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Poetry
May 24, 2013 13:39:09 GMT -6
Post by Ashen on May 24, 2013 13:39:09 GMT -6
Some of my favorites, will post personal poetry in a bit.. that takes more to go through. Amulet – Ted Hughes Inside the wolf’s fang, the mountain of heather. Inside the mountain of heather, the wolf’s fur. Inside the wolf’s fur, the ragged forest. Inside the ragged forest, the wolf’s foot. Inside the wolf’s foot, the stony horizon. Inside the stony horizon, the wolf’s tongue. Inside the wolf’s tongue, the doe’s tears. Inside the doe’s tears, the frozen swamp. Inside the frozen swamp, the wolf’s blood. Inside the wolf’s blood, the snow wind. Inside the snow wind, the wolf’s eye. Inside the wolf’s eye, the North star. Inside the North star, the wolf’s fang. The Law of the Jungle (From The Jungle Book) by Rudyard Kipling Now this is the Law of the Jungle -- as old and as true as the sky; And the Wolf that shall keep it may prosper, but the Wolf that shall break it must die. As the creeper that girdles the tree-trunk the Law runneth forward and back -- For the strength of the Pack is the Wolf, and the strength of the Wolf is the Pack. Wash daily from nose-tip to tail-tip; drink deeply, but never too deep; And remember the night is for hunting, and forget not the day is for sleep. The Jackal may follow the Tiger, but, Cub, when thy whiskers are grown, Remember the Wolf is a Hunter -- go forth and get food of thine own. Keep peace withe Lords of the Jungle -- the Tiger, the Panther, and Bear. And trouble not Hathi the Silent, and mock not the Boar in his lair. When Pack meets with Pack in the Jungle, and neither will go from the trail, Lie down till the leaders have spoken -- it may be fair words shall prevail. When ye fight with a Wolf of the Pack, ye must fight him alone and afar, Lest others take part in the quarrel, and the Pack be diminished by war. The Lair of the Wolf is his refuge, and where he has made him his home, Not even the Head Wolf may enter, not even the Council may come. The Lair of the Wolf is his refuge, but where he has digged it too plain, The Council shall send him a message, and so he shall change it again. If ye kill before midnight, be silent, and wake not the woods with your bay, Lest ye frighten the deer from the crop, and your brothers go empty away. Ye may kill for yourselves, and your mates, and your cubs as they need, and ye can; But kill not for pleasure of killing, and seven times never kill Man! If ye plunder his Kill from a weaker, devour not all in thy pride; Pack-Right is the right of the meanest; so leave him the head and the hide. The Kill of the Pack is the meat of the Pack. Ye must eat where it lies; And no one may carry away of that meat to his lair, or he dies. The Kill of the Wolf is the meat of the Wolf. He may do what he will; But, till he has given permission, the Pack may not eat of that Kill. Cub-Right is the right of the Yearling. From all of his Pack he may claim Full-gorge when the killer has eaten; and none may refuse him the same. Lair-Right is the right of the Mother. From all of her year she may claim One haunch of each kill for her litter, and none may deny her the same. Cave-Right is the right of the Father -- to hunt by himself for his own: He is freed of all calls to the Pack; he is judged by the Council alone. Because of his age and his cunning, because of his gripe and his paw, In all that the Law leaveth open, the word of your Head Wolf is Law. Now these are the Laws of the Jungle, and many and mighty are they; But the head and the hoof of the Law and the haunch and the hump is -- Obey!
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arcanusgreywolf
Howler
Official Timelord Werewolf of Bandit's Hideout.
