1)  I love my new icon because it really conveys the motion of the scene.  (Malone is sitting here calling me a "nerdy nerdy flabfat."  "I'm making fun of you!  She has ears!  *squishes ear*  Huhuh wow, that's really weird-looking.  I could sew your ear shut like that and nobody would love you.  Could you hear worse or better?  *notices that I am taking a transcript of the moment*  *sticks finger in middle of ponytail*  Rape!")

2)  Well, while she's sitting here, I'll just go ahead and make my post about my thoughts on Southern Raiders.  Based on the conversations over at katara_zuko, there seem to be a couple of main issues with the episode:

a)  Why the crap was Zuko being so freaking OOC?
b)  Why didn't they talk?  Did Katara really forgive Zuko, or was that just a copout?
c)  Zuko's reaction to Katara's AWESOME BENDING OF DOOOOOOOOOOOM:  turn on or get me the hell out of here?

So, here's my thoughts on said issues:

And it's about time for The Ember Island Players to start, so I'll have to cut this short, and add the links to the good discussions on k_z  but--YAY.  I LOVE KATARA, AND I LOVE THIS SHOW.

So this is a copy-and-paste of the notes I took while watching it.  It's vaguely proofread, and the stuff in brackets is me explaining what I was thinking.

My next task is to compile all the comments I made over at katara_zuko tonight and put together a meaningful post...before tomorrow. HOMG TOMORROW LOOKS AWESOME TOO.

anyone got any good Mal/Inara fanfic reccs?

Aw man I am rewatching Avatar.  And remembering Experiment.  Aw, those were the good old days...

ANYWAYZ I haven't done a meme in ages, and Jakia said that all the cool kids were doing this one (well, she said "my whole f-list" and I figure her f-list has got to be full of cool kids), and so here we go!

Give me one of my own stories, and a timestamp sometime in the future after the end of the story, or sometime in the past before the story started, and I'll write you at least a hundred words of what happened then, whether it's five minutes before the story started or ten years in the future.

AND/OR

Does anyone have any questions about any of my stories, or would be interested in a fic commentary? Or maybe a question about my writing techniques, such as they are?

Ask and you shall receive.  :-)

It's the last day of National Poetry Month!  I hope you have, at least at one point during the month, read something that you really enjoyed, and maybe went out and reread one of your old favorites, or discovered someone or something new to think or talk about.  I know I've had a lot of fun looking for poems, and remembering to post at the last minute, and reading people's thoughts and being guided by their suggestions.  And don't forget the budding poets among us:   I know jyms, for one, is working on a collection called Dystopic Menagerie that I really really like, and she could use feedback on it, so help her out!  Thanks to all y'all for making this fun!

So for today, our final poem, I bring to you one of my absolute favorite poems from my childhood.  We have a book back home called Poetry to Read Aloud (which is what you should do with most poetry anyway), and it's kinda dusty, but whenever we broke it out I always requested the same poem.  And sometimes we would break it out because I requested the poem.  And so, for today, from Ernest Lawrence Thayer:




Casey at the Bat
The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Mudville nine that day;
The score stood four to two, with but one inning more to play,
And then when Cooney died at first, and Barrows did the same,
A pall-like silence fell upon the patrons of the game.

A straggling few got up to go in deep despair. The rest
Clung to that hope which springs eternal in the human breast;
They thought, "If only Casey could but get a whack at that —
We'd put up even money now, with Casey at the bat."

But Flynn preceded Casey, as did also Jimmy Blake,
And the former was a hoodoo, while the latter was a cake;
So upon that stricken multitude grim melancholy sat;
For there seemed but little chance of Casey getting to the bat.

But Flynn let drive a single, to the wonderment of all,
And Blake, the much despised, tore the cover off the ball;
And when the dust had lifted, and men saw what had occurred,
There was Jimmy safe at second and Flynn a-hugging third.

Then from five thousand throats and more there rose a lusty yell;
It rumbled through the valley, it rattled in the dell;
It pounded on the mountain and recoiled upon the flat,
For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.

There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped into his place;
There was pride in Casey's bearing and a smile lit Casey's face.
And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,
No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Casey at the bat.

Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt.
Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt.
Then while the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip,
Defiance flashed in Casey's eye, a sneer curled Casey's lip.

