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duckprintspress · 1 month

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Round Table: Poetry Month

April is National Poetry Month. Duck Prints Press has to date only published prose fiction, and while some of us do write poetry on the side, it’s generally not our focus. Thus, we thought it’d be fun and interesting to have a discussion about poetry, how poetry has impacted us, and our favorite poems. The people who joined in on the round table chat are: Nina Waters, Tris Lawrence, Shadaras, Zel Howland, boneturtle, E C, Shea Sullivan, theirprofoundbond, and an anonymous contributor.

1. What are your favorite types of poems?

Nina Waters: I tend to like either extremely free form or extremely structured poetry, with nothing in between. I always loved silly poetry (Shel Silverstein…) especially.

Anonymous: Same. I generally like either narrative poems or poems that are about a specific moment. I’m especially fond of reading haiku, though I don’t know how good I am at writing them.

Tris Lawrence: I tend to have favorite writers more than favorite styles. I love the cadence of Shakespeare. I love the imagery of Emily Dickinson (I cannot even count how many times I read the book of poetry of hers that I received for Christmas as a young child). I adored Robert Frost as a child. For modern poetry, Amanda Gorman‘s book was an incredibly wonderful kick in the gut.

Zel Howland: I’ve always had a mixed relationship with poetry – I struggle with understanding figurative language, so often the meaning of poetry escapes me, but I love the technical forms of poetry. This means that I end up being better at writing poetry than reading it. That said, I love silly poems and nonsense poems because they are more about the form than the content! Shel Silverstein and Lewis Carroll come to mind first.

E. C: I love seeing/hearing poetry read aloud. Slam poetry or Shakespearean monologue, the way the act of speaking them gives additional meaning to the words is just *chef’s kiss*. I also love poets (like Silverstein, as Zel mentioned) who use the form to play with the words. Prose can do this, too, but reading or hearing good poetry… it’s like I can feel the words rewiring my brain in real-time.

Shadaras: +1, poetry when performed is absolutely incredible. And it doesn’t need to be slam or a monologue; most poetry when read aloud is fantastic! (Shape poems might lose something, but… that’s aiming for a different style)

Shea Sullivan: I love poetry that viscerally evokes feeling with word choice and has rhythm. I love Rainer Maria Rilke first and last, but also Seamus Heaney and Mary Oliver. I struggle with so many popular poets because the work doesn’t scan for me and I can’t make sense of the rhythm. But the poems that hit take me out at the knees.

Tris Lawrence: Coming back to this discussion this morning, I remembered I should add song lyrics to this… for me, really excellent songs are the best poetry, and some writers (like [Bob] Dylan) I remember more for the poetry of the song than the performance of it. Much like how poetry when performed comes alive, music is that taken to even further down the line. As for poetry being performed, that’s why Shakespeare is so awesome when staged. Sometimes it’s easier to hear the lyricism than to read it. I also often recommend when reading a book of poetry, take it slow, and read one poem aloud per day. This is how I savored Amanda Gorman’s book and how I really got the most out of every poem in that book.

theirprofoundbond: I want to echo what Shade and captainhaterade were talking about with regards to poetry and sound. I took a poetry class in college and when the professor had us read “Player Piano” by John Updike aloud it awakened something in my brain. I have never forgotten that experience and the absolute delight I felt, reading that poem.

When I went to university and took another poetry class, my instructor stressed that we should try reading poetry aloud – to slow you down a bit, to experience the sounds, to get just a little more out of it. He recommended reading it a little more like prose, not pausing at the end of a line if there’s no end-line punctuation. I always do these things now and it’s made poetry feel more accessible to me, and helped me enjoy it more.

Alfred Tennyson also does some great things with sound—no standout favorites just yet because I’m still exploring, but I like “Break, Break, Break”

Joyful Noise: Poems for Two Voices by Paul Fleischman is really wonderful book of children’s poems about insects, meant to be read aloud by two or more people.

I also love poems that have some specific structure. My favorite is the haiku, but I also really enjoy villanelles, sestinas, and pantoums. Not only do they have specific rhyme schemes but some lines must be repeated in specific places; I admire the skill they take to craft. “Villanelle for the Middle of the Night” by Jacqueline Osherow is a lovely example.

And narrative poems, because it’s so cool to get a story in a small, unique format. “Letter to the Person Who Carved His Initials into the Oldest Living Longleaf Pine in North America” by Matthew Olzmann is one that I found recently that really stands out to me

Nina Waters: Maybe the “best listened to” is why I struggle with it. Understanding and processing spoken stories like that is one of my weaker tricks.

theirprofoundbond: That may be it! It’s not for everyone, but I know it helped me. And I started reading academic stuff aloud to help me focus, and then I started reading my own writing aloud which has helped me improve it in many ways (dialogue, flow, style), and I read my editing assignments aloud because it helps me pick up on little things I might not, if I read silently. But yeah, everyone’s brains work differently so it might not be the trick for everyone – just something to try, perhaps, if it hasn’t been tried before or recently

2. What inspired/convinced you to start reading poetry and did you have any preconceived notions and biases about it before?

Shadaras: as far as how I started reading poetry… well, the thing is that a lot of children’s books are poetry, right? They’re written in rhyme because it’s a good way to help kids learn! So in that way, simply by being someone who loved reading (from a family who loved reading), I was always surrounded by poetry as a kid by the nature of early reader books. I know that I was also introduced to poets who are thought of as poets as I grew up, and generally liked poetry even if I didn’t seek it out much. I wrote poetry as a kid just as much as I wrote prose!

Nina Waters: I’ll own I had some preconceived notions about poetry and reading poetry hasn’t really dispelled them? I’ve always found most “high literary” poetry quite inaccessible. Things like epic poetry (such as Homer) I love and can read no problem, and things like silly poetry (Silverstein, Dr. Seuss) I also love and can read no problem, but the kind of poetry that’s ~deep~ and tends to win accolades, I often feel like my eyes glaze over when I try to read it. I just really struggle with it.

Shadaras: I feel like that’s almost more a problem with the idea of “high literary” mode in general? Because I feel like that about a lot of different kinds of media. It’s like people think that if they struggle to understand what a piece of media is about, that means it’s ~higher art~ or something. (There’s a certain style of movie I call “award bait” and I think it is adjacent to what you’re thinking of with poetry here.) And yes, deep and thematically complex art is fantastic and deserves praise, but there’s also something to be said for praiseworthy works being enjoyable/accessible to the majority of people who encounter it? and that doesn’t seem to factor in to those “high literary” assessments.

Nina Waters: That’s definitely true, and something I used to talk about when I was still doing academic reading and writing. This idea that these ~great minds~ would write these papers, and they weren’t good, they were jargon-laden bullshit. Their sheer inaccessibility would always convince a subset of people that it must be genius, because the alternative would be to admit they didn’t personally understand it and no one wanted to confess that.

With poetry it’s harder but there’s definitely that line between “this is so eloquent and deep” vs. “this literally means NOTHING.” (And with poetry, there’s the added “sometimes the line that is eloquent and deep to one person is exactly the same line that means nothing to someone else and because of the nature of poetry that’s kinda the point and both interpretations are ‘correct'”)

theirprofoundbond: I have been, and still am, a bit intimidated by poetry. A lot of it can be really inaccessible, whether it’s classical or modern. I’m not sure I’ll ever truly grasp the meter stuff, lol. But as with any other written work, poetry can be for anyone. Even if I can’t understand a poem on all levels, it’s okay because it’s still worth exploring and I might find something that resonates with me, or teaches me something, or inspires my own (prose) writing.

3. What can a prose writer learn from reading poetry?

Tris Lawrence: It’s really all about the way the words taste, and how that evokes imagery and sensation and emotion for me. Which is also what I take from it as a prose writer – I’ve always been about the way words feel in my mouth when I write.

Shadaras: I might mostly write prose now, but the poetic instinct is still in my head; it’s very visible (audible?) in descriptive passages I write, because I think about rhythm and shape and sound all the time even in my prose writing.

theirprofoundbond: Reading poetry has inspired me to think more carefully about choice of word, pay attention to how certain emotions are evoked or impacts achieved, and to play with sounds.

Shadaras: I think that reading poetry is a fantastic way to think about metaphor/simile and descriptive language more generally. It also emphasises the rhythm/shape/sound of words and asks for a focus on specificity and thoughtful word-choice to maximize the impact of any given piece. Those elements are just as useful to prose writers as poets! Poets might be able to sustain that in-depth focus across a whole piece (since they usually work in shorter forms), but even if a prose writer only uses that specific attention at points of intense emotion where they really want to ensure there’s an impact, it’s still fantastic.

