.)

     So what does black-talk between a Mattie and a Dyson sound like? It sounds like black people you hear talking every day. There are no meanings lost in abstract metaphor, no need to keep a library assistant on call and there’s the occasional glimpse of slang. Nah, I ain’t only talkin ‘bout that talk you hurd on the corner’a 3rd and Main, because while that’s beautiful, this anthology hopes to reveal subtle currents of vernacular that black poets use to express blackness. Of course there’s more than a heap of uses of slang’s shining star - “ain’t,” but he’s joined by “nuff” and “betcha” and even “cd” (could.) And these are sometimes decorated by the absence of punctuation that lends itself to an exploration of space and caesura to create natural and lulling speech patterns that mimic the way black people talk. You won’t find Queen’s English here. Nothing like what Jamil (Robert Sims) in his poem “pre-sentence Report” (page____) refers to as “…nouns that // old Sigmund couldn’t EVEN spell.” Though in his poem Sims speaks of medical jargon, there are certainly poets that employ a sort of poetic jargon requires too much energy to decipher.

    Not that deciphering is all bad, we wouldn’t want lazy readers, but when simplicity is forgone merely to sound poetic, the authenticity that makes poetry beautiful is lost. Stephanie Pruitt, a young poet from Nashville, could write novels about the process and love involved in getting her hair hot combed in the kitchen – but she doesn’t need to. Her haiku “Hair raising” (page _____) is beautiful in its ability to, concisely, resonate with black girls everywhere. “Hair burning in the kitchen” could easily become “kinky fibers laid straight by heated comb permeates the air in the place meals are made,” but it doesn’t need to. Now the form of haiku is innately simple but this same current of simplicity can be found throughout the anthology in various forms.

 black

Sometimes we’re afraid to be black. Yes WE. This might be about black talkin but if you change black to “chino” or “country” this here is for you too Jose and Billy-Rae. It’s about black talkin because black talkin is what I know best. I can’t count the number of times I’ve been made to feel afraid to express my blackness (or asian-ness or mexican-ness.) If a university environment is any representation of the real world, and I fear it may be more forgiving of race, people don’t want black people to be black. Every scorned sagging pant, every kinky twist pressed to oblivion, every set of braids chopped off for a job where suits and ties are need can serve as a testament that black people aren’t allowed to be black.

Oh, but that’s not true, we have a black president! – right, having one black president negates the pressure every white professor ceo quarterback vice-president student government official city official member of congress  employed contributing member of society member of congress places on black people to act white right.

…

…

I needed space to let that sit. The minority will always be made inferior when evaluated against the majority. Being black isn’t wrong, it’s just not being white. There are thousands of conversations to be had about blackness and black identity and defining what “black” is, but this is not a research paper and I am not an anthropological expert on the matter. So you ask, what does blackness have to do with this poetry anthology, and what does that contribute to life? Well, blackness is in the everyday things that black people do. There is no singular blackness. If you’re a black girl that gets a perm and a silky-smooth 32” Remy, you’re exuding blackness just as much as the sister pickin her afro every morning. If you’re a black boy with clean locks sitting proudly on the shoulder pads of your new Armani suit, you’re exuding blackness just as much as the scruffy brother in the newest Js and a tall-tee (although I personally detest tall-tees, that doesn’t negate the blackness found wearing it.)

Since poetry is a manifestation of expression based on personal experiences, black poets should be allowed to be black poets, right? No. An Essay by Evie Shockley entitled “All of the above: Multiple choice and African American Poetry” included in the introduction to the anthology “Rainbow Darkness,” edited by Keith Tuma, examines the reasons black authors are not allowed to be black authors. In short, he states (and I agree) that black authors (I would say all black artists) are subjected to “the poetics litmus test.” They must be judged based on political allegiances and racial “authenticity” rather than ability or talent. If a poet talks like Langston Hughes, they are authentically black, which is good, but they are a “black” poet not an “American” poet. According to Shockley, in order to receive the privileges “American” poets are afforded:

“An African American poet has had to avoid writing in styles or about subjects that are recognizably “black” in favor of “universal themes” and conventional aesthetics. Or  she could slip in the back door by appearing willing to narrate ‘the black experience’ for white consumption in ways that do not fundamentally deconstruct white (liberal) understandings of race or directly advocate revolutionary social change.”

This provides a perfect explanation concerning why black poets are pressured away from talking black. Even I question whether or not I want to be “that black poet” every time my mind wants to pen a thought about kinky hair, “unique” names, or encounters with racism. Just as the fear of talking convinced me of the necessity of this anthology, the fear of being black doubly convinces me that there are people that need this.

 black-tawk

I like relaxed language and I like blackness and this anthology is a celebration of both. These poets aren’t afraid to be black even when they’re not talking about black things. This collection includes poets just talkin and poets just being black and poets talkin about being black – none afraid to share their identity and the language they speak. Ntozake Shange isn’t afraid to write poems in a manner that is supposed to be talked. Sapphire sees the significance of what Claireece P. Jones has to say, and how she says it. Celes Tisdale saw the need for people to hear what inmates from Attica think. All of these voices have been gathered to fight the fear of being Black regular Mexican Asian poor Jamaican poorly-educated well-educated strange normal smart dumb black-tawking.

