redbrunja: (iron man | assassin)
Saturday, April 5th, 2014 08:35 pm
I like poetry but I don't ever really seek out poetry, so I really appreciate it when people post it on tumblr and such. In that vein, each year, [ profile] musesfool posts a poem a day for national poetry month, and this was my favorite so far:

There is no going back ~Wendell Berry

No, no, there is no going back.
Less and less you are
that possibility you were.
More and more you have become
those lives and deaths
that have belonged to you.

You have become a sort of grave
containing much that was
and is no more in time, beloved
then, now, and always.
And so you have become a sort of tree
standing over a grave.

Now more than ever you can be
generous toward each day
that comes, young, to disappear
forever, and yet remain
unaging in the mind.

Every day you have less reason
not to give yourself away.
redbrunja: (iron man | assassin)
Tuesday, October 1st, 2013 02:49 am
“You silly little girl, you think you’ve survived so long that survival shouldn’t hurt anymore. You keep trying to turn your body bullet proof. You keep trying to turn your heart into a bomb shelter. You silly thing. You are soft and alive. You bruise and heal. Cherish it. It is what you are born to do.”

— Clementine von Radics
redbrunja: (stock | kink)
Sunday, September 8th, 2013 01:06 am
This poem is so getting used for prompts the next time that there's a fanfiction comment meme running around. Provided I can figure out who it works best for.

I. I was the first person to teach you that love was not always a white light to a ship lost at sea.

II. On my worst days, the sky was a festering wound that wouldn’t heal. I didn’t want to be that to you.

III. On my worst days, you were the only word I could say without clenching my fists.

IV. I really did love you, I just couldn’t claw my way out of the ground to do it properly.

V. None of this was your fault.

VI. I’m sorry I was your lighthouse. I’m sorry you couldn’t see the wall of rocks on my shore.

redbrunja: (the avengers | the appearance of things)
Friday, September 6th, 2013 12:26 am
“Everything about my heart is a crime scene.
I drink to forget things it takes me 2 beers to name.
I pour my breath into things only worth forgetting.
I have nothing left to say to the ghosts.
Their cold hands and bitter mouths keep kissing me awake
when I have asked them nicely and then not-so-nicely
to be left alone.
I have nothing left to say to the ghosts.
Two decades full of nothing but monsters and crime scenes
and sometimes I am the monster and sometimes
I am the crime scene. There is nothing I would undo
so much as things I wish would wake up forgotten.”

–Clementine von Radics

#natasha romanoff #jason todd #cassel sharpe #faith lehane #wesley wyndham pryce #jesse flores #james barnes 
redbrunja: (alias | spy!rents)
Saturday, August 17th, 2013 02:18 pm
[ profile] qualapec emailed me a couple poems from Becoming The Villainess, which were totally awesome. I forwarded them to my mom, who reminded me that she’d bought me that volume for a Christmas a couple years ago, which I had totally forgotten. I went to try and find it, and no dice. I have a horrible feeling that I passed that along when I was downsizing books so they would all fit in my apartment. (They don’t, I need another bookshelf.)

I’m totally kicking myself.

Anyway, have some poems about badass ladies:

Read more... )
redbrunja: (tw | i live my life by the moon)
Tuesday, April 30th, 2013 10:26 pm
by Aimee Nezhukumatathil

She's been warned not to sleep with moonlight
on her face or she will be taken from her house.

She wears eel-skin to protect herself. She tilts
her face to the night sky when no one is looking.
During the eclipse, eels bubble in their dark

and secret caves. Toads frenzy in pastures
just outside of town, surrounding the dumb cows

in a wet mess of croak and sizzle. Years later,
she would touch the hand of a green-eyed man
by the weird light. Because of him, she plants

a moon garden: freesia, snowdrops, fothergilla,
bugbane. She is a runner-bean, stretching best

and brilliant in this light. Their child is moon-faced.
She is crazy about them. She is lunatic. She
is taken. She is a hymn book flipped open.
redbrunja: (once | come to burn your kingdom down)
Saturday, April 27th, 2013 01:04 am
That morning you woke up alone,
small in your empty Brooklyn bed,
forgotten, left behind, my heart
fanned its darkest smile. You,

who had been so cruel, now wearing
your paper dress, your sloppy drunk,
your careful parade of I'm over it,
your wither, your ice, your sneer.

