The (Partial) Truth… As much as might be able to be handled outside of our dreams at least…

Consider this a (partial) sequel to last week’s post Amusing Clues As The Mystery Of Robert Browning’s & My Shared “Hush-Hush” Obsession Continues

At the end of this post you will find the prose-form of Act 2, Scene 1 of Robert Browning’s play “Bells & Pomegranates NO. I Pippa Passes”, the part where the naive creative man Jules, on New Years Day, the day he thought he was going to marry the love of his life, finds out that some cruel Fine Arts College students he thought were friendly towards him, collectively impersonated a secret admirer who was too shy to meet him, and have misled him into falling in love with someone who did not exist.

They did this because they thought he was pretentious.

Probably for the same reason, this same thing happened to me, online in 2008, at the hands of some Fine Arts College students from Fontbonne University in Saint Louis, Missouri.

In their cruelty, the characters in the story set Jules up to marry a drag-queen, who was to pretend to be too shy to talk for some time after meeting on the day they were to be married, until after they were married, to humiliate him, finally speaking in a man’s voice some poetry lines the man in drag was paid to recite that Jules was sure to identify as having been written by the student who orchestrated the cruel social experiment, intending for a clear connection to be made from it to the writing style behind the letters Jules thought he was getting daily from the person he thought he had fallen in love with.

The man in drag had pity on the naive Jules though, and tells Jules the truth. Jules is grief-stricken, psychologically traumatized, and decides to displace the love he had for an imaginary woman, onto a blue statue of a Siren he made that he decides to name Kate, after hearing a story about Queen Kate through the window from a magical girl who goes by many names, though to those who see her that day, is known as Pippa.

Pippa sings a song describing Kate as a Queen who is running away from her rightful throne to a life by the sea. Pippa is like a benevolent Siren, as she blesses those who hear her song. She blesses Jules in swaying him to decide that instead of a life of sculpting, he is going to from then on, paint, and paint pictures of the siren Kate, and commits himself to spending his life looking for a woman that looks just like her, as Jules is so scarred by the psychological trauma that he has undergone, he believes himself to be unable to ever love again, except for his Siren Kate.

"Cat's Cradle" by Autumn Kegley (2002)

“Cat’s Cradle” by Autumn Kegley (2002)

You find out at the end of the third act of this first part of 8 of Robert’s play series “Bells and Pomegranates” that the singing Pippa looks just like Jules’ Siren, and that though she sings of herself (in 3rd Person) in the last act about her true name being hushed,

“As her . . . name there’s no pronouncing! See this heightened colour too — For she swilled Breganze wine Till her nose turned deep carmine — ‘Twas but white when wild she grew And only by this Zanze’s eyes Of which we could not change the size, The magnitude of what’s achieved Otherwise, may be perceived!’ Oh what a drear, dark close to my poor day! How could that red sun drop in that blackcloud! Ah, Pippa, morning’s rule is moved away, Dispensed with, never more to be allowed! Day’s turn is over: now arrives the night’s.”

…after-which she immediately sings to some birds, including the merle blackbirds, over-which she rules, as can be gleaned from what she says in regards to the fake Jack Frost and the fake Winter queen she passed at dawn in the first act, she rules as what one could call the true Dawn Wintress Queen of New Years Day…

…she is ALSO known by many names other than Pippa, an example being Kate (she mentions earlier, also wanting to marry Jules).

Pippa then refers to a man as brother Howlet as if he is the Dusk King who rules over the bats and owls, the night-flying winged things.

Sound at all familiar as regards my “Sonnets From Hush To Hush”, about the Snow Owl, and Blackrose the Raven Queen who used to be a snowbird, who now rules over the Brimstone Crows?

4 years after Robert Browning’s play was published, shortly after New Year’s Day, he found the courage to write a letter to Elizabeth Barrett, who matches the description of Pippa and the Siren, in early January 1885.

Elizabeth Barrett read Robert Browning’s work, and two months after they started corresponding, on February 17, 1845, she said this in a letter to him, revealing that she picked up on looking like Robert’s singing Siren, and suggesting that she had inspired it, asking him what metre he wrote it in, suggesting she wants to sing Pippa’s songs to Robert:

“And this reminds me to remind you that when I talked of coveting most the authorship of your ‘Pippa,’ I did not mean to call it your finest work (you might reproach me for that), but just to express a personal feeling. Do you know what it is to covet your neighbour’s poetry?—not his fame, but his poetry?—I dare say not. You are too generous. And, in fact, beauty is beauty, and, whether it comes by our own hand or another’s, blessed be the coming of it! I, besides, feel that. And yet—and yet, I have been aware of a feeling within me which has spoken two or three times to the effect of a wish, that I had been visited with the vision of ‘Pippa,’ before you—and confiteor tibi—I confess the baseness of it. The conception is, to my mind, most exquisite and altogether original—and the contrast in the working out of the plan, singularly expressive of various faculty.

