gwynhefar: (Default)
Hush, little kitty don't say a word,
Mama's gonna buy you a mockingbird

And if that mockingbird ain't tasty,
Mama's gonna make you a mousemeat pastry

And if that mousemeat pastry goes stale,
Mama's gonna find you a lizard's tail

And if that lizard's tail goes splat,
Mama's gonna buy you a scratching mat

And if that scratching mat won't scratch,
Mama's gonna find you a bug to catch

And if that clever bug gets away,
Mama's gonna buy you a catnip tray

And if that lovely nip gets old,
Mama's gonna buy you a fish of gold

And if that goldfish comes to any harm,
Mama's gonna buy you a ball of yarn

And if that ball of yarn winds down,
You'll still be the most spoiled little kitty in town!
gwynhefar: (I must go down to the sea again)
Ok, so I'm wanting to play a bit with icon creation and editing, and some of my favourite icons I've done so far have been based on poetry, so I'm looking for suggestions.

Give me a few lines from a favourite poem of yours that you think would make a good icon. I'll make the icon for you, as long as you don't mind if I use it myself as well. With permission from the requesters, I'll post the results here as well.

EDIT: Wow, a lot of people responded to this. Don't worry, I'll get to them all, but it might take me awhile :)
gwynhefar: (Lady of Shallott)
Some say the world will end in fire
Some say in ice
From what I've tasted of desire
I hold with those who favour fire
But if I had to perish twice
I think I know enough of hate
To know that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.
gwynhefar: (fall leaves)
So I have recording of Vincent Price reciting a poem called "All Saints' Eve." It's gorgeous, but I have been unable to track down who actually wrote it. So I'm posting it here in the hopes that someone recognises it. And so the rest of you can enjoy it :)

Look! There beyond the window-pane,
through the withered and rattling vine
a wee face, spangled with silver rain,
lovely and wan, stares in at mine,
white as a shell upon the sands,
where the black billows break and pass.
Something is pressing tiny hands
against the barrier of the glass;
Something eerie and fae and pale
is peering in from the haunted night
at our small room, snug from the angry gale,
where faces glow in the firelight.
Slant, strange eyes under sea-green hair
look wistfully in through the window-pane.
Quick! Open the casement! What is there
that cries in the wind and the streaming rain?
It has gone. It has gone. There is nothing there,
blown by the storm to our window-pane:
only the night, and the chill sea air,
and the voice of the sorrowful rain.
gwynhefar: (Default)
Today's installment:

Come away with me, into the woods
The path is no place for little girls
Can’t you see where it leads?
An old toothless spinster, helpless in bed
Worn out, torn down, by hard work and age
Is that where you want to go?
Is that who you want to be?

Wouldn’t it be better
To run free through the trees?
The path is hard and rough, calloused by hundreds of feet
Come feel the caress of soft moss beneath your paws!
Little girl, with your scarlet cloak,
Have you ever felt the bare wind in your ruff?
Do you know the sweet smell of life, and death
Or the sharp tang of fresh blood on your tongue,
Ten times sweeter than custard.

Come away with me, into the woods
Where you can chase butterflies all day long
And catch them too!
Where you can run free through the hills all night
And howl yourself to the blessed moon!
And in the morning all they will find
At the edge of their precious path:
An empty basket, and a huddle of torn red cloth.

gwynhefar: (Default)
Everyday Weirdness

Ok, so it's just a little poem in an electronic journal, but still . . . It's my first official paid publication.
gwynhefar: (birds of a feather)
There, through the broken branches, go
The ravens of unresting thought;
Flying, crying, to and fro,
Cruel claw and hungry throat,
Or else they stand and sniff the wind,
And shake their ragged wings; alas!
Thy tender eyes grow all unkind:
Gaze no more in the bitter glass.

[edit: this is not by me. It's part of "The Two Trees" by W. B. Yeats]
gwynhefar: (Default)
One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;

And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter

Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,

Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place

For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.

--Wallace Stevens
gwynhefar: (DW Fantastic)
I got a poem accepted to Space & Time Magazine. It's not much, but it's the first time I've ever had anyone pay *me* to publish my stuff.

Yes, [ profile] shadesong, you can say 'I told you so' :)
gwynhefar: (fantasies)
Being around 'song while she is doing her Wind Tunnel Dreams stories is inspiring. And she's always bugging me to write more, which I should do anyway.

So, here I am begging for story prompts. Unlike [ profile] shadesong, I am not committing to do one every day. In fact, I'm not committing to *anything*. I will however try to write a story or poem for each prompt and post it here. Baby steps.
gwynhefar: (Default)
Book #68 -- Sharon Olds, Satan Says, 72 pages.

This was one of my attempts to read more poetry, particularly more modern stuff. My impression of Olds is mixed. Some of her stuff was just wonderful -- brilliant. And others were just a little too crass even for me. Not to say that those weren't also brilliant, perhaps, but I must admit I have little appreciation for poetry about excrement fat men with flabby cocks. Still, I'm glad I read it. I could use more recommendations for modern poets to read.

Progress toward goals: 211/365 = 57.8%

Books: 68/100 = 68%

Pages: 22158/30000 = 73.9%

2007 Book List

cross-posted to [ profile] 15000pages, [ profile] 50bookchallenge, and [ profile] gwynraven
gwynhefar: (sciatica)
(to the tune of "On Top of Old Smokey")

On top of a heat pad
More pain pills I need
I'd cut my whole leg off
except that it'd bleed.