Posts: 198
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Poetry
May 25, 2013 6:25:39 GMT -6
Post by arcanusgreywolf on May 25, 2013 6:25:39 GMT -6
Awesome. Thanks for the thread. I have most of my works on Deviant Art: arcanusgreywolf.deviantart.com/But I'll share a few of them here too now. The Shift When rage shows its angry head, When fresh meat to myself is fed. When I feel the Goddess' loving gift, These are the times that I feel the shift! My phantom ears and tail do grow My canine mannerisms begin to show. I feel my words begin to growl, And the uncontrollable urge to howl! Release the animal from its cage, Give in to the primal rage! Feel the animal that lies within, And know that you are kith and kin! Now I return to the realm of men, Becoming human yet again. But never forgetting what lies inside, The animal within. My therian pride! Arcanus Tempestas Greywolf 29 February, 2012
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arcanusgreywolf
Howler
Official Timelord Werewolf of Bandit's Hideout.
Posts: 198
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Poetry
May 25, 2013 6:28:56 GMT -6
Post by arcanusgreywolf on May 25, 2013 6:28:56 GMT -6
The Pledge to the Pack
I pledge my loyalty to my pack, Family and friends who have each others back! Through the bonds of integrity and trust, We shall uphold all that is just! And to those who would to us divide, Hunt without quarter! For they cannot hide! And should one of the the pack should ever fall, Carry them until once again they stand tall! For all is the pack, and the pack is the one. As we howl together to star, moon and sun!
Arcanus Tempestas Greywolf 17 August, 2011
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arcanusgreywolf
Howler
Official Timelord Werewolf of Bandit's Hideout.
Posts: 198
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Poetry
May 25, 2013 6:31:39 GMT -6
Post by arcanusgreywolf on May 25, 2013 6:31:39 GMT -6
The Hunters Hunted
The ones who hunt in peace and for life, Are now the hunted and feel now much strife. They only know the pains they face, And not the fact they are a hated race.
They know not of the human hate, And why they die at a faster rate. They only know of the evils of man, And try to survive the best that they can.
But what if one day they did see the light, And awaken to face their nightmarish fright? What if the circle was then made complete, And those who are hunted now stand on two feet?
Then the hunted shall be hunters once more, But perhaps this has all happened before? A race of wolves, but with a human guise. The hunters of Man! A Lupine surprise!
Arcanus Tempestas Greywolf 25 January 2013 (GRAWR! AWWRRROOOOOOOOO!)
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Poetry
May 25, 2013 23:30:28 GMT -6
Post by Ashen on May 25, 2013 23:30:28 GMT -6
Isle
I can hear them calling, To the stars. Howling for the pack. Crying for their mates. One has been calling to me. I long to go with them, But there's a wall of glass, Caging me in. Walls that I have built to keep people out. The pack is together now, They see me, watching them. They know what I am, They know that I am one of them. The glass is thinning, But I still can’t break it, Not alone. I lay down, curled up in a ball, And dream about; Running under the stars. The trees forming a pentagram, Underneath the moon, While the wind rushes through my fur. When I wake up, I find no glass, no pack, Only the forest and The warm air, In the sense of the Isle.
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Poetry
May 26, 2013 22:23:08 GMT -6
Post by Ashen on May 26, 2013 22:23:08 GMT -6
These are the poems that are pretty much how I got the names I go by on the net.
Phoenix Fires The flames surround me, Completely engulfing everything around me, But I’m not afraid, Not of this fire of grey flames with blue edging. The fire is me, so the flames can’t touch me, only surround me, But the flames can still burn, That, is inevitable. Even though, I will burn and rise above the flame, Seeing and learning, Only to come back and burn once more. My eyes are the only key to this, To look hard enough one can see the silver with blue dancing within, But if one gets too close they too will be burned or… Protected. For this fire is a fire of my soul, Hidden but still there, Sometimes it gets smothered and almost goes out, Almost dies but one spark always remains. But there is a second fire, A fire that I had when I was little, One I had forgotten, One I don’t understand or know, Even where it’s first spark came from, It is still there though sometimes I almost wish it wasn’t, But it is a part of me, a part I have to learn, A part that if it were to be gone, I would not be me. So I live in and surrounded by these two fires, Knowing they with the others, Are always there, making me, and burning me. At the same time creating me, allowing me, Too rise above flames, Allowing me to see the fires in us all, Within the hidden Phoenix.
