sartorias: (Default)
The latest issue of the poetry magazine that intersects strongly with science fiction and fantasy, Stone Telling, is now out.

The issue is dedicated to QUILTBAG, so the poetry explores gender as well as the liminal borders of fantasy and philosphy, science and scientifictions. Tastes in poetry can be highly idiosyncratic, but I didn't think any failed, all had strengths. The one that stood out for me (and I mean really stood out) was "we come together, we fall apart" by Lisa M. Bradley.

Then, at the end, is this interview with the poets. Wow. The questions are exactly the right ones for each poet, the whole causing my head to resonate with ideas. I should have been at work hours ago, but I've spent the morning enthralled.
sartorias: (Default)
The latest issue of the poetry magazine that intersects strongly with science fiction and fantasy, Stone Telling, is now out.

The issue is dedicated to QUILTBAG, so the poetry explores gender as well as the liminal borders of fantasy and philosphy, science and scientifictions. Tastes in poetry can be highly idiosyncratic, but I didn't think any failed, all had strengths. The one that stood out for me (and I mean really stood out) was "we come together, we fall apart" by Lisa M. Bradley.

Then, at the end, is this interview with the poets. Wow. The questions are exactly the right ones for each poet, the whole causing my head to resonate with ideas. I should have been at work hours ago, but I've spent the morning enthralled.
sartorias: (Default)
The speculative poetry zine Stone Telling is trying to do a queer-themed issue, but is getting fewer subs than they expected, and so the editors are casting the net wider. Here are guidelines. If you've written speculative poetry that explores gender boundaries, give them a try.
sartorias: (Default)
The speculative poetry zine Stone Telling is trying to do a queer-themed issue, but is getting fewer subs than they expected, and so the editors are casting the net wider. Here are guidelines. If you've written speculative poetry that explores gender boundaries, give them a try.

11/11

Nov. 11th, 2011 12:42 pm
sartorias: (Default)
Secret Music

I keep such music in my brain
No din this side of death can quell;
Glory exulting over pain,
And beauty, garlanded in hell.

My dreaming spirit will not heed
The roar of guns that would destroy
My life that on the gloom can read
Proud-surging melodies of joy.

To the world's end I went, and found
Death in his carnival of glare;
But in my torment I was crowned,
And music dawned above despair.

--Siegfried Sassoon, The Old Huntsman and other poems

11/11

Nov. 11th, 2011 12:42 pm
sartorias: (Default)
Secret Music

I keep such music in my brain
No din this side of death can quell;
Glory exulting over pain,
And beauty, garlanded in hell.

My dreaming spirit will not heed
The roar of guns that would destroy
My life that on the gloom can read
Proud-surging melodies of joy.

To the world's end I went, and found
Death in his carnival of glare;
But in my torment I was crowned,
And music dawned above despair.

--Siegfried Sassoon, The Old Huntsman and other poems
sartorias: (Beauty)
Twelve years ago my dad died. I thought I'd post this poem by Boris Pasternak that [livejournal.com profile] seraphimsigrist shared a few days ago for Transfiguration Day:


August

As promised and without deception,
The sun passed through in early morning
In a slanting saffron stripe
From the curtain to the sofa.

It covered with burning ochre
The neighboring woods, village houses,
My bed, the wet pillow
And the strip of wall behind the bookshelf.

I remembered for what reason
The pillow was slightly damp.
I dreamed that you were coming to my wake,
One after another through the woods.

You were coming in a crowd, in ones and twos,
Suddenly, someone remembered that it was
August sixth by the old calendar,
The Transfiguration of Christ.

Usually, a light without fire
Pours this day from Mt. Tabor
And autumn, clear as an omen,
Compels the gaze of all.

And you walked through the scant, beggarly
Naked trembling alder grove
Into the ginger-red cemetery woods,
Burning like glazed ginger bread.

A solemn sky verged
Upon its silent heights,
And distance called out
In drawling rooster voices.

In the woods, among the gravestones
Death stood like a government surveyor,
Looking at my dead face
To dig my grave to measure.

All sensed the presence
Of someone's calm voice nearby.
It was my old prophetic voice
That rang, untouched by decay:

"Farewell to the azure of Transfiguration
And the gold of the Second coming.
Soothe the woe of my fatal hour
With a woman's parting caress.

Farewell to the trackless years!
Let's say goodbye, o, woman who hurls
A challenge to the abyss of humiliation.
I am your battlefield.

Farewell to you unfurled wing-span,
Free, persistent flight,
The world's image, captured in a word,
Creative work, and miracle-working.

The icon is a photo of a winter's day that [livejournal.com profile] royal_cobalt took.
sartorias: (Beauty)
Twelve years ago my dad died. I thought I'd post this poem by Boris Pasternak that [livejournal.com profile] seraphimsigrist shared a few days ago for Transfiguration Day:


August

As promised and without deception,
The sun passed through in early morning
In a slanting saffron stripe
From the curtain to the sofa.

It covered with burning ochre
The neighboring woods, village houses,
My bed, the wet pillow
And the strip of wall behind the bookshelf.

I remembered for what reason
The pillow was slightly damp.
I dreamed that you were coming to my wake,
One after another through the woods.

You were coming in a crowd, in ones and twos,
Suddenly, someone remembered that it was
August sixth by the old calendar,
The Transfiguration of Christ.

Usually, a light without fire
Pours this day from Mt. Tabor
And autumn, clear as an omen,
Compels the gaze of all.