Anonymous: So I guess what I’m saying is that is that reading poetry will make you a better short story writer.

Shadaras: Yeah, the dividers between poems, prose poems, and prose is… sometimes about framing/intent?

Anonymous: Often I find short stories are structured like poetry, in that the narrative is kind of intentionally picked apart and rearranged to evoke emotion rather than straightforward understanding of the narrative.

Shadaras: And then there’s epic poetry, which is a long-form narrative as well as being poetry!

Anonymous: It’s harder to do that kind of thing with long-form fiction but it does happen occasionally.

Nina Waters: I think reading poetry can really help a prose writer with lyricism and flow.

Zel Howland: Seconded what everyone has said about reading poetry helping with lyricism and rhythm. I think having a good understanding of poetry technique can really develop how your prose manipulates (for lack of a better word) the reader beyond what is in the content – building tension in horror, for example. Great for genre work in general!

Shea Sullivan: From a writing standpoint, poetry helps me improve metaphor and simile by encouraging me to look beyond common comparisons and really dig into the question of what I want to evoke. I agree with everyone else that it helps with rhythm as well.

Anonymous: One thing I will note is that a short story can be very close to poetry and vice versa. Some of my favourite poems are in fact short stories that blur the line between stylized prose and outright poetry. Neil Gaiman has a few short stories that are especially good in this way, for example.

4. Our favorite poets

Many of our favorite poets were already discussed and linked in the above discussion, but here’s a few more…

Nina Waters: I’ve especially enjoyed Silverstein, Shakespeare, Walt Whitman, and T. S. Eliot. I went on a big Eliot kick when I was young cause I saw the musical Cats, and while I didn’t care much for the musical it made me curious about the poems that the musical was based on. I loved Silverstein so much that I memorized a couple of his poems for school. I also memorized a [J. R. R.] Tolkien poem and performed it at a school talent show when I was in middle school, so those plus reading Eliot because of Cats (which I was probably in early HS for?) is how I got started reading poetry for fun instead of just cause I had to.

Shadaras: Some other poets I’ve appreciated whose names haven’t come up yet: Mary Oliver, Ursula Le Guin, Pablo Neruda, Langston Hughes, Allen Ginsberg, Edgar Allen Poe, Sylvia Plath, Robert Graves, W. B. Yeats, Rainer Maria Rilke, William Carlos Williams (I once wrote a short essay about “The Red Wheelbarrow” for a poetry class wherein I attempted to argue it could be about aliens/ritual sacrifice, because it was funny and I thought the professor would enjoy it, and I was correct about that).

Nina Waters: Langston Huges is i.n.c.r.e.d.i.b.l.e. W.E.B. Du Bois too. (Not his focus but there are a few)

boneturtle: Seconding Rilke. I will also add Annie Dillard.

How about you, dear blog post reader? How would you answer these four questions?

#duck prints press #national poetry month #poetry #poetry month

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sailor-toni · 2 years

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The Grandfather You Never Wanted

You can also read on AO3, FF.net, and Wattpad

“Danny? Danny! Danny I can’t understand you. You're gonna have to use actual words,” Tucker said, his phone pressed up against his ear.

“Walker, and my Mom, and him! And ME!” Danny sputtered.

“Is Walker also after your Mom? How many ghosts want to bang your Mom dude?”

“What! NO! Ugh!” Danny took a breath, before restarting his tirade. “I was in my attic with my Mom, and we found some old photos of my Mom’s side of the family, and and and I saw my grandpa, I mean I’ve seen him before but like I’m pictures and such but I know him Tuck, he’s in the ghost zone -”

“Your Grandpa is in the ghost zone? That’s awesome, maybe you can get in more time with him or-”

“No Tuck, my grandpa is Walker.”

The Casper High library was quiet, it’s maroon walls and wooden bookshelves look like they jumped out of the 70’s. Wherever there could be, that shade of deep forest green penetrated the room.

In the far corner, jammed between Emily Dickinson, and the complete 1967 collection of Time magazine sat the trio. Holding a thick scrapbook.

“Your Mom never told you Walker was your grandpa?” Sam said.

“She mentioned him a few times. Like his name isn’t walker but Daniel, and that he died in a prison riot. Also one Christmas he almost burnt the house down with Christmas lights but not much else,” Danny said.

Sam held the picture of Walker up to the scrapbook image of Daniel Walker Smith. In the image he held his wife’s hand as balloons and streamers rained upon them. The next image showed him with his daughters, one looked uninterested to be there, the other had a diamond in her eyes. A shiny new first place trophy in her hands. Walker held them both, a big smile on his face.

“It’s so weird to see him like that,” said Tucker.

“Alive?” replied Danny.

“No, the smile.”

“Walker has never smiled before.”

“Not like that.”

“True.”

“What if you showed Walker this?” Sam spoke up, “Maybe it would jog his memory? Get him to be nicer to you? Or give you a free pass?”

“Oh! Hey Sam's on to something here. Maybe you can pull a few strings and we could finally get somewhere without a ghost map,” Tucker said.

“Yeah, but what if he doesn't care and wipes the floor with me again?” Danny said.

“You never know until you try?” Sam

-----

The cold stone, polished to resemble a large granite wall. Its walls were void of any crack or crevice for one to shove a foot or hand into. And bare of any markings or signs of age. It was the ghost zone eternal prison, where rule breakers could stay for the rest of their afterlife. A dismal existence for sure, and one Danny did not want for the remainder of his mortal life.

What was he even doing here? Even if Walker had forgotten most of his human memories, like some ghosts did, he wouldn't suddenly turn good. Maybe?

Danny envisioned Walker in a pink Hawaiian vacation shirt, khaki cargo shorts, and flip flops with socks on, walking to see Danny's science fairs, or treating him and his sister to a movie, or just hanging out and sneaking him money. Like what Sam's grandma did. But instead of him being dressed in all black, he would be glowing, and floating a few inches off the floor.There was a fat chance of that ever happening but if there was a chance, Danny would like to know if this man was actually his grandfather. Does Walker know already? Does he know and just not care? That would match up with how his Mom described him.

A scream from the prison echoed across the stone walls, the sound bounces off its surface. Danny cringed. Maybe he wouldn't be like that, but if he knew, maybe he would do crazy stuff like frame him for kidnapping the mayor. Actually no, this was a horrible idea. Danny's thought, as he retreated from his grandfather's castle of nightmares. Why would the guy who did that? ! Suddenly try to become grandpa of the year? This was a dumb idea and he knew it.

“Hey who’s there?” Danny froze, behind him was a guard, green oily skin, red eyes, and a face that only a mother could love. Floating there, a baton charged with energy in his left hand. A flashlight in the next.

“Freeze! Ghost boy!” Danny flew, his feet were swept off the ground by his own flight response, their ghostly trail trying desperately to catch up with his torso.

His hands grazed against the wall, he flew in fluent zig zags, his reflection smearing against the stone walls. losing its composer as with each turn he took. The ectoblast from the guard’s batons disturbing both the stone and the reflection, sending deep cracks throughout each. Two more guards, uglier than the last, flew up from the bedrock, to greet him. Then three more came in from the side. If he only acted, he would be surrounded.

He charged the gates but the bars were up. He charged the eternal green sky, only for the guard’s blast to collide with his route, striking his legs and searing his sides. Falling back into the prison’s center field, the horde surrounded him, creating a hurricane of guards with him at the center. All flying into perfect range. Gripping his chest Danny focused on his core, the ensuing ice crawling around his skin like an infection, the frost becoming unbearable as it covered his black suit. His body aching from the frozen mess building up inside him, his fingers were throbbing from the frostbite overcoming them.

When the ground was nearly upon him, Danny let it all out. A shockwave of ice erupted from his body, devouring everything within range. The guards close to him were frozen solid, their green skin now a pale white within the ice. The further back they were the less they were affected. The furthest only having their hands turned into throbbing ice cubes.

Landing hard on the ground, the shockwave, only stalling his fall for a moment. Danny rolled away from the falling ice guards. The sounds of frozen ectoplasm shattering against the rock reverberated around the prison, allowing him to run. His ghostly tail coiled before shooting him up into the green sky. The prison shrinking below him as he reached into the never-ending sky. The wispy mist that made up the Ghost Zone’s swirls acted like shining stars in this thrilling escape.

