#take poetry seriously

[druid-for-hire]

[image id: a four-page comic. it is titled "immortality” after the poem by clare harner (more popularly known as “do not stand at my grave and weep”). the first page shows paleontologists digging up fossils at a dig. it reads, “do not stand at my grave and weep. i am not there. i do not sleep.” page two features several prehistoric creatures living in the wild. not featured but notable, each have modern descendants: horses, cetaceans, horsetail plants, and crocodilians. it reads, “i am a thousand winds that blow. i am the diamond glints on snow. i am the sunlight on ripened grain. i am the gentle autumn rain.” the third page shows archaeopteryx in the treetops and the skies, then a modern museum-goer reading the placard on a fossil display. it reads, “when you awaken in the morning’s hush, i am the swift uplifting rush, of quiet birds in circled flight. i am the soft stars that shine at night. do not stand at my grave and cry.” the fourth page shows a chicken in a field. it reads, “i am not there. i did not die” / end id]

a comic i made in about 15 hours for my school’s comic anthology. the theme was “evolution”

[silktherambler]

I'm going to say it and I'm going to sound like a hater but I really don't care

As a person, who identifies as a poet, as a spoken word artist, as a lyricist

I truly despise when some of you really pretty women, really handsome men, and really good looking non-binary folks, think that you can write poetry because you are undeniably attractive

Are you hot? Very much so

Is wordplay your strong suit? No bro

If I was ugly maybe I wouldn't say nothing but it's the fact that I am also not ugly and I'm a poet and I am tired of y'all getting on stage to be like y'all do poetry and it's some of the most mediocre rhymes I've ever heard

And also, while we're on this topic, can y'all talk about something other than love or heartbreak or getting cheated on

Cuz that's usually what the poem is about it's usually about somebody that did them wrong or people that betrayed them or them going through heartbreak or something to do around the topic of romance

These are the people that hardly make poems about the corruption that they see, how it feels to be a bad friend, being less fortunate than others, understanding the topic of influence and how it works, it's like you don't want to expand your brains to talk about anything other than love and betrayal

The truth is, I want better for y'all. I want you to go to a damn poetry workshop and actually work on getting your words up. Work on your vocabulary, growing knowledge about different words you can use. Understand and get to know different forms of poetry, utilize different literary elements, make your art indifferent to what's outside and more personable so it matches your heart. Your art matches your soul. And I think y'all probably have some really cool souls but it's buried a lot of vain

[cinemaocd]

Every Protest Has

Outside provocateurs starting property damage, and violence.

Hardened activists/Professional protestors that are out to get strategically arrested. Usually <10 people.

The groups with almost no connection with the cause being protested who try to make it about themselves.

The cops starting shit. Escalating to militarized police response.

Street theater.

Privileged people starting shit with the cops putting marginalized folks in even more danger.

Surveillance.

Private Security

FBI informants

Counter protestors not in a formal protest group but scattered around the margins, making themselves visible to the media but also on or near public transport so that they can intimidate people coming/going to the protest

"Non-lethal" crowd control methods.

People with bullhorns who should not have them. Ever.

and finally but probably most importantly:

Every protest has

been mischaracterized, often wildly so, by the media.

[effervescentluminescence]

Annoyed by all these posts/comments being like “Wtf does he mean by “We did”?!? So he lied and they did sleep together but she doesn’t remember?!?! blah blah blah.” Study poetry ffs no they didn’t have sex but they did have dinner and they did split a bottle of wine and they did sing a duet together and they did get to know each other and they did decide to keep the night going even after her clothes were dry and they did fall in love at least little bit! They did!

[moregraceful]

my hot take as a person with an english degree and a library degree is that some of the dorkiest fiction and poetry ever committed to paper in the english language came out of the iowa writer's workshop so it is at best goofy and at worst completely futile to argue that your average amazon unlimited writer is having a more deleterious effect on literacy and literature.

[2ndstar-ontheright]

ashes to ashes, dust to dust, if I could tell you what you mean to me, my throat would start to rust

I wonder if I could stick by your side, as the earth turns to oblivion, or if I did would it make me even more of an alien

No, I think not, would be worse to watch from afar, catching your smile like fireflies in a jar

But still, i often wonder that if you never knew, could you comprehend how much i love you?