Dark Phoenix
Over time the pain slowly softens, Calming the waves of boulders, Even though the memories of my mind Seem untouchable, Even by me. Only the knife is clear, The dagger of darkness once my own, Given back to darkness, To be controlled by another. One who was, And always will be my heart’s creator. Within the darkness of silver light, The Depths held another spirit, Until, Tormented and tried, The depths released the one called I. The silver light is not found, But the memory remains, And that is enough to push the storm. With a flash, thunder breaks, Sending the walls to start crumbling, A sound so loud it cannot be heard, Not by any mortal ear. But is felt in the deep recesses, Of the souls of the damned, And in the soul of one, The truth of her spirit, Comes to surface, In the Ashen aura of the black phoenix.
Duty of Passion
Enter the forest, And meet the Dweller, For she who resides in these forests, Abides not by the laws of mortal man, But by the laws of old. And until that time, Such as the end, She follows only the reaper’s wish. Feeding the fire of passion, And fueling the fervor of the desolate. At the heart of darkness, The forest dweller sits on her dais, With a crude smile upon her lips, As she gently plays with kismet, Calmly waiting for the reapers next decision. For it is she that will come to your door, It is her unique expression, That will be the last that you will see. And so, if you learn nothing else, Remember this, When you enter these lands, And you hear the cry of the raven, It is only the forest Dweller, Carrying out her duty, With all the ecstasy and affection of the cosmos, For the Reaper’s desire is her duty, And she is one, Who loves her role.
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Poetry
May 26, 2013 22:24:01 GMT -6
Post by Ashen on May 26, 2013 22:24:01 GMT -6
And Poems I wrote for Soma
Candles
Stories never told, And sights lay unseen. Images swimming within cool waters, And thoughts lay unbidden in darkness, And yet as I watch these candles play upon his face, I can’t help but fall susceptible, To this waterfall of emotions. Not a sound is made, Other than his breathing, And the candles flickering in the breeze, But within this silence, A cool fire grows within me, An answer to all those unasked questions, And a reply to the call, That I have felt for so long. Memories of a love long ago, Fill my mind, While visions of a renewed passion, Merge with the memories. To see these candles play upon his body, And the feel of this cold fire, My answer will always be, As it has been. Before all the World, Kadreshi, I am thine, My Beautiful Fox.
Two Breeds
On a summit cliff, A full moon illuminates, The stars, as they alone, Are the only witnesses, To this unspoken promise. And as the northern lights, Gently play on a campfire’s ashes, A cool breeze stirs a raven’s feathers, As he flies overhead. And to his surprise, Catches sight, Of a fox and a wolf, As they lay tightly curled together. But to the stars, It is just a human pair, But strong is their love, For even the stars in their depths, Can feel the immensity of their soul. Two breeds joined as one. Their faces reflected in the Star’s Mirror, And their souls seen in each other. And thus, Under these sands, Before the stars and the depths, These two breeds are joined. The Fox and the Wolf, Together for all eternity.
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arcanusgreywolf
Howler
Official Timelord Werewolf of Bandit's Hideout.
Posts: 198
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Poetry
Jun 3, 2013 7:30:41 GMT -6
Post by arcanusgreywolf on Jun 3, 2013 7:30:41 GMT -6
Ashen, these are fantastic! I love the use of free verse. You do have a passion you so well put into words of the wild nature and spirit.
When I was younger I would use free verse, over time I got fond of the quatrain. My older works are from a time when I first got into the craft, and also met my love. They can be a bit idealistic. Here are a few from that era:
Two Wolves
Two wolves alone in the dark one old and wise the other young and eager both appart. The old wolf sniffed the air, and then he heard the howl of the younger as he listened, he felt the young one becon to him calling, yearning the old one thought long and hard Who is this who calls me? He could feel her wanting, her loneliness for he too was alone on his hilltop the old one was wise he returned the howl. Two wolves together Their howling a song in the night.