But there is only so close you can get to any star before you start to burn. With a loud crack he was cast down from the heavens and crashed into his own mess of frozen guards. The ice cut deep into his back and the blow to his head made his vision sparkle. Far above him stood a lone pale rider, with a tall black hat. The image of him faded into darkness as Danny felt a light go out in his head.

----------------------------------------------------

White blasted his vision before the feeling returned to his body. Danny had been handcuffed to both the steel table and the metal chair. The harsh white light from above sterilized the room, and highlighted the black mirror facing him. This was not part of his agenda today.

Danny didn't even try to phase through the handcuffs, they were probably ghost resistant, like everything else in this prison. So, he sat there. Staring at the ceiling, making funny faces in the mirror, singing a song.

“Ember you will remember, Ember, so smart and brave. Ember you won't surrender! You will remember my name!” Each note was purposely sung in the worst annoying tone he could manage. Adjusting volume as needed to maximize irritation.

“Would you shut up?” The door swung open, and Walker walked in. His white skin blended into his suit.The thick black tie around his neck marked where one began and the other ended. “You break into my prison, a feat that has never been attempted before, and scream as soon as you wake up,” He slammed a thick folder labeled ‘ghost boy’ on the table. “Why.” It wasn’t a question, it was a command.

“I had some questions and I was hoping you would answer them,” Danny said.

“Questions? Don’t make me laugh, Phantom. Why on earth do you think I would answer any of your questions?”

“Madeline Fenton, or I guess you would know her as Madeline Walker.”

“You think I keep track of every human in your world? Unless they come here I don’t care.”

“I never said she was human?”

“Unless a ghost has broken the law I don’t have a record of them.”

“What? No, you know I didn’t come here for a record! I saw your eyes. You know who Maddie Fenton is!”

“What I know is that you were spotted on the westside by two guards and then you caused an incident in my prison. Again. And this time I am not letting you leave. You have broken almost every law-”

“Bullshit.” Danny rolled his eyes. His emotions gathered up in his palms, the light frost building up into a sheet of ice over the handcuffs.

“You wanna repeat that again?” Walker leaned in close, if he were alive Danny would’ve felt his breath on his skin.

“Bullshit! Your laws are just rules you made up. You have no authority, you're not the Ghost King and even if you were I would toss you in that coffin with Pariah!”

“I am the only thing protecting this world from anarchy! My rules-”

“Are bullshit! Just like you! You’re nothing but a dictator who gets off on torturing everyone here!”

“Boy, I would -”

“Would what?! Hit me? I can level this entire prison and you know it!”

“I would like to see you try!”

Danny smashed the cuffs on the table, shattering them before he lunged at Walker. The two tumbled through the glass. A blast of ice echoed through his body and crawled up the walls. The guards' mouths made a feeble eek noise, before the ice froze them to the wall. Walker’s arm’s set themselves ablaze with a dark purple. His limbs cracked free from the icy floor.

“I don’t know what crawled up your arse today boy -” Walker’s body flew from the room, the steel walls breaking upon his back. Danny threw the man into the prison courtyard. The purple dirt and sand smudging all over his white suit.

It didn’t make sense, Danny thought. He pulled out the picture from his pocket and looked again. The man had a pink human skin tone with blue eyes, but everything else was the same. Even down to the stupid white suit. Walker’s reaction was like his mother’s.

He asked her while they were cleaning up after dinner. The question came out of his mouth through a stutter, but once it was understood. The yellows and green of their retro style kitchen felt like vomit on his skin. Her lips pressed into a thin line, and she couldn’t meet his eyes.

“Why do you want to know about your grandfather?” She asked.

“It’s a school project. We are supposed to look into our family trees and talk about someone who did something important. Did you know that Tucker’s second cousin was the first in his family to get a masters? And Sam’s grandfather invented the toothpick thing, the one that spins?” He rambled.

“Your Grandfather was a warden of one of the prisons up north. He worked there from 1954 till the day he died,” His mother set a plate down hard on the drying rack.

“Oh, did he do anything cool? Like, stop a prison riot or something?”

“No, there was only one riot and that was the day he died.”

“Oh! I’m sorry I-”

“The riot didn’t kill him. It was very small and easily contained. But it gave him such a scare that he had a heart attack and died.”

“Oh… um was he well liked?”

“No. Your Grandfather was a prison warden every moment of his life. At his job, at home, and even at his children's baseball games.”

“I didn’t know you played baseball.”

“It wasn’t for very long but, the coach said I was the best batter he had ever seen.”

“Oh really? Well of course he did. You’re amazing Mom.”

“Aww. Thank you sweetie.”

“But um it doesn't sound like you liked Grandpa very much.”

“No one liked him very much. He was a very bitter man who was very cruel to everyone he knew. When he died your Father and Aunt Alicia took bets on when he was going to rise from the grave.”

“Really?”

“Oh yes, I think Alicia walked away with over seven hundred dollars.”

“Dad paid her that much?”

“No! He gave her two hundred. The rest of the family gave her the rest. She was the only one who said he was going to stay there. I’m sure if he tried to come back Alicia and your Father would be first in line to put him back in his grave.”

“What about you?”

“Me?”

“Yeah? You're a ghost hunter right?”

“A ghost hunter, not a zombie hunter.”

“What if he came back as a ghost?”

“Then Alicia owes me seven hundred dollars.”

“Mom I’m serious, if Grandpa came back would you want to see him?”

“Yes, and no. That is a very tough question,” her lips here pressed in a line again. “I would thank him. It must have been hard to raise two girls as a single father. And he tried his best to raise us, even if his best was strict and controlling. I wouldn’t have what I have now if I didn’t rebel against him. I went to a college I know he hated and there I met your father.”

“That sounds very sweet.”

“I would then blast him into several pieces and destroy his cells. That man ruined my prom dress, insulted your father, and then didn’t even show up to my wedding!” She slammed the plate into the drying rack, snapping it in half. “Not to mention that he got me kicked out of the girl’s baseball team for punching the coach! Who even does that? And he scared away any boyfriend I had by having the local cops drive around their houses. The only reason your father stayed is because- and Danny when I say this, know that I love your father more than any man in the world- your father is too stupid to know when his life is being threatened.”

Danny snickered as he handed his mom the Fenton mess cleaner. It was a broom that had been painted silver with a green F vinyl cut out on it. His Mom continued to go on and on about her Father as she cleaned up her mess.

“So… I shouldn’t write my paper about Grandpa?” Danny put the last dish away.

“No. I don’t think your teachers would find him very interesting,” She said.

Would his teachers find this situation interesting? Danny thought. He stared down at Walker, the man pushed himself off the dirt and flung himself at Danny. The picture flew out of his hand, fluttering into the green sky. Blue ice bolted from his palms in short bursts. A few hit Walker but it didn’t slow him down. Black hands tackled him, dragging him to the ground. He grabbed one of the hands and bit down, drawing ectoplasm through the thick leather.

Danny’s vision sparkled when his body hit the dirt, but this time he was ready. The two rolled in the dirt, and attacked one another until a blast of ice blew them both away. The ice had crawled up Danny’s arm like armor, protecting him from injury.

“Your rules can’t be any good if you can’t enforce them!” Danny huffed. Walker took a step forward and froze. He reached down and collected a piece of paper, no. Danny felt around his pockets and realized Walker had the photo. “Hey, give that back!”

“Where did you find this?” Walker said.

“None of your business.”

“Bullshit. Isn’t that one of your favorite words, Boy? Bullshit, you come storming into my prison, with this photo and questions? You’re just as naive as your mother.”

“I- wait! How long did you know?”

“Not the first time, and definitely not the second, But when I went into the human world, my emotions got the better of me and I checked in on my precious daughters. Only to find that she hadn’t divorce that dunce of a man.”

“My Dad might be an idiot, but at least he’s kind.”

“And what did that get him? From the moment I met you, I knew you were no good. Jack Fenton raised his son to be as stupid as he is. One not even smart enough to stay away from prison.”

“You knew this whole time and you still attacked me?”

“OF COURSE! If your father wasn’t going to teach you right from wrong, someone had to.”

“Oh my god. Mom was right. You are an asswhole!”

“Watch your mouth Daniel James Fenton!”

“How do you know my name?”

“I know a lot of things, because unlike your father and your mother, I know that this world is full of dangerous, stupid people who hide in the shadows and take advantage of those who have respect for the law. These laws that you call bullshit? These are the only things keeping the world together. They separate the honest from the thieves. And I am the only one who can find these thieves and protect us all from them. That’s why I built this prison! A place to hold those unfit for the normal, honest people of this world.”