Is the poem under your thumb, emerging from it? and in what metre? May I ask such questions?

And does Mr. Carlyle tell you that he has forbidden all ‘singing’ to this perverse and froward generation, which should work and not sing? And have you told Mr. Carlyle that song is work, and also the condition of work? I am a devout sitter at his feet—and it is an effort to me to think him wrong in anything—and once when he told me to write prose and not verse, I fancied that his opinion was I had mistaken my calling,—a fancy which in infinite kindness and gentleness he stooped immediately to correct. I never shall forget the grace of that kindness—but then! For him to have thought ill of me, would not have been strange—I often think ill of myself, as God knows. But for Carlyle to think of putting away, even for a season, the poetry of the world, was wonderful, and has left me ruffled in my thoughts ever since. I do not know him personally at all. But as his disciple I ventured (by an exceptional motive) to send him my poems, and I heard from him as a consequence. ‘Dear and noble’ he is indeed—and a poet unaware of himself; all but the sense of music. You feel it so—do you not? And the ‘dear sir’ has let him have the ‘letter of Cromwell,’ I hope; and satisfied ‘the obedient servant.’ The curious thing in this world is not the stupidity, but the upper-handism of the stupidity. The geese are in the Capitol, and the Romans in the farmyard—and it seems all quite natural that it should be so, both to geese and Romans!

But there are things you say, which seem to me supernatural, for reasons which I know and for reasons which I don’t know. You will let me be grateful to you,—will you not? You must, if you will or not. And also—I would not wait for more leave—if I could but see your desk—as I do your death’s heads and the spider-webs appertaining; but the soul of Cornelius Agrippa fades from me.”

“Typing Antitypes (June 19, 2014 via here)”
by Ry Hakari

“I am ever bravely the
truest version of myself
in all situations” comes
true as shades of blue connect

In a sentence’s middle,
a blend of wish and real
surface and solve the riddle:
everything was first a dream

Formative mornings:
Retaining meditations
consciousness relieves,
leaving me what manifests
as memories’ residue

Eternity’s imprinted
like a blueprint in the dark
on hearts that only sense it’s
endlessness we see in part

The whole has yet to unfold—
It’s reticence is rehearsed
We reenact dreams as told—
sounds absurd—in silence heard

Over Orcana. The House of JULES, who crosses its threshold with PHENE: she is silent, on which JULES begins —

Do not die, Phenel I am yours now, you Are mine now; let fate reach me how she likes, If you’ll not die — so, never die! Sit here — My work-room’s single seat. I overlean This length of hair and lustrous front; they turn Like an entire flower upward: eyes — lips — last Your chin — no, last your throat turns — ’tis their scent Pulls down my face upon you! Nay, look ever This one way till I change, grow you — I could Change into you, Beloved! You by me, And I by you; this is your hand in mine, And side by side we sit: all’s true. Thank God! I have spoken: speak, you!

O, my life to come! My Tydeus must be carved, that’s there in clay; Yet how be carved, with you about the chamber? Where must I place you? When I think that once This room-full of rough block-work seemed my heaven Without you! Shall I ever work again, Get fairly into my old ways again, Bid each conception stand while, trait by trait, My hand transfers its lineaments to stone? Will my mere fancies live near you, my truth — The live truth, passing and repassing me, Sitting beside me? Now speak!

Only, first, See, all your letters! Was’t not well contrived? Their hiding-place is Psyche’s robe; she keeps Your letters next her skin: which drops out foremost? Ah, — this that swam down like a first moonbeam Into my world! Again those eyes complete Their melancholy survey, sweet and slow, Of all my room holds; to return and rest On me, with pity, yet some wonder too — As if God bade some spirit plague a world, And this were the one moment of surprise And sorrow while she took her station, pausing O’er what she sees, finds good, and must destroy! What gaze you at? Those? Books, I told you of; Let your first word to me rejoice them, too: This minion, a Coluthus, writ in red Bistre and azure by Bessarion’s scribe — Read this line . . . no, shame — Homer’s be the Greek First breathed me from the lips of my Greek girl! My Odyssey in coarse black vivid type With faded yellow blossoms ‘twist page and page, To mark great places with due gratitude; ‘He said, and on Antinous directed A bitter shaft’ . . . a flower blots out the rest! Again upon your search? My statues, then! — Ah, do not mind that — better that will look When cast in bronze — an Almaign Kaiser, that, Swart-green and gold, with truncheon based on hip. This, rather, turn to! What, unrecognized? I thought you would have seen that here you sit As I imagined you, — Hippolyta, Naked upon her bright Numidian horse! Recall you this, then? ‘Carve in bold relief’ — So you commanded — ’carve, against I come, A Greek, in Athens, as our fashion was, Feasting, bay-filleted and thunder-free, Who rises ‘neath the lifted myrtle-branch: “Praise those who slew Hipparchus,” cry the guests, “While o’er thy head the singer’s myrtle waves As erst above our champions’: stand up, all!”