Give up on you I shan't nor shall I say good bye, for nothing is gone forever even as time passes by

admiring from my post, i pray I don't become a passing thought. And even if I did, my love would never be for naught

[sageandscorpiongrass]

Stay Alive: Again and Again and Again.

Grant Howitt (Twitter) | Sleepwalking, Everybody's Worried About Owen | Haunted Houses, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow | There's Ghosts By The Apiary Again…, Katherine Blower | Quote via Richey Edwards | Quote via Kait Rokowski | @/mango-season | @/sageandscorpiangrass | @/PinkRangerLB on Twitter | This Year, The Mountain Goats | @/degasdad (lyrics from I Wanna Get Better, Bleachers) | @/girlroach (lyrics from Famous Last Words, My Chemical Romance) | Grant Howitt (Twitter)

[Image ID in alt text]

[feelo-fick]

molten/molted/molded

also yes i do actually have a flamingo mug thats sorta chipped, and it is a little ugly, here it is :

its not super chipped, but i was still devastated when i found out

[shitty-proendo-blackout-posts]

[hersurvival]

You told me to tell you secrets,

Fun facts, and admissions

But I think I went overboard

And I am so sorry

It's just..

I get so excited talking to you,

Even when I know you are sleeping,

Because it has been such a long time

Since I have been honest

And there is so much I've never told anybody

But I know you will not judge me,

I know that somehow

You might even find me more interesting

That's all I want

For you to take interest in me

And forget everybody else

To one day be your everything,

Your somebody

[brown-little-robin]

AUGH

[faaun]

oh my god u rly are everyone you've ever loved !! for better or worse !! a part of you becomes them!

[squigglywindy]

The Loaf

This one's for you, @bllaaaaarrgh

Title: The Loaf

Warnings: Implied major character death. The loaf wins. Unironic use of the word "Yonkers".

Summary: Wild fist fights a massive loaf of bread. Read all about it here: https://at.tumblr.com/bllaaaaarrgh/imagine-this-wild-fist-fighting-a-massive-loaf-of/lsi6mmc4dpb6

General Notes: I tried something different with this one; it switches back and forth between past and present. Past will be in italics.

More Notes: This is sheer insanity. I had a lot of fun with it, and am fully prepared to face the consequences of my actions.

It was a curse, he was sure of it. Whether it was the bread or himself that was cursed, he may never know for sure. But he did know, with absolute certainty, that normal bread didn't behave in such a manner.

But he didn’t have time to question the origins of the loaf. Barely had time to arm himself with a spoon. By the time he saw the loaf, it was too late.

--

It had all started hours earlier, when Time had called for a break and the Links had settled down in a clearing to rest their legs, refill their waterskins, or take a quick nap. It had taken minimal convincing for everyone to agree to let Wild wander; go off on his own to run off some energy and scavenge for interesting mushrooms. And that, if he had been able to look back on the occasion, may have been his first mistake.

--

The loaf towered over him, easily five feet tall. It was just bread, really, but he could swear it had a face. The perfectly baked crust flaked in such a way as to give it the impression of angry eyebrows, glaring down at Wild as if he had, somehow, personally wronged the bread. As if he weren’t solely responsible for giving it life.

--

He found the mushroom beside a tree, nestled between a mess of roots as mushrooms so often are. It was bigger than any mushroom he’d ever seen, and glowing a bright intense orange. It seemed alive, in a way that far surpassed all other fungi. The glow pulsated in the evening light, and a grin broke across Wild’s face as ran forward, clutching the stalk of the mushroom between his hands. It was hard to pull up, the mycelium reaching far into the ground. The mushroom was strong, but Wild was stronger. Eventually, the roots snapped and Wild stumbled backwards with the loss of resistance, landing hard on the ground but grinning from ear to ear at the massive mushroom in his hands. It was going to make a fantastic snack, he thought. And that, anyone would agree, was his second mistake.

--

Wild was a gentleman, so he let the bread throw the first punch. If what the bread did could, in fact, be called a punch. It moved in ways that shouldn’t have been possible for such a massive wall of freshly cooked yeasty goodness, traveling on invisible feet to hurl itself at Wild, whacking his head with the usually-satisfying crackle of crisp bread crust being torn. It didn’t sound as nice, up close; not when the bread was pounding into his skull.

