For it will inconvenience the history books

as above: this is a poetry dump post. no cut for you.

i was going to try to do a poem a day but then i lapsed for a couple days so now it's a poem a whenever i feel like it i guess. but i felt like it for almost a week so that was cool.

here's #1.


02 & 03/05, terza rima

epitaph for an age

that was just one of the weird parts,
they claim later, to a man,
none of them ever having known the art

of keeping silent when you can.
it was all perfectly rational,
they claim later, to a man.

there's more elements to her arsenal
than just ashes, bone, and tin.
it was all perfectly rational,

claim those who never win.
there are more subtle mysteries
than just ashes, bone, and tin.

now there are cobwebs in the histories
that echo all around this place.
there are more subtle mysteries

than those known by the human race.
old gods can hide inside the songs
that echo all around this place.

the world's history is far too long
to class and summarise.
old gods can hide inside the songs

and behind strangers' eyes.
magic isn't yet well-known enough
to class and summarise.

so far the evidence is just a bluff
and rightful science reigns supreme
magic isn't yet well-known enough

and charlatans crowd out the unseen.
but mystery is found in human hearts
and rightful science reigns supreme.

that was just one of the weird parts,
say those who can't yet see the stars.

interestingly enough, certain people (and by that i mean mystic-pants friends of my dad's) seem to much prefer this poem to the poem for derek. i'm not going to read too much into it, reading would require a larger sample base.

*

04/05, gemini rima [that is, bilingual terza rima with two couplets at the end instead of one; please note: that's not actually a thing]

canción for un parade

they’re going out dreaming on every street
quémenlos, quémenlos al borde del río
all the dead and the sleeping wrapped up in white sheets

y los vivos cantando sin saber de su lío
the speakers don’t know who or what they entreat;
quémenlos, quémenlos al borde del río

the walkers drag ash on the soles of their feet
abajo del mundo Charón dice “yo no fío”
the speakers don’t know who or what they entreat

y la Tierra queda dispuesta a darse otro giro
there’s six billion names on a list, stark and neat
abajo del mundo Charón dice “yo no fío”

they’re going out dreaming on every street
all the dead and the sleeping wrapped up in white sheets
pero abajo del mundo Charón dice “yo no fío”
y la Tierra queda dispuesta a darse otro giro.

okay i lied one cut for you:

( translations! )

*

05/05, villanelle [bracketverse villanelle, even]

margaret's to-do list

the Columbine's patience winds the watch that tells time
under the world, legends falter and flounder
while the dead are all out drinking dandelion wine

and Miss Lowes tunes the air with a fork with no tines.
she's a myth with no love for the tales that surround her;
the Columbine's patience winds the watch that tells time

as her newest subject arrives choking on brine
unaware of the context, of revel or founder,
while the dead are all out drinking dandelion wine.

the world's a process that ticks on through its lines,
a braid made of everything that will someday expire, for
the Columbine's patience winds the watch that tells time

and its pendulum arc is her gold-wire mind,
its purpose defined in the sworn oath that grounds her
while the dead are all out drinking dandelion wine.

a false prophet could claim his weak echoes as signs
but Margaret doesn't care for the world that once found her.
the Columbine's patience winds the watch that tells time
while the dead are all out drinking dandelion wine.