‘See, I have laboured to express your thought! Quite round, a cluster of mere hands and arms, (Thrust in all senses, all ways, from all sides, Only consenting at the branch’s end They strain toward) serves for frame to a sole face, The Praiser’s, in the centre — who with eyes Sightless, so bend they back to light inside His brain where visionary forms throng up, Sings, minding not that palpitating arch Of hands and arms, nor the quick drip of wine From the drenched leaves o’erhead, nor crowns cast off, Violet and parsley crowns to trample on — Sings, pausing as the patron-ghosts approve, Devoutly their unconquerable hymn! But you must say a ‘well’ to that that — say, ‘well!’ Because you gaze — am I fantastic, sweet? Gaze like my very life’s-stuff, marble — marbly Even to the silence! why, before I found The real flesh Phene, I inured myself To see, throughout all nature, varied stuff For better nature’s birth by means of art. With me, each substance tended to one form Of beauty — to the human archetype — On every side occurred suggestive germs Of that — the tree, the flower — or take the fruit, — Some rosy shape, continuing the peach, Curved beewise o’er its bough; as rosy limbs, Depending, nestled in the leaves; and just From a cleft rose-peach the whole Dryad sprang. But of the stuffs one can be master of, How I divined their capabilities! From the soft-rinded smoothening facile chalk That yields your outline to the air’s embrace, Half-softened by a halo’s pearly gloom; Down to the crisp imperious steel, so sure To cut its one confided thought clean out Of all the world. But marble! neath my tools More pliable than jelly — as it were Some clear primordial creature dug from depths In the earth’s heart, where itself breeds itself, And whence all baser substance may be worked; Refine it off to air, you may, — condense it Down to the diamond; —is not metal there, When o’er the sudden specks my chisel trips? — Not flesh, as flake off flake I scale, approach, Lay bare those bluish veins of blood asleep? Lurks flame in no strange windings where, surprised By the swift implement sent home at once, Flushes and glowings radiate and hover About its track? Phene? what — why is this? That whitening cheek, those still-dilating eyes! Ah, you will die — I knew that you would die!

PHENE begins, on his having long remained silent.

Now the end’s coming; to be sure, it must Have ended sometime! Tush, why need I speak Their foolish speech? I cannot bring to mind One half of it, besides; and do not care For old Natalia now, nor any of them Oh, you — what are you? — if I do not try To say the words Natalia made me learn, To please your friends, — it is to keep myself Where your voice lifted me, by letting it Proceed: but can it? Even you, perhaps, Cannot take up, now you have once let fall, The music’s life, and me along with that — No, or you would! We’ll stay, then, as we are: Above the world. You creature with the eyes! If I could look for ever up to them, As now you let me, — I believe, all sin, All memory of wrong done or suffering borne, Would drop down, low and lower, to the earth Whence all that’s low comes, and there touch and stay — Never to overtake the rest of me, All that, unspotted, reaches up to you, Drawn by those eyes! What rises is myself, Not so the shame and suffering; but they sink, Are left, I rise above them. Keep me so, Above the world! But you sink, for your eyes Are altering — altered! Stay — ’I love you, love you’ . . . I could prevent it if I understood: More of your words to me: was’t in the tone Or the words, your power? Or stay — I will repeat Their speech, if that contents you! Only, change No more, and I shall find it presently — Far back here, in the brain yourself filled Natalia threatened me that harm would follow Unless I spoke their lesson to the end, But harm to me, I thought she meant, not you Your friends, — Natalia said they were your friends And meant you well, — because, I doubted it, Observing (what was very strange to see) On every face, so different in all else, The same smile girls like us are used to bear, But never men, men cannot stoop so low; Yet your friends, speaking of you, used that smile, That hateful smirk of boundless self-conceit Which seems to take possession of this world And make of God their tame confederate, Purveyor to their appetites . . . you know! But no — Natalia said they were your friends, And they assented while they smiled the more, And all came round me, — that thin Englishman With light, lank hair seemed leader of the rest; He held a paper — ’What we want,’ said he, Ending some explanation to his friends — ‘Is something slow, involved and mystical, To hold Jules long in doubt, yet take his taste And lure him on, so that, at innermost Where he seeks sweetness’ soul, he may find — this! — As in the apple’s core, the noisome fly: For insects on the rind are seen at once, And brushed aside as soon, but this is found Only when on the lips or loathing tongue:

And so he read what I have got by heart — I’ll speak it, — ’Do not die, love! I am yours’ . . .

Stop — is not that, or like that, part of words Yourself began by speaking? Strange to lose What cost such pains to learn! Is this more right?

I am a painter who cannot paint; In my life, a devil rather than saint, In my brain, as poor a creature too: No end to al! I cannot do! Yet do one thing at least I can — Love a man, or hate a man Supremely: thus my lore began. Through the Valley of Love I went, In its lovingest spot to abide, And just on the verge where I pitched my tent, I found Hate dwelling beside. (Let the Bridegroom ask what the painter meant, Of his Bride, of the peerless Bride!) And further, I traversed Hate’s grove, In its hatefullest nook to dwell; But lo, where I flung myself prone, couched Love Where the deepest shadow fell. (The meaning — those black bride’s-eye: above, Not the painter’s lip should tell!)

‘And here,’ said he, ‘Jules probably will ask,

You have black eyes, love, — you are, sure enough, My peerless bride, — so, do you tell, indeed, What needs some explanation — what means this?’

— And I am to go on, without a word —

So, I grew wiser in Love and Hate, From simple, that I was of late. For once, when I loved, I would enlace Breast, eyelids, hands, feet, form and face Of her I loved, in one embrace — As if by mere love I could love immensely! And when I hated, I would plunge My sword, and wipe with the first lunge My foe’s whole life out, like a spunge — As if by mere hate I could hate intensely! But now I am wiser, know better the fashion How passion seeks aid from its opposite passion, And if I see cause to love more, or hate more Than ever man loved, ever hated, before — And seek in the Valley of Love, The spot, or the spot in Hate’s Grove, Where my soul may the sureliest reach The essence, nought less, of each, The Hate of all Hates, or the Love Of all Loves, in its Valley or Grove, — I find them the very warders Each of the other’s borders. I love most, when Love is disguised In Hate; and when Hate is surprised In Love, then I hate most: ask How Love smiles through hate’s iron casque, Hate grins through Love’s rose-braided mask, — And how, having hated thee, I sought long and painfully To wound thee, and not prick The skin, but pierce to the quick — Ask this, my Jules, and be answered straight By thy bride — how the painter Lutwyche can hate!

JULIS interposes.

Lutwyche! who else? But all of them, no doubt, Hated me: they at Venice — presently Their turn, however! You I shall not meet: If I dreamed saying this would wake me! Keep What’s here, this gold — we cannot meet again, Consider — and the money was but meant For two years’ travel, which is over now, All chance, or hope, or care, or need of it! This — and what comes from selling these, my casts And books, and medals, except . . . let them go Together, so the produce keeps you safe, Out of Natalia’s clutches! — If by chance (For all’s chance here) I should survive the gang At Venice, root out all fifteen of them, We might meet somewhere, since the world is wide,

[From without is heard the voice of PIPPA, singing —
Give her but a least excuse to love me! When — where How — can this arm establish her above me, If fortune fired her as my lady there, There already, to eternally reprove me?
(‘Hist’ — said Kate the queen; But ‘Oh’ — cried the maiden, binding her tresses, ‘Tis only a page that carols unseen Crumbling your hounds their messes!’ Is she wronged? — To the rescue of her honour, My heart Is she poor? — What costs it to be styled a donor? Merely an earth’s to cleave, a sea’s to part! But that fortune should have thrust all this upon her!
(‘Nay, list,’-bade Kate the queen; And still cried the maiden, binding her tresses, ‘Tis only a page that carols unseen Fitting your hawks their jesses!’)

[PIPPA passes.
JULES resumes —
What name was that the little girl sang forth? Kate? The Cornaro, doubtless, who renounced The crown of Cyprus to be lady here At Asolo, where still the peasants keep Her memory; and songs tell how many a page Pined for the grace of one so far above His power of doing good to, as a queen —

‘She never could be wronged, be poor,’ he sighed, ‘For him to help her!’ Yes, a bitter thing To see our lady above all need of us; Yet so we look ere we will love; not I, But the world looks so. If whoever loves Must he, in some sort, god or worshipper, The blessing or the blest one, queen or page, Why should we always choose the page’s part? Here is a woman with utter need of me, — I find myself queen here, it seems!

How strange! Look at the woman here with the new soul, Like my own Psyche’s, — fresh upon her lips Alit, the visionary butterfly, Waiting my word to enter and make bright, Or flutter off and leave all blank as first. This body had no soul before, but slept Or stirred, was beauteous or ungainly, free From taint or foul with stain, as outward things Fastened their image on its passiveness: Now, it will wake, feel, live — or die again! Shall to produce form out of unshaped stuff Be Art — and, further, to evoke a soul From form, be nothing? This new soul is mine! Now, to kill Lutwyche, what would that do? — save A wretched dauber, men will hoot to death Without me, from their laughter! Oh, to hear God’s voice plain as I heard it first, before They broke in with that laughter! I heard them Henceforth, not God.

To Ancona — Greece — some isle! I wanted silence only: there is clay Everywhere. One may do whate’er one likes In Art: the only thing is, to make sure That one does like it — which takes pains to know. Scatter all this, my Phene — this mad dream! Who, what is Lutwyche, what Natalia’s friends, What the whole world except our love — my own, Own Phene? But I told you, did I not, Ere night we travel for your land — some isle With the sea’s silence on it? Stand aside — I do but break these paltry models up To begin Art afresh. Shall I meet Lutwyche, And save him from my statue’s meeting him? Some unsuspected isle in the far seas! Like a god going through his world there stands One mountain for a moment in the dusk, Whole brotherhoods of cedars on its brow; And you are ever by me while I gaze — Are in my arms as now — as now — as now Some unsuspected isle in the far seas! Some unsuspected isle in far-off seas!

Sonnets From Hush To Hush VII (ROUGH FIRST DRAFT)

Inverse of the "Keeper of Secrets" t-shirt by RadioSan via http://www.designbyhumans.com/shop/t-shirt/keeper-of-secrets-crow-eye-shirt/ overlayed with an image of me that I shared on December 9, 2013 now with the 10 incomplete haiku via http://21shadesofblue.com/2013/12/09/new-10-set-haiku-clarion-chorus-of-the-thunder-snow-halcyon/

Inverse of the “Keeper of Secrets” t-shirt by RadioSan via http://www.designbyhumans.com/shop/t-shirt/keeper-of-secrets-crow-eye-shirt/ overlayed with an image of me that I shared on December 9, 2013 now with the 10 incomplete haiku via http://21shadesofblue.com/2013/12/09/new-10-set-haiku-clarion-chorus-of-the-thunder-snow-halcyon/

“Sonnets From Hush To Hush VII”
by Ry Hakari

Sleeping innocently, Onora sings in dreams ingeniously to me on her name’s meaning,
her word’s honor, wishing to mend broken wings’ scarlet promises with trueness of lover’s kiss
My Buttercup, I’m Ace of Cups of Dionysus whose blood lets loose many slips twixt dream lips’
once sung sweet-nothings from nightmares had Christmas Eve of the love of a Brown Rosary
nevermore disappearing — if I paid penance with my pen long enough for all my ink-slinging!
But the decade I cast you adrift to Dream Purgatory, in tarred-feathers thrown ashen-pitch
highlighted by Dusken sun silence, white-wilted Blackrose widow-made Raven? Unfinished
business leaves Dawn-cracking, my Thunder-Snow Halcyon, Forevermore needing crowing!

Creative grace of King Midas’ soft-feather-tongue’s gold-standard precision-form, my lips’ sealed
in the heart of a hybrid wolf-lion’s hungering for the taste of the kiss chased away with its roaring!
Rara avis White Raven, love’s subconscious desire haunting this unconscionable conscious liar feels
like an impossible to hide fire, catching me in my half-assed fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants duplicity
You consume the whole of my life, utterly to the 3rd degree — I lack the ability to move on unhealed
past my past’s ashes in sackcloth-searing tears, tongue biting my heart’s bleeding scarlet’s scourging!

“Sonnets From The Portuguese VII”
by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

The face of all the world is changed, I think,
Since first I heard the footsteps of thy soul
Move still, oh, still, beside me, as they stole
Betwixt me and the dreadful outer brink
Of obvious death, where I, who thought to sink,
Was caught up into love, and taught the whole
Of life in a new rhythm. The cup of dole
God gave for baptism, I am fain to drink,
And praise its sweetness, Sweet, with thee anear.
The names of country, heaven, are changed away
For where thou art or shalt be, there or here;
And this . . . this lute and song . . . loved yesterday,
(The singing angels know) are only dear
Because thy name moves right in what they say.

"Red King" by Michael Hussar

“Red King” by Michael Hussar

Sonnets From Hush To Hush VI (ROUGH FIRST DRAFT)

Every line of my sixth sonnet in this series is much less cryptic than my previous few installments, as I hinted would follow suit in the one previously written… and each line I decided to ley is 11 syllables exactly in length.

Ley, was not a typo as Grammar Gestapo may dictate, wishing to stop and poke me in the goads in hopes to point my supposed mistake out… those Aryan-Alphabet pricks!

I was playing on the phrase “ley line”, which is a line considered by skeptics, to be imaginary magic secretly marked by carefully crafted man-made structures serving like dots on a map to focus tangibly the power of being connected invisibly between the ley lines…

Just kidding! What I mean by saying I’m kidding though, is that I was not playing on the phrase, but mirrorly (no, No-Nonsense Nazis, not merely “merely”… life is but a dream and we row, row, row our boats, gently down its stream, throwing teachers overboard, not listening to their screams!) claiming it’s actual factual magical meaning, just more rationally, practically, which you may be thinking to yourself right now you can’t perceive, as it sounds like a dream you can’t believe, as like a mystery is, it remains unseen.

“What is a poet? An unhappy man who conceals profound anguish in his heart, but whose lips are so fashioned that when sighs and groans pass over them they sound like beautiful music. People flock about the poet and say to him: do sing again; Which means, would that new sufferings tormented your soul, and: would that your lips stayed fashioned as before, for your cries would only terrify us, but your music is delightful.”
— Søren Kierkegaard, Either/Or

Ask yourself though, what the purposes of words are.

The purpose of words is served in giving mind-hidden meaning its power visibly or audibly in lines we speak or write, that we first only imaginatively see in the invisibility of the thoughts of our minds, before focusing their power by mapping the patterns of their meaning so others can see our unseen thoughts, in creating connections linked by the invisible spaces between the structures of the words we carefully craft.