black-tawk is right. Don’t be shamed of it. These are your peers.

  my tawk

    And now that I’ve splattered you with my thoughts/rants about blackness and language and wooed you with my semi-intellectual prowess, I’d like to free myself of the black burden – a burden that has weighed heavy on my mind since I started compiling these poems. What is the black burden you ask? For me, it is the false interpretation that any black voice is THE black voice. To those reading in hopes of better understanding the black race based solely on the compilation of a 22-year-old-half-black-half-mexican-and-japanese-middle-class-college-guy I say:  I am not THE black voice. I am not THE black voice. I am not THE black voice.  I, like the poems selected for this anthology, do not represent the entire black race or encompass all Black-American identity. There is no anthology or single person that does. I, and these poems, do however represent a current of thought, a movement, towards talking. Towards tawking. Towards tawking black. black-tawk. Enjoy.

[scotianostra]

The Romantic Poet Lord Byron died on 19th April 1824.

George Gordon Noel, sixth Baron of Byron was born in London on January 22nd 1788 to Captain John Byron and Catherine Gordon, heiress of Gight in Aberdeenshire.

After his father, known as “Mad Jack”, had frivolled away much of her fortune, Catherine whisked her son away to Aberdeen in 1789 where he spent his formative years, it was this time that left a mark on the romantic poet, he always saw himself as a Scot after this.

  His father died when he was three, his half-sister was shipped off to live with their maternal grandmother, and he lived in miserable lodgings with his volatile, depressed mother and their abusive nurse. Aged ten his great-uncle William unexpectedly died in 1789, leaving young Byron to take up the reigns as sixth Baton Byron of Rochdale. The family moved to Newstead Abbey in Nottinghamshire, and he was later educated at Harrow and The University of Cambridge.

Despite enduring such ordeals as a young child in the north east of Scotland, the poet was empowered by his Scottish bloodline. Aged just 19, he wrote of his love for the northern countryside in ‘Hours of Idleness’, distinctly unimpressed by the comparatively barren landscapes of the south, the evidence is  in the third verse of the poem Dark Lochnagar, for those unconvinced about his "Scottishness"

  England! thy beauties are tame and domestic

To one who has roved on the mountains afar

Oh for the crags that are wild and majestic

The steep frowning glories o' wild Lochnagar.

As the poet entered into his late teens and early twenties, his life was quickly overwhelmed by scandal – among his affairs with married women, actresses and young men, it is thought he had a child with his half-sister Augusta, five years his elder, a scandalous life at any time, let alone 18th century England! In what is considered his masterpiece, Don Jaun, he again harks back to Scotland, the work is over 500 pages long, split into canto's. Canto X (ten) gives us another wee glimpse with....

But I am half a Scot by birth, and bred A whole one, and my heart flies to my head, —

As “Auld Lang Syne” brings Scotland, one and all,     Scotch plaids, Scotch snoods, the blue hills, and clear streams, The Dee — the Don — Balgounie’s brig’s black wall,     All my boy feelings, all my gentler dreams Of what I then dreamt, clothed in their own pall,     Like Banquo’s offspring; — floating past me seems My childhood in this childishness of mine: I care not — ‘t is a glimpse of “Auld Lang Syne.”

And though, as you remember, in a fit     Of wrath and rhyme, when juvenile and curly, I rail’d at Scots to show my wrath and wit,     Which must be own’d was sensitive and surly, Yet ‘t is in vain such sallies to permit,     They cannot quench young feelings fresh and early: I “scotch’d not kill’d” the Scotchman in my blood, And love the land of “mountain and of flood.”

[the-end-of-art]

Sewn into his jacket an incoherent note

How to Make Love, Write Poetry, & Believe in God by Nin Andrews

A few weeks ago, I was part of a Hamilton-Kirkland College alumnae poetry reading, and after the reading a woman asked a simple question: “How do you write a poem?” I didn’t have an answer so I suggested a few books by poets like John Hollander, Mary Oliver, and Billy Collins. The woman said she had read books like that, but they didn’t help. She wanted something else, like a genuine operating manual—a step by step explanation.

I, too, love instruction manuals, especially those manuals on how to perform magic: write a poem or know God or make love, if only love were something that could be made. Manuals offer such promise. Yes, you, too, can enter the bee-loud glade and the Promised Land and have an orgasm.

I love the idea that my mind could be programmed like a computer to spit out poems on demand—poems with just the right number of lines, syllables, metaphors, meanings, similes, images . . . And with no clichés, no matter how much I love those Tom, Dick and Harry’s with their lovely wives, as fresh as daisies. I can set them in any novel or town in America, and they will have sex twice a week, always before ten at night, never at the eleventh hour, and it will not take long,time being of the essence.

I love sex manuals, too: those books that suggest our bodies are like cars. If only we could learn to drive them properly, bliss would be a simple matter of inserting a key, mastering the steering wheel, signaling our next moves, knowing the difference between the brakes and the gas pedal, and of course, following the speed limit.

