“There is a moment between waking and sleeping and between sleeping and waking when the mind seems to be in many places at once, when memories mingle with dreams, when what has been and what is yet to be exist side by side, and when the mind slips free of time and personality to wander in strange halls where the familiar and the strange become indistinguishable and ghosts and visions walk hand in hand. Aelis tumbled toward sleep and fell into this place, to the mind’s borderlands, where magic is.” ― M.D. Lachlan, Fenrir

“The fetters have burst”
― M.D. Lachlan, Fenrir

“Lost In The Woods”
by the Afghan Whigs

Surprise, surprise
I’ll have you know I’ve come to see you die
I’m hard to find, you’ll never tell
You know me by now, you know me by now
You do, you do

Reason why, start the conversation
Call it occupation, we’ll be here awhile
Reason now, before it’s too late
Before you betray yourself
And I to you, to you

I went to the levy, dove into the water
Dove into the water, unchaining my life
Fake the believer, sanctified redeemer
Camouflaged deceiver, so covetous, I
But you… baby

Sitting outside in the cold,
I can see that you’re not alone
That’s vanity swallowing you, come see
That baby, soon she’ll be picking her teeth

Not dead, I’ll see you all again
In time we all descend
Not yet, and I won’t leave
‘Til I know what I need to know
You know me by now, you know me by now
You do…

Baby, fear has a mind of its own
Undress, if you see in your bones
And I see how it waited for you
And I see how it baited the hook
Now you’re gone and you ain’t coming back

Sitting outside in the cold,
I can see that you’re not alone
Calamity following you, come see
Now baby, sin is a line of a poem
Unknown with a need to know
A throne in a room with a view
But you’re lost in the woods

Love Triangle Discovered Between Kate Field/Ward & The Browning Poets Robert & Elizabeth?

I love mysteries, and I think I discovered a love triangle, from the 1800’s, between Elizabeth and Robert Browning, and their friend “Kate Field (October 1, 1838 – May 19, 1896), born Mary Katherine Keemle Field, … an American journalist, lecturer, and actress, of eccentric talent. (wiki)” who never married.

Below are the puzzle pieces that I think if read together, support my suspicion. Not judging them, but it is curious.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning, in her 9-Book Epic Poem “Aurora Leigh”:

“Write a word for Kate:
Even now she reads my letters like a wife,
And if she sees her name, I’ll see her smile,
And share the luck. So, bless you, friend of two!
I will not ask you what your feeling is
At Florence with my pictures. I can hear
Your heart a-flutter over the snow-hills;
And, just to pace the Pitti with you once,
I’d give a half-hour of to-morrow’s walk
With Kate . ..”

Excerpt From “Delphi Complete Works of Elizabeth Barrett Browning (Illustrated).” :

“A letter from Robert Browning written to Kate Field, who was then in Florence with Miss Blagden, and which has never before been published, is as follows:

Rome, Via del Tritone, 28,
March 29th, 1860.

Dear Miss Field,

— Do you really care to have the little photograph? Here it is with all my heart. I wonder I dare be so frank this morning, however, for a note just rec’d from Isa mentions an instance of your acuteness, that strikes me with a certain awe. “Kate,” she says, “persists that the ‘Curse for a Nation’ is for America, and not England.” You persist, do you? No doubt against the combined intelligence of our friends who show such hunger and thirst for a new poem of Ba’s — and, when they get it, digest the same as you see. “Write a nation’s curse for me,” quoth the antislavery society five years ago, “and send it over the Western sea.” “Not so,” replied poor little Ba, “for my heart is sore for my own lands’ sins, which are thus and thus, — what curse assign to another land when heavy for the sins of mine?” “Write it for that very reason,” rejoined Ba’s cheerer, “because thou hast strength to see and hate a foul thing done within thy gate,” and so, after a little more dallying, she wrote and sent over the Western seas what all may read, but it appears only Kate Field, out of all Florence, can understand. It seems incredible. How did you find out, beside, the meaning of all these puzzling passages which I quote in the exact words of the poem? In short, you are not only the delightful Kate Field which I always knew you to be, but the sole understander of Ba in all Florence. I can’t get over it….