The new woman was a laugher,
all ditz and curl, but enough for him
to leave. Though you would be the one
who'd move, claim to be better off

without. Perhaps it was this brashness,
this faux resilience, that had me hold
tight as leather, riding your bucking
heart break, as guiltless and flashy

as a weekend cowboy, savoring
each crack with an eager pinkie.
I clung to it like bad voodoo,
like a perfect and deserved hex,

watching your gaunt striving,
your cheek turning, your nose
rubbed in it, the other woman
laughing at the end of the bar.

When curiosity finally made me
take my boot off your throat,
it was then I noticed you weren't
moving. Sober like a face slap,

obvious as the morning after,
I saw you for what you are:
a woman, cruel and imperfect,
a fighter who tried everything

to protect her one and only heart,
how it didn't matter, it was torn
fresh from its root anyway, with
me, standing by, silent, leering.

Lilith ~Cristin O'Keefe Aptowicz

Three guesses as to who this poem reminds me of, and the first two don't count.
redbrunja: (stock | poignant)
Friday, April 26th, 2013 05:59 am
Obedience, or The Lying Tale
Jennifer Chang

I will do everything you tell me, Mother.
I will charm three gold hairs
from the demon's head.
I will choke the mouse that gnaws
an apple tree's roots and keep its skin
for a glove. To the wolf, I will be
pretty and kind and curtsy
his crossing of my path.

The forest, vocal
even in its somber tread, rages.
A slope ends in a pit of foxes
drunk on rotten brambles of berries
and the raccoons ransack
a rabbit's unmasked hole.
What do they find but a winter's heap
of droppings? A stolen nest, the cracked shell

of another creature's child.
I imagine this is the rabbit way
and I will not stray, Mother,
into the forest's thick,
where the trees meet the dark,
though I have known misgivings
of light as a hot hand that flickers
against my neck. The path ends

at a river I must cross. I will wait
for the ferryman
to motion me through. Into the waves
he etches with his oar
a new story: a silent girl runs away,
a silent girl is never safe.
I will take his oar in my hand. I will learn
the boat's rocking and bring myself back

and forth. To be good
is the hurricane of caution.
I will know indecision's rowing,
the water I lap into my lap
as he shakes his withered head.
Behind me is the forest. Before me
the field, a loose run of grass. I stay
in the river, Mother, I study escape.
redbrunja: (comics | no brand hero)
Saturday, April 20th, 2013 06:07 am
A Working List of Things I Will Never Tell You
by Jon Sands

When I said I wasn't with another girl
the January after we fell in love for the 3rd time,
it's because it wasn't actual sex.

In the February that began our radio silence,
it was actual sex. I hate the tight shirts
that go below your waistline.

Not only do they make you look too young,
but then your torso is a giraffe's neck attached to tiny legs.
I screamed at myself in the subway

for writing poems about you still.
I made a scene. I think about you almost
each morning, and roughly every five days, I still

believe you're there.
I still masturbate to you.
When we got really bad,

I would put another coat of mop water on the floor of the bar
to make sure you were asleep when I got to my side of the bed.
You are the only person to whom I've lied, knowing

I was telling the truth. I miss the way your neck
wraps around my face like a cave we are both lost in.
I remember when you said being with me

is like being alone with company.
My friend Sarah wrote a poem about pink ponies.
I'm scared you're my pink pony.

Hers is dead. It is really sad. You're not dead.
You live in Ohio, or Washington, or Wherever.
You are a shadow my body leaves on other girls.

I have a growing queue of things I know
will make you laugh and I don't know where to put them.
I mourn like you're dead. If you had asked me to stay,

I would not have said no.
It would never mean yes.

~I don't even know how I feel about this poem. So I thought I'd share.
redbrunja: (tw | lion-hearted girl)
Wednesday, April 17th, 2013 11:43 pm
Since April is National Poetry Month, I figured this would be a good time to throw myself on my flist’s mercy and see if you can help me find a poem.

