poetry that is fic

ysbrd  asked:

Hi! I've just finished blackbird and you don't know how much I love it. I'm still reeling from all the emotional turmoil over it, the research you did and how you did the characters, how you placed them and how everything just fit. I could go on and on, give me a few more weeks to recuperate (BECAUSE IT WAS JUST THAT GOOD. ( IM REALLY SAD THAT I HAD ORIGINALLY MARKED THIS FOR LATER BUT IT WAS WORTH IT) But I really wanted to ask where I can read Paul Verlaine's Romances sans par in english?

Thank you! There are English translations of all the poems in the book here, although I’m not wild about them- the translator prioritises preserving rhyme patterns over accuracy, but isn’t particularly good at either. Norman Shapiro’s translations of Verlaine are apparently well-regarded, and they are at least published in bilingual parallel, but again the devotion to preserving a rhyming scheme seems to take priority over preserving the nuance and atmosphere of the originals. I am personally planning to try and get hold of Martin Sorrell’s translations- I really like his approach in the two featured in that blogpost.

It’s kind of amusing to me the way Verlaine became such a Thing, both to myself in writing Blackbird and to readers. I picked Romances sans paroles because I wanted Yuuri to have a Gay French Book to go with his copy of Auden’s Poems, and Rimbaud was both too obvious and too miserable- I was vaguely aware of Verlaine’s existence beforehand, but I’d never read any of his work. But I suppose sometimes these things pick you!

I Saw Seven Souls - Poetry - The Adventure Zone (Podcast) [Archive of Our Own]
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
By Organization for Transformative Works

Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: The Adventure Zone (Podcast)
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Relationships: IPRE as family
Characters: Taako (The Adventure Zone), Magnus Burnsides, Merle Highchurch, Angus McDonald, The Director | Lucretia, Barry Bluejeans, Lup (The Adventure Zone), Davenport (The Adventure Zone), Kravitz (The Adventure Zone), The Hunger | John
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Daemons, Team as Family, Non-Linear Narrative, Background Relationships, Canon Temporary Character Death, Fix-It of Sorts, Stealth Crossover, Angst and Humor, Spoilers

“I saw all of existence all at once. I saw a dark storm, a living hunger eating it from within. But I saw a brilliant light heralded by seven souls, fleeing tirelessly from the storm. I saw seven souls: the Owl, the Mongoose, the Bear, the Stag, the Butterfly, the Ant, and the Spider.”

Here it is – my TAZ dæmon AU! Be advised that it contains spoilers for the entire Balance arc. Thanks to @thetalkingcrocus for the beta.

I just wanted to let a few of you know that if you any of you who are writers of fiction or poetry (or even if you have a gnawing hunger to read more!) you should try Commaful to post your stuff. It’s this really pleasant community of writers who support and actually give back feedback on any work you post. I’ve been there for almost 7 months now and of all my poetry posts, I’ve never gotten one negative comment. I’ve never seen a negative comment on the site period. Each post is like this little slideshow of a book and they’re so easy to make and coming from a really bad place last year mentally with a lingering depression and years of not feeling good about my poetry, I’ve never felt more accepted or inspired until I joined. I hope any who reads or writes like I do checks it out. Commaful.com is so much better for you and your work than Tumblr is.

Also, follow me if you like it and I’ll follow back! I’m wethedreamers there. Come be sad with me and look at my poetry and I’ll look at yours. :)

This wasn’t supposed to happen, okay? You weren’t supposed to happen. I was supposed to graduate and go to college and get a job and then, maybe, find someone. Falling in love wasn’t exactly in my five year plan.
—  from an unfinished story #717

I’ve seen a lot of positivity posts for new artists on tumblr. And, that’s important, but I don’t see a lot for new writers.

So, here’s to the new writers and authors.

Here’s to that kid writing fanfiction in their room, hoping to God nobody finds their work because it’s for their eyes only. You go. Write what makes you happy. You’ll be glad you did, even if you’re cringing at it a decade from now, you’ll be happy you did it.

Here’s to the girl writing online about her favorite boy band or artist. You go, girl. Work those writing skills. You’re learning with every imaginary interaction.

Here’s to the person in their 50s deciding they want to start on some realistic fiction. Go and do it. It’s never too late to start. I’ll bet you’ve got some awesome ideas.

Here’s to the person that randomly got inspiration one day and is just now trying their hand at poetry. You’re improving with every poem. Whether you just want to write a haiku, or you’re aiming to write an epic poem to rival the odyssey, you can do it. Your imagination is big enough, I promise.

Here’s to the college student writing that short story feverishly when they should be writing a paper. Work your creative muscles. You’ve got them, no matter how much you try to convince yourself you don’t.

Take those burning ideas in your head and write them out. You will make some mistakes. We all make a lot of mistakes. We never stop making mistakes.

Remember: you are creative enough, your first draft doesn’t have to be perfect, grammar is a bitch, so don’t beat yourself up if you mess it up sometimes, and make sure to have as much fun as you can.

“Hey,” Dex says as he enters their room. He doesn’t bother with waiting for a response before he begins to unpack his backpack, as they usually just nod in acknowledgement of one another anyway. It keeps them from arguing more than is necessary. They’ve had to learn these kinds of things since moving in together, but they’ve done it, if only just. They know how to keep themselves from going off and how not to trigger one another. Now, when they bicker, it’s mostly for their own amusement, which is a major improvement.

Still, when Dex doesn’t hear so much as a grunt back after he’s finished unpacking, he turns to see Nursey sitting up in his bed, frowning, and staring off into nothing. Dex puts down the notebook he just freed from his backpack. “Hey, Nurse. You okay?”

Nursey doesn’t respond for a moment. Then he looks up, still frowning just slightly, and meets Dex’s concerned eyes. “I-” He cuts himself off. He looks away again. “I don’t know.”

Dex takes a step closer, worry quickly mounting in his chest. “Did something happen? Are you hurt? Did someone-”

“No, no, it’s not-” Nursey sighs. Looks down. Looks back up. Frowns a little deeper. “I just- do you ever get those moods where you feel shitty and you don’t know why?”

As Dex’s heart slows its anxious pace, Dex relaxes for a moment. “Yeah. Yeah, of course I do.”

“What do you do to get rid of it?” Nursey must have his own method, Dex is sure, but going by the crumpled pieces of paper strewn across the floor in front of Nursey’s bed, it isn’t working.

“I usually hug someone,” Dex says, feeling his cheeks pink up but forcing himself to be honest. He usually climbs into bed with his mom, lets her hold him like when he was little and had a nightmare. At Samwell, he usually finds Chowder or Bitty or, that one really weird but nice time, Jack. Chowder’s out with Farmer for the night, celebrating the volleyball team’s triumph over their rival, and Bitty is visiting Jack for the weekend, though.

The look on Nursey’s face is so familiarly lost that Dex makes up his mind within seconds. He toes off his boots and climbs in next to Nursey, wrapping an arm around his waist and another around his shoulder. He squeezes with all the warmth left in his body after his trek back from the library. Nursey melts after a moment of hesitancy, and they lie back against the pillows, holding each other.

We were meant to be gods
We were meant to own the sky
                                  shake the Earth with our breath
                                  carry oceans in our tears
                                  conquer kingdoms with a single shot
We were meant to soar above even the brightest stars
But they plucked the ambrosia from my lips
and they sucked the divinity from your name
and they cast us out like original sin out of Eden
and they left us here 
     in socked feet
     with wounded hearts and mortal sins
     and the last enchanted dewdrop still clinging to our hair
So I sank down to hell
        made playmates with the fallen devils
        learned how to stay warm by the heat of hellfire
So you leapt into the sky
             made warmates with the fallen stars
             learned how to fly by the trail of a dying comet
So you resurrected me with your poisoned lips
and I breathed your name back to life
and we built ourselves up from the depth of this cursed land
     brick by brick
     bone by bone
     breath by breath
     sin by ghostly sin
And one day, my love, 
we will reach up into the heavens
and bring down their castle in the clouds
and leave them as they left us:
     in socked feet
     with wounded hearts and immortal sins
     and the last enchanted dewdrop still clinging to their hair
One day, my love, 
we will be 
what d e s t r o y e d the gods.
—  hell is just a meeting room for the forgotten and the abandoned ( j.p.

the last Pevensie (a song for Susan)

What it must do to you, 
to be a legend in the body of a young girl, 
to have that weight on your shoulders 
and have a lion tell you that you have to let it go. 