Browning, the husband, means to try increasingly and somewhat intelligibly to explain to all his intimates at Florence, with the sole exception of Kate Field; to whose comprehension he will rather endeavor to rise, than to stoop, henceforth. And so, with true love from Ba to Kate Field, and our united explanation to all other friends, that the subject matter of the present letter is by no means the annexation of Savoy and Nice, she will believe me,

Hers very faithfully
Robert Browning.

To Kate Field Mrs. Browning wrote, the letter undated, but evidently about this time, apparently in reply to some request of Miss Field’s to be permitted to write about them for publication:

My Dear Kate,

— I can’t put a seal on your lips when I know them to be so brave and true. Take out your license, then, to name me as you please, only remembering, dear, that even kind words are not always best spoken. Here is the permission, then, to say nothing about your friends except that they are your friends, which they will always be glad to have said and believed. I had a letter from America to-day, from somebody who, hearing I was in ill health, desired to inform me that he wouldn’t weep for me, were it not for Robert Browning and Penini! No, don’t repeat that. It was kindly meant, and you are better, my dear Kate, and happier, and we are all thanking God for Italy. Love us here a little, and believe that we all love and think of you.

Yours ever affectionately,
E. B. B.

In London again the next winter, Browning wrote to Isa Blagden that he “felt comfort in doing the best he could with the object of his life, — poetry. I hope to do much more yet,” he continued; “and that the flower of it will be put into Her hand somehow.”

The London spring found the poet much engaged, taking his son to studios, and to the Royal Academy, to concerts, and for long walks, and in a letter to Kate Field not heretofore published is indicated something of the general trend of the days:

London, 19, Warwick Crescent,
Upper Westbourne Terrace, May 5th, 1864.

Dear Kate Field, (so let me call you, please, in regard to old times when I might have done it, and did not,)

I know well enough that there is great stupidity in this way of mine, this putting off a thing because I hope to compass some other thing, as here, for had you not asked for some photographs which I supposed I could soon find time and inclination to get, I should have thanked you at once; as I do now, indeed, and with all my heart, but the review article is wavering and indistinct in my mind now, and though it is inside a drawer of this table where I write, I cannot bring myself to look at it again, — not from a motive which is disparaging to you, as I am sure you understand; the general impression is enough for me, also, if you care in the least how I feel toward you. The boy has certainly the likeness to which you refer, and an absolute sameness, almost, in feature as well as in look, with certain old portraits of hers, — here, older and younger; there is not a trace of me in him, thank God! I know that dear, teasing Isa, and how she won’t answer your questions, but sometimes, for compensation, she tells you what you never asked for, and though I always, or very often, ask about you, yet I think it may have been in reply to curiosity about the price of Italian stock, that she lately described to me a photograph of you, yourself, and how you were: what? even that’s over. And moreover, how you were your old self with additions, which, to be sure, I don’t require.

Give my true regard to your mother, and thank her for her goodness in understanding me. But I write only to have a pleasant chat with you, in a balcony, looking for fire-flies in the garden, wider between us than the slanting Pitti façade, now that it’s warm and Maylike in Florence.

Always yours,
Robert Browning.”

“My Kate”
by Elizabeth Barrett Browning

I.
She was not as pretty as women I know,
And yet all your best made of sunshine and snow
Drop to shade, melt to nought in the long-trodden ways,
While she’s still remembered on warm and cold days—
My Kate.

II.
Her air had a meaning, her movements a grace;
You turned from the fairest to gaze on her face:
And when you had once seen her forehead and mouth,
You saw as distinctly her soul and her truth—
My Kate.

III.
Such a blue inner light from her eyelids outbroke,
You looked at her silence and fancied she spoke:
When she did, so peculiar yet soft was the tone,
Though the loudest spoke also, you heard her alone—
My Kate.

IV.
I doubt if she said to you much that could act
As a thought or suggestion: she did not attract
In the sense of the brilliant or wise: I infer
’T was her thinking of others made you think of her—
My Kate.

V.
She never found fault with you, never implied
Your wrong by her right; and yet men at her side
Grew nobler, girls purer, as through the whole town
The children were gladder that pulled at her gown—
My Kate.