21 April, 1997
The Moon
The moon is our mother sing to her songs of joy Let her know that you lover her Howl under her sky! Feel the moon-rays and feel her might for that is her love as she blesses the night!
also 21 April, 1997
The Coming Storm
There is a storm brewing. A storm brought about by fear, intolerance, prejudice, denial. A storm brought about by imbalance. For far too long has the storm churned, brewing, festering, waiting to strike. The time is now my brethren, prepare! The storm shall come to us all. It is the storm of Imbalance, and we are at war. The storm is the war, the struggle, the War of Imbalance. It is we the wise, who shall take up arms and calm this storm. To heal our world, to restore the calm, the calm of Balance. Let us not forget the Burning times. Never forget, never again. Balance must be restored. The storm must be calmed, and the time is now.
23 January, 1997
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arcanusgreywolf
Howler
Official Timelord Werewolf of Bandit's Hideout.
Posts: 198
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Poetry
Jun 17, 2013 5:32:15 GMT -6
Post by arcanusgreywolf on Jun 17, 2013 5:32:15 GMT -6
And now we delve into my dark side. These are from a time when I was very dark, almost depressed. I was also working in retail. I warn ahead of time that these are quite powerful and perhaps a bit angry and hateful. But that was how I was feeling in those days.
These are all from 30 January 2008
The Enemy
The Enemy is a crafty bitch, Always changing with the tide. She sends to me a problem, which Will twist and turn, then hide. And when I have conquered this, She'll send another yet. Still again will she yet tease, Another foe to be met. How long must I continue To do this little dance? My energy drained, I must renew To even stand a chance. I grow weary of this little game Of war, and fights and strife. All I wish is to remain sane And lead a normal life. But the enemy, yet keeps me in check And keeps me from my goal. Making my life a living "heck" And so, it darkens my soul...
To My Enemies
You cannot hurt me. You cannot destroy me. Nor get rid of me. I have faced far worse than you. I have faced the hounds of hell. I have been one of those hounds. I am the Fenris Wolf. I am the Fury of the Tempest. I am a god made flesh. You are nothing to me. I am a master of the Four Winds. I am a seer of man's fate. My dreams are both great and terrible. No mortal should have to see what I see. No man should need do what I have done. For I have seen the true face of evil. And I have become that face. I have destroyed men and forces greater than you. And I have destroyed lesser beings than you. Oh yes, I have paid the price. And I'd pay it again. Now you come and threaten me? To me you are but a fly. And so I will swat you as such, But I will not let you die.
Therian Dreams
When I lie in my bed And drift from this world I feel free again I become the hero I become more than a man For I am the wolf Ears to hear the slightest whisper. Nose to pick up the scent. Eyes to see the terrified prey Claws and teeth to kill. Fur to keep me warm and dry Against the winter's chill. Paws to run like the wind From meadow to mountain and hill. I protect my charges from man's cruelty And destroy my enemies with fear. And then I wake up from my dream In sorrow, for I am man once more
Wal-Mart
I came to you in desperation. After all other options have failed. You took me and trained me Made me one of your own. You were everything I despised About the human world. But for four years I endured Because it was needed. I bore your pain, passed your tests Time and time again And once I was done with one of you, I had to start over again. I worked my hardest to please you And the human waste you serve. Always keeping my true self at bay For a man, not wolf, can work amongst men. All I received for my efforts and your abuse. Was my needed survival A cage of requirement, yet still a cage. I say to you no more, for 'tis time To leave this prison I know I am better than this. But if there is one thing I can thank you for That would be my strength.
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Poetry
Mar 9, 2014 15:53:15 GMT -6
Post by nightwolf on Mar 9, 2014 15:53:15 GMT -6
step by step before the eye's unseen, I look within to try to find what once burdened me, yet to find what seek, I come to find that this burden I seek is not what it once was, for carry a burden as a feather and the burden shall lift away, however carry this burden as world and you shall be crushed, burden is to what it is made not to what it is
each carry a burden and each may over come it
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Poetry
Mar 12, 2014 8:37:36 GMT -6
Post by bartholomew on Mar 12, 2014 8:37:36 GMT -6
This is an older one, and I'm not entirely satisfied with the meter, but it has it's charms.
