So fuck it. Let's just share my shit more. Especially if we're going to be getting serious about the whole fili thing. So the Aon's writing thread. Poems I'll just post directly here. Larger things like my prose I'll link to but the poems will just be put here directly. Anyway to start us off a poem I wrote today about the Morrígan: You terrify me uniquely, Filling me with fear Only rivaled by that of death And why should you not? Men are raised up by you And pulled down just as easily. The Hound you mocked and marred, But you bought him glory everlasting. All around are your messengers Flying on dark, black wings, Sharing their stories to and fro So unnoticed by us all. Blood you demand And sweat with it. Streams and pools of the lives, And men and women and more are yours. Madness is your nature too. Great furies and frenzies. Rages, yes, but dreads as well Which turn strength to ice. You are all that and yet still So much more than that. Why should I not fear you, And why should I not be comforted too? This was written, I suppose, to commemorate my having asked her for her aid on my whole poetry and divination thing. A way of getting out what I feel about her and honoring that fact, as well as a way of dealing with the stress of the talk itself. I am very pleased with how it has ended up, at least in terms of structure. I enjoy numbering things very specifically. There are six verses, each with a total of four lines. There are only four verses describing An Morrígna themselves, which matches up with the number of sisters I believe there. She is a triplicate that is four in number but a triplicate nonetheless. Things are odd. Four is again seen in the number of the lines. I suppose four also brings up the fact that in Japanese it is pronounced the same as the word for death. But the number of the sisters is the vital bit. The two surrounding verses meanwhile must be two in number partly because I like things being neat and tidy at times, and also because I've a very split view on how I picture myself and my mental illness. There is no one Aon. There is Aon and his brain. They are separate individuals who are sadly sharing the same consciousness and body. Numbers are important to me. That there are three numbers I feel are significant stands out to me too as a sort of happy accident.
You can yes though it might fit better in the general writing thread? Made this so I can show and keep my writing organized and in one place.
Two new poems. The one was written a few days ago but whatever. Birds fall Resting, pecking On the floor Near the pool Wings flapping Nervous, waiting Birds fall A hawk above Soaring, searching Unknown, unseen The king of birds Dives deep Birds fall Feathers scatter Sight of battle Pink stains on white Not a corpse But a sign still A quill pushed Into the water Floating lightly, lamely Birds fall This one here was written after swim class. Or was it before it? Either way it was swim and there were a bunch of pigeon feathers just scattered everywhere. There was some fucking white piece of paper stained pink that I thought was blood at first. But wasn't. Coach came by and was like yeah hawks hunt here sometimes and I think one caught a pigeon. Wrote the poem because this touched me on some level. Something hard, yet soft Arms snaking into Arms, moving of their own Accord, against my will A hand at my throat grips Tight, light, a bright light Lightly I ask is it you And you say back Yes This one was written today. Or rather it was spoken today and recorded into writing after I had gotten out the rough shape of it. Then edited a bit more to get what I wanted out of it. Or mostly for the time being. Was composed while meditating and describes a feeling I had while meditating. Namely that something else had slipped into my arms and that I had to move them because of it. Asking if it was the Morrígan got back a yes.
Another poem. This one again composed during meditation. It is about crows and ravens, the Messengers of the Gods. Great wings flapping Dark feathers fluttering In the breeze Push up, pull down Rising on currents Unseen by the eye Soaring up high Up, up, up To perch, to rest Great wings watching Dark feathers rustling In the breeze Eyes keen and ears sharp Watching, waiting, listening Spying all, catching all All in all Many black birds To watch, to listen Great wings chatting Dark feathers rumbling In the breeze A great jabber Loud clamour of caws Many mouths move Cawing, clawing, croaking To share the news To tell the truth Great wings always For this one there are four verses, the number of sisters I believe there to be. However only three of these verses are comprised of more than one line, leaving us with both a three and a one. As the Morrígan is both a triplicate and a singular individual. There are also nine lines in each of the three primary verses, a nine being three threes.