I'd pluck all the nerves out,
retract the whole spine
I'd teach it a lesson,
this bum leg of mine

I'd dig out this tumor
With fingernails deep
And maybe then I would
get some bloody sleep!
gwynhefar: (winter)
I have read the work of poets,
Parsing out each lonely word
I have heard a voice so low it
Scarce can said to have been heard

I have seen the work of artists
Documenting world gone by
Seen the visions of my heart, flit
Out the corner of my eye

I have smelled the dark perfume
That claims to be of field and wood
I have entered strangers’ rooms
And sensed again my childhood

I have tasted masters’ cakes
While they waited, sure but shy
And been reminded once of flakes
Of snow upon my tongue, and sighed.

I have held the quilter’s work
And wrapped it twice around my shoulder
Once against what shadows lurk
And once to make me bolder.

Maybe now that that's out of my system I can get some rest.
gwynhefar: (Mal poetry)
Cry of the Yukon

I sing to the old man, the youth, and the child.
You may call me the Yukon, the teeth of the wild.
With snow as my breath and mountains my maw,
Sweetest beast and betrayer that you ever saw.
Cry for the dreams I have shattered and lost.
Cry for the limbs I have blackened with frost.
Cry for the bellies I've shrunken and starved.
Cry for the dead in crevasses I've carved.
Cry for the lonely in nights without end.
Cry for the survivor when I claim a friend.
Cry for the explorer who never was found.
Cry for the screams that never made sound.
Cry for the lights and the ice-diamond sea,
And cry hardest for those who shall never know me.

--Robert W. Service
gwynhefar: (forest)
THIS is the forest primeval. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks,
Bearded with moss, and in garments green, indistinct in the twilight,
Stand like Druids of eld, with voices sad and prophetic,
Stand like harpers hoar, with beards that rest on their bosoms.
Loud from its rocky caverns, the deep-voiced neighboring ocean
Speaks, and in accents disconsolate answers the wail of the forest.
gwynhefar: (Default)
So here's the first of the poems I'm to write for the poetry spiral of my druidry studies. Of course it will be depressing -- I rarely write anything else. And it's the first thing I have written in about 2 years, so it's a little awkward. That said, I'm actually pretty happy with it.

Loneliness is like a swamp
Where despair suckles your feet
LIke a nursing child
Dragging you down
Into the soft, warm mud.

The cypress stand tall and bare
Each one alone in the crowd
They, too, are lonely
But their hard, rough bark
Admits no comfort.

The Spanish moss hangs like the tatters of mourning clothes
That the trees have worn so long they have
Forgotten what they are in mourning for
Only the emotion remains;
And the meagre sun serves only
To deepen the shadows.

The mourning doves cry in the branches
And their wings beat the refrain:
Alone . . . alone . . . alone . . .

Loneliness is like a swamp
And like the swamp
It has a beauty of its own.

gwynhefar: (Mal poetry)
"This is in the end the only kind of courage that is required of us: the courage to face the strangest, most unusual, most inexplicable experiences that can meet us."

"Perhaps everything that frightens us is, in its deepest essence, something helpless that wants our love."

--Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet


Jan. 19th, 2006 10:50 am
gwynhefar: (Mal poetry)
Primarily because I realised I don't have any of this stuff online anywhere. These are all old poems that I've written, and I'll probably keep adding them as I find them on my harddrive.


Oh you and I, we’ll be together
Forever and a day
We’ll dance among the purple heather
We’ll chase all our cares away

I’ll be the bush and you the rose
Safe among my thorns
Under a tree, hidden from foes
And safe from the hunters’ horns

I’ll be the lake and you the salmon
Safe in my crystal deep
The horse will break free from the whip of the ploughman
And the king will awake from his sleep

I’ll be the church and you the priest
Preaching God’s Grace and his Glory
And Beauty will save us all from the Beast,
But that is another story.

I’ll be your sister and you’ll be my sister
Forever and a day
And we’ll dance with the Dawn for the Day never missed her
And we’ll dance all our fears away.

"Stranger Things . . ."

When I woke up this morning the sky was still black,
For the sun had forgotten to rise.
And a blue moon rose over the cows coming home
As a squealing pink piglet flew by.
The newspaper headline said "Hell Freezes Over:
The Devil Comes Down with a Cold."
And a square rolled by singing an old nonsense song,
Till he tripped and fell down a round hole.
So I sat on my front porch to watch the green dawn
Spread light o'er the rosy gold grass,
And the little dog quacked at a passing white duck,
Who then promptly turned round and barked back.
gwynhefar: (Mal poetry)
"Loving does not at first mean merging, surrendering, and uniting with another person (for what would a union be of two people who are unclarified, unfinished, and still incoherent--?), it is a high inducement for the individual to ripen, to become something in himself, to become world, to become world in himself for the sake of another person; it is a great, demanding claim on him, something that chooses him and calls him to vast distances."

--Rainer Maria Rilke
gwynhefar: (winter)
Pile high the hickory and the light
log of chestnut struck by blight
Welcome-in the winter night

The day has gone in hewing and felling,
sawing and drawing wood to the dwelling,
For the night of talk and story-telling

These are the hours that give the edge
To the blunted axe and the bent wedge,
Straighten the saw and lighten the sledge.

Here are question and reply,
And the fire reflected in the thinking eye.
So peace, and let the bobcat cry.

~ Edna St. Vincent Millay


gwynhefar: (Default)

August 2014

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