VI.
None knelt at her feet confessed lovers in thrall;
They knelt more to God than they used,—that was all:
If you praised her as charming, some asked what you meant,
But the charm of her presence was felt when she went—
My Kate.

VII.
The weak and the gentle, the ribald and rude,
She took as she found them, and did them all good;
It always was so with her—see what you have!
She has made the grass greener even here … with her grave—
My Kate.

VIII.
My dear one!—when thou wast alive with the rest,
I held thee the sweetest and loved thee the best:
And now thou art dead, shall I not take thy part
As thy smiles used to do for thyself, my sweet Heart—
My Kate?

The White Lady of Dreams & Her Pale Lord of Wishes (Video) / “The Cap & Bells” by William Butler Yeats

I had never seen the video above until earlier today, and I have only just read the poem by Yeats below. They both magnificently compliment my recent collaboration with my poet friend Pepperanne, in our Ragnarök’s Waltz poem and prose!

 

“The Cap & Bells”
by William Butler Yeats

The jester walked in the garden:
The garden had fallen still;
He bade his soul rise upward
And stand on her window-sill.
It rose in a straight blue garment,
When owls began to call:
It had grown wise-tongued by thinking
Of a quiet and light footfall;
But the young queen would not listen;
She rose in her pale night-gown;
She drew in the heavy casement
And pushed the latches down.
He bade his heart go to her,
When the owls called out no more;
In a red and quivering garment
It sang to her through the door.
It had grown sweet-tongued by dreaming
Of a flutter of flower-like hair;
But she took up her fan from the table
And waved it off on the air.
‘I have cap and bells,’ he pondered,
‘I will send them to her and die';
And when the morning whitened
He left them where she went by.
She laid them upon her bosom,
Under a cloud of her hair,
And her red lips sang them a love-song
Till stars grew out of the air.
She opened her door and her window,
And the heart and the soul came through,
To her right hand came the red one,
To her left hand came the blue.
They set up a noise like crickets,
A chattering wise and sweet,
And her hair was a folded flower
And the quiet of love in her feet.

Ragnarök’s Waltz

unnamedDualist, Artist Dan Quintana

Ragnarök’s Waltz
collaboration

Charivari! —  Life?
Charmed, but the charrings jarring!
Hell’s wedding bells, rung,
Struck the match made in Heaven
Through Earth’s Twilight of the Gods!

~

Cursed curtsies’ introduction
Of Lady’s maladies to Lord’s scourged
Lips to gloves’ warm reception
Of Ebola sleeping in cells’ shared kiss
Lord of Wishes and Solar Eclipses
Lady of Dreams and Frozen Bourn
Spiders weave tangled messes
In the mezzanine for grave-risers —
Laurel leaves and head-dresses
Adorn White Lady and Pale Horseman
All-Hallows’ Eve, All-Soul’s regressions
Pestilence and Death’s Ragnarök-Waltz
Hollow’s Moon and Sun’s Spots
Swallow misanthropes as grave throats
Hold back waves — Hush the tide
Of charivari charming for chalice toast
The Bride and Groom Waltz with pride
Heaven and Hell’s wedding bells have rung
A broken Baroque clock strikes midnight
And both sides of Earth’s church aisle raise
Slate shades over a new Blood Moon Blue
As newly-wed wraith’s guest-specter’s wave
Envelops Sun’s light-beyond-white,
Twilight’s veil lifts and the end, kissed, begins
One last dance before Sunrise —
The Dawn of Death after Pestilence’s Dusk
Whereupon living-death presides
Ever-polarized in waking-nightmares

~

Skylarking Charivari, the Host of Heaven is falling! — Purgatory life on the scorched Earth? Charmed I am sure, but the infernal charrings most assuredly going to be eternally jarring! Hell’s wedding bells, the Nephilim Titans have rung from Terra’s core! After Perdition struck the match made in Paradise, the wandering stars who were set loose as Roman Candles shoot, lit the lunar-fuse of our Moon’s powder-filled Catherine Wheel sparking-spinner to usher in the last hurrah, the Universe’s last dance, Dawn’s Ragnarök’s Waltz, along with exploding Black-Cat-Sunspot bottle-rockets to celebrate the long-awaited Twilight of the Gods — the Eclipse of Apocalypse’s snarling lips galvanizing the acidic end of existence as we know it the pit of the stomach of the Ragnarök Dog’s feasting Maws on the Dawn of Death, through the Black Hole jaws of the Fenris-Wolf swallower-of-all!

