Sestina, wow! I love it! To try and describe it seems a vain endeavour: it describes itself so perfectly.
Thank you, Zareen-- generous as always! Please do share your own work: here or in-game or wherever. I would love to read it!
Sadly, Sestina, I’m not much of a poet! I think there is something special that distinguishes the poetical spirit from that of the prose writer, and I don’t have it. The main work I’m writing at the moment is a PhD thesis, which I will refrain from inflicting on the forums. When the Great Endeavour is over, I’ll be able to turn my attention to lighter things and share those. :)
DREAMS,
why would I keep tab? Production value o’ those
is really bad
like someone bought remnants of dotty old shows,
all the clutter they had
and had all that crap packed in the room, that’s my head —and left.
Good night!
All appearances are wacky folks, oddly displaced.
Those types lasted nowhere
past one season,
got their asses canceled
for obvious reasons.
But in my nights
they go to town.
Ineffably dumb,
runnin’ into each other babbling, toddling,
crowding the background, acting all mad.
When there are lines to cite: Bluster,
telicly off thread.
Speaking of background:
Also nothing ever fits.,
or goes with each other.
Yet, it all looks bland, no wits.
All the same, in pale muddy greys
or yellow—ish blurisms,
very cheap, fake, crooked,
tilted, used over
and over, too many times over. Plus:
the blatant monstrosities.
Let’s not forget these.
Roads are leading nowhere,
drawn throughwards vacant spaces.
Chutes and ladders suddenly end,
vanish into thin air
or end in random places —phantom squares.
Things have no purpose other than
standing around and about: being there
a proliferation of things.
Clusters of chairs growing in,
Poppin’ up everywhere
as if they were mushrooms
in rain-sodden summer air
Good—
I give you the girls.
Handsomely built, delicate, porcellaineous!
The mind has a thing for painting ‘em in quite tastefully.
So carefully crafted, dressed to undress and they gaze at me.
Faces gleam, they wanna play.
But unfortunately,
as far as I can see
there seems to be
a tendency:
The stars in my dreams
are the girls who politely declined
advances smooth and real moves,
kept their cool and their hat on
during daytime.
In hindsight —boring.
In silly nightland —different story.
I can have all their glory.
With their warmest smile they want me,
they drag me, demand me, pull me close, yearning to finally ****.
Then, the second I’m gettin’ in:
I wake up
edited by Baron Leichtsinn on 11/20/2015
"Chanelling Archilochus"
I’m a lover, not a fighter.
I would rather lie on a hillside
In the soft grass, while cool breezes blow,
And play with my dog,
And drink the kind wine
Than stick a man with a spear
And twist until his guts fell out.
His cries might be sweet music,
But they please me not.
I am a man of peace, but I must go to war
Because others do not share my aesthetic.
– Mal
I promised a sonnet in praise of Rubberies, and by gad, here it is, with apologies to Mr Shakespeare:
My Rubbry’s eyes are nothing like the sun;
Grass is far more green than her skin is green;
If lacre be white, then her breasts are dun;
Her head is bare, where hair is use’ly seen.
Statuary fair hath been wrought by Greeks;
Her stature plain and bow’d can not compare.
The scent of fish that from my mistress reeks
Could choke a horse, and follows everywhere.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That her burbled speech makes no pleasing sound;
A goddess’s walk I will never know:
My mistress flaps herself along the ground.
And yet, say I, my love is just as fine
As can be found in Fallen London’s clime.
– Mal
You is crazy.
‘Arr, this sonnet will serve me well on those lonely nights at zee…’
Fine sonnet, indeed. Very vivid imagery. Now where did I put that vial of Laudanum…
Sweeter, Stronger
He said that sweetness doesn’t last
And I wondered how he could not remember
That honey, perfect honey, sustains long past
The tongues of kings, which lie at rest,
And endure heavenly rewards forever.
When sugar water becomes vinegar-sour,
And fig buds spoil in the trees before they fruit,
Sweetness, perfect sweetness- until that final, starless hour-
Holds fast to the palate- strong as honey, and sweetly resolute.
edited by Lamea Lawless on 4/1/2016
THE WARY RAVEN ADVISOR AND THE LITTLE NIGHTINGALE
A Soiree at HTM Imperial Court, Shuttered Palace
Words and Music by
Dr. Baron Leichtsinn (ESQ, Sir or Madam)
Prologue
Cast:
the narrator triplets (including their respective counterparts from the barocco world),
the raven,
field-marshall Lord of Jivery/A dashing jewel-thief, and
the harlot:
Dr. Baron Leichtsinn (ESQ, Sir or Madam)
Choir:
The Mumble Sisters of St. Mary’s Convent and neighbors;
The 652th Fusilier Pikes
One elephant:
himself
(The stage is dark, a lingering smell of despair and lavender)
"Five-ho!"
"Five-ho? "–
"Vagrants of the carnival, don’t you hear the drums?"
(a drum, crescendo)
O, those of whom since break of night my wary raven hums?