What it must do to you, 
to be left alone to decide 
whether to bury your family 
in separate ceremonies, 
or all at once, 
the same way they died, 
all at once and without you. 

What it must do to you,
to stand there in black, 
with your nylons, and your lipstick, 
and feel responsible for these people 
who you will never be able to explain yourself to 
and who you can never save.

—  ejl. (x) 

we tried hard to stand it. we

were barely human. we were bodies

stacked with pain. we never said sorry,
didn’t wanna. you were always drunk
& sad & too far gone for that. I was
terrible & I didn’t care about being better.
but now you’re standing in my bedroom.
now you’re scared & you say you
wanna get into heaven. you wanna

stand in some form of light that isn’t
filtered through clouds of crude smoke.
good luck, & who knows, maybe god
will forgive us for all of this. the stones
we threw, the ankles we bit, the people
we kissed. showing up at the gates
with our tails between our legs.

starved & mad, two dogs who missed
their last meal, licking our wounds &
itching for a fair fight.

there so much to get mad about.
go ahead pick something. imagine
if it helped. imagine if mattered.
I didn’t cry when you left. I just
circled ‘round the block & waited
for you to come back. because
you always do. because I know
how this goes. we pretend we
aren’t the same & then we realize
we are & we pretend we don’t care.
we need each other & that’s all we do.

it’s crazy the things you do for a friend.

it’s crazy the way you’ll act for love.

the evolution of katsuki yuuri, a poem


“i’m not gay,” yuuri says.
yuuko slaps a hand over nishigori’s mouth,
thoroughly ignoring the finger yuuri has
gently tracing over magazine-viktor’s lips.

“you are what you are, yuuri-kun,” yuuko says, smiling. 


“you’re in love with viktor nikiforov!” 

yuuri glares at phichit, willing the heat
on his cheeks to fade as he posts up three
of his lesser favorite viktor posters on his wall. 

(it would be be bad if he got his better posters dusty,
after all.) 

“no i’m not,” yuuri says,
ignoring the gleeful smile on phichit’s face
as he (does not) lovingly caress the corner of
his poster of 2008 viktor, dressed in silver and blues.

“he’s my idol, is all.”


“i’m kind of gay,” yuuri admits,
curled up inside the safe haven of his comforter
(that does not do well in comforting him much). 

“i didn’t notice,” minako says,
making no mention of how she’d caught him
kissing one of the viktor posters on his bedroom wall. 


“i am definitely gay!” yuuri yells, fervent and giggly,
a mess of inebriation and unbuttoned clothes
as he twirls and takes viktor into his arms. 

viktor says, laughing and beautiful,
and yuuri loves him. yuuri thinks
he could love him forever, given the chance. 

“you’re beautiful,” yuuri confesses
and viktor’s face heats. 

(he does not understand japanese,
but he knows “beautiful” when he hears it.)


“i don’t know why i ever thought i wasn’t gay.”

viktor looks up from his magazine,
holding their besotted faces on the cover
like a glaring spotlight of evidence for all the years
that yuuri has missed what was always in front of him. 

“well,” viktor says, smiling as he takes yuuri’s hand
and presses a kiss to the ring on his finger,
“no matter the reason, you’re mine now.” 

it would have been very romantic,
had viktor not continued, heart-smile on his face, 

“still, we both could have suffered a little less
if you understood earlier on that i’m in love with you!”

poetry-protest-pornography  asked:

2, 14 or 28 for the fic prompt thing! Sterek obviously, please and thank you 😚

Thank you for the prompt, dear! I picked 28. It turned out a bit silly, I hope you don’t mind!

Summary: Stiles is trying to find Scott and Allison’s new house, but he accidentally knocks on the door of their hot neighbor instead. (On AO3)

(And shout out to @inell for telling me this didn’t suck!)

It’s dark, and Stiles has poor night vision, okay? Scott had given him a thorough description of their new place, but none of those features are really helping him now.

And apparently none of the people in this neighborhood believe in porch lights. So when he knocks on the door that he thinks is red, he’s expecting Scott, or maybe Allison, to answer it.

He’s not expecting a man with immaculate stubble and brooding eyebrows to answer, ethereally backlit by his hallway light. He cocks one of those magnificent eyebrows as he leans on the door that, it turns out, is actually blue. Whoops.