“Am I one of these thieves?”

Walker tucked the picture into his coat pocket. “I think we all know what side you land on.”

“Yeah… the sane one!” Danny let his full powers blast forth from his hands, matching the sudden burst of flames from Walker. The battle raged on until fire took over everything. Walker stomped through the flame and smoke, and saw Danny flying far into the sky.

---------

“To wrap up everything you just told us. Walker is your Grandfather, and he is bat shit insane,” Tucker said.

Danny took a long slurp of a Nasty Burger frosty, “Yep.”

“Great, another crazy villain who thinks he can control everything. Where do these people even come from? Is there a factory that makes creepy old men who want too much power?” Sam said.

“I don’t know, but someone should boycott them. The business practice doesn't seem ethical,” Tucker said.

“Must be making them a lot of money though. Have you seen how many mansions Vlad has?” Danny said.

“Oh, cut it out you two,” Sam rolled her eyes.

“You started this,” Tucker replied.

Danny moved from the booth and grabbed his things. “Well, you two can continue this without me.”

“Where are you going off to?” Sam asked.

“We have that family history project due Monday and if I don’t finish it, Lancer will fail me.” Danny said.

“You're not done yet? It’s like the easiest homework he’s given us,” Sam said.

“Easy for you, your Grandpa invented the spinning toothpick thing,” Tucker said.

“How bold of you to assume I wrote about my grandpa and not my grandma,”

“Anyways, I’ll see you guys at school,” Danny said,

The trio said their goodbyes, and Danny ran home.

---

“Hey Mom,” Danny said, walking down the basement stairs.

“Hey Sweetie, what’s up?” His Mom said. She had a blowtorch in her left hand, and a wrench in her right.

“It’s about that assignment I told you about? The family tree one?”

“Oh Danny, I don’t think I could talk about your Grandfather anymore.”

“No. I was going to ask if I could do it about you?”

She put her tools down, “Me?”

“Well yeah. You’re a star baseball player who has a doctorate in bio engineering. Why wouldn’t I want to talk about that?”

“Well get me a moment to get everything ready.”

#Danny Phantom #Walker #Walker Grandpa AU #Maddie Fenton #Fanfic #Writing #Walker is an ass here

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iwanthermidnightz · 2 years

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Well hi.

I want to say thank you to Bart for introducing me in such a generous way and i want to say thank you to the NSAI for getting us all together for this event. For me, tonight feels brimming with a genuine camaraderie between a bunch of people who just love making stuff. Who love the craft. Who live for that rare, pure moment when a magical cloud floats down right in front of you in the form of an idea for a song, and all you have to do is grab it. Then shape it like clay. Prune it like a garden. And then wish on every lucky star or pray to whatever power you believe in that it might find its way out into the world and make someone feel seen, feel understood, feel joined in their grief or heartbreak or joy for just a moment.

I’ve learned by being in the entertainment industry for an extended period of time that this business operates with a very new, new, new, next, next, next mentality. For every artist or songwriter, we’re all just hoping to have one great year. One great album cycle. One great run at radio. And these days, one song that goes viral on TikTok. One glorious moment in the sun. Because on your next project you’ll probably have to invent a new thing to be. Think of all new things to say, and fresh ways to say them. You will have to entertain people. And the fact is that what entertains us is either seeing new artists emerge or established artists showing us a new side to themselves. If we are very, very lucky, life will say to us ‘your song is great’. The next thing life will say is ‘What else can you do?’

I say all of this because I’m up here receiving this beautiful award for a decade of work, and I can’t possibly explain how nice that feels. Because the way I see it, this is an award that celebrates a culmination of moments. Challenges. Gauntlets laid down. Albums I’m proud of. Triumphs. Strokes of luck or misfortune. Loud, embarrassing errors and the subsequent recovery from those mistakes, and the lessons learned from all of it. This award celebrates my family and my co-writers and my team. My friends and my fiercest fans and my harshest detractors and everyone who entered my life or left it. Because when it comes to my songwriting and my life, they are one in the same. As the great Nora Ephron once said, “Everything is copy.”

Twenty years ago I wrote my first song. I used to dream about one day getting to bounce around the different musical worlds of my various sonic influences, and change up the production of my albums. I hoped that one day, the blending of genres wouldn’t be such a big deal. There’s so much discussion about genre and it always usually leads back to a conversation about melody and production. But that leaves out possibly my favorite part of songwriting: lyricism.

And I’ve never talked about this publicly before, because, well, it’s dorky. But I also have, in my mind, secretly, established genres categories for lyrics I write. Three of them, to be exact. They are affectionately titled Quill Lyrics, Fountain Pen Lyrics, and Glitter Gel Pen Lyrics.

I know this sounds confusing but I’ll try to explain. I came up with these categories based on what writing tool I imagine having in my hand when I scribbled it down, figuratively. I don’t actually have a quill. Anymore. I broke it once when I was mad.

I categorize certain songs of mine in the ‘Quill’ style if the words and phrasings are antiquated, if I was inspired to write it after reading Charlotte Brontë or after watching a movie where everyone is wearing poet shirts and corsets. If my lyrics sound like a letter written by Emily Dickinson’s great grandmother while sewing a lace curtain, that’s me writing in the Quill genre. I will give you an example from one of my songs I’d categorize as Quill.

“How’s one to know

I’d meet you where the spirit meets the bones

In a faith forgotten land

In from the snow, your touch brought forth an incandescent glow

Tarnished but so grand”

Moving on to Lyricism category #2: Fountain Pen style. I’d say most of my lyrics fall into this category. Fountain pen style means a modern storyline or references, with a poetic twist. Taking a common phrase and flipping its meaning. Trying to paint a vivid picture of a situation, down to the chipped paint on the door frame and the incense dust on the vinyl shelf. Placing yourself and whoever is listening right there in the room where it all happened. The love, the loss, everything. The songs I categorize in this style sound like confessions scribbled and sealed in an envelope, but too brutally honest to ever send.

For Example:

“Cause there we are again in the middle of the night

We’re dancing round the kitchen in the refrigerator light

Down the stairs, I was there

I remember it all too well

And there we are again when nobody had to know

You kept me like a secret but I kept you like an oath

Sacred prayer, and we’d swear to remember it all too well”

The third category is called Glitter Gel Pen and it lives up to its name in every way. Frivolous, carefree, bouncy, syncopated perfectly to the beat. Glitter Gel Pen lyrics don’t care if you don’t take them seriously because they don’t take themselves seriously. Glitter Gel Pen lyrics are the drunk girl at the party who tells you that you look like an Angel in the bathroom. It’s what we need every once in a while in these fraught times in which we live.

Example: “my ex man brought his new girlfriend; she’s like ‘oh my god’ but I’m just gonna shake and to the fella over there with the hella good hair, won’t you come on over baby we can shake, shake, shake.”

Why did I make these categories, you ask? Because I love doing this thing we are fortunate enough to call a job. Writing songs is my life’s work and my hobby and my never-ending thrill. I am moved beyond words that you, my peers, decided to honor me in this way for work I’d still be doing if I had never been recognized for it.

Lately I’ve been on a joyride down memory lane. I’ve been re-recording my first six albums. When I go through the process of meticulously recreating each element of my past and revisiting songs I wrote when I was 13, 14, and 15, that path leads me right to music row. How my mom would pick me up from school and drive me to my co-writing sessions with dozens of writers (and some of you are in this very room tonight) who 15 years ago decided to give me their time, their wisdom, their belief before anyone thought writing with me was a productive use of an afternoon. I will never forget you, every last one of you.

Part of my re-recording process has included adding songs that never made the original albums, but songs I hated to leave behind. I’ve gone back and recorded a bunch of them for my version of my albums. Fearless, my version, came out last year and as I was choosing songs for it, I came across one I’d written with the Warren brothers when I was 14. I decided to record it as a duet with the brilliant Keith Urban. When I called the the Warrens up to tell them I was cutting our song 17 years after we’d written it, I’ll never forget the first thing they said. “Well, I think that’s the longest hold we’ve ever had.”

In 2011, just over ten years ago, my trusted collaborator and confidant Liz Rose came over to my apartment and I showed her a song I’d been working on. I was going through a rough time (as is the natural state of being 21) and had scribbled down verse after verse after verse, a song that was too long to put on an album. It clocked in at around 10 minutes. We set out editing, trimming, cutting out big sections until it was a reasonable 5 minutes and 30 seconds. It was called All Too Well. Last year when I re-recorded my 2012 album Red, I included this 10 minute version with its original verses and extra bridges. I never could’ve imagined when we wrote it that that song would be resurfacing ten years later or that I’d be about to play it for you tonight.