Wrote a poem for Lugh. Earlier today I was reminded of how uncertain I was about why he came for me. And how I'm still uncertain and feel unworthy of it. So I felt I had to write a thing about it. To my father, I am so uncertain, Was so much more. Stumbling awkwardly and always asking How could it be me? Why would it be me? And even now I am still so uncertain. But it could be me, And here is why. My passion burns strong and fierce, A love of learning And striving for glory, If only of a private sort. To stack skills so high, In multitudes and never lacking. Not a jack of all trades, But a master of many. My craving for a father, A man to watch over me. Goading me, guiding me, And sending small messages, Loving encouragements and even just hellos. Someone who is always there, Even when he is not As you so often aren’t. My need for justice and love of family. Holding close those who are dear, Protecting them and treasuring them. I gather together resources Sharing them with them And they me with theirs. And always I watch For they are my people, my tribe. For these things you came, An itching in the mind That turned the pages of so many books, That lit up the skies and rained down on me. That swallowed me up in endless warmth. You who are a father to me always Were always, even when I did not know And for that I’m worthy For who would argue with you? I am so uncertain But now so certain. Number time with Aon: There are 8 lines in the verses describing myself and why he adopted me. This I am not entirely sure as to why but I do feel that it's appropriate. Lugh first revealed himself to me in a fashion I recognized as him when I was struggling with Buddhism. There are 3 of those verses as well because I mean really. You just gotta do things in triplicate.
MORE POETRY. This time it is fandom related so fuck yeah. Specifically Night in the Woods shit. The characters involved being Beatrice Santello and Mae Borowski, with Bea as the perspective character. It's not terribly spoiler heavy so. Things. POEMS. She is, quite thoroughly, a mess. You knew this, you know this. And she comes back now Like a drowned rat. All maybes and I dunnos And not a hint of why. She’s just a disaster. You were ten, just a child In the scouts, newly moved. You’d no one No one save her, the wild child Always causing a fuss, Always making a row, But you had her. Even if she was a disaster. There was a fight, You were poked fun at by… What was her name? Sally? Sally, yes. That Sally Walkens poked and prodded. She laughed and pushed you. You fell, fell right over Off that rock, and you cried Because you were fighting about… What was the fight about? And there she was Your knight in shining armor, the disaster. Sally went off the rock Right into the river, not the floor. Screaming, pleading, shouting, Floating and drifting by so fast, And she stood triumphant Arms raised, howling “Justice! Justice!” And for that moment she was so cool. Even if it was all a disaster. You laughed at it, Standing up and feeling safe, Feeling wanted. Here was a friend. Here was a good person, Even when she was scolded, Held inside by the mother, Badges stripped away, There was a good person. But now you know it. Know that Sally could’ve died And that’d be a disaster. Now she is back and you know Still know as you did, Know so much more now, Just what a mess she is. What a mess she was, always. But for one moment Back when you were a child Standing on that rock, shouting Shouting for you She was a hero, She was your disaster. And she still is.
Wrote a poem for Trans Day of Visibility. This one is about us as trans people and how we are seas, just like Manannán mac Lir. I and some others heavily associate the Gaelic god of the sea with transness and gender weirds in general. So it's a personal matter for me. The sun shines Above the sea Swiftly swaying, bobbing World of motion Why not us We people too The sun shines Above the sea We little people Some in skirts Others choosing beards And some both The sun shines Above the sea You looking on Covering us lovingly Embraced in mist Like your children
Wrote two more poems. The first of the two is another meditation poem. This time about Manannán mac Lir and how I conceive of myself and feelings: Breath of air The roaring wave Tricking, fizzing foam Between cold toes Stinging salts burn Encrusting rocks all Over even metal Raging, fighting, warring Dancing, singing, exulting Grieving, mourning, crying That’s the sea That is me The second one I composed in my head while walking back home and had to sit down and write it. This is my first attempting at doing not just three words per line, closings, and stark imagery of rosc poetry but also the alliteration. Rosc poetry alliterates the last word, or sometimes syllable, or a line with the first word of the following line. Often this pattern is kept up through the entire poem, creating a sort of chain-like effect to the rhythm of the work. Again the subject matter is Manannán who also goes by the name of An Bodach, or The Churl: The Bodach sleeps Snoring lightly by Barefaced flames flickering Filling up all Afull of warmth Warping our sight Singing us down Deep into sleep Snoring lightly there There’s the Bodach
Episode 16 of Ironblooded Orphans fucked me up. Super hard. Not only did it futher solidify Fumitan as my favorite character it killed her in the most tragic fashion ever. I now ship Fumelia or whatever the fuck we are calling this ship harder than ever. I had to write a poem about it. I will likely write others. It fucked me up. We’d matching necklaces Pretty twinkling tears Made of metal How appropriate The shape I’d picked I’ve matching necklaces Like drops of blood Made of metal I’ll carry both A piece of you with me
A short poem to practice rosc format about my Star Wars AU. The subject of the poem is Tori's hypocrisy regarding his weapons versus those of his sister's clan. They're both designed to kill. One just isn't as messy and also our little rules pretend that we're always justified when we're finally forced to kill. The blade’s light Lifting’s no feat Fiery sword cutting Carving through transparisteel Steady hand needed Never cutting fatally For the Code. The blade’s heavy Hard to swing Swearing while hefting Till it falls Filling the room red Retching, staring, wondering Warping the Code.
We bombed Syria and without Congress' approval. Blood everywhere My blood Your blood Our blood Blood, blood everywhere Stinking up the air Staining up the world Gore between the teeth Skin between the claws It’s far too red It has been far too red
Two more poems written today of the Kencyrath variety. Under spoilers because they deal with Tori's rape by Kallystine. Spoiler: the poems of distressing things A contract was made And had to be fulfilled. Just a limited term No more than a test. A “perhaps” was given, And a firm “no children now” Which set the nerves at ease. They rise up now, Tingling, clawing, burning, All over a dinner. It is just a meal, Simple, short. Pretty little dishes Just like pretty little words. Yet there are the nerves rising. A cup is held But not yet drank from. She asks of this, Provides loving assurances And gives a laugh too. “It’s just wine, silly.” Yes, just wine, and no more. So a sip is taken, Then more still And with the wine The nerves are drowned. The death is gradual Slow and almost imperceptible, A pleasant buzzing numbness Building up overagreeably. The guard, normally so zealous, Lays broken and torn down. The nerves are not missed. She is far too close, With a voice far too sweet. The words aren’t parsed But they captivate wholly, And the gentle touches too Cloying, confusing Edging the affair on Far past the simple contract. Yet the nerves are still dead. Only a hand rouses them And other things too, Sliding down far too far. Limbs are weak, and wits too To weak to provide a fight Though one is wanted As the nerves are born anew. -- Honor the contract Created from need Ne'erdoweel or no Never fail it Inside the room Ready for talk Timid words falling Feast growing cold Consort smiling slyly Serving a drink Denying all harm Heeding him on Only a sip Sampling the wine Warily quenching thirst Theories crumpling fully Fear takes rest Reeling now swaying Swearing it’s fine Fog filling head Honor the contract Coy hands searching Slipping down cloth Creeping ever near No resistance given Grunts of perplexion Shying away slowly Slightly fearing her Hands find purchase Pulling away fabric Fraying nerves burn But no strength Staring with wonderment Wanting yet not Nowhere to run Relishment of terror Taking by force Forged with poison Poured into drink Damning him totally To honor it
Wrote three more poems today. At eight of the fourteen I need to get fucking done. God. Dammit. So many more to write. Had fun though. The first one is a very short piece about Homestuck and the importance of dates in Homestuck. It's weird to think of how something so important to me for so much of my life is something that I can't even remember when I first started reading it. So 4/13 isn't the day I became a Hamsteak, but in spirit it is. 4/13 The beginning and the end But not for me. What was the day That lost date Of my birth Tainted by grey and orange? It’s gone, the date When I saw the mailbox And its red flipper dealy. There is just 4/13 The second piece is a longer one about my stupid Star Wars Kencyrath AU which is probably driving some of the like six people who check that archive mad. The topic of this one being the Resol'nare of the Mandalorians, which is their code of honor. The term means the Six Acts and consists of wearing of armor, speaking Mando'a language, protecting the self and the family, raising your children to be Mandalorian, contributing to the clan's welfare, and rallying to the call of the Mand'alor. Jame ponders about honor and what it really means a lot in canon, and that carries over in Star Wars land too. Complete with her guilt. What is honor really? There are Six Acts Neatly laid out And clear as day, But what is life really? He ran away, Tossing his soul to the floor To take up their mantle. The Jedi’s, But not lightly. You were thrown In a rage, Neck almost snapped. A shock, But not unprovoked. What is honor really? Is it the Third Act? To protect family, Or maybe the Fifth Of clan wellbeing? You stayed behind Rejecting the Order outright To maintain the Lessons. Your father’s, And so resolutely. He was shot. Your father ran out To cover a mistake. Yours, And so fatal. What is honor really? Is it the First Act? Taking up arms And living martially, Mistakes or no? You say it is him, Your soulless brother Wearing armor of his own. He says it is you, The soul-filled sister Carrying all her guilt. The third is an even longer work. This one detailing the meeting of Brier and Jame in the Star Wars AU and the beginning of their eventually incredibly tight sibling relationship. It's rocky. It's horrible. Brier hates Jame at first. Good shit. The exact details of it I still don't really have fleshed out, sadly. The feeling of it is the more important bit. She was met on the battlefield, The blood soaked streets Of some Outer Rim world At war with itself. Tall, dour, resolute, Wholly dedicated to the cause. For clan loyalties and him, If not for her own joy. You were there, An outsider with a job. A