And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air,
And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.
Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped —
"That ain't my style," said Casey. "Strike one!" the umpire said.

From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,
Like the beating of the storm-waves on a stern and distant shore;
"Kill him! Kill the umpire!" shouted some one on the stand;
And it's likely they'd have killed him had not Casey raised his hand.

With a smile of Christian charity great Casey's visage shone;
He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;
He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the dun sphere flew;
But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said "Strike two!"

"Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered "Fraud!"
But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed.
They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,
And they knew that Casey wouldn't let that ball go by again.

The sneer has fled from Casey's lip, the teeth are clenched in hate;
He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate.
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,
And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow.

Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright,
The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,
And somewhere men are laughing, and little children shout;
But there is no joy in Mudville — mighty Casey has struck out. 

Today we have some Tennyson!  Because I like him very much.  I have two poems again, because they're short and kind of simple, but beautiful.  Both are Songs from The Princess, which I don't know much about but will clearly have to learn more about.  The first one is actually one we're singing in my choir:  here's the simple melody line, and if you click on segment 1 and go to about minute 14 you can hear it in four-part harmony, which is awesome because the alto part is awesome (especially on the next-to-last line of each verse).  The second one is one I happened to think was pretty and, as I near the end of another year at school, appropriate.  So, from Alfred, Lord Tennyson:

 


Sweet and Low

Sweet and low, sweet and low,

        Wind of the western sea,

Low, low, breathe and blow,

         Wind of the western sea!

Over the rolling waters go,

         Come from the dying moon, and blow,

Blow him again to me;

         While my little one, while my pretty one, sleeps.

Sleep and rest, sleep and rest,

         Father will come to thee soon;

Rest, rest, on mother's breast,

         Father will come to thee soon;

Father will come to his babe in the nest,

         Silver sails all out of the west

Under the silver moon:

         Sleep, my little one, sleep, my pretty one, sleep.

Tears, Idle Tears

  Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean,

Tears from the depth of some divine despair

Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes,

In looking on the happy Autumn-fields,

And thinking of the days that are no more.

  Fresh as the first beam glittering on a sail,

That brings our friends up from the underworld,

Sad as the last which reddens over one

That sinks with all we love below the verge;

So sad, so fresh, the days that are no more.

  Ah, sad and strange as in dark summer dawns

The earliest pipe of half-awakened birds

To dying ears, when unto dying eyes

The casement slowly grows a glimmering square;

So sad, so strange, the days that are no more.

  Dear as remembered kisses after death,

And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned

On lips that are for others; deep as love,

Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;

O Death in Life, the days that are no more!

Today, by request of urthstripe321, we have us some Keats.  To be honest, he was a pretty fierce Romantic, and I can only take so many sonnets about the beauty of Nature before I have to go gag myself with a spoon (I feel, though, that it's not so much the Romanticism as it is the Sentimentalism of the poetry that bothers me), but I found two sonnets that I did rather like, one in honor of the fact that it is/almost is finals time for many people, and one in honor of my strange strange mood from the other night:




To Sleep
O soft embalmer of the still midnight,
Shutting, with careful fingers and benign,
Our gloom-pleas'd eyes, embower'd from the light,
Enshaded in forgetfulness divine:
O soothest Sleep! if so it please thee, close
In midst of this thine hymn my willing eyes,
Or wait the "Amen," ere thy poppy throws
Around my bed its lulling charities.
Then save me, or the passed day will shine
Upon my pillow, breeding many woes,--
Save me from curious Conscience, that still lords
Its strength for darkness, burrowing like a mole;
Turn the key deftly in the oiled wards,
And seal the hushed Casket of my Soul.




To Solitude
O solitude! if I must with thee dwell,
Let it not be among the jumbled heap
Of murky buildings; climb with me the steep,—
Nature's observatory—whence the dell,
Its flowery slopes, its river's crystal swell,
May seem a span; let me thy vigils keep
'Mongst boughs pavillion'd, where the deer's swift leap
Startles the wild bee from the fox-glove bell.
But though I'll gladly trace these scenes with thee,
Yet the sweet converse of an innocent mind,
Whose words are images of thoughts refin'd,
Is my soul's pleasure; and it sure must be
Almost the highest bliss of human-kind,
When to thy haunts two kindred spirits flee.