Victories
Trickster calls us, "Laugh, Laugh until you cry. On the day you cannot laugh You first begin to die."
But we will not heed What he has to say. Mortal men have mortal fears, And grief paints all things grey.
Yet, above that grief, Suffering and fear, I hear the Trickster laughing, I feel him standing near.
"Laugh, my children, laugh! Dance, and mock your pain! Every day's a victory won, Another broken chain."
Now I face the dawn, Greet the morning sun. Grieve a moment for the past, Then go and join the fun.
Bartholomew Shadowalker 12 October 2002
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Poetry
Mar 12, 2014 8:52:18 GMT -6
Post by bartholomew on Mar 12, 2014 8:52:18 GMT -6
The Only Son Enlarged from "Many Inventions" -Rudyard Kipling
She dropped the bar, she shot the bolt, she fed the fire anew For she heard a whimper under the sill and a great grey paw came through. The fresh flame comforted the hut and shone on the roof-beam, And the Only Son lay down again and dreamed that he dreamed a dream. The last ash fell from the withered log with the click of a falling spark, And the Only Son woke up again, and called across the dark:-- "Now was I born of womankind and laid in a mother's breast? For I have dreamed of a shaggy hide whereon I went to rest. And was I born of womankind and laid on a father's arm? For I have dreamed of clashing teeth that guarded me from harm.
And was I born an Only Son and did I play alone? For I have dreamed of comrades twain that bit me to the bone. And did I break the barley-cake and steep it in the tyre? For I have dreamed of a youngling kid new-riven from the byre: For I have dreamed of a midnight sky and a midnight call to blood And red-mouthed shadows racing by, that thrust me from my food. 'Tis an hour yet and an hour yet to the rising of the moon, But I can see the black roof-tree as plain as it were noon. 'Tis a league and a league to the Lena Falls where the trooping blackbuck go; But I can hear the little fawn that bleats behind the doe.
'Tis a league and a league to the Lena Falls where the crop and the upland meet, But I Can smell the wet dawn-wind that wakes the sprouting wheat. Unbar the door. I may not bide, but I must out and see If those are wolves that wait outside or my own kin to me!" . . . . . She loosed the bar, she slid the bolt, she opened the door anon, And a grey bitch-wolf came out of the dark and fawned on the Only Son!
Kipling'sonly werewolf poem.
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Poetry
Mar 12, 2014 18:07:11 GMT -6
Post by wolfvanzandt on Mar 12, 2014 18:07:11 GMT -6
A song and a poem cycle from the Timeline.
Werewolf Anthem
by Wolf VanZandt
I have brothers and sisters who Range over this wide land. I may never know them but I hear their song on the wind.
So a song for the Wolves of the forest, A song for the Wolves of the town, A song for all Weres and I'll sing you, oh, A song for my Weres all around.
Remember the heroes of old time, Your hearts and theirs are the same, For you are their sons and their daughters, So let's sing a round to their fame.
So a song for the Wolves of the forest, A song for the Wolves of the town, A song for all Weres and I'll sing you, oh, A song for my Weres all around.
(2007. Intended for public domain.)