name and a face to claim, To buy your meals with blood. His name was the one, The leader of her clan, Cruel man and a revolutionary. Neither mattered to you. There were too many, Too many like her. Scattered family Clinging to hope and life. You shot it down Quite literally And she raged, The most of them all. The job done you could’ve left, Callously jumping offworld With a body bagged And credits to claim. You left lives in disarray though, Throwing more fuel in the fire, Stoking even greater hates And revealing dark plots. A warrior’s name was tarnished By the truth And a bolt to the brain, Courtesy of you. Strained ties led to mutiny, Murderously so against her Who was always faithful, Right to the very end. Her life was bought by your hand Just as it was ended by it, And she loathed you for this. Rightly so, you think. You bought another’s too, A few lives in fact, And for that she thanked you. For that, you stayed. Part of a war Which was never yours You fulfilled your obligation, Your debt to her. Still she hated you As you stood in the field Scorched and hopeless, So many you saved dead. The battle was won But at the cost of clan ties. The hardliners never approved of her, But she craved their trust. Foreigner or not wasn’t a concern Not to you, Nor should it have to them. That’s just tradition. So you extended a hand, A place to stay, The only recompense you had to give, And a cold comfort at that. But she took it, Not calling you sister just yet. Where else had she to run? She, the outcast, soulless and hated. That was the fate of the faithful Who kept to him truly. For he was a chief no longer, Just a villain in a blood war. It was your fate too, The destroyer of all, Family ties and lives, To pick her back up.
A total of eight poems were written today to get me to catch up with National Poetry Month. Had some very insistent dreams about writing poems so I knew that I had to today OR ELSE. The Morrígan is not subtle. She may seem so at times, but that's just you not getting how blunt she's being. Anyway. Poems. The first one is about how I feel after exercise. It is again practicing that three word per line meter that I'm so fond of recently. Three words and stark images are coming very naturally to me nowadays. For that I'm happy. I used to have to think harder on it. The pleasant ache Of flesh exerted Tightness and lightness With slight burning Lingering for hours Sometimes even days Unique from injury And from tiredness That pleasant ache This one is about people's reactions to Yooka Laylee. Namely the more negative sorts. I myself don't really mind the game's faults, and honestly I adore it. But there's a sort of WELL BANJO WASN'T THIS BAD to many of the negative comments on the game and, no, Banjo was exactly this bad. Or maybe not exactly, but Yooka Laylee for better or worse is a very accurate representation of Rare's N64 collectathons. We look to the past Overfondly and with joy Praising things we now fault. But was it ever so good? We turn back to the past Shocked and upset Finding only flaws we once ignored Marring what once was good. Perhaps we shouldn’t look back. This thing meanwhile are about dreaming about poems, in poems, or about the composition of poems. Which is a thing I do occasionally. Most of the time it's nothing and just dreaming. Occasionally I feel there is more to it and strive to recreate the dream poem because of my weird divination thing. Other times it's them jabbing at me and going "Write, you lazy piece of shit." Either way it's always very frustrating because I can't ever remember them all the way. Dream poems are frustrating. Lines upon lines Of fuzzy half remembered words Shared between you And the gods. Perhaps they are goadings More than poems. Infuriating reminders to work. Perhaps they are works themselves Speaking great truths. Tantalizing windows into reality. I hate dream poems either way. In this thing Aon loves having responsibilities but hates capitalism. Duties mustn’t be shirked No matter how small. The mundane in particular Which keep us afloat But which are so taxing. So many numbers! Dates, grades, bills and more Which pull us all down. Life without it seems pointless, Yet I wish it weren’t so fatal To shirk one’s duties. A short Kencyrath poem about what Tori finds sexy about his sister. The appeal is in what I lack. Her hardness, her coldness, That fierce lack of care, Brashly charging in And tearing apart to aid. All which I look to Saying with awe, “Now that’s strength,” While ignoring my own, Because the appeal is that which I lack. Another short Kencyrath poem. This one being about how the twins oftentimes share their dreams and have since they were kids. At times the boundaries between one twin and the other gets very blurry and I am just OBSESSED WITH WEIRD TWIN THINGS OK. Also Tori loves his sister and that terrifies him. News at 11. She has drifted on in Invading your dreams Or you hers, As you have both Since you were young. Images and thoughts colliding, A closeness