He swung the spoon, then; whacking it into the side of the bread in a desperate attempt to bring down his biggest mistake. To undo the monster he had created. But the bread was a step ahead, as it always seemed to be. It made sense, he realized as it happened, that a bread that could come to life would also be able to absorb a wooden spoon.

The spoon disappeared into the side of the bread, consumed just like every other chance he had at defending himself. It was just him and his fists, now. Just Wild’s bare hands against the bread.

--

He didn’t take the mushroom back to the makeshift camp to show the others; if he did, they’d only tell him not to eat it. They’d say it’s ‘too big’ and ‘too orange’ and ‘doesn’t even grow around here where’d you find it put it back’. There were times he was absolutely sure that they didn’t want him to have any fun at all.

And so he set up right where he was. Started a fire, heated up his portable cooking pot, and set to work on preparing his latest creation.

The mushroom was powdery; almost flour-like, when he crushed it with a rock and sprinkled it into the pot. With a texture like that, only one course of action made sense: he was going to make bread. Or a pancake, really, given the supplies he had to work with. But it would be huge and delicious and when he brought it back to camp, everyone would ‘ooh’ and ‘ahh’ over how good it was. Just as long as they never found out what it was made out of.

He tossed in the other ingredients; some milk of questionable origins, an egg he’d found in a hot spring three or four months prior, and a sprinkle of his live yeast culture. Afterall, there was nothing worse than flat bread.

Once the last few ingredients were added, he stirred it all up with his spoon and sat on a rock to wait; humming quietly to himself as he watched the pot patiently. Alone, in the woods, cooking bread made out of mushrooms. It was truly the recipe for his third mistake.

--

With nothing left to fight back with, Wild flung his fists with all his might. They impacted against the side of the loaf, bread flakes flying but doing nothing to halt the path of carnage the loaf was creating. The fifth time his fist connected with the crust, he was forcefully reminded of the fate of his favorite spoon.

He was absorbed. Slowly, to give him the illusion of hope. His hand sunk into the bread, encased within the warm interior of his latest baking endeavor. “Yonkers!” He shouted in panic as the bread sucked him in up to her shoulder. He was powerless to fight back against the loaf; he had no weapons, and bread would not hear reason. He was well and truly trapped.

--

The bread didn’t stop rising when it hit pancake-height, but he didn’t really question it until it crested the rim of the pan. It just kept going up, and Wild could only stare in wonder at the cooking miracle he had discovered. They would be eating this bread for weeks; and he wouldn’t be leaving the area without a stockpile of the magical mushroom that had made it all possible.

He didn’t worry until the bread actually stepped over the edge of the pan and onto the forest floor, dried leaves sizzling under its heat.

He jumped up, then, reaching for his sword out of instinct. But the bread beat him to it. It moved as a single unit; just one hulking loaf that took everything in its path, pressing into Wild and consuming his sword. His shield, his slate, his cloak. The loaf was after his very dignity, and he wouldn’t stand for it.

He grabbed his spoon from where he had leaned it against a tree and stood his ground. He didn’t call for help, he didn’t fetch the others, he faced the consequences of his experimental cooking all on his own. An undeniable fourth mistake.

--

It was painless, being taken by the bread; a bright spot he would ponder briefly as he was absorbed. It was warm, and cozy, and almost felt like a hug. A hug he couldn’t escape from, delivered by a loaf of bread, but a hug all the same. He fought with everything he had, but it was a futile battle from the start. He had spent his whole life fighting; at least as much of it as he was aware of. He had taken down guardians and yiga and hinoxes a hundred times his size. He had ridden a lynel as he took it down, and laughed in the face of Ganon himself. But this, he knew now, was his weakness. He could never have been prepared for the loaf.

“Yonkers,” He whispered sadly as the bread worked its way up to his head. It was a cool story, at least. He only hoped that somebody could defeat the loaf in time to tell it.

[tiny-chubby-bird]

I'm maybe only an hour into DMC5 but good god I can't get over how everyone's so cheesy and putting their cool act up to 110%. Nero won't stop throwing one liners at everything and everyone and V looks like he's 19 yet he talks like an old goth man who is super into Edgar Allan Poe and aspires to be Dream of the Endless.

I love them.

[savoureuxx]

"Song of Myself," Walt Whitman (1892)

[auguststormstories]

8-13-24

Look at the sky fool

It does not care. Why do you

Ask so much of it?