And you walked through the scant, beggarly
Naked trembling alder grove
Into the ginger-red cemetery woods,
Burning like glazed ginger bread.

A solemn sky verged
Upon its silent heights,
And distance called out
In drawling rooster voices.

In the woods, among the gravestones
Death stood like a government surveyor,
Looking at my dead face
To dig my grave to measure.

All sensed the presence
Of someone's calm voice nearby.
It was my old prophetic voice
That rang, untouched by decay:

"Farewell to the azure of Transfiguration
And the gold of the Second coming.
Soothe the woe of my fatal hour
With a woman's parting caress.

Farewell to the trackless years!
Let's say goodbye, o, woman who hurls
A challenge to the abyss of humiliation.
I am your battlefield.

Farewell to you unfurled wing-span,
Free, persistent flight,
The world's image, captured in a word,
Creative work, and miracle-working.

The icon is a photo of a winter's day that [livejournal.com profile] royal_cobalt took.
sartorias: (Default)
So when the great word "Mother!" rang once more,
I saw at last its meaning and its place;
Not the blind passion of the brooding past,
But Mother - the World's Mother - come at last,
To love as she had never loved before -
To feed and guard and teach the human race.

- Charlotte Perkins Gilman
sartorias: (Default)
So when the great word "Mother!" rang once more,
I saw at last its meaning and its place;
Not the blind passion of the brooding past,
But Mother - the World's Mother - come at last,
To love as she had never loved before -
To feed and guard and teach the human race.

- Charlotte Perkins Gilman

Poetry

Jan. 22nd, 2009 09:16 am
sartorias: (Default)
There are so many fine poets on LiveJournal. But just in the past couple of days, a couple of poems really struck me, and I thought I'd link:

From [livejournal.com profile] asakiyume on dreams.

From [livejournal.com profile] shweta_narayan called Apsara.

Poetry

Jan. 22nd, 2009 09:16 am
sartorias: (Default)
There are so many fine poets on LiveJournal. But just in the past couple of days, a couple of poems really struck me, and I thought I'd link:

From [livejournal.com profile] asakiyume on dreams.

From [livejournal.com profile] shweta_narayan called Apsara.
sartorias: (Default)
and guardians and all the men who help to raise, guide, and teach the younger generation.

Here's a lovely bit from Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass:


On the beach at night,
Stands a child with her father,
Watching the east, the autumn sky.

Up through the darkness,
While ravening clouds, the burial clouds, in black masses spreading,
Lower sullen and fast athwart and down the sky,
Amid a transparent clear belt of ether yet left in the east,
Ascends large and calm the lord-star Jupiter,
And nigh at hand, only a very little above,
Swim the delicate sisters the Pleiades.

From the beach the child holding the hand of her father,
Those burial-clouds that lower victorious soon to devour all,
Watching, silently weeps.

Weep not, child,
Weep not, my darling,
With these kisses let me remove your tears,
The ravening clouds shall not long be victorious,
They shall not long possess the sky, they devour the stars only in apparition,
Jupiter shall emerge, be patient, watch again another night, the Pleiades shall emerge,
They are immortal, all those stars both silvery and golden shall shine out again,
The great stars and the little ones shall shine out again, they endure,
The vast immortal suns and the long-enduring pensive moons shall again shine.

Then dearest child mournest thou only for Jupiter?
Considerest thou alone the burial of the stars?

Something there is,
(With my lips soothing thee, adding I whisper,
I give thee the first suggestion, the problem and indirection,)
Something there is more immortal even than the stars,
(Many the burials, many the days and nights, passing away,)
Something that shall endure longer even than lustrous Jupiter
Longer than sun or any revolving satellite,
Or the radiant sisters the Pleiades.
sartorias: (Default)
and guardians and all the men who help to raise, guide, and teach the younger generation.

Here's a lovely bit from Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass:


On the beach at night,
Stands a child with her father,
Watching the east, the autumn sky.

Up through the darkness,
While ravening clouds, the burial clouds, in black masses spreading,
Lower sullen and fast athwart and down the sky,
Amid a transparent clear belt of ether yet left in the east,
Ascends large and calm the lord-star Jupiter,
And nigh at hand, only a very little above,
Swim the delicate sisters the Pleiades.

From the beach the child holding the hand of her father,
Those burial-clouds that lower victorious soon to devour all,
Watching, silently weeps.

Weep not, child,
Weep not, my darling,
With these kisses let me remove your tears,
The ravening clouds shall not long be victorious,
They shall not long possess the sky, they devour the stars only in apparition,
Jupiter shall emerge, be patient, watch again another night, the Pleiades shall emerge,
They are immortal, all those stars both silvery and golden shall shine out again,
The great stars and the little ones shall shine out again, they endure,
The vast immortal suns and the long-enduring pensive moons shall again shine.

Then dearest child mournest thou only for Jupiter?
Considerest thou alone the burial of the stars?

Something there is,
(With my lips soothing thee, adding I whisper,
I give thee the first suggestion, the problem and indirection,)
Something there is more immortal even than the stars,
(Many the burials, many the days and nights, passing away,)
Something that shall endure longer even than lustrous Jupiter
Longer than sun or any revolving satellite,
Or the radiant sisters the Pleiades.

May 2017

S M T W T F S
  1 23 4 5 6
78 91011 12 13
14 15 16 1718 19 20
21222324252627
28293031   

Syndicate

RSS Atom

Most Popular Tags

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags
Page generated May. 25th, 2017 12:43 pm
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios