naamah_darling: A tiny week-old tabby kitten with her paws raised and her eyes half-closed. (Kittens)
Did your week stink?

Have a stinky hug and make it all better.

yeti hugs for everyone

Smooch says "AHM SMELLEH BUT AH LOVES YOU."

I may or may not have the most ludicrous cat in the world.

Our car is in the shop. Hopefully it won't be something tremendously pain-in-the-assy to fix and we'll get it back tomorrow.

Thank you, everyone, because we are so friggin' close on Throne of the Depths that we can hit it with a rock. We're at 88%, and $50 a day will get us there.

As incentive to maybe help get us over the hump, if I sell all 20 original black and white drawings, I'll bump the size from 3" x 4.5" to 4" x 6". (That's a pretty big jump in size.) We've only got 13 left, so that might be doable, yes?

Thank you for spreading the word. It does help . . . people whose names I do not recognize are claiming perks. That's y'all helping us out. Thank you. We are almost there, and I am insanely grateful.

Anyway, hope you all have a great weekend! Full of stinky kitty kisses if you want them. (You know you do.)
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Kitten Fierce)
First, Erin Underwood has a post up featuring kitty-related poetry by a number of authors, including yours truly. You can find it right here.

A blurb:

Poetry for Cats is a special literary project to help cats in need by featuring poetry written for and about our furry feline friends. Running an animal rescue is an expensive operation that takes time, energy, and money to ensure that these animals get the medical and social attention that they need. . . .

Great Lakes Bengal Rescue (GLBR), a non-profit organization, recently rescued 12 more bengals from the owner of a mill who was no longer able to provide shelter and care for her cats. This is just one of many incidents in which GLBR rescues a large numbers of animals at once. However, they also take in cats that are given to them from loving families who can no longer care for their pets, from other shelters, and from seizures. They cover 8 states and have over two dozen foster homes who work with the rescued bengal cats, providing them with care and shelter, until a permanent home is found.

In honor of this lovely and noble breed of cats as well as in deep appreciation for all of the good work done by the Great Lakes Bengal Resucue, UNDERWORDs has collected a very special kind of donation from some very talented animal lovers.

We give you Poetry for Cats. The poets participating in Poetry for Cats contributed their peoms as their special way of supporting GLBR. This post would not have been possible without their talent and generosity. Please enjoy the poetry, smile at the bengal photos, and consider giving a gift that will help GLBR to continue helping cats in need. Gifts made to GLBR are tax deductable.

Donate to the Great Lakes Bengal Rescue!


Notable entries (though all are much appreciated):

"My Cat is a Collector of Stories" by Brittany Warman, a truly beautiful and evocative poem that I wish I had written. Lovely symbolism.

Also, "Ode to a Scratching Post" by Marc Massari, which has the very roundabout rhythm and rhyme of old epic poetry, offered from a cat's point of view.

Sally Koetsveld's "Old Girl" hits close to home. "Ode to the House Cat" by Dawn LeMay made me laugh, especially the third stanza. Yeah, the litterbox thing. Why do you do this, goblin cat of mine?

Anyway, go forth and read, and make with the comment love if you feel so inclined. And if you feel really generous, donate to the Great Lakes Bengal Rescue. Hard times, folks, and animal rescues need all the love they can get.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Kitten Fierce)
First, Erin Underwood has a post up featuring kitty-related poetry by a number of authors, including yours truly. You can find it right here.

A blurb:

Poetry for Cats is a special literary project to help cats in need by featuring poetry written for and about our furry feline friends. Running an animal rescue is an expensive operation that takes time, energy, and money to ensure that these animals get the medical and social attention that they need. . . .

Great Lakes Bengal Rescue (GLBR), a non-profit organization, recently rescued 12 more bengals from the owner of a mill who was no longer able to provide shelter and care for her cats. This is just one of many incidents in which GLBR rescues a large numbers of animals at once. However, they also take in cats that are given to them from loving families who can no longer care for their pets, from other shelters, and from seizures. They cover 8 states and have over two dozen foster homes who work with the rescued bengal cats, providing them with care and shelter, until a permanent home is found.

In honor of this lovely and noble breed of cats as well as in deep appreciation for all of the good work done by the Great Lakes Bengal Resucue, UNDERWORDs has collected a very special kind of donation from some very talented animal lovers.

