Curious Foreigner
Posts: 210
11/10/2013
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A man clad in garments of obviously polythremian origin steps in front of the crowd.
"Friends, fellow writers and poets, spectators and of course Mister Pages, who provided this location we use for this gathering, welcome to Poetry Night!
Here we can read our newest works to impress the public and upstage our rivals. Here we shall exchange ART!"
His eyes get a mad look when he says the last word and his clothing begins to rustle excitedly, but soon he and his wardrobe have calmed down, and he continues.
"Before we begin, I would like to remind you that a warning is needed before reciting works including Correspondence sigils. I doubt anyone here would want to see them, let alone hear their spoken form. Everything else is fair game, though. I shall begin."
With this, the man pulls a scroll out of his pocket, unrolls it and begins to declaim.
"The Duel
On rooftops high, in streets below
A pair of duelists fights,
With blackest ribbons in their tow
They find truest delights.
Exchange their blows, are caught within
A martial, deadly dance,
One yearns for death, one for the win,
Both strive for dominance.
She hails from east, her eyes are slant,
Her hair of darkest black.
It’s unknown why she left her land
Or why she won’t go back.
He is not native to the Neath
But came from surface bright.
He died, so he shall never leave
To once more see the light.
Their blades, they cross, their wills, they clash,
Their speed increases fast.
They run and strike, evade and dash,
But this can never last.
For while he’s quick and strong and smart
He’s more than even matched.
So deep inside his cunning heart
A desperate plan is hatched.
While her next strike his earlobe clips
His swipe goes far amiss.
Instead he plants upon her lips
A long, passionate kiss.
But while he planned to kill her dead
While she’s distracted still
He realizes with rising dread
He won’t go for the kill.
And for a moment, all is well.
They do not move an inch
And when she stabs him in the heart
He does not even flinch.
He dies, he falls, she waits, then flees
Later he wakes, still sore
But what the true conundrum is
Who does regret it more?"
He takes a deep breath while the audience applauds.
"Well", he says, "Who's next?"
edited by Curious Foreigner on 11/10/2013
--
Cochimetl went North, and beyond. No poems, only candlelight now. (Well, maybe one poem.)
The Gun-Toting Gallivanter, after an extended absence, is back in London again.
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Sherman Jones
Posts: 151
11/26/2013
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Sherman clapped with the crowd, and then stepped forward. "I have no illusions that I can upstage that, but I shall provide a short poem of my own."
"Clickity-clickity clack
Sorrow-spiders up the back
Feel the bite, chest gets tight
Chess with the Boatman for the rest of the night."
edited by Sherman Jones on 11/26/2013
--
My mantelpiece is an open book.
http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Sherman~Jones
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narcissus_echo
Posts: 65
1/8/2014
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Narciso steps up with a grin and a flourish. "Oh, I've just the thing. A verse for every walk of London life -- it's better sung, of course, over a pint or six of mushroom ale, but I can manage a recital --
"She was only a Rat-Catcher’s daughter
And I met her on Watchmaker’s Hill
When I saw her I squeaked and I scurried
She went straight in for the kill
She tackled me by the toadstools
Where the moonish light was pale
She was only a Rat-Catcher’s daughter
But soon she had me by the tail
"She was only a Conjurer’s daughter
And we met at Mahogany Hall
We kissed behind the curtains
Sharing secrets that would appall
She brought out the scarves, then the handcuffs
And employed them without one mistake
She was only a Conjurer’s daughter
But she sure could charm a man’s snake
"She was only a Correspondent’s daughter
I found her in the Quarter forgot
She showed me the sigil for willing flesh
And the price of a city long bought
When she spoke of orbiting bodies
Her meaning was plain to discern
She was only a Correspondent’s daughter
But she knew how to make a lad burn."
--
a Shiny Pleasant Person who's not often covered in blood
and the Second-Most Hedonistic Individual in London.
DeepDarkMarvellous.
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malthaussen
Posts: 1060
12/14/2015
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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
--
"Of two choices, I always take the third."
Will do all socials except Loitering or Private Evenings (all my Free Evenings are accounted for), and Affluent Photographer Betrayals only, please. I am not currently accepting calling cards.
http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/malthaussen
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Lamia Lawless
Posts: 604
7/2/2016
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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."
--
The Harmonic Hellfarer
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Lemexis
Posts: 155
12/14/2015
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Fine sonnet, indeed. Very vivid imagery. Now where did I put that vial of Laudanum...