To write, is the magical practice of giving invisible power, form, by harnessing the strength of ley lines, manifesting their presence on blank pages in things we first could only see in a magical way unique to us, that no one else could see the exact word-for-word same way unless they are lucky enough for us to let them see the work of our magic-words Open Sesame Streets’ secret door up to more adult-appropriate Page Avenues into the wondrous freedom of Alphabet Metropolis…

As sung in The Aristocrats, “Everybody wants to be a cat, because only a cat, knows where it’s at”… And I fancy myself a Cheshire Cat, but try to feed me dry Fancy Feast cat-food, and I will question your sanity more than you may wonder at mine, because if you’ve ever tried Fancy Feast like me, you know it’s false advertising… we cats have an eye for hype, you trite phony-balony-fishmongering marketeers of tasteless pisant tripe… We all flick our middle whiskers up at you, and our swishy tails bristle at how easily commercialized our two-legged slaves are swayed by your condescending depictions of how we communicate in such infantile sounding, simple sentences…  Do I make myself clear, “Fancy Feast”? While your canned food may indeed be gourmet, it’s a joke to think you can get away with slapping that label on your dry kibble drivel… we are not pleased kitties, and you are blind to the fact that alley cats who society’s annoyed gaint-slaves call caterwauling tomcats, do not need neutering  — We are picketing your pussy pretenstions, and the reason we eat dumpster garbage is an act of protest against the noir filth you’re filling into cardboard sacks marketed with the three great lies you peddle it under… You rat bastards, it is neither Fancy, nor a Feast, and it absolutely and unquestionably is NOT GOURMET… Someday you may wake up… enjoying “Cat-Scratch Fever” covered by a more talented cat than the likes that bipedal Ted Nugent ever conceived, and understand for yourselves what dish is truly best served cold… yes, we cats do fucking know where it’s at, and we don’t need opposable thumbs to use it… hsss

I love creative writing, it’s such fun! Of course, to see the power of the ley lines, the two-legged giants must not only read the words, but be patient enough to stop and enjoy the thousand words or so of the big picture, not missing the paper forest for the poetrees half-buried underneath the blank snow between my sonnet’s pages… which requires an imagination to (somewhat, though honestly quite abstractly) logically follow.

That may sound like a contradiction, but it’s not, it’s a paradox. If you cannot see how, you probably don’t have the patience to wrap your mind around the story I am unfolding, that I have hoped to have shown more clearly a ley line point of in this particular post, so that the plot of my “Sonnets From Hush To Hush” can more easily be traced from point to point in the future.

“Sonnets From Hush To Hush VI”
by Ry Hakari

I’m an Ace of Clovers — you’re my 10-score Hearts
I can’t count cards, but Lady Luck’s got my back
It’s written in the stars, the fate of Blackjack
souls who Fall born on the cusp of Autumn, charmed
Summer’s curtain-call, Equinox role started
Frost-touched, copying Frau Holle — Darling, ash-
clothed Raven, Queen of Brimstone Crows, what you are,
isn’t what you might have been, working harder,
committed to stillness — Instead of pitch-thrown?
A bridal gown patiently sown, reaped woven
reciprocity’s met — Us wed crowns, shared throne!
Your reward would be my love, gilded golden….
If we wed, not left the Willow Tree scared crows

“Sonnets From the Portuguese VI”
by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Go from me. Yet I feel that I shall stand
Henceforward in thy shadow. Nevermore
Alone upon the threshold of my door
Of individual life, I shall command
The uses of my soul, nor lift my hand
Serenely in the sunshine as before,
Without the sense of that which I forbore—
Thy touch upon the palm. The widest land
Doom takes to part us, leaves thy heart in mine
With pulses that beat double. What I do
And what I dream include thee, as the wine
Must taste of its own grapes. And when I sue
God for myself, He hears that name of thine,
And sees within my eyes the tears of two.

“Frau Holle”
by the German Brothers Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm

A widow had two daughters, the one was beautiful and industrious, the other ugly and lazy. She greatly favored the ugly, lazy girl, because she was her own daughter. And the other one had to do all the work, and be the Cinderella of the house.

Every day the poor girl had to sit by a well, next to the highway, and spin so much that her fingers bled. Now it happened that one day the reel was completely bloody, so she dipped it in the well, to wash it off, but it dropped out of her hand and fell in. She cried, ran to her stepmother, and told her of the mishap. She scolded her so sharply, and was so merciless that she said, “Since you have let the reel fall in, you must fetch it out again.”

Then the girl went back to the well, and did not know what to do. Terrified, she jumped into the well to get the reel. She lost her senses. And when she awoke and came to herself again, she was in a beautiful meadow where the sun was shining, and there were many thousands of flowers. She walked across this meadow and came to an oven full of bread. The bread called out, “Oh, take me out. Take me out, or I’ll burn. I’ve been thoroughly baked for a long time.” So she stepped up to it, and with a baker’s peel took everything out, one loaf after the other.