So again you have buella_pearl to thank for today's entry.  Her talk of German poetry got me thinking about the nature of translations and such, and then tonight we had choir recordings and we sang this song by Schubert that I really do adore.  So for today, I'm posting the original German text, as it is simply awesome in terms of traditional poetic ideals, and it's one of those things that you really can't translate.  From Goethe's Faust, after Faust has knocked poor Gretchen up and then fled:



Gretchen am Spinnrade
Mein Ruh' ist hin,
Mein Herz ist schwer;
Ich finde sie nimmer
Und nimmermehr.

Wo ist ihn nich hab'
Ist mir das Grab,
Die ganze Welt
Ist mir vergällt.

Mien armer Kopf
Ist mir verrückt,
Mein armer Sinn
Ist mir zerstückt.

Meine Ruh' ist hin,
Mein Herz ist schwer;
Ich finde sie nimmer
Und nimmermehr.

Nach ihm nur schau' ich
Zum Fenster hinaus,
Nach ihm nur geh' ich
Aus dem Haus.

Sein hoher Gang
Sein' edle Gestalt
Seines Mundes Lächeln
Seiner Augen Gewalt,

Und seiner Rede
Zauberfluß
Seine Händedruck
Und ach, sein Kuß!

Meine Ruh' ist hin,
Mein Herz ist schwer;
Ich finde sie nimmer
Und nimmermehr.

Mein Busen drängt sich
nach ihm hin;
Ach, dürft' ich fassen
Und halten ihn

Und küssen ihn,
So wie ich wollt',
An seinen Küssen
Vergehen sollt'!

Meine Ruh' ist hin.

So my dear buella_pearl told me she wanted to see some Dorothy Parker.  I had never read any Dorothy Parker until approximately two minutes ago, and I had the hardest time picking which poem to post!  She is hilarious, but also kinda painful.  And having just come from seeing Forgetting Sarah Marshall--which makes me want to know why sex is always the solution when it's also the problem--I find her poetry particularly apt.  So for today, I offer you this:




Ultimatum

I'm wearied of wearying love, my friend,
   Of worry and strain and doubt;
Before we begin, let us view the end,
   And maybe we'll do without.
There's never the pang that was worth the tear,
   And toss in the night I won't -
So either you do or you don't, my dear,
   Either you do or you don't!

The table is ready, so lay your cards
   And if they should augur pain,
I'll tender you ever my kind regards
   And run for the fastest train.
I haven't the will to be spent and sad;
   My heart's to be gay and true -
Then either you don't or you do, my lad,
   Either you don't or you do.

How appropriate is my Lucy icon for today's poem?  Quite.  philia_fan actually introduced me to this poem (pause--I'm so happy this project has actually had some people looking for poems!  It warms my heart, it really does), and I adored it, and now I am sharing it with all y'all, because I suspect that just as this poem reminds me of me, when I was little, and days spent going in circles on my bike or swinging on the swingset for hours and hours, all y'all will be able to see yourselves in it, too.  From Deborah Slicer:




Outside of Richmond, Virginia, Sunday
It's the kind of mid-January afternoon --
the sky as calm as an empty bed,
fields indulgent,
black Angus finally sitting down to chew --
that makes a girl ride her bike up and down the same muddy track of road
between the gray barn and the state highway
all afternoon, the black mutt
with the white patch like a slap on his rump
loping after the rear tire, so happy.
Right after Sunday dinner
until she can see the headlights out on the dark highway,
she rides as though she has an understanding with the track she's opened up in the road,
with the two wheels that slide and stutter in the red mud
but don't run off from under her,
with the dog who knows to stay out of the way but to stay.
And even after the winter cold draws tears,
makes her nose run,
even after both sleeves are used up,
she thinks a life couldn't be any better than this.
And hers won't be,
and it will be very good.

Because I have never actually read this poem in its entirety, I decided to post it today.  From Joyce Kilmer:





Trees
I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest

Against the earth's sweet flowing breast;

 

A tree that looks at God all day,

And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

 

A tree that may in Summer wear

A nest of robins in her hair;

 

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;

Who intimately lives with rain.

 

Poems are made by fools like me,

But only God can make a tree.

