Lies "breathed through silver"?

A tribute to Myth, as eternal, as archetype, as reminder of what was and what we hope for:

Man, Sub-creator, the refracted light
through whom is splintered from a single White
to many hues, and endlessly combined
in living shapes that move from mind to mind...

Blessed are the timid hearts that evil hate
that quail in its shadow, and yet shut the gate;
that seek no parley, and in guarded room,
though small and bate, upon a clumsy loom
weave tissues gilded by the far-off day
hoped and believed in under Shadow's sway.

Blessed are the men of Noah's race that build
their little arks, though frail and poorly filled,
and steer through winds contrary towards a wraith,
a rumour of a harbour guessed by faith....

Be sure they still will make, not being dead,
and poets shall have flames upon their head,
and harps whereon their faultless fingers fall:
there each shall choose for ever from the All.

From JRR Tolkien's "Mythopoeia"

There is always some madness in love.

But there is also always some reason in madness. (Friedrich Nietzsche)

It must be love. I'm writing poetry. Icky-sticky poetry. It's been years since I've written anything resembling this stuff. I'm vaguely disgusted with myself, but I'm hopeful that it will shift a little as we settle into each other. I'd like to get back to writing myth poems. Per esempio:

Eurydice

I lead her this far,

hard-won with cleverness and

skill.  Even Hades

could not spare his stony heart

from the cry of Love’s sorrow.

The thread of her life

has frayed and snap’t.  I beg you,

return her to me.

Her shade follows your music.

Doubt not and look not behind.

With one hand in light,

I turned to my love, breaking

the single thread of

hope, watching her translucence

dissolve, grasping at shadows.

I sang out for death –

they came with equal passion.

Torn body and soul,

the Muses gather fragments,

scattering them on the winds.

Orpheus gazes

on her – no penalty for

reassurance now.

I miss writing this kind of stuff. That's a tanka, I think - Japanese form of poetry, syllable based. Someday, I'll publish a book of all my re-tellings and re-centerings, both prosaic and poetic.

Dusting off a few rabbit trails.

Since I haven't been writing for NaNo like I'd hoped (yeah, you read that - hoped; I had no particular zest behind it this year), I've been cleaning up a few loose ends of stories that have been swirling around between my ears.
Completed:

• a poem to my grandfather
• The Reproductive Habits of Lagomorpha leporidae pulvilagus
• several blogs (I write three...happy hunting!)
• journaling - I can't tell you how long it's been since I've journaled; there's a lot going on right now

I have a short list of story ideas still to be fleshed out. Wonder if these little tidbits can be part of my NaNo word count? It's writing, after all... And who knows - maybe my novel's not actually about Achilles? Maybe it's a psychological study of a writer...!

Midnight and Mockingbirds

Why sing your lonelinesses?
The stars cannot hear,
and the trees weary of hearing.

Why question and clamor
when all else is still?
Darkness offers no answer;
it is vain to repeat the question.

Is it you, then, who whispers
the shadows into our dreams?
Do not take our stronghold,
our final, ancient haven.

To the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach.

I feel stretched thin and a little hole-y.

But a part of me keeps reaching
- my soul stretches out, fingers extended, tendons pulled taut -
searching for the edges of that Something
that is deeper, wider, higher than I.

The windchimes whistle their tuneless notes,
rearranging them over and over in patterns as changing as the wind.

And the stars they glisten, glisten, Seeming with bright eyes to listen - For what listen they?

sometimes at night, when i'm walking, i stare up at orion's belt - three gems in a row - and open my mouth - as if to drink down the starlight and the cold wet air and the smell of brush fires. and something inside me sings out to those stars. and i fully expect them to reply.

i used to think the big dipper was my favorite constellation, but that's because it was the only one i knew. draco was my favorite while i was on a dragon kick. but orion - we have a history. i've seen a shooting star fall from his hand. he has never left me, never faltered. there's something about his near-human symmetry that resonates with me. and he's a warrior. every princess deserves a warrior to fight for her. he's my ally - halfway, protective, watching over me when i'm most vulnerable - in the dark, in sleep.

Grief not, rather find, strength in what remains behind.

Rain falling through magnolia trees -
slow, hollow plips -
on the down-turned leaves.

From behind, I watch you -
you tuck a hand in your jacket
and sigh.
Your breath hangs heavy
in the wet, thick air -
for a moment,
your spirit has escaped
and I am afraid for you.

You are so frail,
your shadow gaunt on the curves
of pavement,
haloed in copper mist.

But in your footsteps
I hear the steel echoes
of assurance -
it is penned on your wrists
and tattooed on your heart.

Then I am you
again
and the weight of lambskin
and the damp cool of midnight
and the space between breaths
settle on my shoulders
again.

A ghostly bridge twixt heaven and me.

The tree stood alone -
the last clothed among her neighbors.
Her pale amber leaves captured
and reflected
the thin winter sun;
she stood in a private golden cloud,
shivering delicately,
leaves like shining scales flaking off
one by one.