We give you Poetry for Cats. The poets participating in Poetry for Cats contributed their peoms as their special way of supporting GLBR. This post would not have been possible without their talent and generosity. Please enjoy the poetry, smile at the bengal photos, and consider giving a gift that will help GLBR to continue helping cats in need. Gifts made to GLBR are tax deductable.

Donate to the Great Lakes Bengal Rescue!


Notable entries (though all are much appreciated):

"My Cat is a Collector of Stories" by Brittany Warman, a truly beautiful and evocative poem that I wish I had written. Lovely symbolism.

Also, "Ode to a Scratching Post" by Marc Massari, which has the very roundabout rhythm and rhyme of old epic poetry, offered from a cat's point of view.

Sally Koetsveld's "Old Girl" hits close to home. "Ode to the House Cat" by Dawn LeMay made me laugh, especially the third stanza. Yeah, the litterbox thing. Why do you do this, goblin cat of mine?

Anyway, go forth and read, and make with the comment love if you feel so inclined. And if you feel really generous, donate to the Great Lakes Bengal Rescue. Hard times, folks, and animal rescues need all the love they can get.
naamah_darling: A tiny week-old tabby kitten with her paws raised and her eyes half-closed. (Kittens)
Hay! Just a fun note to say that [livejournal.com profile] e_underwood is putting together a blog-based poetry project to benefit shelter cats. Specifically:

I'm doing a little poetry project to support cats in need, specifically bengal cats who are sheltered by the Great Lakes Bengal Rescue (GLBR). Unfortunately, I'm not a poet. So, I need your help.

If you'd like to pitch in and help some furry creatures, please send me a poem about cats to include in a special post I am putting up on www.underwordsblog.com Poems should be sent to me by February 5th and can be any size. All of the poems will be posted in one post along with a blurb about the GLBR and a donation link.

Your payment will be the silent gratitude of some very needy cats.

Thanks for helping with Poetry for Cats!


I am contributing a poem, and I hope that if you have anything that would qualify, you might consider it, too. Also, I know some of you have Bengal cats. If you have nice pictures of them that you wouldn't mind sharing a little, you might mention it over on the original post. Could be helpful.

Spreading the word would be great, too!

Contact email is thus: e.m.underwood @ post.harvard.edu

Just send 'em along!

I will be linking when the project post is up. I think this is a great idea. The cats get some help, you get a little publicity, everyone wins.
naamah_darling: A tiny week-old tabby kitten with her paws raised and her eyes half-closed. (Kittens)
Hay! Just a fun note to say that [livejournal.com profile] e_underwood is putting together a blog-based poetry project to benefit shelter cats. Specifically:

I'm doing a little poetry project to support cats in need, specifically bengal cats who are sheltered by the Great Lakes Bengal Rescue (GLBR). Unfortunately, I'm not a poet. So, I need your help.

If you'd like to pitch in and help some furry creatures, please send me a poem about cats to include in a special post I am putting up on www.underwordsblog.com Poems should be sent to me by February 5th and can be any size. All of the poems will be posted in one post along with a blurb about the GLBR and a donation link.

Your payment will be the silent gratitude of some very needy cats.

Thanks for helping with Poetry for Cats!


I am contributing a poem, and I hope that if you have anything that would qualify, you might consider it, too. Also, I know some of you have Bengal cats. If you have nice pictures of them that you wouldn't mind sharing a little, you might mention it over on the original post. Could be helpful.

Spreading the word would be great, too!

Contact email is thus: e.m.underwood @ post.harvard.edu

Just send 'em along!

I will be linking when the project post is up. I think this is a great idea. The cats get some help, you get a little publicity, everyone wins.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Blood Oath)
This is the poem I referenced in this entry.

I wanted something like my favorite werewolf pack would use to teach their kids, something that gave just a taste of the underlying culture. It wound up being darkish and a little sad . . . not very cute or childlike. I was very pleased with it, for a silly exercise.