But a song can defy logic or time. A good song transports you to your truest feelings and translates those feelings for you. A good song stays with you even when people or feelings don’t. Writing songs is a calling and getting to call it your career makes you very lucky. You have to be grateful every day for it, and all the people who thought your words might be worth listening to. This town is the school that taught me that.

To be honored by you means more than any genre of my lyrics could ever say.

Thank you.

#taylor swift

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ghcstlimbs · 23 days

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my name is [ JUDE TILLMAN ] … and i am from [ HELLTOWN ] and i’m a [ MANAGER AT BELIEVE IT OR ROT ]. i lived in helltown for [ 27 YEARS ] because [ I DON’T KNOW HOW TO GET OUT ]. i am [ 27 ] my pronouns are [ HE/HIM ] and i am [ CURIOUS, EMPATHETIC, ASTUTE ] though some may say i’m [ BYRONIC, UNRELIABLE , OBSESSIVE]. i also hear i look a lot like [ HARRIS DICKINSON ] but, i don’t know if i see it. i’m here because [ I HAVE TO KNOW THE TRUTH ABOUT THE BASEMENT ] but, maybe there’s more to it than that. you never know with helltown.

BASICS full name: jude mitchell tillman age: twenty seven date of birth: november 6th, 1998 place of birth: helltown, ohio gender identity: cis man pronouns: he/him sexual orientation: bisexual zodiac sign: gemini PHYSIOLOGY height in feet: six foot two eye color: blue hair color: brunette notable marks: covered in a smattering of tattoos from the shoulders down FAMILY father: joshua tillman, deceased. mother: florence tillman sibling(s): tbd ! relationship status: single children: none BACKGROUND education: highschool diploma and BA living arrangements: a solo apartment language(s): english, mostly forgotten french PERSONALITY positive traits: bright, dedicated, deeply empathetic, curious negative traits: secretive, obsessive, byronic, often unreliable

Jude wishes he knew why he can't leave Helltown, despite all his best laid plans; he was going to live in Paris, London, Florence -- he'd sit where the greats had written their finest works, enshrined in history and sunlight, and make something that would set the world on fire. And yet he lingers. He only went as far as Chicago for college, and promptly came back home -- the death of his father was the catalyst, but he's made no attempts to leave. And now he can't.

His childhood in Helltown is akin to that of most of his peers; normalcy, living in tandem with an air of the sinister and macabre. Knowing something isn't right, but feeling it is as common place as PTA meetings or football games -- Jude loves his home, and fears it. His family is loving, so wrapped up in the town they can't imagine leaving either. As the eldest, Jude aspired to take care of his family -- to get a job that would lift them to a higher status, to buy his siblings a house each. Instead, Jude works at Believe it or Rot; it is perhaps sadder, that he loves his job. He loves scaring tourists with tricks and long-winding tales of horrors (some may be true); he's a manger, a title that's slightly elevated about mediocre minimum wage employee. He covers himself in tattoos, visits his mom weekly, smokes more than is healthy, and maintains a life befitting an aimless man in his twenty -- but he too, uses a blanket of normalcy to cover his unorthodox hobbies.

He's a thoughtful person, slightly quiet when in thought but incredibly friendly; Jude worships books, and still aspires to be a writer; Helltown may be the main character of his first book. When he's not up until three snooping, you'll probably find him out at a bar or catching another movie at the drive in - he's a regular.

But his life, his obsession, lays in unraveling this town; Jude cannot stop looking for the source of rot that has started to blacken the soul of Helltown. He pours over the archives, posts endless accounts of his findings online, sneaks into buildings at night -- if the town is a malevolent spirit, it has found a willing host in Jude. He's latched onto the burning of St. Michael's, focusing his frenzied devotion and sleuthing onto this singular event - Jude's convinced this will lead him to whatever dark forces are at play. A skeptic at heart, he isn't one to believe in ghosts; but the aura of Helltown is clear. Things that have died, do not stay dead.

WANTED CONNECTIONS

1. Siblings! : Ideally I picture Jude as having several young sisters, but I'm incredibly flexible! I'd love to have his siblings in play - Jude is a devoted sibling, and in lieu of their father's passing, he attempts to fill that void. The Tillman's have been in Helltown as far as anyway can recall, but his siblings could have left (or run away at eighteen) only to come back now. But his double life as a detective has begun to take its toll -- and in tandem to whatever his siblings are up to, could leave to strife or conflict. I'm open to adopted siblings also <3

2. Childhood friends/peers: fellow locals around Jude's age that he grew up with. Jude's friendly, though slightly serious and during school was likely buried in some book. I'd love friends that are only coming back home, while he's been here for years since college; friends he's stayed close with regardless of location, or friends he hasn't spoken too in a long time -- but strange happenings have brought them back into his orbit.

3. Fellow sleuths : Jude is not a professional by any means sksk he's just snooping and coming up with theories on his own time. He could be working with others (if your muse is also interested in figuring out what's going on) or they run into each other trying to break into a graveyard, and start to team up. If they're new to town, he'd be someone to go to for lore or the town's sordid history.

4. Antagonistc relationships : Anyone who has gotten wise to the fact Jude has become nosey, and it rubs them the wrong way - maybe they're mixed up in things, or they think someone digging into stuff will only cause trouble. Also childhood nemeses, general vibes don't mix, etc etc!!!

5. I'm entirely open to anything !!! Teenage exes, co-workers, the bartender that always serves him, neighbors, even cousins, etc :)

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a-shape-changer-in-winter · 10 months

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The Price of Tenderness 3

I have tried, over and over, to enter this essay the way a door opens in another room. More than anything, I want to hold your face in my hands and tell you, “The work in us is not finished yet” I know it’s a grind bringing your everything, especially when you feel shackled to the past. Like Van Gogh’s sadness, the missing can go on forever - but perhaps an impossible longing that spreads is necessary for us to make room. Jorie Graham would remind us that our task is to handle the fire without getting obliterated and still pass on the fire, which feels like ancestral magic. A magic that I remember more than I discover as I age. I think that wisdom exists in each of us. We’ve just forgotten it. In a workshop in 2019 - I asked Ada Limón how she could dive into grief without burning up on (re)entry, and she responded: “Mostly because I’ve done it a lot […] We’ve all romanticized looking for answers at the bottom of the well […] you’ve got to protect yourself; know your strength, what you’re capable of that day - even at that moment. Some days we’re better equipped to dive in; you must care for yourself - mental, emotional, and spiritual health. Ensure you have a way out [of grief or despair]; sometimes, the poem [itself] is the way out. “

Among the ways that we're most connected to one another is that we’re all going to experience insurmountable loss. We all have to live with the deteriorating state of the world and unanswerable questions. Tony Hoagland believes “[..] that's why / we invented the complex sentence, so we could stand at a distance, // and make adjustments // in the view // while trying hard to track / the twisty, ever-turning plot”. And I believe that [true] recognition - of our feeble attempts to solve what no one else has solved facilitates a life of care. But only if we stop framing those questions so they fit the story we want to tell about our lives. Part of owning our story is letting the truth defend itself, even if it’s awful. I used to tell my story like I was describing a haunted house because I couldn’t bear the telling [eldrich horror] of what lived inside it. Our task isn’t to solve the beautiful terribles but to tend and hold them while allowing them to ripen us. Rilke told us to live the questions, but part of his insistence was for us to stop looking for answers, and that type of surrender is tricky because you have to choose it, sometimes multiple times a day. And then you gotta get up tomorrow and do it all over again. I have learned that grief is cone-shaped, and we will always orbit the gravity of immense loss and trauma - but we have to dissent on the days when we feel their gravity pulling us toward the event horizon. I believe part of our duty in recovery is refusing to fall after we’ve risen. We all stumble occasionally, but I’m talking about refusing to return to what buried you. Marie Howe assures us: “It hurts to be present [on these days], though. I ask my students every week to write ten observations of the actual world. It’s very hard for them….Just tell me what you saw this morning in two lines. I saw a water glass on a brown tablecloth, and the light came through it in three places. No metaphor. And resisting metaphor is very difficult because you have to endure the thing itself…”

In Paper Houses, Dominique Fortier reminds us that many masters, like Emily Dickinson, have already shown us how to endure and pay attention to the difficult and the banal: “As she writes, [ Dickinson] erases herself. She disappears behind the blade of grass that, if not for her, we would never have seen. She does not write to express herself, perish the thought. […S]he doesn’t write to be noticed. She writes to bear witness: here lived a flower, for three days in July, the year of 18**, killed by a morning shower. Each poem is a tiny tomb erected to the memory of the invisible.” This type of witnessing is a bright darkness. An earnestness that doesn’t strive to solve but to hold will give off its own light - because [holy shit] it turns out that holding and surrendering to the impossible thing is the critical alchemy to our bioluminescence.