--
http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Lemexis
Feed me your most terrible secrets
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Riley37
Posts: 125
12/30/2013
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Poetry Masters
Five cities, seven total
London: just one beat?
edited by Riley37 on 12/30/2013
edited by Riley37 on 12/30/2013
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Curious Foreigner
Posts: 210
12/30/2013
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After the applause has set, the opening speaker steps forward again. He carries another scroll, which is slightly dripping.
"Thank you for the delightful poem. It puts a situation in words that we all know all too well, I think. Let me add to that with a poem inspired by my time in Flute Street."
"Sonnet on the mentality of Flukes
The Flukes regard mankind / and its technology
Our language and our art, / the way we think and dream
(but more so the machine / propelled by heat and steam)
With admiration and / a sense of childlike glee.
They wish to emulate, / to copy our success
To build and to improve / their kingdom deep and damp
To let their amber be / civilisation’s lamp.
So envoys they create, / and up above they press.
But visionary Flukes / still lack important things
Like voices, hands and thoughts / they cannot hope to grasp,
Concepts like hate and pain / and stones upon a face.
Yet patient they just take / what rubbery-kind brings.
And when the cities fall / with one great, final gasp,
Their time will come, and they / will inherit our place."
After the last verse ends, he bows to the spectators, and makes room for the next artist.
--
Cochimetl went North, and beyond. No poems, only candlelight now. (Well, maybe one poem.)
The Gun-Toting Gallivanter, after an extended absence, is back in London again.
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Erhannis
Posts: 2
10/29/2015
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As the final words of the haiku die, the procession of poetry is disturbed by the approach of an oblivious cluster of Hallowmas carolers. Many in the crowd send blistering glares at the intruders for interrupting their artistry, but they are quite absorbed in their show of Hallowmas spirit, and continue their clamorous walk.
Thrice for the eldest one,
thrice for the rats -
thrice for the Masters' share,
whispered to the bats;
thrice for the Rubb'ry Man,
knocking at your door,
thrice for the dead and gone,
at their work once more.
(https://soundcloud.com/erhannis/thrice-for-the-dead)
As the procession weaves into the silent distance, the disgruntled poetry enthusiasts make a show of clearing their throats and checking their pocket-watches, before resuming as though nothing had happened.
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Lady Sapho Byron
Posts: 770
10/10/2015
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Drownie Song
Depths are dark, but not so cold--
Winter ice bites more.
(do you remember it?)
It hurts at first, the lacking air--
Failing life is bitter.
(lungs remember breathing)
Water rushes in, a final breath
Unbreathing
(all loves undone are remembered)
Until pain on pain compounding
Burns any remembering
Then
Death, but not dying
Life, but not living
(I cannot remember smiling)
Numbness, always a dull ache,
Enfolds me
(I cannot remember laughing)
Unshed tears are not unfelt--
Existence is not worthwhile
Because I can remember loving
--
http://fallenlondon.com/Profile/Lady%20Sapho%20L%20Byron
Fighting the Menace of Corsetry Since 1892.
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Sestina Valdis
Posts: 210
10/5/2015
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"My dears, if you would be so kind, may I please go next? I have a villanelle to share: one that has not been published yet. I wrote it just last night, after having a small bit of honey. When I made it back to my bedroom, I felt peculiarly guilty... Well, in any case..."
"They claim that London's darkness does oppress
Those shade-burnt souls who crave the light of day.
Yet still, the people find their happiness
Among the bustling, hustling, human mess
That churns like blood upon the Elder Bay.
They claim that London's darkness does oppress
That lady of the night. Undress her dress
That screams as seams and fingers tear and fray!
Yet still, the people find their happiness.
A Rubbery Man, who squelches for redress,
Whose voice costs much. Still, amber's cheap today!
They claim that London's darkness does oppress
The servant-- Clay. He watches them play chess.
Their "Thank You"s are more orders flung his way,
Yet, still, his people find their happiness
Because of how a friend's distress can bless
Those people who ignore the price they pay.
They claim that London's darkness does oppress,
Yet, still, her people find, there, happiness..."
"Thank you."
She looks down at the floorboards, uncharacteristically quiet, and descends from the stage gingerly without waiting to see the audience's reaction. Peculiar...
edited by Sestina Valdis on 10/5/2015; adjusted punctuation and line breaks
edited by Sestina Valdis on 10/5/2015; adjusted word choice (I edit too much. I am fussy...)
edited by Sestina Valdis on 10/5/2015
--
Sestina Valdis, the Saccharine Satirist.
Appearance and Misc. Accoutrements
A Past Scattered Across Discarded Stockings
Fei Xue, the Artful Assassin.
Self
Edward de Riere, the Barebones Baron.
Avatar by Daniel Ilinca.