Lycanthropic Acrostic

A is our Alpha, our first and our last,
B is the Blood Oath which binds us all fast.
C is the Change which reveals our true face,
D is the Death at the end of the chase.
E are our Ears, always pricked for the sound
F of the Footfalls of prey on the ground.
G is the Grove where we shelter and meet,
H for the Howling, so wild and sweet.
I is the Instinct that shows us the way,
J of the Jaws closing fast on the prey.
K for our Kills, the blood paints the earth red,
L are our Lives, which we owe to the dead.
M is the Moon, both a blessing and bane,
N are the Northwoods, our oldest domain.
O, we are Outcasts, yet we do not mourn,
P is the Pack where we die and are born.
Q is how Quietly all of us go
R as we're Running through midnight and snow.
S for the Shifting of flesh and of bone,
T for the Terrible Things we have known.
U for the Union of wolf and of man,
V for the Vows we have made to our clan.
W, Wandering, Wolves with no home,
X is our Exile, ever to roam.
Y is the Yearning that sets us apart
Z, for the Zest of the moon in the heart.
Part of the pack in our life and our death,
From the blood of our birth to the last of our breath.

Thanks to [livejournal.com profile] copperwise, who helped me with the last couplet and to [livejournal.com profile] pixxelpuss and Sargon, who provided useful input. [I added the last stanza much later (05/01/13) to make it a round and lunar 28 lines long.]

I'd like to hear this read aloud by a group of people because I have a suspicion that it would be gratifyingly creepy, like a chant. Thanks to Audacity and the wonders of the internet, I can actually make this happen.

If I post a base track of me reading it, would anyone be willing to stick their headphones on, plug in their microphone, and record themselves reading along in the same rhythm? If I get enough volunteers, I can layer the tracks and see how it sounds.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Default)
This is the poem I referenced in this entry.

I wanted something like my favorite werewolf pack would use to teach their kids, something that gave just a taste of the underlying culture. It wound up being darkish and a little sad . . . not very cute or childlike. I was very pleased with it, for a silly exercise.

Lycanthropic Acrostic

A is our Alpha, our first and our last,
B is the Blood Oath which binds us all fast.
C is the Change which reveals our true face,
D is the Death at the end of the chase.
E are our Ears, always pricked for the sound
F of the Footfalls of prey on the ground.
G is the Grove where we shelter and meet,
H for the Howling, so wild and sweet.
I is the Instinct that shows us the way,
J of the Jaws closing fast on the prey.
K for our Kills, the blood paints the earth red,
L are our Lives, which we owe to the dead.
M is the Moon, both a blessing and bane,
N are the Northwoods, our oldest domain.
O, we are Outcasts, yet we do not mourn,
P is the Pack where we die and are born.
Q is how Quietly all of us go
R as we're Running through midnight and snow.
S for the Shifting of flesh and of bone,
T for the Terrible Things we have known.
U for the Union of wolf and of man,
V for the Vows we have made to our clan.
W, Wandering, Wolves with no home,
X is our Exile, ever to roam.
Y is the Yearning that sets us apart
Z, for the Zest of the moon in the heart.
Part of the pack in our life and our death,
From the blood of our birth to the last of our breath.

Thanks to [livejournal.com profile] copperwise, who helped me with the last couplet and to [livejournal.com profile] pixxelpuss and Sargon, who provided useful input. [I added the last stanza much later (05/01/13) to make it a round and lunar 28 lines long.]

I'd like to hear this read aloud by a group of people because I have a suspicion that it would be gratifyingly creepy, like a chant. Thanks to Audacity and the wonders of the internet, I can actually make this happen.

If I post a base track of me reading it, would anyone be willing to stick their headphones on, plug in their microphone, and record themselves reading along in the same rhythm? If I get enough volunteers, I can layer the tracks and see how it sounds.

Wolf Rosary

May. 7th, 2010 08:07 pm
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Wolf Woman)
I just want to point out that my friend and fellow werewolf Dr. Omed is an amazing poet.

Wolf Rosary

Seriously, go read. Guaranteed to bring a howl to the throat.

I am pretty sure I've linked to this one before, back when it was first published on his old blog. I'm linking again because it was something I really needed to read last night. In the wolf hours, as it were. His work has a habit of being what I need, when I need it.

Yesterday was the National Day of Prayer. As he says, "Let’s make sure it isn’t just for Believers anymore."

Wolf Rosary

May. 7th, 2010 08:07 pm
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Wolf Woman)
I just want to point out that my friend and fellow werewolf Dr. Omed is an amazing poet.

Wolf Rosary

Seriously, go read. Guaranteed to bring a howl to the throat.