I don’t remember the specifics of the poem so much as my professor’s analysis of it. There was section where the narrator was talking about herself and a female friend flirting with a cute boy in a bar and the narrator’s friend took the boy home, the two of them taking a cab in the rain. My professor told me that the cute boy was death (specifically, committing suicide) and the poem was written by a friend of Sylvia Plath’s after Plath’s suicide.

Any suggestions?
redbrunja: (comics | i learned love from sacrifice)
Saturday, April 6th, 2013 09:43 pm
This Is Not an Elegy
by Catherine Pierce

At sixteen, I was illegal and brilliant,
my fingernails chewed to half-moons.
I took off my clothes in a late March
field. I had secret car wrecks,
secret hysteria. I opened my mouth
to swallow stars. In backseats
I learned the alchemy of guilt, lust,
and distance. I was unformed and total.
I swore like a sailor. But slowly the cops
stopped coming around. The heat lifted
its palms. The radio lost some teeth.

Now I see the landscape behind me
as through a Claude glass—
tinted deeper, framed just so, bits
of gilt edging the best parts.
I see my unlined face, a thousand
film stars behind the eyes. I was
every murderess, every whip-
thin alcoholic, every heroine
with the silver tongue. Always young
Paul Newman's best girl. Always
a lightning sky behind each kiss.

Some days I watch myself
in the third person, speak to her
in the second. I say: I will
meet you in sleep. I will know you
by your stillness and your shaking.
By your second-hand gown.
By your bruises left by mouths
since forgotten. This is not
an elegy because I cannot bear
for it to be. It is only a tree branch
against the window. It is only a cherry
tomato slowly reddening in the garden.
I will put it in my mouth. It will
be sweet, and you will swallow.
redbrunja: (tw | fallen princess)
Wednesday, March 20th, 2013 01:48 am
Antilamentation by Dorianne Laux.

Regret nothing. Not the cruel novels you read
to the end just to find out who killed the cook.
Not the insipid movies that made you cry in the dark,
in spite of your intelligence, your sophistication.
Not the lover you left quivering in a hotel parking lot,
the one you beat to the punchline, the door, or the one
who left you in your red dress and shoes, the ones
that crimped your toes, don't regret those.
Not the nights you called god names and cursed
your mother, sunk like a dog in the livingroom couch,
chewing your nails and crushed by loneliness.
You were meant to inhale those smoky nights
over a bottle of flat beer, to sweep stuck onion rings
across the dirty restaurant floor, to wear the frayed
coat with its loose buttons, its pockets full of struck matches.
You've walked those streets a thousand times and still
you end up here. Regret none of it, not one
of the wasted days you wanted to know nothing,
when the lights from the carnival rides
were the only stars you believed in, loving them
for their uselessness, not wanting to be saved.
You've traveled this far on the back of every mistake,
ridden in dark-eyed and morose but calm as a house
after the TV set has been pitched out the upstairs
window. Harmless as a broken ax. Emptied
of expectation. Relax. Don't bother remembering
any of it. Let's stop here, under the lit sign
on the corner, and watch all the people walk by.
redbrunja: (stock | well traveled)
Wednesday, July 25th, 2012 01:23 am

This is a multi-fandom comment meme using poetry as prompts.


I already have SO many things that I want to write and I'm not even done prompting.

(On the subject of prompts, Avengers and Rookie Blue prompts appreciated.)

Also, I had not discovered Richard Siken (although I'd bumped into his work) until tonight.

redbrunja: (once upon a time | madam mayor)
Thursday, May 17th, 2012 02:18 am
I discovered this poem via musesfool, who related it to Natasha (valid). To me, it brought to mind Tremaine Valiarde and Regina Mills. Basically, this is a poem for emotionally damaged ladies.

by Mary Oliver

Some kind of relaxed and beautiful thing
kept flickering in with the tide
and looking around.
Black as a fisherman's boot,
with a white belly.