Today is Shakespeare day!  All of his long poems are...long, and so yesterday Em and I used the Chatzy randomizer to pick two sonnets.  The second one is pretty famous, but I only vaguely recognized the first, and in any case they both have some sweet extended metaphors of which I highly approve.  So enjoy--

edit:  wow, you guys, I had no idea it was Shakespeare's birthday when I posted these.  I was actually going to post them yesterday, but it was Earth Day, so Wendell Berry won.  ...wow.  These coincidences rock my world.




48
How careful was I, when I took my way,
Each trifle under truest bars to thrust,
That to my use it might unused stay
From hands of falsehood, in sure wards of trust!
But thou, to whom my jewels trifles are,
Most worthy of comfort, now my greatest grief,
Thou, best of dearest and mine only care,
Art left the prey of every vulgar thief.
Thee have I not lock'd up in any chest,
Save where thou art not, though I feel thou art,
Within the gentle closure of my breast,
From whence at pleasure thou mayst come and part;
And even thence thou wilt be stol'n, I fear,
For truth proves thievish for a prize so dear.




54
O, how much more doth beauty beauteous seem
By that sweet ornament which truth doth give!
The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem
For that sweet odour which doth in it live.
The canker-blooms have full as deep a dye
As the perfumed tincture of the roses,
Hang on such thorns and play as wantonly
When summer's breath their masked buds discloses:
But, for their virtue only is their show,
They live unwoo'd and unrespected fade,
Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so;
Of their sweet deaths are sweetest odours made:
And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth,
When that shall fade, my verse distills your truth.

Happy Earth Day!  In honor of that, we have a poem from Wendell Berry, who is an amazing old man who has already been featured once but whose poem is very well-suited towards being favorable towards Nature without all that Romantic over-dramatic-ness.



The Peace of Wild Things
When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

Possibly not quite getting in under the wire, but it's okay, I was watching Tristan and Isolde (heart heart heart HEART that movie, despite what the movie group thinks).  Anyway, today I ran into a girl reading a book of Hafiz's poetry.  He's some kind of Zen or Sufi...I think Sufi...master, so we're back in the land of Asian-ish poetry.  But this was the poem she recommended, and so today I present to you



We Have Not Come to Take Prisoners
We have not come here to take prisoners,
But to surrender ever more deeply
To freedom and joy.

We have not come into this exquisite world
To hold ourselves hostage from love.

Run my dear,
From anything
That may not strengthen
Your precious budding wings.

Run like hell my dear,
From anyone likely
To put a sharp knife
Into the sacred, tender vision
Of your beautiful heart.

We have a duty to befriend
Those aspects of obedience
That stand outside of our house
And shout to our reason
"O please, O please,
Come out and play."

For we have not come here to take prisoners
Or to confine our wondrous spirits,

But to experience ever and ever more deeply
Our divine courage, freedom, and
Light!

...you know, I am SO TEMPTED to post the lyrics to "Paper Planes" today...because it is, after all, that kind of a day, but instead I will gank from Checkers, and post the poem she posted yesterday that I loved so very very much.  From Antonio Machado:




Last Night as I was Sleeping
Last night as I was sleeping,
I dreamt—marvelous error!—
that a spring was breaking
out in my heart.
I said: Along which secret aqueduct,
Oh water, are you coming to me,
water of a new life
that I have never drunk?

Last night as I was sleeping,
I dreamt—marvelous error!—
that I had a beehive
here inside my heart.
And the golden bees
were making white combs
and sweet honey
from my old failures.

Last night as I was sleeping,
I dreamt—marvelous error!—
that a fiery sun was giving
light inside my heart.
It was fiery because I felt
warmth as from a hearth,
and sun because it gave light
and brought tears to my eyes.

Last night as I slept,
I dreamt—marvelous error!—
that it was God I had
here inside my heart.