I am pretty sure I've linked to this one before, back when it was first published on his old blog. I'm linking again because it was something I really needed to read last night. In the wolf hours, as it were. His work has a habit of being what I need, when I need it.

Yesterday was the National Day of Prayer. As he says, "Let’s make sure it isn’t just for Believers anymore."
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Enochian Keyboard)
I had not read any of Lucille Clifton's work before now, and that is a terrible shame, because she was wonderful. It is a pity that she just recently died. She was apparently quite an extraordinary person. And I think that in this picture she looks sort of like my maternal grandmother.

Some of her stuff is extraordinarily painful to read, some of it feels uncomfortable but comfortable, like someone finally "gets it." Some of it is hopeful, and some of it is stark. It's all very real.

I liked these:

A Dream of Foxes; I would swear I have read a story based on this poem, possibly an erotica story. Anyway, the poem is incredible.

Wishes for Sons; WAY too true to be funny, but definitely an appreciated sentiment.

And this, which I really love:

There is a girl inside

There is a girl inside.
She is randy as a wolf.
She will not walk away and leave these bones
to an old woman.

She is a green tree in a forest of kindling.
She is a greeen girl in a used poet.

She has waited patient as a nun
for the second coming,
when she can break through gray hairs
into blossom

and her lovers will harvest
honey and thyme
and the woods will be wild
with the damn wonder of it.


And this, which I fear:

it was a dream

in which my greater self
rose up before me
accusing me of my life
with her extra finger
whirling in a gyre of rage
at what my days had come to.

what,
i pleaded with her, could i do,
oh what could i have done?
and she twisted her wild hair
and sparked her wild eyes
and screamed as long as
i could hear her

This. This. This.


And this, for which I have no real words:

won't you celebrate with me

won't you celebrate with me
what i have shaped into
a kind of life? i had no model.
born in babylon
both nonwhite and woman
what did i see to be except myself?
i made it up
here on this bridge between
starshine and clay,
my one hand holding tight
my one hand; come celebrate
with me that everyday
something has tried to kill me
and has failed.


I don't do poetry. I dislike poetry. That is apparently because most poetry is crap. I am obviously quite capable of caring about poetry if it's really good poetry.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Enochian Keyboard)
I had not read any of Lucille Clifton's work before now, and that is a terrible shame, because she was wonderful. It is a pity that she just recently died. She was apparently quite an extraordinary person. And I think that in this picture she looks sort of like my maternal grandmother.

Some of her stuff is extraordinarily painful to read, some of it feels uncomfortable but comfortable, like someone finally "gets it." Some of it is hopeful, and some of it is stark. It's all very real.

I liked these:

A Dream of Foxes; I would swear I have read a story based on this poem, possibly an erotica story. Anyway, the poem is incredible.

Wishes for Sons; WAY too true to be funny, but definitely an appreciated sentiment.

And this, which I really love:

There is a girl inside

There is a girl inside.
She is randy as a wolf.
She will not walk away and leave these bones
to an old woman.

She is a green tree in a forest of kindling.
She is a greeen girl in a used poet.

She has waited patient as a nun
for the second coming,
when she can break through gray hairs
into blossom

and her lovers will harvest
honey and thyme
and the woods will be wild
with the damn wonder of it.


And this, which I fear:

it was a dream

in which my greater self
rose up before me
accusing me of my life
with her extra finger
whirling in a gyre of rage
at what my days had come to.

what,
i pleaded with her, could i do,
oh what could i have done?
and she twisted her wild hair
and sparked her wild eyes
and screamed as long as
i could hear her

This. This. This.


And this, for which I have no real words:

won't you celebrate with me

won't you celebrate with me
what i have shaped into
a kind of life? i had no model.
born in babylon
both nonwhite and woman
what did i see to be except myself?
i made it up
here on this bridge between
starshine and clay,
my one hand holding tight
my one hand; come celebrate
with me that everyday
something has tried to kill me
and has failed.


I don't do poetry. I dislike poetry. That is apparently because most poetry is crap. I am obviously quite capable of caring about poetry if it's really good poetry.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Fridge Poetry)
Something cool for you to play with.

Heather McDougal over at Cabinet of Wonders -- an awesome blog all on its own -- has come up with a very cool poetry form: The mobius or meta haiku.

Her explanation is here.