If you asked for a picture I would have to draw a smile
under the perfectly round eyes and above the chin,
which was rough
as a thousand sharpened nails.

And you know
what a smile means,
don't you?


I wanted the past to go away, I wanted
to leave it, like another country; I wanted
my life to close, and open
like a hinge, like a wing, like the part of the song
where it falls
down over the rocks: an explosion, a discovery;
I wanted
to hurry into the work of my life; I wanted to know,

whoever I was, I was

for a little while.


It was evening, and no longer summer.
Three small fish, I don't know what they were,
huddled in the highest ripples
as it came swimming in again, effortless, the whole body
one gesture, one black sleeve
that could fit easily around
the bodies of three small fish.


Also I wanted
to be able to love. And we all know
how that one goes,
don't we?



the dogfish tore open the soft basins of water.


You don't want to hear the story
of my life, and anyway
I don't want to tell it, I want to listen

to the enormous waterfalls of the sun.

And anyway it's the same old story – - -
a few people just trying,
one way or another,
to survive.

Mostly, I want to be kind.
And nobody, of course, is kind,
or mean,
for a simple reason.

And nobody gets out of it, having to
swim through the fires to stay in
this world.


And look! look! look! I think those little fish
better wake up and dash themselves away
from the hopeless future that is
bulging toward them.


And probably,
if they don't waste time
looking for an easier world,

they can do it.
redbrunja: (tvd | brave new world)
Friday, November 19th, 2010 10:47 am
Glee's on notice. My mother is bored with it, I'm bored with it, and frankly, this week even reading people's commentary about it (85% of the enjoyment of Glee, right there) wasn't that entertaining. They have until sectionals and then unless something amazing happens, I'm cutting this show lose. (Seriously, I said to myself, 'this is time you could be watching old episodes of TVD' and went, 'that sounds so much more fun than watching this.')

On the subject of TVD, yesterday at the vet I had a brief moment where I thought that because it was a Thursday, I was going to get a new Vampire Diaries. And then I remembered that I have another two weeks to go [imagine a frowny-face emoticon here].

As I was also sitting in the vet, I realized that I am 95% sure that Caroline is my favorite female character. Which is BIZARRE given that for the entire first season I found her incredibly boring. (FYI, the list goes, I think, Caroline, Elena, Katherine.)

On the subject of female characters, ivanolix has a great post about standards for gender quality in tv.

On the subject of Caroline, I recently re-read this poem and it reminded me of her:

Black Dress

I could go no further than that first line:
Spring comes even to the closet.
The words like little iron blossoms on a vine.

The parks full of people under a heathery sky.
The music of silverware, of violins.
Near the road, a woman paints
the pickets of her fence with blinding light.

When Herod sat down at the dinner table, the roasted
bird flew from the platter crying, "Christ lives! He is alive!"
It's spring, even at night.
The mushrooms damply reflect the stars.
All manner of pale flesh, opened up like eyes. Moonlight

on the jellyfish. In the dark
grass the startling muteness of a child's
white rubber rat.

But the closet. Even

in spring, the closet's a blind hive. A black dress

hangs at its center — like Persephone, it's

the closet's prisoner,
and its queen. Never forget,
it sings. I saw you then. I saw it all:

After the funeral, the riotous dance. After the wedding, the long

weeping and kneeling in the bathroom stall.

Oh, there are birds the world's
entirely forgotten (winter, amnesia) singing again
to the comings and the goings, the bright

and empty flashes,
the openings and closings. Sweetheart,
I'm leaving. Honey, I'm home.
But that

black dress hangs always and omniscient in its single thought, its

accumulating mass — a darkness
tucked into another darkness:
where I wore it first,

where I'll wear it last.

~Laura Kasischke
redbrunja: (lots | ?!)
Friday, October 15th, 2010 07:33 pm
NPR recited On Punctuation on their writer's almanac section today, which totally made me snooty. Oh, of course, you love commas and exclamation marks and ellipses - who doesn't? Those are the easy, slutty punctuation marks that any fool can have, no grace, so subtly, no class.

Not like the crisp grace of a period or the impressive clarity of a well-placed colon.