A depressive person by nature, I am also a fan of how-to books on God, faith, happiness, the soul, books that suggest a divine presence is always here. I just need to find it, or wake up to it, or turn off my doubting brain. That even now, my soul is like a bird in a cage. If I could sit still long enough and listen closely, it might rest on my open palm and sing me a song.

God, poetry, sex, they offer brief moments of bliss, glimpses of the ineffable, and occasional insights into that which does not translate easily into daily experience, or loses its magic when explained.

In college, I took classes in religion, philosophy and poetry, and I studied sex in my spare time—my first roommate and I staying up late, pondering the pages of The Joy of Sex. As a freshman, I auditioned my way into an advanced poetry writing class by composing the single decent poem I wrote in my college years. The poem, an ode to cottage cheese, came to me in a flash as a vision nestled on a crisp bed of iceberg lettuce. Does cottage cheese nestle? I don’t know, but the professor kept admiring that poem. He said all my other poems paled by comparison.

This was in the era of the sexual revolution,long before political correctness and the Me-Too movement. My roommate, obsessed with getting laid, said we women should have been given a compass to navigate the sexual landscape. She liked to complain that she’d had only one orgasm in her entire life, and she wanted another. “What if I am a one-orgasm wonder?” she worried. The subject of orgasms kept us awake, night after night.

In religion class, my professor told the famous story about Blaise Pascal who had a vision of God that was so profound, his life seemed dull and meaningless forever afterwards. He never had another vision. But he had sewn into his jacket an incoherent note to remind him of the singular luminous experience.

The next day in religion class, a student stood up and announced that the professor was wrong—about Pascal, God, everything. The student knew this because he was God’s friend. He even knew His first name, and what God was thinking. The professor smiled sadly, put his arm around the student, and led him out of the classroom, down the steps and into the counselor’s office. When the professor returned, he warned us that if we ever thought we knew God, we should check ourselves into a mental institution. Lots of insane people know God intimately.

But, I wondered, what would God (or the transcendent—or whatever word you might choose for it: the muse, love, the orgasm, the soul, the higher self) think of us? For example, what would a muse think of a writer trying, begging, praying to enter the creative flow? All writers know it—that moment when inspiration happens. The incredible high. And the opposite, when words cling to the wall of the mind like sticky notes but never make it onto your tongue or the page.

What would an orgasm think of all the people seeking it so fervently yet considering it dirty, embarrassing, unmentionable? And then lying about it. “Did you have one?” a man might ask. “Yes,” his lover nods. But every orgasm knows it cannot be had. Or possessed. Or sewn into the lining of a coat. No one “has” an orgasm. At least not for long.

What did God think of Martin Luther, calling out to him in terror when a lightning bolt struck near his horse, “Help! I’ll become a monk!” And later, when he sought relief from his chronic constipation and gave birth to the Protestant Reformation on the lavatory—a lavatory you can visit today in Wittenberg, Germany.

I don’t want to evaluate Luther’s source of inspiration. But I do want to ponder the question: How do you write a poem? Is there a way to begin?

I think John Ashbery gave away one secret in his poem, “The Instruction Manual:” that it begins with daydreaming. Imagination. And the revelation that the mind contains its own magical city, its own Guadalajara, complete with a public square and bands and parading couples that you can visit this enchanted town for a limited time before you must turn your gaze back to the humdrum world.  

But a student of Ashbery’s might cringe at the suggestion that poetry is merely an act of the imagination. In order to master the dance, one must know the steps. And Ashbery was a master. So many of his poems follow a kind of Hegelian progression, traveling from the concrete to the abstract to the absolute. Or what Fichte described as a dialectical movement from thesis to antithesis to synthesis. Fichte also wrote that consciousness itself has no basis in reality. I wonder if Ashbery would have agreed.

In college I wrote an inane paper, comparing Ashbery’s poetry to a form of philosophical gardening in which the poet arranges the concrete, meaning the plants or words, in such an appealing order that they create the abstract, or the beauty, desired. Thus, the reader experiences the absolute, or a sense of wonder at the creation as the whole thing sways in the wind of her mind.

Is there a basis in reality for wonder? Or poetry? I asked. Or are we only admiring illusions, the beautiful illusions the poet has created?  How I loved questions like that. I wanted to follow in the footsteps of Fichte and Hegel and Ashbery and write mystical and incomprehensible books. I complained to my mother that no matter how hard I tried, I could not compose an actual poem or philosophical treatise—I was trying to write treatises, too. “That’s good,” she said. “Poets and philosophers are too much in their heads, and not enough in the world.”

I didn’t argue with her and tell her that not all poets are like Emily Dickinson. Or say that Socrates was put to death for being too much in the world, for angering the public with his Socratic method of challenging social mores, and earning himself the title, “the gadfly of Athens.”  

Instead, I thought, That’s it! If I want to be a poet, I just need to separate my head from the world. Or at least turn off the noise of the world. And seek solitude, as Wordsworth suggested, in order to recollect in tranquility. I imagined myself going on a retreat or living in a cave, studying the shadows on the wall. Letting them speak to me or seduce me or dance with me.

