esoteric poetry

Ravenclaw Headcanon

Ravenclaws are acutely aware of how powerful words are. They don’t understand how Gryffindors throw out sentences like a competition, Slytherins weave monologues with nothing but the end goal in mind, and Hufflepuffs grace everything and everyone with compliments. None of these are bad things, but Ravenclaws tend to think more about the effects of words, how they play on each other, how the placement of a word in a sentence can change the meaning. How words are beautiful and complicated and truly amazing, how people managed to create this form of communication, and in many different ways too.

Today I made a wand from a fallen branch of a gum tree, tipped with a singing stone and it felt good. It felt really, really good, the kind of good that makes you forget to eat, forget that your back hurts, forget the ticking of the clock.
At times this world can be overwhelming,
at times it can feel as if nothing you do is enough but,
This is the work that is needed in this world. Find what makes your heart sing, find what nourishes you and let it consume you. Let it be a love song to the broken parts of the giant heart that beats beneath you.
You are a mirror, you are a reflection, you are the universe experiencing itself and what nourishes you nourishes the world.
You are so important.
You are so loved.


A pair of alabaster hands wandered through my window last night.

I watched thumbs slide under the seam, lift glass from frame with

a rush of wind like a shush to a cry.

Our lifelines spun by hummingbirds, 

I watched how the hands

worked to keep them


I saw

our consciousness                 tinctured,

a measure pressed through a medicine dropper to be

                     set in the mouths of strangers, 

                     a quiet gift

so we might stay each other’s

like how snow knows rain, having

been it


hood of truth

a violet flame
a hood of truth
curves round the globe
across the net of being
& alights
                                upon my brow

but a crown is a burden of servitude
and this
       this is the freedom of speaking truth
to all
who have ever known
my falsehood

One remembers there is something
drempt, being left on a distant shore
catacomb of reality sliced open
heart beating ancient relics
of spirit vibrating from cells
all swarming within

creature of self, made alive
in so much one sometimes argue
against self as though mirrors
could speak, in any voice including
ones, own. A silent vertebrae on
infinitesimal back, a breath lost
in a notion of time, sanctified
second hand faded dance
Continues on, these parts
of one self, hour paced by
squrrillings of mind minutes

measure an hour glass of sand
doom, dunes like back covers
another story living (as lived).

yet, in a library, one cannot recall
names, nor labels or thought
rather indifferent knowing breathe
in experience
breathe out star dust.

one can experience sheds on
a breeze undefininable regions,
a memory so precious that it
graces space seen, hearing echoes.

gift impressions, instant ashtack
to introspective, observer
veils eyes whilst giving cheat sheets
to a masked charade

walk lines between heaven and hell all waging within a mind that does not even really exist… except in moments one, breathe in two, breathing out, one.

A poem about the spiritual fall, by an unknown esoteric poet (not my work):

You fell into the well of illusion

In seeking to quench the thirst of your spirit,

But never did you expect to swallow flames

Or become a flame yourself.

Your ashes you threw into the four winds,

For you wanted to become wind.

But never did you expect to lose yourself so easily,

A tempest lost in its own madness.

A wanderer amongst tombs and deserts,

You now speak in riddles and ghosts,

Preaching what you have once forgotten,

Preaching what you yourself once had.

In the memory of your spirit you recall

The happiness of a star and bright eternity,

Now shadowed by your own eclipse

And the tears of too much knowledge.

And having wept the tears of the spirit

You cry, “Naked I left that star in whom I was born,

"Naked do I wander among streets and ghosts.

"For little is there of spirit here, now that I am spirit.”

With new funeral stones you surround yourself,

Deaf to lamentations as to whispers.

Only with chisel and hammer do you dare

To pave the way to new resurrections.

For in the expectation of great dawns

You carve out your ivory stone of happiness.

“This is the pillar to my new god,” you say.

“For once he was dead, and now he is born.”


Some words may never leave

the few that kissed my dreams

after the storm. That dried my

tears, rejection left behind. I am

standing, dusting these sand

burned knees where the glass

would have formed from the fire

that burns within. I am walking

my back facing you with no need

as the wings have been hidden

this entire time. I am flying now

freely over the mountains of

gleaming rubies in Colorado,

through the deserts of black

opals eyes in Virgin Valley,

Nevada-into the East, the North.

I am, breaking through the barriers

of life and death, here or now

then and when. I am breathing the

space that never was between us

and kissing lips with passion

that only those who know the truth

of love may part their lips to speak.

Those words, that may never leave

kissing my dreams into the next

dimension where I have been waiting

for myself to return for over three decades

of holding your hands, smacking egos.

I am flying free, I am.

On words that never leave.


burst, an

arcane effervescent hum, 

bubbling vibration from

throat, from fingertips, the

         soles of feet arched over a volcanic 

         membrane: our inner

fruit, a fig in the skull, a pulp

         galvanic, forcing forth a

         fist that’s caught flame, clutched tender. close, your

grip of Prometheus’s spark.

I think the garashir fandom trope that bothers me the most is the idea that garak only appreciates super highbrow classical literature and esoteric poetry or whatever when canonically he tries to get bashir into his precious mystery dramas and at the end of the wire he lends him some spec fic novel about klingons vs cardassians

I’m saying garak totally reads the cardassian equivalent of pulpy historical fiction about the age of sail, full of well researched, technical passages about (space)ship to ship combat for the military nerds but with surprisingly compelling character arcs. I’m saying he reads the 24th century’s da vinci code and spends a week carefully looking up all the corny allusions so he can have ‘the full experience’. I’m saying he torrents the lewdest, double dick down gay ass erotica he can find from every species he can think of and refers to it as a study in comparative literature


the season of my dismissal
the architecture of a life,
 strutted & beamed
 by perception & memory
crumbling now
   sheet & shingle.

only naive souls are imprisoned
by others’ thoughts.
there is no other,
only projections.

all we see is all we are.

we are the gaoler & the savior
            the judge & the jury
            the demolitionist & the architect

we are each the hidden spinner
of our own fate & fortune & future


Stigoh na beskrajnu poljanu
Vidjeh košute kako pasu
Poželjeh im se pridružit
Al’ odjednom dobih krila
i moj vidik je prevazišao
poljanu, košute i travu.

prostrane ravnice,
neustrašive planinske vijence,
kao suze čiste
kao biser lijepe
hladne rijeke.

I zastadoh;
pred očima se nazire
vodeno plavetnilo;
srcu se nazire smiraj
na obalama oceana.

Sve su se rijeke
u njeg’ slile,
kao i svi
treptaji i nemiri srca.

Tek sad vidim jasno,
Moje srce je kašmir
od najfinijih vlakana
plemenite živine.

Satkao sam ga
u najljepši oblik;
tako da u njemu
nema mjesta
ni za šta