The haiku have five links on the top line, seven on the middle, and five on the bottom, echoing the syllabic line-structure. The experience is a lot like our experience of real moments - in other words, you can't go back. There is a starting haiku and and ending haiku, and any number of ways to get there. In the present structure, you have more than 175 ways to get from the beginning to the end, so the process is surprisingly repeatable.


It sounds deathly dry, but description totally fails to capture the experience. Seriously, you have to go play with one.

Mobius Haiku

I am not particularly a fan of poetry, unless you count my pornographic fridge poetry, and waving anything labeled "haiku" at me carries with it the risk of sudden defenestration, but there is something really beautiful in this idea. I cannot stress enough how fascinating this idea is to me. An ever-evolving always-changing never-static poem, linear but not strictly limited, sequential but not static . . . that adds elements to it that make it quite appealing to me, and also strongly symbolic. There is something very life-like about it . . . like living through a moment, the different things you notice, the different input streams each competing with and defining each, yet all leading to the same ending.

I desperately want to write some, but have no idea how I would code it to display here.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Fridge Poetry)
Something cool for you to play with.

Heather McDougal over at Cabinet of Wonders -- an awesome blog all on its own -- has come up with a very cool poetry form: The mobius or meta haiku.

Her explanation is here.

The haiku have five links on the top line, seven on the middle, and five on the bottom, echoing the syllabic line-structure. The experience is a lot like our experience of real moments - in other words, you can't go back. There is a starting haiku and and ending haiku, and any number of ways to get there. In the present structure, you have more than 175 ways to get from the beginning to the end, so the process is surprisingly repeatable.


It sounds deathly dry, but description totally fails to capture the experience. Seriously, you have to go play with one.

Mobius Haiku

I am not particularly a fan of poetry, unless you count my pornographic fridge poetry, and waving anything labeled "haiku" at me carries with it the risk of sudden defenestration, but there is something really beautiful in this idea. I cannot stress enough how fascinating this idea is to me. An ever-evolving always-changing never-static poem, linear but not strictly limited, sequential but not static . . . that adds elements to it that make it quite appealing to me, and also strongly symbolic. There is something very life-like about it . . . like living through a moment, the different things you notice, the different input streams each competing with and defining each, yet all leading to the same ending.

I desperately want to write some, but have no idea how I would code it to display here.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Helpless)
Proud Queen of the Earth Gods,
Supreme Among the Heaven Gods,
Loud Thundering Storm,
You pour Your rain over all the lands and all the people,
You make the heavens tremble and the earth quake.
Great Priestess, who can soothe your troubled heart?

You flash like lightning over the highlands;
You throw Your firebrands across the earth.
Your deafening command, whistling like the South Wind, splits apart great mountains.
You trample the disobedient like a wild bull; heaven and earth tremble.
Holy Priestess, who can soothe your troubled heart?

Your frightful cry descending from the heavens devours its victims,
Your quivering hand causes the midday heat to hover over the sea.
Your nighttime stalking of the heavens chills the land with its dark breeze.
Holy Inanna, the riverbanks overflow with the flood-waves of your heart . . .

On the seventh day when the crescent moon reaches its fullness,
You bathe and sprinkle Your face with holy water.
You cover Your body with the long woolen garments of queenship.
You fasten combat and battle to your side;
You tie them into a girdle and let them rest.
In Eridu You received gifts from the God of Wisdom,
Father Enki presented the gifts to you at his holy shrine in Eridu.
He placed queenship and godship in Your hands.

You mount the steps to Your high throne.
In all majesty You sit there
With Your beloved husband, Dumuzi, at Your side.

The gods of the land, wishing to hear their fate, come before You,
The gods of heaven and earth kneel before You.
The living creatures and the people of Sumer come before You.
The people of Sumer who parade before You
Are caught in Your gaze,
And held in Your holy yoke.

-- Sumerian hymn, trans. Wolkstein and Kramer


I utter those words when terrible storms threaten, as they often do on the plains. It's an old sort of prayer, at once praising and placating. "You are mighty and terrible, and we are helpless before you."

Whatever thin thread of belief still lies within me, it quickens when I hear of the hurricane that is coming. I do not pray, but now I wish that I could, for all those caught in its path, for those who must leave, and for those who must stay.