The shadows, I discovered, are not nice guests. Sometimes they kept me awake all night, talking loudly, making rude comments, using all the words I never said aloud. “Hush,” I told them. “No one wants to hear that.” Sometimes they took on the voices of the dead and complained I hadn’t told their stories yet or right. Sometimes they sulked and bossed me about like a maid, asking for a cup of tea, a biscuit, a little brandy, a nap. One nap was never enough. When I obeyed and closed my eyes, they recited the poems I wanted to write down. “You can’t open your eyes until we’re done,” they said, as if poetry were a game of memory, or hide and seek in the mind. Other times they wandered away and down the dirt road of my past, or lay down in the orchard and counted the peaches overhead. Whatever they did or said, I watched and listened.

That’s how I began writing my first real poems. I knew not to disobey the shadows. I knew not toturn my back on them and look towards the light as Plato suggested—Plato who wanted to banish the poets and poetry from his Republic.I knew to not answer the door if the man from Porlock came knocking.

To this day I am grateful for the darkness. For the shadows it creates in my mind. It is thanks to them I have written another book, The Last Orgasm, a book whose title might make people cringe. But isn’t that what shadows do? And much of poetry, too? Dwell on topics we are afraid to look at in the light?

(https://blog.bestamericanpoetry.com/the_best_american_poetry/2020/09/how-to-make-love-write-poetry-believe-in-god-by-nin-andrews.html)

Five prose poems by Nin Andrews (formatting better at http://newflashfiction.com/5-prose-poems-by-nin-andrews/)

Duplicity

after Henri Michaux “Simplicity”

When I was just a young thing, my life was as simple as a sunrise. And as predictable. Day after day I went about doing exactly as I pleased. If I saw a lovely man or women, or beauty in any of its shapes and forms and flavors, well, I simply had to have it. So I did. Just like that. Boom! I didn’t even need a room.

Slowly, I matured. I learned a bit of etiquette.  Manners, I discovered can have promising side effects. I even began carrying a bottle of champagne wherever I went, and a bed. Not that the beds lasted long. I wasn’t the kind to go easy on the alcohol or the furnishings, nor was I interested in sleep. It never ceased to amaze me how quickly men drift off. Women, many of them, kept me going night after night. You know how inspiring  women are.

But then, alas, I grew tired of them as well. I began to envy those folks who curl up into balls each night, their bodies as heavy as tombstones. I tried curling up with them, slowing my breath, entering into their dreams. What dreams! To think I had been missing out all along! That’s when I became a Zen master, at one with the night. Now I teach classes on peace, love, abstinence. At last I have found bliss, I tell my followers. The young, they don’t believe it. But really, I ask you. Would I lie?

The Broken Promise

after Heberto Padilla, “The Promise”

There was a time when I promised to write you a thousand love poems. When I said every day is a poem, and every poem is in love with you. But then the poems rebelled. They became a junta of angry women, impossible to calm or translate, each more vivid, sultry, seductive than the next. Some stayed inside and sulked for weeks, demanding chocolates, separate rooms, maid service. Others wanted to be carted around like queens. Still others took lovers and kept the neighbors up, moaning at all hours of the day and night. One skinny girl (remember her? the one with flame-colored hair?) moved away. She went back to that shack down the road where we first met. At night she lay down in the orchard behind the house and let the dark crawl over her arms and legs. In the end even her dreams turned to ash and blew away in a sudden gust of wind.

Little Big Man

after Russell Edson “Sleep”

There was once an orgasm that could not stop shrinking. Little big man, his friend called him, watching as he grew smaller and smaller with each passing night, first before making love, then before even the mention of making love, then before even the mention of the mention of making love. Oh, what a pathetic little thing he was.

One night he tried reading, Think and Grow Big, but it only caused him to shrink further inside himself. Oh, to grow large and tall as I once was, he sighed. What he needed, he knew, was a trainer with a whip and chains. Someone to teach him to jump through hoops and swing from a trapeze and swallow fire until he blazed ever higher into the night. Yes, he shuddered. Yes! as he imagined it. A tiny wisp of smoke escaped his lips.

Questions to Determine if You Are Washed Up

after Charles Baudelaire, “Get Drunk!”

Do you feel washed up lost, all alone? Do you fear that time is passing you by like a train for which you have no ticket, no seat? That you have lived too long in the solitude of your room and empty mind,  that now you are but a slave of sorrow? Or is it regret? Do you no longer taste the wine of life on your lips, tongue, throat? Is there not even even a chance of intoxication? Bliss? No poetry or song above or below the hips? No love in the wind, the waves, in every  or any fleeting and floating thing? No castles in your air? No pearls in your oysters? Are you wearing a pair of drawstring pants?

Remembering Her

after Herberto Padilla

This is the house where she first met you. This is the room where she first said your name as if it were a song.  This is the table where she undressed you, stripping away your petals, leaves, your filmy white roots and sorrows. And there on the floor is the stone you picked up each morning, the stone you clung to night after night. Sometimes she kicked it aside. Sometimes she placed in on the sill and blew it out the window as her presence filled you like a glow, and you thought for an instant, I, too, can fly.