~

The White Lady of Dreams and Lunar Sleep, Coral Reefs and Elysium Greed presiding over the Seven Sisters of Maladies, the companions of Artemis, her bridesmaids who hail from a star-cluster of Pleiades, eons ago curtsied in introduction to utter destruction, as the Pale Lord of Wishes and Solar Eclipses, Star Fissures and Apocalypses (whose reign contains the whole empire of their Hunter constellation), with all his domain above Orion’s Belt following his lead, bowed extravagantly down to the White Lady’s nebula of residence near Orion’s feet.

“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 us 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…

Lord’s lips to Lady’s gloves’ warm reception of Ebola sleeping in cells’ shared kiss, was the game-changing anti-type of the archetype of the oath of the Norse God Týr not to trick Fenrir the Fenris-Wolf with the third test of the limits of the Dog’s Jaw’s strength to break their bonds, when Týr’s hand was tied and lost in the mouth of Death as the enchanted Gleipnir bonds bound The Death Hound until the promised Ragnarök, the Dawn the Norse call The Twilight of the Gods, when Gleipnir shades, destined to fray dark strands of fate that have chained, caged Fenrir’s Ragnarök bay, break in the wake of the waves from tides that the times have changed, erasing sandcastles drained by hourglasses taking shape away dreams fragilely based.

Long frozen silent center blue of the 21st century’s gyre, desires Orion’s resilient choirs of Seven Sister Heavens’ Jubilee of Mires and Mists that escapes Nephilim lips into livid true-fictions, bereft of their instruments, dwindled to whispers adrift in dreary ambiguous silences in which we live our wistful forgetfulness…

Týr tried to con Death’s senses, draining volumes cataloged ‘Ouroboros Silences’ — Bagworm caterpillars dropped hissing snakes burned from cocoons, stillborn demons culled, hatching wrym-leeches screeching, consumed by crackling fire, heard cackling,

Searing augury, sauntering so austerely, seering amphorae” — Taciturns who tried touching the heart of Catherine’s Wheels.

The lostness of a cause is the threshold in which it stalls, closing chances hinged on this lack of slackness in our jaws juxtaposed with our mouth’s foam, speaking out both sides of it — Arabs snow, sand Eskimos, when a Devil’s Advocate.

…but now the stars have aligned their shades throughout Orion, and Earth’s Brown Recluse seamstresses (known as Violin Spiders to Italians), intrinsically weave their intricately-tangled illustrious and famous Roman silk masterpiece-messes in the long-forgotten mezzanine of an annex to the Sistine Chapel for the All-Hallows’ Eve’s grave-risers’ unholy matrimony… just 30 kilometers from Ragnarök bay where Týr’s hand was sealed with Gleipnir on the coast of the Tyrrhenian Sea!

The arachnids’ Black-Lilied Laurel leaves’ head-dresses adorn the White Lady Rider and crown the Pale Lord Chief, and thus All-Hallows’ Eve progresses, rendering All-Soul’s regressions — As Lady Pestilence dances with Lord Death the Ragnarök-Waltz, Sleepy Hollow’s Moon hunger, with famished Sun’s Spots, start swallowing misanthropes down Black Holes’ gulps as grave throats hold back the roaring waves, hushing the high tide’s appetite.

While Titans clash in charming charivari’s chalice-toasts, the Bride and Groom relish their Dance of Armageddon in Autumn-resurrected pride, watching Heaven’s fall Hell’s wedding bells wrought rung as broken Baroque clocks, Doomsday-bewitched, strike midnight, and starlit matching sides of Earth’s Hellion church aisle raise Hell’s ancient slate’s clair de lune shades over a new Blue Blood Moon.