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malthaussen
Posts: 1060
10/7/2015
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I'd considered starting a haiku thread, but perhaps a small addition to this one would serve the same purpose, although I dread to intrude in the presence of such scribes as ye be.
Lantern wrapped in mist
A dog howls in the gaslight
London autumn night
-- Mal
--
"Of two choices, I always take the third."
Will do all socials except Loitering or Private Evenings (all my Free Evenings are accounted for), and Affluent Photographer Betrayals only, please. I am not currently accepting calling cards.
http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/malthaussen
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Lamia Lawless
Posts: 604
4/1/2016
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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 Harmonic Hellfarer
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Baron Leichtsinn
Posts: 34
4/2/2016
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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)
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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."
--
All the world's problems can be solved by poetry. And violence. Poetry and violence. Who said, violence wasn't a solution? Actually it solves all the problems, that couldn't be solved by poetry.
___________________________
http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Baron~Leichtsinn
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Eglantine-Fox
Posts: 872
7/2/2016
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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."
--
Eglantine Fox, the charming and androgynous Correspondent, teetering between hobbies of seduction and self-destruction.
Siobhan O'Malley, Irish patriot (or 'bl__dy Fenian' if you're impolite).
Isidore Day, an up-and-coming London gentleman. All allegations of wrongdoing are categorically denied.
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Eglantine-Fox
Posts: 872
8/30/2016
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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.
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.
--
Eglantine Fox, the charming and androgynous Correspondent, teetering between hobbies of seduction and self-destruction.
Siobhan O'Malley, Irish patriot (or 'bl__dy Fenian' if you're impolite).
Isidore Day, an up-and-coming London gentleman. All allegations of wrongdoing are categorically denied.
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Michile
Posts: 44
12/14/2015
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You is crazy.
--
"Be the change you want to see in the world."
http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Michile
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Charlotte_de_Witte
Posts: 360
12/14/2015
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Michile wrote:
You is crazy.
'Arr, this sonnet will serve me well on those lonely nights at zee......'
--
"Do one thing for me, Sredni Vashtar."
Social actions welcome. Only, send me dupes if you need help with the Affluent Photographer please, I like the bats! [And boxed kitties, and extreme gardening]- Thank-you!
http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Charlotte%20de%20Witte
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malthaussen
Posts: 1060
10/26/2015
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At the risk of hijacking this thread to be my own personal chapbook, I offer another haiku, inspired as I was taking a muddy splash through the Row:
I laugh when it rains
And my grey mare takes the reins.
Mother Nature reigns.
-- Mal
--
"Of two choices, I always take the third."
Will do all socials except Loitering or Private Evenings (all my Free Evenings are accounted for), and Affluent Photographer Betrayals only, please. I am not currently accepting calling cards.
http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/malthaussen
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malthaussen
Posts: 1060
10/10/2015
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Inspired by my new-found friend in Fallen London, the perfect revenge:
"On the Sestina"
It need not rhyme, I'm told
Which takes a load off my mind!
Though I can scribe a cunning verse
When need calls. Still, I favor freedom
The chains of structure are troublous to me
No doubt because I strive to be too clever.
But I shall put that from my mind
Though it may seem to wit I am averse;
And think, instead, how I may find freedom
Within constraints that challenge me.
Although a "moon" or "June" would be more clever
I'll struggle on until the tale of Six is told.
I'll cheat as needed, for no universe
Is quite complete without the sweets of freedom.
As another, greater poet said, no chains can bind me
Although in durance hurled for being too clever.
And though this form is daunting, as is told
I'll seek to give a glimpse into my mind.
This I may do with freedom,
For indeed, I care not what you make of me.
Although the crowd may think me dim or clever
I pay no heed to what I have been told:
Laugh as you list, I surely will not mind.
Although a plaint about the form must seem perverse.
One might observe it ill-becomes me
And is in fact the opposite of clever
To criticize the form in which is told
The struggle carried on within the mind
In search of what should be a pretty verse.
'Tis arrogance which I confuse with freedom.
Who says this proves himself too clever
For my retort, for truth be told
My wit lies solely in my mind.
And though I may indite a little verse
Because the art of Poesy is of freedom
A drunken Clayman in a test would best me.
So, I would crave you pay no mind to me
Or celebrate the freedom of this verse.
It may be clever, it may be bold, but whatever it is, it has been told.
-- Mal
--
"Of two choices, I always take the third."
Will do all socials except Loitering or Private Evenings (all my Free Evenings are accounted for), and Affluent Photographer Betrayals only, please. I am not currently accepting calling cards.
http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/malthaussen
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The Black-Shirted Radical
Posts: 188
9/1/2015
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A poem compiled by the poet, playwright and all-around demagogue known, loved and despised as The Black-Shirted Radical in the aftermath of a riot he started at the Wolfstack Docks.