Joy, like poetry [according to John Berger], “can repair no loss, but it defies the space which separates…by its continual labor of reassembling what has been scattered”. It is the evidence of our reaching across to one another in the midst of, or as a way even of caring for, one another's sorrows. And without sadness, joy would become something else entirely. Perhaps it wouldn’t exist at all. The perceived simplicity of meekness shifts in this context away from its synonymy with weakness and transmutes into an active passivity that may become an extraordinary force of symbolic resistance and, as such, fuses to both our ethics and politics. It is the ethos of [my] queerness because I reached a point where I wanted to live differently so desperately that it altered my gender identity [he/they], reverberating Bell Hook’s definition because I was at odds with everything around me and something deep down needed to invent and create and find a place to speak and to thrive and to live. Queerness, for me, is the antithesis of hyper-independence and masochism. Gordon Marion wrote: “In general, tenderness involves increased sensitivity. When we say that an injury is tender, we mean that it is hyper-sensitive to the touch. And in moments of tenderness, it is as though the ego and all its machinations momentarily melt away so that our feelings are heightened and we are perhaps moved by the impulse to reach out with a comforting hand.” Gentleness was [and is] my force of secret life-giving transformation linked to what the ancients called potentiality. If we hold the virtues of tenderness at our cores, the concise list of impossible things may never leave us, but the other list - of what is still possible - becomes exponential. Our greatest challenge doesn’t lie with either list - but with the limitations of our imaginations. I still return to “Maybe You Should Talk to Someone,” where Lori Gottlieb’s therapist, Wendall, illustrates for her:

“I’m reminded,” he begins, “of a famous cartoon. It’s of a prisoner, shaking the bars, desperately trying to get out—but to his right and left, it’s open, no bars.”

He pauses, allowing the image to sink in.

“All the prisoner has to do is walk around. But still, he frantically shakes the bars. That’s most of us. We feel completely stuck, trapped in our emotional cells, but there’s a way out—as long as we’re willing to see it.”

Because it’s such an accurate visualization of entitlement [at least for me], gentleness and tenderness already made the exits out of that prison, but we refuse to use them because they require us to let go of the bars [familiar pain, grief, or shame] we’ve been clinging to. I have been wrong whenever I believed I needed something specific for healing or transmutation. Not only was I wrong, and it prevented me from healing - but holding onto that belief exacerbated that pain. It’s laughable now, but my most significant failures [and character defects] in my 20s revolved around believing life [or someone else] owed me answers. This isn’t much different than a 7-year-old throwing a temper tantrum in the cereal aisle because they tried to sneak cinnamon toast crunch into the shopping cart and got caught. We don’t get to decide what life owes us or what miracles the universe offers. Although, there have been times when I wished I could climb that stairway to heaven and smash open the spigot from which grace seems to be metered. Accepting that I’m not in control is another form of surrender, knowing I didn’t earn this grace through my suffering. But, I believe I can be worthy of it if I extend it to others and keep my palms open like windows.

I find it prudent to believe any pain that we’ve processed will also die [if we stop excavating around it], that wear and tear await every haunted house, and that some [pains] already have no more meaning for us as their ghosts fade like film left out in the July sun. I know the miracle of today, like everything else, attains its richness in what erodes and decays in time. The gift of friendship isn’t just in recognition, equipping, and believing in the other - but the nourishment that is only possible through our mingling. It is the source of our greatest sorrows and attachments and our place of luminescence. What purpose does that light serve but to illuminate the ways between you and me? I know something wonderful is happening to us - if we would allow it. I know that we have not forgotten each other. I think of you all with the utmost/excruciating warmth, and in a sense - I pray for each of you nightly. And while I wish I could take each of your hands and hold them dear in mine - want I wish for most is that you continue to be who you are and who you’ve been called to be. And if you aren’t yet, I pray that you are convicted to. I wish for nothing more than transformative experiences in your lives and awakenings in each of our hearts.

There's a dream I keep having where I'm running up the stairs of your porch to your front door. A dream where nothing separates us. Not space. Not time, borders, or language. A dream where I am with you, and the loss has finally made us both open, [and love, it bears repeating] open roads.

#blog

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girlactionfigure · 1 year

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She knew she was “different,” telling her brother at one point, “What makes a few of us so different from others? It’s a question I often ask myself.”

She wrote:

“If I can stop one heart from breaking,

I shall not live in vain;

If I can ease one life the aching,

Or cool one pain,

Or help one fainting robin

Unto his nest again,

I shall not live in vain.”

She was born on December 10, 1830. She was labeled very, very shy, overly sensitive.

“Her Victorian upbringing included . . . doing domestic chores, and attending church. She spent her adolescent years studying locally at the Amherst Academy (1834–47) and at the Mount Holyoke Seminary (1847–48). Beginning at age 23, however, [she] began to withdraw from society and by the age of thirty, she became a relative recluse, spending most of her days indoors,” according to the Brooklyn Museum.

Some would say she became reclusive due either to her upbringing or from suffering from some type of illness such as agoraphobia (a disorder characterized by symptoms of anxiety in which the person afflicted perceives environments outside of the home to be uncomfortable or unsafe) or epilepsy. She was actually diagnosed during her lifetime as having "nervous prostration."

Although she had a brother and sister, she confided that her only companions were the hills, "the sundown, and a dog large as myself, that my father bought me. They are better than beings because they know, but do not tell."

There were rumors, however, that she may have loved her sister-in-law.

Many have also said she was preoccupied with death and dying, telling stories of the many people close to her who either left her or died. She would go through depressions, especially after the death of someone close, lamenting, "The Dyings have been too deep for me, and before I could raise my Heart from one, another has come."

In those instances, she would simply retreat to her room and disappear in her own little world.

No one knew what she was doing, some said she would sit for hours just writing in her notebook, about what, no one really knew.

When she finally died unknown to the rest of the world, of illness at the age of 55, at her request, her "coffin [was] not driven but carried through fields of buttercups."

Her sister had promised her she would burn all her correspondence, but she discovered a locked chest full of notebooks with nearly eighteen hundred poems. To honor her, her sister put a collection together and published the poems, one of which read:

“'Hope' is the thing with feathers -

That perches in the soul -

And sings the tune without the words -

And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -

And sore must be the storm -

That could abash the little Bird

That kept so many warm -

I’ve heard it in the chillest land -

And on the strangest Sea -

Yet - never - in Extremity,

It asked a crumb - of me."

~~~~~

“Shy but rebellious, recluse but unapologetic and independent – she was Emily Dickinson,” wrote Rudrani Gupta in She The People.

Emily Dickinson was born 192 years ago today.

The Peace Page has shared several stories of Emily Dickinson in the past, sharing her words and her influence. This is a new story with new insights celebrating one of the world’s favorite poets. The Jon S. Randal Peace Page focuses on past and present stories seldom told of lives forgotten, ignored, or dismissed. The stories are gathered from writers, journalists, and historians to share awareness and foster understanding. You can find more stories in the Peace Page archives. We encourage you to learn more about the individuals mentioned here and to support the writers, educators, and historians whose words we present.

~~~~~

“Throughout the nineteenth century, the nation obsessed over male authors like they were rockstars. Men like Poe, Thoreau, and Hawthorne were often seen as brooding, conflicted, and emotionally damaged,” wrote Allie Little. “They played up a persona of living separate from society or suffering for the sake of their writing. At the same time, the United States had a handful of women authors being published and spread throughout the nation, but they weren’t often granted the fame and acclaim their male counterparts were. Famous American poet Emily Dickinson wrote actively during this time period, but the world never knew of her talent.”

“Emily Dickinson is considered one of the most famous poets in the history of American literature,” according to the Brooklyn Museum. “Though socially shy, she was outspoken and emotional in her lyric poetry (short poems with one speaker who expresses thought and feeling), defying the nineteenth-century expectation that women were to be demure and obedient to men. Her honest and uninhibited writing made her an early feminist voice, even as she maintained an outward appearance of submissiveness. Nearly two centuries after Dickinson’s birth, her witty and frequently subversive poems are widely read, taught, and studied.”