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Happy #SyndullaSunday with an eversoslightly different photo!

The feeling struck me suddenly, deep, in my heart, in the pit of my stomach, that I wanted him, fuck, I wanted him more than anything.
I wanted the lazy mornings and the exhilarating nighttimes, I wanted wild dancing and electric beats, I wanted to feel that chaotic happiness taking over me, just the two of our bodies pressed together on the dance floor.
I wanted the uncontrollable happiness bubbling up in me when he looked back at me, across the room, when he smiled and smirked, and beckoned me with his eyes.
I wanted the passion, I wanted the fire, but I wanted the love, too. I wanted the soft brush of our hands when we walked side by side, the press of his thigh next to mine when we shared a blanket on the couch, the warmth of his arm around my shoulder, the comfort of his fluttering kisses on my cheeks.
I wanted him so desperately, so deeply. When he smiled at me, with that chaotic, knowing smile of his, I knew he wanted me too, passionately, wildly, uncontrollably.
—  “All I wanted was you, from the beginning, and I’ve finally accepted how deeply that feeling runs.”
(m.b, a pynch poem)
Cigarettes and knives, knives and cigarettes
Watch the gasoline light and see how high it gets
Walk in the flames, it doesn’t burn anymore
Memories are the real pain, the burn from before
Now there’s fire in your eyes, blazing bright!
But it’s quick to die, the withering light
Your hopes, your dreams, they float away
The smoke, the smoke’s here to stay
You’re choking, choking
You’re soaking in blood
Is it your own?
Who knows, but who has time to care?
When the real villain here is quite clear
It’s the mirror, the mirror, break it, destroy it!
Stab it, rip it! You’re an old toy
Your owner got grown and now you’re alone
Alone? Yes alone, there is nobody here
Nobody in the mirror besides the smoke and the fear
But then you grow up, quicker than you should
You stamp out the fear and cut down the wood
Light it on fire, quick, watch it burn!
The field of your emotions is nothing but fern
That’s soon to die, to die, to die
Now you stand up high, try to feel
It cannot be him, this is not real
His hair’s of fire, his eyes of ice
Every word he says, they’re all lies
Can you trust him? No you can’t!
But you have to, don’t you?
So you play a game, a game of wits
Truth for truth, coming in bits
Sort through the pieces and fit them together
Build them up and protect them
You’ve worked too hard to let this burn
So you give him a key, a home, a kiss
Just something simple, something you won’t miss
But this is all wrong, something is mistaken
It was just a risk you’ve taken
But look what’s happened
You’re not up high, you’re feeling again
And you’re not sure why
But maybe you are, it’s this boy and his lies
The way he looks at you without despise
This is all wrong! Look in the mirror!
There’s nothing but a monster, stripped of fear
But there’s something behind it, something you feel
Something that feels just too real.
Burn it! Rip it! Slash it! Kill it!
You pick up a knife and you simply stare
You look in the mirror and you do not dare
It’s there, it’s there! The light in your eyes!
But you cannot, simply cannot
So put down the knife, say a percent,
It will take a while to know what this meant
Cigarettes and knives, knives and cigarettes
You’re not quite sure what this means yet
So you watch the smoke blow from your lips
Drop the cigarette, another percent slips
But you’re not alone, you’re not alone
You’ve found the truth, and this is home.
—  cigarettes and knives, knives and cigarettes | s.w.

my birthday present for @lio-zehel!!! little bit of jerejean flirtiness for you 🎉🎉🎉

As far as Jean can tell, there’s nothing about clubbing that Jeremy doesn’t like.

He loves people, and there are always plenty of those. He likes loud music, and dancing. He also likes ordering drinks at the bar, which is just weird, but probably has something to do with the fact that bartenders fall over themselves to serve him.

“Incredible,” Alvarez observes, as once again Jeremy is suddenly at the bar ordering while other people have probably been waiting fifteen minutes. “This isn’t even a gay club.”

“It’s a talent,” Laila replies. “Or maybe it’s the jeans.” She looks at Jean. “Did you pick those out?”

Jean looks back at her. “I’ve tried to throw them out twice now.”

The jeans in question are more holes than fabric, and not in the fashionably distressed way either. Somehow Jeremy is making them work for him anyway. Jean looks away from the matchbook-sized hole in the thigh under Jeremy’s ass for the third time tonight.

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