The Werewolf (Confessions and Dreams of a Functional Werewolf) by Wolf VanZandt
I. The Werewolf II. The Werewolf and the World III. Life IV. Wolfmoon Past V. Wolfmoon Present VI. A Song - The Werewolf VII. Man VIII. God IX. The Werewolf on the Latter Days X. Death
Copyright: January 16, 1977 by Wolf VanZandt
I. Across a quiet Lykaonian lake My mind dwells Long divorced from man's side I run some track And the drive of cool hills And rabbit haunted dells Break my wolf mind from its year's wanderings In man states. Some new excitement falls From Stygian skies And fills the air With burnt metal smells And as the dark, companion shadows rise I take the scent and see the bright eyes Of new mates. The world is new And in newness bathes itself And I am caught in the flood, And flounder there, Until I feel nature in myself And I see the world anew And hold it to my breast. I fade into what is and was And I know must be One - a wolf - all wolves, All night and the universe And I feel myself around me As I stand high, my bitch near, pack enclosed, On the world's crest. II Those who do not believe In spirits or Vampires Regard no tragedy in this mind of mine. To them.... Suffice it that shades Of Greek funereal pyres And I do not exist in space or time. And full moon folklore shines on man's world, A synthetic reality full of synthetic laws, A mental darkness like bat wings unfurled, Where men cling to their logical flaws. At night I howl But how is it that I howl at night (an idiosyncrasy, some would say.) At images that could only be dreamed By the wolf or the hound at bay? And Oh Night! How I Howl! III I howl! Oh God I howl! And the howl goes up to sprout wings. Can I fly? I fly, it must be. And those dreams, what are they? Of the lair and of the lair mate, Of shadowed valleys, blood red sunsets, Of a kindly/heartless fate, And sometimes, the terror that it brings. I see the red as it runs warm, slick Dripping fast from my food. I eat yet the horror makes me sick. Can it be that man remains in me? The deer. But it was good, new strength fills me. The deer loves me as I loved it. It loved me to die so that I might feed. I love it to live and give it -- meaning. --
Horror? Oh -- there is no horror! It all dissolves so easily. So completely it goes -- so -- warm -- I feel, Ah, love, with you in my arms. Warm, sweet, fur -- love -- in my arms.
IV But there is horror -- I cannot forget it. Why have you killed my kind, until there are no more? I am counted as dead, I must surely taste the fire. Can't you see that I love life just as you? -- Listen to my song of woe, Of times long past yet times to come. Linger in peace though you call me foe Until darkness bids you return home. A man called Lupus once swam the lake. His friend Wolf watched him go. He watched him swim, he watched him die In the Inquisitor's hot death fire's flow. Wolf's name became demon, witch, beast. Man's hatred bloomed within his breast And as he swam across the lake's breadth His name soon became Death. Wolf's son was Fear, he hid from life. His blood was hidden to save his life. He feared his name and Wolf's vanity, And soon Fear's name was Insanity. I am Fear's son; I swim the lake. I have no friend to watch me go. But now the fire is cold -- indifference. And thus my name is.... V When I die, I'll die the proud death. To this I will commit myself And graciously I will concede My body to the earth. I will not fear death. But as I live on this earth I will neither fear life. And will search it for it's best And live to my extent. On the low plains with the wild and free On the high plains with my God. By this I will live my life Until death sets me free. VI A Song You loved me then; is it all so different now? Or could it hurt you as much as it hurt me then? I have my she wolves; and who do you have now On this night of the yellow wolf moon? I'd stay with you and leave my home in the woods And you would never fear the dark'ning night But you have seen me in the full gorged pack And now you turn away into the shadows back to man's light. But when you see the moon rising full -- remember me. And when you hear the song on the wind -- remember me. Oh, if you love me just a little Just say a prayer as you go Because I'm alone, I'm so alone. VII Cousin, I stand outside and look in, I see your pain, But there is nothing I can do For I am beast and you are man. VIII
Who am I that God should see, And, if He saw would He set me free, Or am I considered Beast and foe? I fear that I may never know.
I am assured time and again That the Almighty cannot but restrain His wrath and forgive the very obvious -- That I am man and beast.
IX I smell a demon wind Rise and blow the world around And feel the whole universe Shaken by a foreign sound Of far off war, yet not too far (Discourse of Death to Famine) And those not dead to those who are. The song of Beast and Whore. As my dark counterpart grows The world in awe-struck tension stands. I hope for rapture, silent flows Beyond the demon windswept strands. My wolf mind swept by nagging doubt. Can man or wolf escape the dread Advent of the deadly rout? But even less a lycanthrope Can hope to sidestep death. X My trail, the sweet trail, lead to him (or her, I could not tell) And he stood close to me as I fell. And here I lay remembering -- Remembering living life. The age, the horrible age, comes and my age must end And the dark one bids me come. Dark as the night he strides Striding darkly to me. I do not fear you dark, dark one, who is old as I am old. You smile and touch me and your smile is love. You love with your smile. And I smile.