Little wrote:

“Being from an influential family, Emily and her siblings, Austin and Lavinia, were taught to prioritize education. Emily excelled as a student at Amherst Academy, and often attended lectures at Amherst College despite women not being allowed to enroll. As seen in her poetry, her brain absorbed information like a sponge. Her areas of interest included chemistry, botany, entomology, astronomy, and various other natural sciences. It was this study of the natural world that helped Emily put into words specific emotions that were difficult to explain in poetry.

“It was after her time in the Seminary that her reclusive habits grew. Leaving Mt. Holyoke marked the end of her formal schooling. Despite her desire to continue her education, this was the time in many young girls’ lives that they would find a husband and take on the role of housewife and mother. Meanwhile, in a letter to a friend, Emily wrote, “God keep me from what they call households.” Clearly not the housewife-type, Emily Dickinson never sought the attention of a man and had seemingly no desire to leave her father’s home to become a maid in another. Instead, Emily spent her time being a mediator and confidant for her siblings and parents.”

“Busy about the house and garden, she began to write verse. The narrow boundaries of “woman’s sphere” were deadly limitations for many women,” according to the National Women’s Hall of Fame.

“Somehow Dickinson found within herself the imaginative resources to exceed and shatter such boundaries. Although untaught and virtually unpublished during her lifetime, she became one of the greatest poets in the English language.”

“The world would not realize Dickinson’s true artistic talent until after her death,” according to the Brooklyn Museum. “After her death in 1886, her sister Lavinia uncovered almost a thousand of Dickinson’s poems bound with thread into numerous booklets.”