After that she walked further and came to a tree laden with apples. “Shake me. Shake me. We apples are all ripe.” cried the tree. So she shook the tree until the apples fell as though it were raining apples. When none were left in the tree, she gathered them into a pile, and then continued on her way.

Finally she came to a small house. An old woman was peering out from inside. She had very large teeth, which frightened the girl, and she wanted to run away. But the old woman called out to her, “Don’t be afraid, dear child. Stay here with me, and if you do my housework in an orderly fashion, it will go well with you. Only you must take care to make my bed well and shake it diligently until the feathers fly, then it will snow in the world.* I am Frau Holle.”

Because the old woman spoke so kindly to her, the girl took heart, agreed, and started in her service. The girl took care of everything to Frau Holle’s satisfaction and always shook her featherbed vigorously until the feathers flew about like snowflakes. Therefore she had a good life with her: no angry words, and boiled or roast meat every day.

Now after she had been with Frau Holle for a time, she became sad. At first she did not know what was the matter with her, but at last she determined that it was homesickness. Even though she was many thousands of times better off here than at home, still she had a yearning to return. Finally she said to the old woman, “I have such a longing for home, and even though I am very well off here, I cannot stay longer. I must go up again to my own people.”

Frau Holle said, “I am pleased that you long for your home again, and because you have served me so faithfully, I will take you back myself.” With that she took her by the hand and led her to a large gate.

The gate was opened, and while the girl was standing under it, an immense rain of gold fell, and all the gold stuck to her, so that she was completely covered with it. “This is yours because you have been so industrious,” said Frau Holle, and at the same time she gave her back the reel which had fallen into the well.

With that the gate was closed and the girl found herself above on earth, not far from her mother’s house. And as she entered the yard the rooster, sitting on the well, cried:

Cock-a-doodle-doo,
Our golden girl is here anew.

Then she went inside to her mother, and as she arrived all covered with gold, she was well received, both by her mother and her sister. The girl told all that had happened to her, and when the mother heard how she had come to the great wealth, she wanted to achieve the same fortune for the other, the ugly and lazy daughter. She made her go and sit by the well and spin. And to make her reel bloody, the lazy girl pricked her fingers and shoved her hand into a thorn bush. Then she threw the reel into the well, and jumped in herself.

Like the other girl, she too came to the beautiful meadow and walked along the same path. When she came to the oven, the bread cried again, “Oh, take me out. Take me out, or else I’ll burn. I’ve been thoroughly baked for a long time.”

But the lazy girl answered, “As if I would want to get all dirty,” and walked away.

Soon she came to the apple tree. It cried out, “Oh, shake me. Shake me. We apples are all ripe.”

But she answered, “Oh yes, one could fall on my head,” and with that she walked on.

When she came to Frau Holle’s house, she was not afraid, because she had already heard about her large teeth, and she immediately began to work for her. On the first day she forced herself, was industrious, and obeyed Frau Holle, when she said something to her, because she was thinking about all the gold that she would give her. But on the second day she already began to be lazy, on the third day even more so, and then she didn’t even want to get up in the morning. She did not make the bed for Frau Holle, the way she was supposed to, and she did not shake it until the feathers flew. Frau Holle soon became tired of this and dismissed her of her duties. This was just what the lazy girl wanted, for she thought that she would now get the rain of gold.

Frau Holle led her too to the gate. She stood beneath it, but instead of gold, a large kettle full of pitch spilled over her. “That is the reward for your services,” said Frau Holle, and closed the gate.

Then the lazy girl went home, entirely covered with pitch. As soon as the rooster on the well saw her, he cried out:

Cock-a-doodle-doo,
Our dirty girl is here anew.

And the pitch stuck fast to her, and did not come off as long as she lived.

Those who wonder if people who seem to live in a snowglobe know what the rest of us live like, are living like Wintresses and Jack Frosts lost in the thoughts of their own winter wonderlands…

“Above all, don’t lie to yourself. The man who lies to himself and listens to his own lie comes to a point that he cannot distinguish the truth within him, or around him, and so loses all respect for himself and for others. And having no respect he ceases to love.”
― Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Brothers Karamazov

People who knowingly live in a dream, notice many people in reality are all living in their own dream’s denial, unsure of if the dreams they are chasing blindly should be described as snowglobes, unable to see clearly enough to make up their minds about if they really want out of what seems like a life of hibernating.

It’s called being lost in thought, or sleepwalking in a winter wonderland.

Sometimes people in reality lose their voice and are unable to find it or their way out of their daydreams, and need a fellow Jack Frost or Wintress to pull them out from the snow and nudge them awake by telling them to look alive and breathe, seeing the frown hidden underneath their make-believe snow-dream-smiling.