of souls Which is hard to tell apart. Finding that she is you And you are her, Yet also neither is true. Terrifying notions all And the most frightening Is that you drifted on in. A short thing at the bottom of a page that was only like maybe however many lines this fucking thing is. I get so frustrated. With wasted space in my notebooks. I hate empty space Lines gone unused Spots where there could be But where there is not For it is so little I hate this space Aondeug's love poem about how she'd literally fuck books. Books Is there any greater joy? To see them lined up All in neat rows Carefully organized. Or perhaps stacked instead, Hastily created towers Tottering on the edge, But never toppling. Or just one on hand, Tucked away in a bag There for travel, Just a brief trip. New and immaculate Or torn and bent. Large and formidable, Or small and manageable. Books. Aondeug's love poem to how she'd fuck the oral tradition. We didn’t use to write Singing instead to air alone Carefully reciting to other Passing down line after line Never mutated And always verified We no longer sing Instead jotting down on paper Or pecking away on computer But we didn’t use to write All of these things are rather short. They also each have a dunad. The closings have just become a standard part of my poems at this period in time. It's honestly getting hard to write without instinctively going "Ok, now we have to bring it right back to where this began."
Guess what the fuck I did today. Gone, gone, gone Gone and over Offering no resistance Really there’s none Nothing to fight For it’s done Done and gone
Wrote two poems today because I didn't write one yesterday because I am a shitfuck. Anyway the count is now even god dammit. They both deal with Donn in some fashion. Donn being the king of the underworld who fathered all the Gaels. He was born a human and rose to godhood out of sheer fuckit. The first is what I view as being the ultimate end goal of my religion. Not simply having relationships with gods, but working my way to be like them and know what they know. This I view as a kind of duty to him. Like I have to live up to his legacy. The second meanwhile is a brief account of his story. The goal is simple. To rise to unseen heights, Those lofty realms Which They’ve traveled long. To gain unrivaled knowledge, Those tricksy secrets Which They’ve sung of long. To gain untold strength, Those fierce arms Which They’ve wielded long. That is the goal. -- Our Father is Dark, A stranger in his land Having traveled there Heading up, up north And over the seas. He was detested also, An upstart and a lush Who was struck down dead And buried at the seas. Our Father was Dark, But he refused. Refused to stay buried, Refused to lose, Refused to stay dead And he traveled again. This time down Digging deep, deep down Down into the earth Finding Their realm. Then it was he who struck, Killing his killer And taking for his own A home and a wife, And making for his own A title and a duty. King of the Dead, Protector of his children Who grants us all Each and every one room and board, For our Father is Dark.
Two today because I was at a friend's yesterday so I didn't write. I am exceptionally sad. Culture is found in little things. Words, food, clothes And pretty pictures too. There’s the depths though, Unknown to all outside And impenetrable to even you The ones with the blood: The Diaspora. Years and years have passed And your culture was dashed, Thrown to the floor Left and abandoned, hated. Only scraps were leftover And those are not nearly enough Even though culture is in little things. They hate you, the “native” majority, But those back “home” hate you too, Because you’re too alien And you never learned. Your skin and name mark you out, But you lack the little quirks And the views that shape how you see. You only have scraps And those can’t ever be enough Because culture is found is little things. -- Will you ever find it? The place where you belong, Accepted by all around you And treated as one of the group? You stand out too much, Being far too mixed. You never learned though, Not even your language. Neither of them want you. There’s the religion maybe, Even if you no longer follow it. Yet when you go the people ask “Why are you even here?” Because seven years is too little time, And you know there’s never enough of it, So you sit down and ask yourself Will you ever find it?
Another Tori poem because fuck my life this stupid shitty boy is me and I love him dearly: But you love her Is what you say As you argue away While never knowing with who. Surely it’s him, your father With his ever biting words That infest your very soul. But what if it’s you? You who recoils in disgust, And rants down the halls Seeking only her death Or absence otherwise. What if you’re the monster, Having been shaped by a demon And acting on your own. You are your father’s son And so you argue Not just with him But also with yourself, Saying those words Again and again, “But I love her.”