"When first I cam down to London
In the year of eighteen ninety three
The city was quite wonderful
And the enterprise quite free
But the Neddies got suspicious
And they soon gave me the knock
I was beaten for talking to a fellow
Down at the Wolfstack Docks
Well next day by the Spider Pits
I raised up quite a stir
My Populists got busy
And called Mr Fires a cur
Well he purred "Why have you come here
to throw a spanner in my machine?"
I replied"Your worker should be getting
A lot more of the green!"
The Master murmurs to myself
"I shall not acquiesce!
To undermine your movement
I will spurn every break and rest!
Eighty hours a week is the new law
And they better well comply
Or the moss between the cobblestones
Will have blood as its dye"
I would not accept this insult
To the people of the land
And for the Master's part
He rejected me out of hand
And so an impasse soon developed
My Populists grew rather bored
And so implied a Neddie's mother
Was a woman who often whored.
Then a fistfight soon developed
And the talks came to a close
What my followers accomplished
Is ill-suited to my prose
I shall instead note quite politely
We gave the Neddies an awful shock
And we flung them into the water
Of the greasy Wolfstack docks!
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Poet of once distinguished acclaim.Apprentice alcoholic. Somewhere to the right of Attila the Hun. Radical politician, playwright, duelist, archaeologist,Correspondence professor,criminal mastermind, Commander of the Auxiliary Constabulary, Leader of the League of National Populists, former Governor of Port Carnelion . Rude, crude and scandalous to know.
Plot his lynching at http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/The~Black-Shirted~Radical
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Michile
Posts: 44
10/29/2015
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A petite young lady with long black hair steps up to the podium. She clears her throat nervously, and recites:
"A Thought for Mr Khayyam"
The poet Omar wanted only
Wine, a loaf, and thou
To satisfy his hungers
Amidst the endless Now.
But he's a guy, and
Maybe love is not enough for him.
Perhaps he needs distractions
Before he can begin.
But I will lay me down with you
Wherever we may be.
And drink intoxication from
The everlasting We.
She smiles pertly at the audience and steps aside to make way for the next poet.
--
"Be the change you want to see in the world."
http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Michile
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Sestina Valdis
Posts: 210
11/11/2015
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Bravo, Mal! That was riveting, raw and, for once, not raucous! Powerful war poetry suits you, I think. Bravo!
I wrote this one recently... I do not usually favour free verse, as a rule, but the lines almost seem as if they came to me in a dream... ((That was me speaking in-character, of course... Uh, it's difficult to rationalise this in FL's universe, since a lot of the concepts don't exist yet...))
Poetry Makes Nothing Happen
Poetry makes nothing
Happen.
It simply happens
That there are no
Words that flow in clear rivers of metaphor.
Verse will not cloud our children’s
Minds, figuratively, with sediment.
In-verse-ly, words are simply on the line.
Yes, words are on the line.
There is no 3D imagery to be had on paper.
Words are just
Two-dimensional, with
Length and breadth but no literal depth.
These words are not trains of thought
Chugging along the margins of society.
Words are not vessels to be filled
With the riches of meaning.
They are just empty chests
With air winding in and out.
But, no! They do not travel.
That’s just de-meaning:
Unto word, violence.
Words are markings on the page,
But not, I mean, of the territorial sort.
They are not scent in an envelope,
Nor an aftertaste that lingers in the air
Like a gray, cloudy haze.
Let me try again.
I see words as black and white
Scratchings on the page; no.
Words are not…
Let me try again.
The words are words. Yes.
Words are just
When they just are.
Poetry does not move.
So, I hope that you will take a hike—
I mean, literally.
This is not figurative:
I hope that you will not get lost
In metaphor, but literally
Get lost in a disorienting death sentence
That you have written into
The lines on your own palm,
And while you are writing this wrong,
Pumping out an inkling of meaning,
(Your pen is
Leaking) come hither,
Don’t wither
Or look blank like the page.
Tell me, simply,
That your words are just
Words.
((The title is a line from W.H. Auden's "In Memory of W.B. Yeats." Auden hasn't been born yet in FL's universe, but oh well. Uh. Retcon? Heh.))
edited by Sestina Valdis on 11/11/2015
edited by Sestina Valdis on 11/11/2015
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Sestina Valdis, the Saccharine Satirist.
Appearance and Misc. Accoutrements
A Past Scattered Across Discarded Stockings
Fei Xue, the Artful Assassin.