While newly-wed wraiths and undead-guests’ Mass exodus’ wave envelops All-Soul’s in grey, the Sun’s Spot-light seal on her white Twilight-lifted veil rends all Pale Death-bound, his Pestilence-kissed…

One last dance, as All-Hallows’ Eve’s final hurrah swallows Sunrise in the Pale-White Dawn of Death and Pestilence’s Dusk Covenant, whereupon the Fall Requiem of All-Soul’s, living-death shall preside ever-polarized, eclipsed in The Twilight of the God’s waking-nightmares…

~

Pepperanne and I both hope you enjoyed our endeavor to tell the tale of The Twilight of the Gods in a different light then the Apocalypse is traditionally cast in, as much as we enjoyed our collaboration. To quote Kojiro Tomita, “It has been said that art is a tryst; for in the joy of it, maker and beholder meet” and Miss Piggy, “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder and it may be necessary from time to time to give a stupid or misinformed beholder a black eye.” I kid, I kid! Pepper is a stellar poetess and excellent friend, and though she is hesitant to consider herself “a writer” and has been writing consistently for a shorter span of time than I, she is much better about the planning stage of creativity than I, and in my opinion, my creative equal (if not my superior!).  Pepperanne has my highest recommendation for your WordPress readership — Please check her poetry out at http://fieldofthorns.wordpress.com/ and you will see what a unique and gifted creative this “non-writer who just has a lot of happy accidents” is!

With warmest wishes for interesting things
and for imaginative slightly-fevered dreams,
Ry Hakari

Spotlight on Women’s Rights Activist Malala Yousafzai

Cyan Ryan:

Awesome blog on a women’s rights to education activist, by my friends Christy and Aquileana. I enjoyed the information, it being a personal point of interest for me, and I recommend reading it! One of my heroes (and my Great-Great-Great-Granduncle, who I look a lot like), D. Pat Henderson, was a champion for women’s rights to education in the 1800’s, and one of the 3 founders of one of the first world-class (at the time) all-women colleges in 1851. I blogged about him last year at http://21shadesofblue.com/2013/11/15/d-pat-henderson-1800s-man-of-strange-charisma-my-great-great-great-granduncle-role-model/

Originally posted on When Women Inspire:

Activist Malala Yousafzai. Original Photo Source: AK Rockefeller, CC BY-SA 4.0, via Flickr

Malala Yousafzai first came to public attention in 2009 when she wrote a BBC diary about life in Swat Valley in Northwest Pakistan, where the local Taliban had banned girls from attending school. Her diary chronicled her desire to remain in education and for girls to have the chance to be educated.

She wrote it under a pseudonym, Gul Makai, the name of a heroine from a Pashtun folk tale. Three years later, in 2012, she was shot in the head and neck due to this, after her school bus was boarded by a member of the Taliban. Her recovery process began in Pakistan and continued in England, where she now lives with her family. Today, Malala is 17 years old.

Malala Yousafzai: Awards and Achievements

View original 644 more words

Fleeting Bated Breath’s Release

We are Willows walking every eve into mourning,
silent secret-weepers over hibernating people’s
hearts that only make-believe like trees and leave.

When alone we’re our pillow’s talking in our sleep,
Winters waltzing charmed in each other’s arms
through the other Halcyon’s calming dreams.

Long-distance falling facets of our slow-dances go
mostly unnoticed like the uniqueness of the snow,
our soul flakes melting on our bated breath’s release.

Julius Caesar in his book The Gallic Wars, on the sacrificial practice of Druids making giant wicker statues out of willow boughs (and malleable branches of other trees), and putting people inside them, and setting the statues on fire (something seen in the cult-classic movie The Wickerman, starring Nicholas Cage):

“The whole nation of the Gauls is greatly devoted to ritual observances, and for that reason those who are smitten with the more grievous maladies and who are engaged in the perils of battle either sacrifice human victims or vow so to do, employing the druids as ministers for such sacrifices. They believe, in effect, that, unless for a man’s life a man’s life be paid, the majesty of the immortal gods may not be appeased; and in public, as in private life they observe an ordinance of sacrifices of the same kind. Others use figures of immense size whose limbs, woven out of twigs, they fill with living men and set on fire, and the men perish in a sheet of flame. They believe that the execution of those who have been caught in the act of theft or robbery or some crime is more pleasing to the immortal gods; but when the supply of such fails they resort to the execution even of the innocent.”

"21 Shades of Blue"

“21 Shades of Blue”

"23 Shades of Red"

“23 Shades of Red”