[dickwheelie]

Day 29: Secret Admirer

For the @ineffable-valentines prompt list!

Boy oh boy. I cannot believe I was able to post a fic for this prompt list, on time, every day for an entire month. For me, that’s huge. I tend to be a slow writer and I rarely finish the stuff I start. Not every fic was amazing, or very long, but by gosh, I sure did finish them, and I had so much fun doing it! Huge thanks to @mielpetite for making this list and reblogging all the entries throughout the month, they’ve been amazing. Thank you also to all the lovely folks who commented/reblogged/liked my fics, you gave me the motivation to sit down every day and write something, even when I wasn’t feeling it. Much love to all y’all.

If you go to the #ineffablevalentines tag on tumblr, you’ll see the other entries, and if you go here on my blog you’ll see all of mine. Okay, enough chat, please enjoy my final fic of the month, wherein to no one’s surprise, there is more letter writing.

__________

To the proprietor of A.Z. Fell & Co Booksellers, Downtown Soho, in case there’s another one knocking about somewhere—

I saw you in the shop the other day and couldn’t help but stare. You were gently ushering someone out the door without a single book in their hands, and I couldn’t help but find your tenacity admirable. I myself was careful not to remove any item from the store when I left, but I’m afraid I may have left one behind. I was wondering if you might have seen it, so I can come back to fetch it. You see, it’s terribly important to me. It’s my heart.

Love,

Your Secret Admirer

Aziraphale chuckled through an unseemly blush as he refolded the letter and placed it on the top of the stack that had been slowly growing on his desk for the past month. Every day of that cold, miserable February, a letter had arrived at his doorstep, with no return address and no name of sender. They were—and there was no beating around the bush about it, really—love letters, very obviously meant for him, from an anonymous so-called secret admirer.

At first, Aziraphale had been rather confused, but had kept the letters anyway, intending to show them to Crowley and have a good laugh. However, as each day passed and each new letter arrived, Aziraphale found himself quite charmed by this secretive writer. Clearly, they were a regular customer of some kind to know Aziraphale so well. They made all the right jokes, said all the right things, made references to all the right literary figures; either they had discerned Aziraphale’s tastes with perfect accuracy, or they had much in common with him.

Some of the letters were extremely lengthy; others, like today’s, were only a short paragraph or two, recounting the admirer’s feelings for him. Some were maudlin and prose-laden; some were humorous and sweet; others still were almost salacious in tone, never saying anything too outlandish but bordering on the cusp of it, hinting at things and implying things that made Aziraphale blush absolutely scarlet. All of them were quite flattering, and left Aziraphale’s mood brighter for the rest of the day.

Aziraphale had been charmed by humans before, and even been romantically pursued by some of them, but never before had one so captivated him with the written word. (This, of course, did not include works of literature. That was a very different kind of captivation that involved less blushing.) He’d never had a secret admirer before. It was all very thrilling and romantic.

Not being able to write back was a bit frustrating, but Aziraphale supposed it was for the best. Though he was quite flattered, and had reread some of the letters more times than he’d like to admit, at the end of the day, his admirer was only a human who only knew him as a bookseller.

Besides, Aziraphale was already taken. Speaking of which, he ought to get himself ready to meet Crowley for dinner; their reservation was at eight.

I ought to tell him about the letters, he thought as he went about selecting a bowtie. Crowley ought to know, after all, that he had some competition. Aziraphale laughed aloud at the thought. After dinner, he decided, he’d bring Crowley back to the shop and show him the pile of letters.

And so he did. Aziraphale poured them both a glass of wine and brought Crowley into his study, presenting the pile of papers as though it were an ice sculpture.

“Terribly sorry I didn’t mention these to you earlier,” said Aziraphale cheerily. “I suppose I didn’t want you getting jealous that I had a secret admirer.”

“Jealous? Me?” said Crowley wryly. “Never.”

“Well?” said Aziraphale, when Crowley didn’t make a move towards the desk. “Go ahead, read some of them. You have my full permission.”

“Hmm. I dunno,” said Crowley, making himself comfortable on one of the armchairs on the opposite side of the room. “Seems like your private affair, to me.”

“Nonsense! Here, I’ll read one to you.” Aziraphale selected one at random from the middle of the pile, unfolded it and cleared his throat. “Oh, this is rather a good one.

“My dear bookseller—

“I’ve read every Wilde I can get my hands on, but apparently even your shop doesn’t hold the book which may contain a description vivid enough to capture you. In my experience, none do; not Whitman, not Keats, not Dickenson. The most complimentary of love poems do not contain a subject more appealing to me than you are. I’m afraid there may not be words in the English language or any other to describe your radiance. Compared to all the other authors and poets, who am I to attempt such a feat?

“I must try anyway. You, of all the beings of the Earth and Heaven above and Hell below, deserve to know your own wonder. Compared to you, my perspective is lowly, to be sure. Still, was it not Wilde who once said that we are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars?

“Endlessly Yours,

“Your Secret Admirer.”

Aziraphale had to pause to surreptitiously wipe at his eyes. That one had been particularly moving when he’d first read it. “Now, wasn’t that just lovely?” he said after a moment. “They know my tastes so well.”