Stay safe, every one of you, and may the storm be merciful.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Helpless)
Proud Queen of the Earth Gods,
Supreme Among the Heaven Gods,
Loud Thundering Storm,
You pour Your rain over all the lands and all the people,
You make the heavens tremble and the earth quake.
Great Priestess, who can soothe your troubled heart?

You flash like lightning over the highlands;
You throw Your firebrands across the earth.
Your deafening command, whistling like the South Wind, splits apart great mountains.
You trample the disobedient like a wild bull; heaven and earth tremble.
Holy Priestess, who can soothe your troubled heart?

Your frightful cry descending from the heavens devours its victims,
Your quivering hand causes the midday heat to hover over the sea.
Your nighttime stalking of the heavens chills the land with its dark breeze.
Holy Inanna, the riverbanks overflow with the flood-waves of your heart . . .

On the seventh day when the crescent moon reaches its fullness,
You bathe and sprinkle Your face with holy water.
You cover Your body with the long woolen garments of queenship.
You fasten combat and battle to your side;
You tie them into a girdle and let them rest.
In Eridu You received gifts from the God of Wisdom,
Father Enki presented the gifts to you at his holy shrine in Eridu.
He placed queenship and godship in Your hands.

You mount the steps to Your high throne.
In all majesty You sit there
With Your beloved husband, Dumuzi, at Your side.

The gods of the land, wishing to hear their fate, come before You,
The gods of heaven and earth kneel before You.
The living creatures and the people of Sumer come before You.
The people of Sumer who parade before You
Are caught in Your gaze,
And held in Your holy yoke.

-- Sumerian hymn, trans. Wolkstein and Kramer


I utter those words when terrible storms threaten, as they often do on the plains. It's an old sort of prayer, at once praising and placating. "You are mighty and terrible, and we are helpless before you."

Whatever thin thread of belief still lies within me, it quickens when I hear of the hurricane that is coming. I do not pray, but now I wish that I could, for all those caught in its path, for those who must leave, and for those who must stay.

Stay safe, every one of you, and may the storm be merciful.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (According to Whom?)
For The Cat in the Doorway

You lie across every sunbeam,
pinning down time itself.
Sleep is urgent to you;
there are squirrels there, perhaps, and wounded birds
in tall grass.

You dream with a vengeance
of all the dangers and delights untasted.
No morning escapes you.
I wish I had not let so many mornings
escape me.

Yet in my barren times
you remained, stalking
through the deadfall of my days:
my half-tame shadow.
When I woke in the night
a part of the garden quickened
in your eyes,
and my reaching fingers crackled
galvanically
in your fur.

You do not know grief,
but when it comes in the mouse-hours
you are there with me.

We cannot choose our comings and goings, not we
who know only the straight-ahead
way of in or out;
we can only hold the door.

But you, cat,
with your dawdling tread
and preference for the other side of anything,
with your love of being here or there, and both
at once,
you will go with tail standing
into that strange garden,
your eyes lit against the darkness.
Behind you the path
shall remain clear:
the door ever propped half-open
for you to traverse
back and forth
at will.

Perhaps
some morning when it has been long since
I rubbed my face
through the spindrift of your fur,
since I felt your breath stir in feral tides,
I shall sense you once again lingering in the threshold
and I will recall with pride
how I, with only my brute fingers, earned
your mercenary purr.

-- Amanda Gannon, May, 2007

Bittersweet Goodbye

For Kris, and for Catherine and Demi, for Precious and Wesley, and the all too many friends who have been parted. I am sorry.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (Belly)
For The Cat in the Doorway

You lie across every sunbeam,
pinning down time itself.
Sleep is urgent to you;
there are squirrels there, perhaps, and wounded birds
in tall grass.

You dream with a vengeance
of all the dangers and delights untasted.
No morning escapes you.
I wish I had not let so many mornings
escape me.

Yet in my barren times
you remained, stalking
through the deadfall of my days:
my half-tame shadow.
When I woke in the night
a part of the garden quickened
in your eyes,
and my reaching fingers crackled
galvanically
in your fur.

You do not know grief,
but when it comes in the mouse-hours
you are there with me.

We cannot choose our comings and goings, not we
who know only the straight-ahead
way of in or out;
we can only hold the door.