Because song lyrics totally count as poetry too.  Oftentimes a little more simplistic than non-lyrical poetry, but hey, I CAN DO ANYTHING I WANT.  So, from U2:





Beautiful Day
The heart is a bloom, shoots up through the stony ground
There's no room, no space to rent in this town
You're out of luck and the reason that you had to care,
The traffic is stuck and you're not moving anywhere.
You thought you'd found a friend to take you out of this place
Someone you could lend a hand in return for grace

It's a beautiful day, the sky falls
And you feel like it's a beautiful day
Don't let it get away

You're on the road but you've got no destination
You're in the mud, in the maze of her imagination
You love this town even if that doesn't ring true
You've been all over and it's been all over you

It's a beautiful day
Don't let it get away
It's a beautiful day
Don't let it get away

Touch me, take me to that other place
Teach me, I know I'm not a hopeless case

See the world in green and blue
See China right in front of you
See the canyons broken by cloud
See the tuna fleets clearing the sea out
See the Bedouin fires at night
See the oil fields at first light
And see the bird with a leaf in her mouth
After the flood all the colors came out

It was a beautiful day
Beautiful day
Don't let it get away

Touch me, take me to that other place
Reach me, I know I'm not a hopeless case

What you don't have you don't need it now
What you don't know you can feel it somehow
What you don't have you don't need it now
You don't need it now, you don't need it now

It was a beautiful day

So today in American Lit I we discussed Walt Whitman, and while not paying attention to the lecture I did read the poem, and I decided that today, I would post part of it.  A lot of it rambles and really seems like a bunch of little poems, and some of it doesn't seem like poetry at all, and a lot of it is wow, if I could become famous just for rambling on and on about myself, hell, I'd start writing poetry.  But the last four sections are very good, and here I shall post the last three sections.  And it is for all y'all that I post this poem, from my heart to yours:




Song of Myself

50
There is that in me - I do not know what it is - but I know it is in me.

Wrench'd and sweaty - calm and cool then my body becomes, I sleep - I sleep long.

I do not know it - it is without name - it is a word unsaid,
It is not in any dictionary, utterance, symbol.

Something it swings on more than the earth I swing on,
To it the creation is the friend whose embracing awakes me.

Perhaps I might tell more. Outlines! I plead for my brothers and sisters.
Do you see O my brothers and sisters?
It is not chaos or death - it is form, union, plan - it is eternal life - it is Happiness.

51
The past and present wilt - I have fill'd them, emptied them.
And proceed to fill my next fold of the future.

Listener up there! what have you to confide to me?
Look in my face while I snuff the sidle of evening,
(Talk honestly, no one else hears you, and I stay only a minute longer.)

Do I contradict myself?
Very well then I contradict myself,
(I am large, I contain multitudes.)

I concentrate toward them that are nigh, I wait on the door-slab.

Who has done his day's work? who will soonest be through with his supper?
Who wishes to walk with me?

Will you speak before I am gone? will you prove already too late?

52
The spotted hawk swoops by and accuses me, he complains of my gab and my loitering.

I too am not a bit tamed, I too am untranslatable,
I sound my barbaric yaws over the roofs of the world.

The last scud of day holds back for me,
It flings my likeness after the rest and true as any on the shadow'd wilds,
It coaxes me to the vapor and the dusk.

I depart as air, I shake my white locks at the runaway sun,
I effuse my flesh in eddies, and drift it in lacy jags.

I bequeath myself to the dirt to grow from the grass I love,
If you want me again look for me under your boot-soles.

You will hardly know who I am or what I mean,
But I shall be good health to you nevertheless,
And filter and fibre your blood.

Failing to fetch me at first keep encouraged,
Missing me one place search another,
I stop somewhere waiting for you.

Okay, so no one loves my new favorite poem, whatever.  Today I have been feeling very icky with sinus crud, and have been drinking copious amounts of tea in order to help myself feel better.  (Alas, for the selection of herbal teas on this campus SUCKS.  It's all black tea.  I just want some lemon-based non-caffeinated stuff to clear up my throat, people!  Also some places on campus charge like $1.35 for a small tea, and others charge $0.65.  It's ridiculous.)  So, anyway, from some 16th century Japanese(? also side note--Asian poetry is so different from English poetry) tea master named Sen no Rikiyu (perhaps Rikyu), I present to you:




What Is Tea?
When both the host and guest
have exchanged their minds,
only then does the water truly boil.

Since the garden path is a way
beyond this transient world,
why not shake off the dust
which soils the mind?

What is Tea?  Simply boiling water,
making Tea, and drinking it.
Know that this is fundamental.

The garden path, the hut,
the hosts and guests...
All are whipped together
in the Tea, and are without distraction.