Aziraphale glanced over at Crowley to see his reaction, but to his surprise, Crowley was smiling. A small, rather sweet smile, not at all jealous or mischievous. “Yeah,” Crowley said, “it was alright.” He put out his hand. “Can I have a look?”

Aziraphale handed him the letter and Crowley perused it, his expression much more pensive than Azirapahle would have expected. After a minute or two, Crowley said, “Yeah, not too bad, really. Not much I’d change, on this one. Just that the references to Heaven and Hell were probably a little too on the nose. And I’m pretty sure I used ‘complimentary’ incorrectly there.”

“Oh, really?” said Aziraphale, taking the letter as Crowley passed it back to him. He gave it another quick once-over. “No, I think ‘complimentary’ with an ‘i’ is correct. If it was an ‘e’ then it would be wrong, as in ‘complementary’—wait a moment.”

Aziraphale looked back up at Crowley so quickly he could have given himself whiplash. “You said I. ‘I used it incorrectly.’ Crowley. Did you—”

Crowley grinned, and crossed the room to press a kiss to Aziraphale’s brow. “Happy Valentine’s, Angel,” he said. “Well, happy February. The fourteenth went by and I had more I wanted to say, so I just sort of kept going.”

And suddenly, it all made sense. Who else, after all, could know Aziraphale so well? A human, with limited time on the planet, observing Aziraphale from afar, could never reach such an intimate understanding of him, and what he loved.

“Oh, my dear,” said Aziraphale. He glanced over at the pile. He was already planning a late night of reading through them all again, this time with the proper demon in mind. “Do I even have to say it?”

Crowley stuck his hands in his pockets and bobbed his head from side to side in a pantomime of thinking. “Well, considering it look me bloody ages to draft these all up, and write them by hand, and train the mice to deliver them, and stop myself from bragging about them to you every day for the last month—”

Aziraphale interrupted him with a kiss. “All right then,” he said, laughing. “Thank you, secret admirer.”

Crowley beamed. “Ah, it was no big deal, Angel.”

***

On February first of the following year, Crowley woke up to find an envelope sitting on his bedroom windowsill, outside his flat. It was addressed to “The handsome gentleman on the fifth floor,” and there was no return address. Inside was a letter, written on very old parchment and with very expensive ink, which read:

My dear,

Forgive me for my boldness, but I happened to see you in the Ritz the other day (you were with a rather good-looking gentleman in white, a very lucky man, if he had the privilege of being your dining companion), and you seemed to me to be the most dashing person in the room. Nay, in all of London. I found myself thinking about you for the rest of the evening, and I just had to draft up this letter to tell you exactly how lovely you looked that night. Though you wore dark glasses, I could occasionally catch a glimpse of your eyes behind them, and their beautiful golden color, and I found myself nearly speechless every time.

In all of creation, I have never found a being so wonderful to gaze upon. I imagine that if I were to, hypothetically, take the place of your ever-so-fortunate dining companion, and have a conversation and a drink with you, I would also never find someone so fascinating, so caring, so clever as you. I imagine if I were lucky enough to know you so well, your wit would be as dazzling as your eyes.

With the Greatest Affection,

Your Secret Admirer

Scrawled at the bottom of the page, in a much hastier hand, was a postscript. Crowley read it, cackled uproariously (which helped to hide his blushing), and went immediately to phone Aziraphale, intending to explain to him the point of having a secret admirer.

P.S.: Please do let me know if you received this! The doves are not very good with street directions, unfortunately. I am working on it with them. Much love! —A

Crowley also intended to tell him that he bloody well loved him, too.

[sailorchiron]

Merry Christmas @tasyfa !

I loved the prompts of sunlight, ribbons, and poetry!  I confess I forgot to check for your response to my anon ask...  I decided to do a moodboard of a bookshop au, and had so much fun with it that I actually wrote a fic to go with it!  I hope you have a happy holiday season filled with joy and Malex!  

Sunlight, Ribbons, and Poetry | Read on Ao3

When Michael Guerin parked his beat up truck in front of Chapter and Verse, he wasn’t really sure what he was doing, or what to expect. All he knew was that Isobel loved poetry, and he loved his sister, and he was determined to get her a better Christmas present than Max for once in his life.

Chapter and Verse was a popular book store downtown, next door to Uncommon Grounds, which was universally known to be the best coffee in town. According to the barista he’d unsuccessfully flirted with two weeks ago, it was because the owner had connections for an expensive Italian roast that was usually too pricey for small town tastes. Also according to the barista that turned out to have a boyfriend, Chapter and Verse was well known for carrying a wide selection of poetry as well as fiction and nonfiction, and for having antique and special editions as well as new books. Seemed like a no brainer to pop into the quaint store and grab something pretty for Iz, but there was a problem.

Michael knew absolutely nothing about poetry.

He had some vague, foggy memories about studying poetry in high school English, but math and science were his things, not poetry and literature. He had no idea what to get. None.