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Poetry
Mar 25, 2014 9:39:48 GMT -6
Post by bartholomew on Mar 25, 2014 9:39:48 GMT -6
Instructions by Neil Gaiman
Touch the wooden gate in the wall you never
saw before.
Say "please" before you open the latch,
go through,
walk down the path.
A red metal imp hangs from the green-painted
front door,
as a knocker,
do not touch it; it will bite your fingers.
Walk through the house. Take nothing. Eat
nothing.
However, if any creature tells you that it hungers,
feed it.
If it tells you that it is dirty,
clean it.
If it cries to you that it hurts,
if you can,
ease its pain.
From the back garden you will be able to see the
wild wood.
The deep well you walk past leads to Winter's
realm;
there is another land at the bottom of it.
If you turn around here,
you can walk back, safely;
you will lose no face. I will think no less of you.
Once through the garden you will be in the
wood.
The trees are old. Eyes peer from the under-
growth.
Beneath a twisted oak sits an old woman. She
may ask for something;
give it to her. She
will point the way to the castle.
Inside it are three princesses.
Do not trust the youngest. Walk on.
In the clearing beyond the castle the twelve
months sit about a fire,
warming their feet, exchanging tales.
They may do favors for you, if you are polite.
You may pick strawberries in December's frost.
Trust the wolves, but do not tell them where
you are going.
The river can be crossed by the ferry. The ferry-
man will take you.
(The answer to his question is this:
If he hands the oar to his passenger, he will be free to
leave the boat.
Only tell him this from a safe distance.)
If an eagle gives you a feather, keep it safe.
Remember: that giants sleep too soundly; that
witches are often betrayed by their appetites;
dragons have one soft spot, somewhere, always;
hearts can be well-hidden,
and you betray them with your tongue.
Do not be jealous of your sister.
Know that diamonds and roses
are as uncomfortable when they tumble from
one's lips as toads and frogs:
colder, too, and sharper, and they cut.
Remember your name.
Do not lose hope — what you seek will be found.
Trust ghosts. Trust those that you have helped
to help you in their turn.
Trust dreams.
Trust your heart, and trust your story.
When you come back, return the way you came.
Favors will be returned, debts will be repaid.
Do not forget your manners.
Do not look back.
Ride the wise eagle (you shall not fall).
Ride the silver fish (you will not drown).
Ride the grey wolf (hold tightly to his fur).
There is a worm at the heart of the tower; that is
why it will not stand.
When you reach the little house, the place your
journey started,
you will recognize it, although it will seem
much smaller than you remember.
Walk up the path, and through the garden gate
you never saw before but once.
And then go home. Or make a home.
And rest.
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Poetry
Mar 25, 2014 9:47:03 GMT -6
Post by bartholomew on Mar 25, 2014 9:47:03 GMT -6
"Wolf" by Carina Bissett
I'll never forget the first moment I saw you
flying across field and fallow
in a wild ride to grandmother's house —
scarlet cape streaming out behind you,
white hands urging that black steed
to madness, to death, to certain ruin.
Like one of the furies you appeared,
a creature not of this tame green place
but of my land,
where the lamia creep in crags and caves
and the bogey haunt misty borderlands.
A country where ghouls devour the sun
and the whirlwind stirs the fog on a whim.
I watched and waited.
And when I realized nothing pursued you,
not a demon's furious hunt or a spurned lover.
I smiled
and followed quietly on the forest fringe.
And now as the darkness approaches,
my appetite whetted by the rising moon,
ravenous thoughts consuming me,
forcing me to madness at the lush pain of it all
I raise my voice to the stars
and surrender.
I can't stand the fierce seduction a moment more —
that thick, dark pelt of sable hair and scarlet hood
hiding the heat of your throbbing pulse
from my ears, eyes and mouth.
I can't bear the torment, the bliss,
the fear of your savage secrets.
I love you so.
I'll gobble you up.
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