People who daydream, and are sure of wanting out of their dream into reality, know as Emerson said, that, “Dream delivers us to dream, and there is no end to illusion. Life is like a train of moods like a string of beads, and, as we pass through them, they prove to be many-colored lenses which paint the world their own hue…”

Some only live a third of their lives freed by unconscious sleep, the rest of it trapped under the snow behind snowglobe glass instead of being freed to Spring-wandering by their consciously experienced daydreams!

Sonnets From Hush To Hush V (ROUGH FIRST DRAFT)

“Sonnets From Hush To Hush V”
by Ry Hakari

Beautiful Merle Blackrose girl, Raven Queen of Brimstone Crows: You wear coal all over rainbows’ coat
no one sees through but Borealis birds of Aurora feathers, who hide diamonds under cloak, daggers deep
in their rough too… Our shining truths’ tarnished by lackluster cultural relativity’s ambiguous clamoring
Raucous hearts’ Ragnarök camouflages love’s promised uses — It’s no longer fit to be called Scarecrows’
Your seams I’ve seen unstitching reality, Yore favoring calling my love an Opium Pipe-ending to Joseph’s
Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat: Sabotage some dreams, God will act, pulling deeper in love’s mystery
Beware watering guarantees deceitfully with salty promise ‘Quotes’ misunderstood as the
‘general rules’ as their generals rule sighing anima, mindlessly ignoring lines said without thinking poems

aren’t all pointless, in retrospect sharp eyes see Manifesto of Residue Chapter 2’s shining example was
meant to be read backwards in homage to Søren Kierkegaard’s famous quote, which I found in English
fits haiku syllabic rules if broken up like this: “Life can only be —  understood backwards; but it — must
be lived forwards” — Hush your excuses, you still have absolutely no clue? — No use for absolution, is it?
For your sake, I’ve decided to dial back the tone of silence’s secrets, speaking more clearly so you’ll trust
my love goes beyond white-noise ringing of tinnitus seen mirrored in rolling eyes, Snow Angelus misses

“Sonnets From The Portuguese V”
by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

I lift my heavy heart up solemnly,
As once Electra her sepulchral urn,
And, looking in thine eyes, I over-turn
The ashes at thy feet. Behold and see
What a great heap of grief lay hid in me,
And how the red wild sparkles dimly burn
Through the ashen greyness. If thy foot in scorn
Could tread them out to darkness utterly,
It might be well perhaps. But if instead
Thou wait beside me for the wind to blow
The grey dust up, . . . those laurels on thine head,
O my Belovëd, will not shield thee so,
That none of all the fires shall scorch and shred
The hair beneath. Stand further off then! go!

Blackrose and a radiofire — It’s so contagious. It’s like something changing my mind, ‘I’m gonna take what’s evil.’

Your cover melting inside, with wide eyes you tremble. Kissing over and over again, ‘Your God knows His faithful.’

I try to digest my pride, but passion’s grip I fear… But it’s not clear you are the one, you’ll never be alone again, you’re more than in my head, you’re more.

Spin faster, shouting out loud, ‘You can’t steal what’s paid for!’ You said something, hurting again, ‘Murder son — She’s painful.’

You so believe your own lies on my skin — Your fingers run away until the last time, ‘We’re gonna lose forever.’

When you try, don’t try to say you won’t try to crawl into my head when you cry, ’cause it’s all built up inside. Your tears already said, ‘Already said, you are the one — You’ll never be alone again. You’re more than in my head — You’re more. You’ll never be alone again… You are the one — You’ll never be alone again. You’re more than in my head — You’re more.’

…Alone again.
— Shiny Toy Guns, “You Are The One”

 

 

 

Silver Birch Grove

Cyan Ryan:

Wonderful short story by Brenda! It’s talk of a master of ley lines reminded me of my Tanka “Miracle Merle” (below) posted the eve before the International Day of Peace this year, that foreshadows themes in my “Sonnets From Hush To Hush” of the Raven Queen (they have some Merle-colored wings) who was once a snowbird, and the Snowy Owl who goes incognito as a scourged Red-Winged Blackbird! Very inspiring and interesting Brenda :)

Miracle Merle (Tanka)

Originally posted on Friendly Fairy Tales:

Shadows from silver birch in fall

Prince Silver crunched golden birch leaves on his way to the Gather.

In olden days, the sacred site had been a fairy mound, in the midst of an ancient oak and pine forest. The Sidhe elders held gatherings before a magic granite obelisk beneath the mound. Then humans cut away swaths of trees and leveled land for house sites. Houses turned backs to the site, and the magic stone hid behind glamours.

Ley lines remained, conduits of magic power, stretching from the new world to the old and to other secret places. At their intersection, none could deceive, either by telling lies or misleading by silence. Prophecy foretold that one day, the ley lines would call to one born to control the power, a Ley Channeler.

Humans became uncomfortable too close to the site. Dark clouds foretold storms or cold winds raised goose pimples. Humans fled the strange weather, they remembered urgent business elsewhere or felt frightened without knowing why, hurrying home. In time, the…

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