The bells on the door chimed cheerfully when he went in, and he had to admit that the store was absolutely charming, with sun streaming in the front window and tall, dark wood shelves crammed with colorful volumes. The scuffed wood floor was broken up by old oriental rugs, and the counter sporting the cash register was an antique relic of days gone by. Michael noticed a hand painted sign hanging from the ceiling pointing the way to Uncommon Grounds, and sure enough, there was a door connecting the two businesses that he’d never noticed before. He looked for other helpful ceiling signs, and followed the one to the back right corner labeled ‘Poetry.’

He walked up and down the aisles for a few bewildered minutes, completely out of his element, and not having a single clue what to get. Some of the clearly antique books were beautiful, but what if they were poems about like death or something? Isobel was a romantic and wouldn’t want depressing, morbid poetry. He was starting to get nervous about finding anything, and considering a Target gift card for Christmas, when he decided to find an employee to help him.

Aaaaand, didn’t see a single soul. In fact, it was strangely quiet in the store. Am I the only person in this entire building?

Michael was on the verge of just leaving when he spotted someone in a little alcove with a colorful rug and walked over. French doors were propped open into what was a little reading nook, and sitting on the floor with a cup of coffee and a book was the most beautiful man that Michael had ever seen. He just stared for a minute. Messy dark hair, a little attractive scruff, neck that was begging for his lips, elegant hands, a face you’d definitely write home to mama about. The gorgeous man had kicked off his shoes and a crumpled apron was on the floor next to him. He was engrossed in what he was reading and hadn’t noticed him standing there trying to keep his tongue in his head. “Um, excuse me?”

Michael had been unprepared for that pretty face and his jaw might have dropped open.

“Yes?”

Fuck, his voice is amazing. “Um, do you work here?”

The beautiful man raised an eyebrow and glanced at the apron...then the coffee.

“Oh, you’re on your break, sorry, I’m just completely lost.”

“It’s okay.” He stood up. “What are you looking for?”

“Romantic poetry?” He watched subtle signs of disappointment in the gorgeous clerk. “For my sister! She’s just a really romantic person and I think she’d like love poems.” He watched the man’s face brighten. “Maybe an antique or really pretty book?”

“Sure. I’m Alex, by the way.”

“Michael.” They kind of looked at each other for a minute. He was struck by just how pretty Alex’s dark eyes were.

Alex, for his part, was internally screaming. Who needed a lunch break when someone that sexy wanted help looking for a book? He’d been momentarily crushed by the request for love poems, but the hurried explanation that it was for a romantic sister led him to believe that Michael might be interested. He shook his head to break the tension. “What kind of things does she like? Just in general, not specific to poetry.”

“Um, flowers? Korean dramas, aesthetic photography, huge parties, girly clothes, and make up?”

“How old is she?” Alex laughed, amused by Michael’s exasperated tone.

“28.”

“I was totally picturing 16, okay, revising my poetry ideas.” He led Michael down a narrow aisle. “Does she have a boyfriend or girlfriend?”

“Not right now.”

“Hmm…” Alex pulled the step stool over to the shelf he wanted, cognizant of the fact that he’d been so taken by amber eyes and springy curls that he’d forgotten to put his shoes back on. “Does she like to make grand gestures?”

“Oh god, yes, that’s Isobel to a T.”

“Wordsworth.” He pulled out two books. “Antique or new edition? I have both for this collection.” He held out the old book, black with elegant silver scroll work next to a smaller paperback with a picture of the sky.

“Definitely the antique. What kind of poems are they?”

“Wordsworth basically started the Romantic movement in England. Here, let me read you a poem.

“The world is too much with us; late and soon, Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers — Little we see in Nature that is ours; We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon! This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon; The winds that will be howling at all hours, And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers; For this, for everything, we are out of tune; It moves us not. Great God! I’d rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn.

“Not romantic like lovers, but romantic, like grand and expressive.”

Michael just stared, entranced by that beautiful voice reading poetry so passionately. “I love it.”

“There are other good ones, too. Here, hold this one.” Alex handed the book to Michael and stepped down before walking down the aisle. “This is another Romantic poet, Keats.

“Bright star! Would I were steadfast as thou art-- Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night, And watching, with eternal lids apart, Like Nature’s patient sleepless Eremite, The moving waters at their priestlike task Of pure ablution round earth’s human shores, Or gazing on the new soft fallen mask Of snow up on the mountains and the moors-- No--yet still steadfast, still unchangeable, Pillow’d upon my fair love’s ripening breast, To feel for ever its soft fall and swell, Awake for ever in a sweet unrest, Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath, And so live ever - or else swoon to death.”

“Uh, that’s dramatic.”

“Would your sister like it? Or is it too dramatic?”

“I think she’d like it, actually. She’s kinda dramatic herself.”

Alex laughed and handed the antique book, bound in red leather with faded gold lettering, into Michael’s careful hands. “Does she like Shakespeare? I just got a really nice edition of his sonnets and those are mostly romantic.”

“I have no idea, but I’m game.” Michael decided he’d basically follow Alex anywhere in the store for the chance to just bask in his presence.

The book was a new edition, not antique, but it was bound in deep rose leather with a fanciful design of roses in gold, pink, and green on the cover. The pages were gilded, and it had a ribbon bookmark. “Sonnet 116 is my favorite.”