"They’re coming!"
He hums no more, now speaks a song:
"With numbingly devouring sounds of
–Dum!"
"Ba-dum!" (Timpani, a single hit hovers lonely over the audience in the dim-lit audience room, slowly joined
by flutes and crackling tin foil))
"The drama!" (shutters open barely enough to give the room a hint, an abstract scent of light, not more than maybe an ounce)
"Eins und zwei und drei und –
fünf?" (a blunderbuss is fired, lights!)
One addend-- At least!
this list seems missing,
leading me to doubt the sum.
Crippled by a beat the rhythms
Tunes of mockery, perhaps?
Or even:
worse? Intentional charades! (Choir, half diminished)(Combustions leading to the German sixth Chord in G#)
Treacherous hymns to this menace, nothing more than make-believe?
Impromtu hordes merely the carnies,
my trusted bird claimed, are approaching?
Who else shall then be the oponent
gathering in the tulips 'round my doorstep,
at this moment?
(Series of Blunderbusses firing)
Could a bird dare? Would it indeed?
Commit such acts of treachery?
"Jaccub, I named him, when dawn broke.
All reflection of light fleeing from his feathers ,swallowed by the neath around us,
whithin the moment, merely
a blink, a tic, a quantum
his utter gawn, white before,
had darken’d more than two shades beyond the colour of incinerated mereorite iron ore.
Not really a colour anymore.
A black passing others, just leaving them behind.
An absence of light so rich and tasty,
it let midnight blush
in what remained of shadows."
"Insight, now!"
How longed I to aquire
a wary and insightful
Advisor.
My raven’s Baptize. (Gunshots, probably Blunderbuss)
"Ancient mysteries! –
I fed him,
Not peanuts."
(A cavalcade of Blunderbusses, over elephant's trumpet in C#minor)
"He lives in my home now, you know.
sometimes he gives me advice. So is my guess, because I pay him very well.
Mostly food, but also
Shiny things.
The things birds fancy:
Whirring contraptions, gems, and little broken toy soldiers.
I find them in the streets or trade them with the Urchins.
He likes to chew on nimble figurines, to gnaw their hats off,
nibbling on the limbs of merited, battle-ridden,
nonetheless nutritiously appearing, veterans.
Now wooden crumbs, imagine, once:
Officers; the best.
highly decorated, heroic in conquest
and stalwart defenders,
leading by example, shining:
Her Majesty’s finest (Blunderbuss) rifles.
What legendary regiment!
The essence and very fabric of an empire,
shuttered behind nothing less,
nor anything else than glory.
Thus are the seeds, he’s feeding on.
My bird, he needs to see the stories,
be clairvoyant, focused, strong.
Clear your voice and sing thine song, ornithofriend of mine.
Arrays of portals opening at ease,
releasing wisdom, chasms break abysmal prisons
Born is a dissonant
composite melodic .
A discourse, one might say: correspondence.
One dialectic word.
Perpetual.
Eternal.
One relentless chord of chords
weaving and ringing.
(Blunderbuss Staccato)
Rings it of harm?
Sounds he alarming?
Is he repetitively warning me?
What is it? Bird?
Croaking gluttural syllybyls, buzzing nouns from ancient mouths
or is he…snoring? Having re-occurring dreams of soaring? Freedom? Love?
Mimicking the trombone - again- very very poorly,
for the praise of yonder pretty,
petite nightingale?
She sometimes flies by, merely visits,
and it’s obvious she’s shrewd.
A dull mamsell of spurious and
classless origin and only
of questionable, low morale.
"Pretending to pick up breadcrumbs from the window board, where I happen exactly to be knowing,
nothing can be found but dust.
A playful flapping of her wings cause some distruption, stirring up a cloud:
up, up into the rays of sun, giving her an aura, hauntingly beautiful,
she prances about a bit or two.
-What harlot."
"But I can’t think now of my poor raven’s desire!
Wary he must be, as barricades
they need errection –
draw the bridges, and prepare them. Bolt-shut they must be!
Man the defences! All women and children, follow me:
Here they come, the golden hordes of enemies,
a raging sea of huns! Engage."
(The cannon!)
Exclusively for you, our dear readers, we are presenting an exclusive bouqet of voices collected amongst court insiders, invited guests, innocent bystanders and a man from the street:
"The absence of any emotional display on HM’s Mimic shows clearly her full approval of tonight’s piece! She was delighted"
"Whatever this was, it is over now and we get all to go home to our loved ones."
"I have seen better, but actually I don’t really like music. Or theater. At all."
"Have you seen the Dutchess in those whisper-satin robes? It wasn’t as terrible as you might presume on someone her age. And it really covers her figure almost completely in the twilight."
"How many times will this Sir or Madam be yet allowed to perform his or hers ridiculous abominations here in the inner circle, the heart and core of all that is sacred to us? Someone should get the firing squad for this!"
"Well, that just happened. I reckon. There was… Loudness."