Self
Edward de Riere, the Barebones Baron.
Avatar by Daniel Ilinca.
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Zareen Bakara
Posts: 66
11/11/2015
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Sestina, wow! I love it! To try and *describe* it seems a vain endeavour: it describes itself so perfectly.
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An authoress of Persian and Abyssinian origins, come to London on a personal matter. http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Zareen~Bakara
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Sestina Valdis
Posts: 210
11/11/2015
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Thank you, Zareen-- generous as always! Please do share your own work: here or in-game or wherever. I would love to read it!
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Sestina Valdis, the Saccharine Satirist.
Appearance and Misc. Accoutrements
A Past Scattered Across Discarded Stockings
Fei Xue, the Artful Assassin.
Self
Edward de Riere, the Barebones Baron.
Avatar by Daniel Ilinca.
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Zareen Bakara
Posts: 66
11/11/2015
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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. 
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An authoress of Persian and Abyssinian origins, come to London on a personal matter. http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Zareen~Bakara
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Baron Leichtsinn
Posts: 34
11/20/2015
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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
--
All the world's problems can be solved by poetry. And violence. Poetry and violence. Who said, violence wasn't a solution? Actually it solves all the problems, that couldn't be solved by poetry.
___________________________
http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Baron~Leichtsinn
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malthaussen
Posts: 1060
11/11/2015
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My own feeble offering for 11/11
"Over the Top"
On snowy fields my comrades lie
Sodden scarlet where they fall.
So proud to heed their country's call!
And prouder still to die.
Through shot and shell with hearty cry
My brothers pressed their breasts.
To die beneath machine-gun nests
As drumfire lit the Winter sky.
Their debt is paid, those brave young men
Who came so far to die.
To serve some politician's lie
To charge, and fall, and charge again.
They fought and died, and cared not why:
To them, we owe a debt.
We cannot pay, at least not yet
But someday we may try.
-- Mal
edited by malthaussen on 11/11/2015
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"Of two choices, I always take the third."
Will do all socials except Loitering or Private Evenings (all my Free Evenings are accounted for), and Affluent Photographer Betrayals only, please. I am not currently accepting calling cards.
http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/malthaussen
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malthaussen
Posts: 1060
10/14/2015
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"Intimations of Mortality"
"I'm different," you say, and Somebody laughs.
Are we not all different to ourselves?
We are fleshy dice to be rolled in the cup
Of a whimsical god.
No power over others can possibly match
The power Fate holds over us.
It will take all that we value
And shatter it into dust.
In the blink of an eye, oh "different" one,
It will cripple, or maim, or kill.
It will laugh at your love,
Sneer at your tears,
And make a mockery of your will.
Want to see "fear in a handful of dust?"
Then look in a mirror, my child.
For we are all a handful of dust
And fear is our birthright.
Titter inside your Darkness, children:
You'll find real darkness soon enough.
-- Mal
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"Of two choices, I always take the third."
Will do all socials except Loitering or Private Evenings (all my Free Evenings are accounted for), and Affluent Photographer Betrayals only, please. I am not currently accepting calling cards.
http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/malthaussen
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Saravina Vorcast
Posts: 30
10/7/2015
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Vera cleared her throat with a wide grin. "Excellent poems darlings! But now for mine to debut, and keep in mind this is a song!"
"Tonight it's a full moon,
tomorrow will be waning.
Watch as the moon pearl change.
Tonight it's a half moon,
tomorrow will be a crescent.
Watch all of the moon pearls change.
We wish to see the true moon, and the stars as well,
but down here in the deep dark Neath, we will just have to make do."
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http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/profile/doctor~rosanburg
http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/profile/vira~mandrake
http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/profile/devious~dolorosa
My little ladies, feel free to send calling cards!
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The Absurd Rogue
Posts: 1049
9/3/2016
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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.
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
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.
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"There is never another story. There is only one, and I try to tell it with every page. I fail, and I try again. There are no new stories; I have this one."
-S.N
RemainProfane#2532
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Amsfield
Posts: 176
9/9/2016
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“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.”
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Amsfield: http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Amsfield
A devotee of pleasures intellectual and fleshy. Always fabulously masked.
Honoria Kastern: http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Honoria%20Kastern
A hunter, a shooter and a fisher. Also a patriotic busy body. Mildly corrupted.
Maiser: http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Maiser
A young firebrand of obviously criminal intent.
Venshik: http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Venshik
Not a nice person.
Asmeria: http://fallenlondon.storynexus.com/Profile/Asmeria
Quiet, thoughtful and possibly mad. Excellent listener though. Favours grey.
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