But you, cat,
with your dawdling tread
and preference for the other side of anything,
with your love of being here or there, and both
at once,
you will go with tail standing
into that strange garden,
your eyes lit against the darkness.
Behind you the path
shall remain clear:
the door ever propped half-open
for you to traverse
back and forth
at will.

Perhaps
some morning when it has been long since
I rubbed my face
through the spindrift of your fur,
since I felt your breath stir in feral tides,
I shall sense you once again lingering in the threshold
and I will recall with pride
how I, with only my brute fingers, earned
your mercenary purr.

-- Amanda Gannon, May, 2007

Fish Paws 04

For Kris, and for Catherine and Demi, for Precious and Wesley, and the all too many friends who have been parted. I am sorry.

ETA: No, really, my kitties are fine, aside from being drain-bamaged. There's just been a plague of kitty-sadness on my friends list of late, so I broke out a poem I had socked away.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (LMAO)
Well, I was in favor of leaving it, but I recognize now that in the long run it is probably best to go in favor of implied loins, and revise to substitute a less problematic word.

As [livejournal.com profile] moriarty6 so deftly pointed out, loins should probably be hinted at. Left hovering on the periphery, as it were. Not jutting obscenely from the page like the spring-loaded snake in the Pop-Up Book of Phobias.

Reading your opinions of what does not belong in a love letter was the most fun I have had all week. For the record, I can't post the original note, but I offer as substitution a humble poem compiled from all of your suggestions. I tried not to miss anything.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you . . .


Hortus Conclusus

Your hole beckons
From within your brobdignagian panties.
I stroke the tender gusset, probe with clammy fingers
As I root through your chubby nethers, that hirsute crevice
Slavering its discharge like nectar.

My lovemuscle swells like a bubo, a ripe pustule, )

Now that, THAT is bad. If you made it all the way through, I am proud.
naamah_darling: The right-side canines of a wolf's skull; the upper canine is made of gold. (LMAO)
Well, I was in favor of leaving it, but I recognize now that in the long run it is probably best to go in favor of implied loins, and revise to substitute a less problematic word.

As [livejournal.com profile] moriarty6 so deftly pointed out, loins should probably be hinted at. Left hovering on the periphery, as it were. Not jutting obscenely from the page like the spring-loaded snake in the Pop-Up Book of Phobias.

Reading your opinions of what does not belong in a love letter was the most fun I have had all week. For the record, I can't post the original note, but I offer as substitution a humble poem compiled from all of your suggestions. I tried not to miss anything.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you . . .


Hortus Conclusus

Your hole beckons
From within your brobdignagian panties.
I stroke the tender gusset, probe with clammy fingers
As I root through your chubby nethers, that hirsute crevice
Slavering its discharge like nectar.

My lovemuscle swells like a bubo, a ripe pustule, )

Now that, THAT is bad. If you made it all the way through, I am proud.
naamah_darling: Glass of tawny port on a table branded with a seven-pointed star. (Port Wine and the Morning Star)
Say that a person is writing love letters to his girlfriend. Well, more like little notes, really. Short letter-like things that might, theoretically, smell interesting and have pretty handwriting. Very poetic prose -- as in they'd be stalker-y if they were A) longer and B) written in blood.

Is it ever appropriate for him to use the word "loins"? (We're talking an established relationship here; I understand she's seen the loins in question multiple times.)

[Poll #541754]

I mean, having read the piece in question, I think it scans. Only the third time through did I look at it and go, "Hmm. Loins." It took me that long to notice it (no offense to his actual loins). But it might just jump right out at someone else, and, Jeez, someone could lose an eye that way. We can't risk blinding or disorienting his girlfriend.

A lot is on the line here, people. Every vote counts. If he loses the girl over one unfortunate word choice he'll wind up despairing and alone, sobbing at stoplights because the radio is playing nothing but an unholy medley of Usher, Lifehouse, and Avril Lavigne, and he can't bring himself to put it back on the goddamn classical station he likes because she loves top 40 music so much. He'll forget to eat, eventually growing even more gaunt and peaked, and slowly but surely waste away to a frail husk of his former self who spends all his waking hours rooting through his dirty laundry for her forgotten panties and obsessively checking her journal to make sure she hasn't finally snapped and disclosed the most sordid secrets of their life together. I'll have to go over there and shoot him before he sends us into an alternate dimension with the leaden weight of his brooding.

And I don't want to shoot anyone.

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