"I like the nightingale’s character. She is not at all a harlot, but to recognize this is the authors true challenge for the audience."
"I think I got hit by something. And the Usher took my bag of crisps. That’s not fair."
"Rather boring."
"Was it a ballet? Was it an opera? Comedy or Tragedy? Nobody knows and I don’t care."
"This is exactly the reason, why we shouldn’t let another single one of them come into our city anymore! What we need is another war, Dear!"
"The absence of any emotional display on HM’s Majesty’s Mimic showed clearly a healthy return of at least parts of her digestive activities! That is a wonderful sign for all those amongst us who are still praying!"
"HM’s absence from tonight’s soiree shows cleary her presence at a different location."
"Revolutionary! Read all about it in tomorrow’s Iron Gazette. Word has finally arrived at court and the message was loud and clear! Docks Unite!!!"
"I do like devils. I think they’re pretty. Don’t you think?"
"Maybe a 4 or 5 out of 10 on the ‘banned from court’ scale. Rather Average in my opinion. Never a 6. No, not at all."
Something Beautiful
The traveler had come very far
And come a long way down
To ask me
From the bottom of the sunless sea
What I have seen of beauty.
I touched their ear and said,
"I have seen smoke twine, etherbound, like ribbons of silk.
I have seen ashes falling slowly, like snow.
And though I knew the cause of it, it gave me pause
And I could not think of death or loss.
Only silk, and snow."
Eglantine comes to the fore, smiling slightly.
Of a Devil
"His eyes are gold and molten light, a fire
That dances bright and glorious to win
The heart which kindles swiftly to desire
No matter which voices may speak of sin.
There is a sharp edge to him, as a knife
That gleams, parts flesh, sinks deep as it may reach
To aching bring a little death to life
Between a pair still clinging each to each.
He comes from places where the roses burn
And clever hands imperil well the soul
Yet mortal lovers oft may also learn
That no love ends with both their hearts still whole.
This longing the sole voice my heart still heeds
Shall hold me to this word and to these deeds."
The poem is not read out. It is written in clean bold letters, mostly, though the signature is more halting - as though Eglantine hesitated to attribute it to themself. It is put up on paper, and left to be read, ignored, or taken, as those who find it please. For one who knows, no explanation will be necessary. For one who does not, it is merely a strange little thing.
[i]Tell me, where does sorrow go?
Does it linger, all aglow?
Does it burn, dears, does it burn?
Does it pain us when we yearn?
Where do the forgotten go?
Do they whisper, for they know:
Someone always remembers.[/i]
A scrap of musty bandage is used as a bookmark in a theophistical tome, which itself is buried beneath a collapsed bookshelf in a museum that was destroyed in The Fall. Although it makes no sense that it would be there without some engimatic series of contrivances, there is a cute rhyme scribbled on the piece of linen.
[i]Science broke open the earth
In some grey forgotten place
And good lord, what a find,
In one grave, intertwined,
Two corpses still mid-embrace
Love brought them together
Death is what made them stay
They fell asleep underground
Centuries later, are found
still side by side to that day
Gently, from sleep, they were moved
though it broke the digger’s heart
Moved between shores
To a place of The Lores
but never were they kept apart
Today they are monumental
to the tests true love can stand
Though they are cased in glass
They are free from the past
They walk, out of time, hand in hand[/i]
The poem is attributed to an ‘Anton’, but the last name is illegible, either due to mildew or an obnoxious signature. This raises an unsettling amount of questions.
“No Correspondence? D___! Do you know how hard it is to fit ‘The melancholic beauty of unhurried savagery’ into a sonnet without it?”
Amsfield shuffles their papers with exaggerated annoyance before taking to the stage. He is lit by the soft glow of his suit. A fashionable mask stops just above their carefully groomed mustache.
“I beg your pardon, but I’ll be reading something rather more comical than I intended. Its almost jaunty, I’m afraid.”
A practiced throat clearing and he begins.
“Ode to Rattus Faber
They lair in the sewer
And below your floorboards,
Each a wrongdoer
Armed with rifle and swords.
This much we’ve all learned
At great personal cost;
The larder is burned
And our crackers are lost!
But I ask you to please
Consider how it might
Perhaps cause unease
To have so little height!
The cats are so vicious,
Their eyes are so cruel!
You look delicious
And astoundingly small!
When you risk being bruised
under lumbering feet,
Much cunning is used
Merely crossing the street!
You’d be happy to kill
For a hunk of good cheese
When you have more skill
But can’t reach a foe’s knees!
You’ll get what your needing
Now the raid is a-go!
Stopping your feeding?
You’ll see them laid low! So
When the maids are a-flight
And your evening is marred,
Remember the plight
Of the L.B.”
A pause for praise. A bow.
“Too kind. I’ll try and have something more appropriate for such a discerning audience soon.”
[b]Hallowmas
[/b]Strange fruits of the zee have been our repast;
Last summer’s surfeit now fuels today’s fast.
Soon London will dine on secrets and shame;
Hallowmas denudes all errors at last.