“You have a favorite?” Michael blinked. He hadn’t considered that ordinary people had favorite sonnets.

“Well, yah, I’m in here all day selling books of poetry, some of it is bound to stick.”

Michael laughed softly. “What’s your favorite poem of all time?” Not that he’d know it, but he mostly wanted to keep talking to Alex until he could guide the conversation to exchanging phone numbers.

“That’s impossible to answer, because poetry is so dramatically different from era to era. That said, I like early American poetry more, like Walt Whitman and Emily Dickenson, than Romantic poetry.”

“I have to confess I’ve never heard of them. Or if I did, I totally forgot.”

Alex raised an eyebrow at him. “Here, I’ll read you a Whitman poem.” He walked back into the alcove where Michael had found him and picked up the battered paperback he’d left on the floor.

“PASSING stranger! You do not know how longingly I look upon you, You must be he I was seeking, or she I was seeking, (it comes to me, as of a dream,) I have somewhere surely lived a life of joy with you, All is recall’d as we flit by each other, fluid, affectionate, chaste, matured, You grew up with me, were a boy with me, or a girl with me, I ate with you, slept with you--your body has become not yours only, nor left my body mine only, You give me the pleasure of your eyes, face, flesh, as we pass--you take of my beard, breast, hands, in return, I am not to speak to you--I am to think of you when I sit alone, or wake at night alone, I am to wait--I do not doubt that I am to meet you again, I am to see to it that I do not lose you.”

“I really love that,” Michael admitted, touched by the words. “That’s what so much of life is, just passing by a stranger and wondering if he’s your soulmate.” He hoped that ‘he’ would ensure that Alex knew he was very interested in him. “It’s beautiful.”

Alex smiled, feeling a connection to Michael. “One of my favorites.” Michael really has the most beautiful eyes.

The door bells chiming broke the spell that was keeping their eyes locked. Alex realized that his break was probably long over, his apron was on the floor in the reading room, and he was in his socks. The last thing he wanted was to walk away from Michael. “Which book do you want to get?”

Michael blinked. “Um, I think I’ll get all three. It’s Christmas, she can have three pretty books.”

“Alright.” Alex started walking to the cash register. Now that there were other customers, he couldn’t just hang out with Michael, no matter how cute he was. “I keep forgetting it’s almost Christmas.”

“How can you forget?! There’s Christmas shit everywhere!”

Alex laughed. “I think it’s because my family doesn’t really do much. We don’t even have a tree.”

“Oh, that’s no fun.” Michael was hit with pure, genius inspiration. “We’re decorating our tree tonight, you should come over.”

“What, really? Wouldn’t that be awkward for your family?”

“No, man, the more the merrier. My family loves guests. Especially my sister.”

“I don’t know.” Alex was sorely tempted, he really wanted more time with Michael. “Hey, do you want me to gift wrap these? We have some really pretty wrapping paper and ribbons.”

“Oh, that would be fantastic.” He watched Alex slide behind the counter and start ringing up the books. None of the books had barcodes, they had handwritten labels that Alex was carefully removing. The wrapping paper was really pretty, it was deep blue and shiny with dark pinecones frosted with white glitter. Michael was impressed with Alex’s wrapping skills, he couldn’t do that well if he was given explicit instructions. The ribbons were red satin, and he stacked the three books and tied the long ribbon around all of them. “That looks beautiful.”

“Thanks,” Alex answered, compliment warming him.

Michael had to look away to keep from staring into Alex’s dark eyes, and noticed a rack of postcards with words on them. “What are these?”

“Oh, little poetry quotes. They’re hand lettered.”

“Are you an artist?” Michael smiled.

“Oh, no,” Alex denied, waving. “I’m not an artist, I didn’t do those. I’m a musician.”

“Really? I dabble in guitar.”

“I play, too.” Michael was getting more and more attractive.

Michael reached the decision that this was fate. “Hey, you’ve got glitter on your face, here.” He held out his hand and Alex leaned in for him to brush the sparkles off his cheek. His fingers lingered, and before he knew it, they were moving together, eyes slowly closing as their lips met in a sweet, sweet kiss.

Time slowed down and both Michael and Alex forgot it existed.

Until someone cleared their throat and they pulled apart, surprised that they’d gotten so lost in each other. Alex was immediately flustered, and Michael was grinning so wide that his face almost hurt.

Alex put the books on the counter. “I’m so sorry, I want to keep talking but I have to work,” he apologized. “Can I get your number?” He patted his body. “Fuck, my phone is in my apron.” Which was on the floor in the reading room. He grabbed one of the postcards and scrawled his number on the back. “Text me, I’d love to come over and decorate your tree.”

“I’ll see you tonight then.” He just smiled into Alex’s eyes until they both jumped when more throat clearing interrupted them. He grinned and winked at him, then headed out the front door with his festive package and a phone number.

In the truck, Michael looked at the postcard and immediately added Alex’s number to his phone. He sent a quick message of his name and a heart emoji, then flipped the card back over. It was a Walt Whitman quote.

“We were together. I forget the rest.”