“Emily Dickinson died at the age of 55 in the same house she was raised in,” wrote Little. “At the time of her death, only seven of the nearly 1,800 poems she wrote in her lifetime had been published, and all of them were published anonymously. Few people in her hometown of Amherst, Massachusetts knew what she looked like, and her talent for poetry was whispered around town like a local legend rather than applauded and praised.”

~~~~~

Gupta writes:

“This American poet’s poems and distinct lifestyle as a woman embodied feminism at the time when it was still beginning to gain momentum. The most important characteristic of her poems and personal life was the affirmation of a woman’s identity, independence and agency over her life.

“Emily Dickinson was born in a family where the father was the patriarchal figure and women were expected to be confined to the kitchens. The gender roles were divided between men and women – men occupying the financial space while women were confined within marriage, religion, motherhood and domestic work.

“But what made Emily Dickinson defiant was her agency over her life, the right to have privacy and her vigour to challenge the dominant and regressive ideologies. She is known for living a recluse life, within her parental home, writing and challenging the social norms through her radical poems. She had privacy in her life which is a privilege for many women even today because a woman who is in love with seclusion or her own company will never allow any power to govern her life. How many women can opt to stay at her parents’ house, unmarried, throughout her life? How many women have the freedom even to choose not to marry and spend life in her own room drowned in her thoughts and passion?

“Emily Dickinson valued individuality and personal space which a woman in her time and even today are expected to sacrifice if she wants to get married and live a life of significance.

“She changed the definition of a loner woman, which has nothing to do with insufficiency to get married but to assert your territory and choices and be a true rebel.”

~ jsr

The Jon S. Randal Peace Page

#OTD #1830 #Emily Dickinson

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edwardian-girl-next-door · 1 year

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The desperate adolescent / young adult struggle to find personhood. The first quote literally rewired my brain because I realised: It's ok to feel like your life isn't worth much: you haven't lived most of it yet! It can be so overwhelming to ask for help and support from adults to have forgotten (or never experienced) this feeling. And it's terrifying, bottomless feeling, being thrust into adulthood with no sense of self to cling to. You feel like you have to start from the beginning again, deciding your mannerisms, your habits, your labels, your friends, your values and morals, your reactions, even your likes and dislikes. It's examining the pieces of yourself you've lived with for less than 30 years and building a person out of them. What can I keep, what can I discard? Where does a personality come from? What if it changes? But I take comfort in the fact that, no matter how meagre or flimsy my pieces might seem, more material is added every day. My life will be trying on different variations of this collage of self, and as experiences leave their impression, I will have more space to negotiate a life full of worth.

(thank you for reading my 1am rant <3)

Alice Miller, The Drama of the Gifted Child: The Search for the True Self // Libba Bray, The Sweet Far Thing // MARINA, "Living Dead" // Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Idiot // Emily Dickinson, The Letters of Emily Dickinson

#tw sui ideation #alice miller #libba bray #gemma doyle #marina #marina and the diamond #electra heart #marina diamandis #fyodor dostoevsky #the idiot #russian literature #emily dickinson #quotes #literature #thought dump #adolescence #teenage years #searching for self

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allamericansbitch · 2 years

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I couldn’t stay up unril five in the morning bestie, i missed it, what’s going on, why is everyone talking about glitter gel pen lyrics, help

taylor was honored with the songwriter of the decade award at the NSAI last night and in her speech she said, in her mind, she has three genres of lyrics she writes. Here's the quote:

I have never talked about this publicly before. because it’s dorky, but I have in my mind, secretly established genre category for lyrics I write. Three of them, to be exact. They are affectionately titled quill lyrics, fountain pen lyrics, and glitter gel pen lyrics. I know this sounds confusing but I’ll try to explain it. I came up with these categories based on what writing tool I imagined having in my hand when I scribbled it down. Figuratively - I don’t actually have a quill anymore. I broke it once when I was mad. I categorize certain songs of mine in the 'quill’ style if the words and phrasings are antiquated. If I was inspired to write it after reading Charlotte Brontë, or after watching a movie where everyone is wearing poet shirts and corsets. If my lyrics sound like a letter written by Emily Dickinson’s great-grandmother while sewing a lace curtain, that, to me, is writing in the quill genre. I will now give you an example of one of my songs I would categorize as quill: 'How’s one to know I’d meet you where the spirit meets the bones in a faith-forgotten land? In from the snow, your touch brought forth an incandescent glow, tarnished but so grand.’ Moving on to lyricism category number two: fountain pen style. I’d say most of my lyrics fall into this category. Fountain pen style means a modern storyline or references with a poetic twist—taking a common phrase and flipping its meaning. Basically trying to paint a vivid picture of a situation down to the chipped paint on the doorframe and the incense dust on the vinyl shelf, placing yourself and whoever is listening right there in the room where it all happened: the love, the loss, everything. The songs I categorize in this style sound like confessions scribbled and sealed in an envelope that are too brutally honest to ever send. For example, 'cause there we are again in the middle of the night, we’re dancing round the kitchen in the refrigerator light, down the stairs, I was there, I remember it all too well. And there we are again when nobody had to know, you kept me like a secret, but I kept you like an oath, Sacred prayer and we’d swear to remember it all too well’ The third category is called glitter gel pen, and it lives up to its name in every way. These lyrics are frivolous, carefree, bouncy, syncopated perfectly to the beat. Glitter gel pen lyrics don’t care if you don’t take them seriously because they don’t take themselves seriously. Glitter gel pen lyrics are the drunk girl at the party who tells you that you look like an angel in the bathroom. It is what we need every once in awhile in these fraught times in which we live. For example, 'my ex man brought his new girlfriend, he’s like oh my god, but I’m just gonna shake, and to the fella over there with the hella good hair, won’t you come on over baby and we can shake, shake, shake?’

#answered #death-and-the-lady13

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the-forest-library · 1 year

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Beat the not quite Backlist

Number in the Title: 30 Things I Love About Myself

One Word Title: Circe

Book with Chapter Names: Hormone Intelligence

Book Published in the Month You Were Born: Sadie on a Plate

Set on an Island: Meet Me in Paradise

Co-Authored: Rebel Homemaker

Book About Siblings: They’ll Never Catch Us

“Everyone Has Read It But You”: Assassin’s Apprentice

About or Inspired by a Historical Event: The Mad Girls of New York

2+ People on the Cover: The Wedding Crasher

Second or Fourth Book in a Series: Egg Marks the Spot

Longer Than 500 Pages: Bitterblue

Set in the Mountains: Leave Only Footprints

Discovered Via Social Media: Crushing

Book Written for an Age Group You Don’t Belong To: Good Night to Your Fantastic Elastic Brain

Story Centered Around Real or Fictional Holiday: Lords and Ladies

Title is an Alliteration: To Marry and to Meddle

First in a Series You’ve Been Putting Off: Etiquette & Espionage

A Book About Books: The Roughest Draft

Novella: No One is Talking About This

6+ Words in the Title: Present Over Perfect: Leaving Behind Frantic for a Simpler, More Soulful Way of Living

Your Favorite Trope on the Page: The Wedding Crasher

About Food or Food in the Title: Rosaline Palmer Takes the Cake

Mushroom on the Cover: Listen to the Language of the Trees

Picked by a Celebrity Book Club: The Maid

Author Has an Active Podcast or Youtube Channel: The F*ck It Diet

Reading for Research, Reference, or General Interest: Plant You

Involves Family Secrets: Meet Me in Paradise

Indie or Self Published: The Gentle Art of Fortune Hunting

Non-Fiction: The Feather Thief

Murder, Mystery, or Both: These Deadly Games

Set in Space or On/In the Ocean: Daughter of the Deep

Features Royalty: The Royals Next Door

Women in the (Fictional) Science: At Least You Have Your Health

A Book in a Genre You Never/Rarely Read: Zen

Debut Novel: Olga Dies Dreaming

Graphic Novel, Manga, or Web Comic: Paper Girls

New to You Author: She Gets the Girl

Your Favorite Animal (Real or Fictional) on the Cover: Tree

You Watched the Show or Movie First: The Home Edit

An Unusual or Unexpected Pet: How to Be a Good Creature: A Memoir in Thirteen Animals

Protagonist Has a Profession that Twists the Truth: Subtle Blood

Author Has a First, Middle, and Last Name on the Cover (No Initials): Weather Girl

A Book Set in the Season You Read It In: Eight Perfect Hours

Finish a Series: The Excalibur Curse

Book Featuring Time Travel: An Ocean of Minutes

“Wolf” or “Star” in the Title: Wolf Star by Tanith Lee

Forgotten on Your Shelf or eReader: Paperback Crush

Classic Novel: Dracula

Poetry or Anthology: Poetry for Kids: Emily Dickinson

Translated into Your Native Language: The Cat Who Came in from the Roof

Superheroes/Villains or Character in Disguise: Vengeful

#beat the backlist #reading challenge #books #booklr #bookish #reading #bibliophile

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le-duo · 2 years

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NSAI 2022 speech

Well hi.

I want to say thank you to [Bart Herbison, the NSAI’s executive director] for introducing me in such a generous way and I want to say thank you to the NSAI for getting us all together for this event. For me, tonight feels brimming with a genuine camaraderie between a bunch of people who just love making stuff. Who love the craft. Who live for that rare, pure moment when a magical cloud floats down right in front of you in the form of an idea for a song, and all you have to do is grab it. Then shape it like clay. Prune it like a garden. And then wish on every lucky star or pray to whatever power you believe in that it might find its way out into the world and make someone feel seen, feel understood, feel joined in their grief or heartbreak or joy for just a moment.

20 years ago I wrote my first song. I used to dream about one day getting to bounce around the different musical worlds of my various sonic influences, and change up the production of my albums. I hoped that one day, the blending of genres wouldn’t be such a big deal. There’s so much discussion about genre and it always usually leads back to a conversation about melody and production. But that leaves out possibly my favorite part of songwriting: lyricism.

“How’s one to know

I’d meet you where the spirit meets the bones

In a faith forgotten land

In from the snow, your touch brought forth an incandescent glow

Tarnished but so grand”

For Example:

“Cause there we are again in the middle of the night

We’re dancing round the kitchen in the refrigerator light

Down the stairs, I was there

I remember it all too well

And there we are again when nobody had to know

You kept me like a secret but I kept you like an oath

Sacred prayer, and we’d swear to remember it all too well “

Example:

“My ex man brought his new girlfriend; she’s like ‘oh my god’ but I’m just gonna shake and to the fella over there with the hella good hair, won’t you come on over baby we can shake, shake, shake.”

To be honored by you means more than any genre of my lyrics could ever say.

Thank you.

#nsai awards 2022 #nsai 2022

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isabellarosestudio5 · 2 months

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Work from 2023 revised, with additional text.

Here's a 1.5minute section of a work to be altered. The work was created Semester 2 2023, but without the additional poem and text.

Here I have added the poem 'A Soul's Storm' by Emily Dickinson, in yellow text, similar to subtitles.

The poem spoken in the video is 'The Thunderstorm' also by Emily Dickinson.

Video:

"Hysteric Intervention for the Death of the Suburban Dream" made 2023, revised 2024.

Additional notes:

After reflecting back on this piece, I decided to look into the history of Dickinson's personal life and happened to find it extremely relevant to the work. The work seeks to talk about the myth of the Hysteric woman and also the consequences of traditional suburban life, (which I think has limited and restrained women to the home for 100s of years, driving them to some of these understandable "hysteric" behaviours).

Dickinson is a remarkable figure having never married or pursued a family life, despite living between 1830-1886. It is said she was a recluse and spent most of her time writing from home, maintaining friendships largely via correspondence. Some academics have also noted her writings to Susan Gilbert (Dickinson's brothers wife) to be interpreted as romantic, which places her further outside of the conventionally accepted life and female role.

Dickinson's poem "The Wife", regarding her thoughts around marriage (a woman wasted perhaps) :

She rose to His Requirement – dropt

The Playthings of Her Life

To take the honorable Work

Of Woman, and of Wife -

If ought She missed in Her new Day,

Of Amplitude, or Awe -

Or first Prospective - Or the Gold

In using, wear away,

It lay unmentioned - as the Sea

Develope Pearl, and Weed,

But only to Himself - be known

The Fathoms they abide -

In her letters to Suzie, regarding thoughts on the married woman:

“How dull our lives must seem to the bride, and the plighted maiden, whose days are fed with gold, and who gathers pearls every evening; but to the wife, Susie, sometimes the wife forgotten, our lives perhaps seem dearer than all others in the world; you have seen flowers at morning, satisfied with the dew, and those same sweet flowers at noon with their heads bowed in anguish before the mighty sun.”

Poetry/Writings regarding her feelings for Suzie:

To own a Susan of my own

Is of itself a Bliss —

Whatever Realm I forfeit, Lord,

Continue me in this!

"Will you be kind to me, Susie? I am naughty and cross, this morning, and nobody loves me here; nor would you love me, if you should see me frown, and hear how loud the door bangs whenever I go through; and yet it isn’t anger — I don’t believe it is, for when nobody sees, I brush away big tears with the corner of my apron, and then go working on — bitter tears, Susie — so hot that they burn my cheeks, and almost scorch my eyeballs, but you have wept much, and you know they are less of anger than sorrow.

And I do love to run fast — and hide away from them all; here in dear Susie’s bosom, I know is love and rest, and I never would go away, did not the big world call me, and beat me for not working… Your precious letter, Susie, it sits here now, and smiles so kindly at me, and gives me such sweet thoughts of the dear writer. When you come home, darling, I shan’t have your letters, shall I, but I shall have yourself, which is more — Oh more, and better, than I can even think! I sit here with my little whip, cracking the time away, till not an hour is left of it — then you are here! And Joy is here — joy now and forevermore!"

Reference:

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/emily-dickinson

https://www.themarginalian.org/2018/12/10/emily-dickinson-love-letters-susan-gilbert/

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sailor-toni · 1 year

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I posted 545 times in 2022

That's 355 more posts than 2021!

109 posts created (20%)

436 posts reblogged (80%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@ii-zi

@moonlightsdreaming

@13thcat

@sailor-toni

@auroraphantasma

I tagged 128 of my posts in 2022

#art - 48 posts

#danny phantom - 39 posts

#writing - 21 posts

#fanfiction - 20 posts

#reading journal - 18 posts

#youtube - 13 posts

#journal - 12 posts

#bullet journal - 12 posts

#book journal - 10 posts

#video - 9 posts

Longest Tag: 54 characters

#three studies for figures at the base of a crucifixion

My Top Posts in 2022:

The Grandfather You Never Wanted

You can also read on AO3, FF.net, and Wattpad

“Danny? Danny! Danny I can’t understand you. You're gonna have to use actual words,” Tucker said, his phone pressed up against his ear.

“Walker, and my Mom, and him! And ME!” Danny sputtered.

“Is Walker also after your Mom? How many ghosts want to bang your Mom dude?”

“Your Grandpa is in the ghost zone? That’s awesome, maybe you can get in more time with him or-”

“No Tuck, my grandpa is Walker.”

The Casper High library was quiet, it’s maroon walls and wooden bookshelves look like they jumped out of the 70’s. Wherever there could be, that shade of deep forest green penetrated the room.

In the far corner, jammed between Emily Dickinson, and the complete 1967 collection of Time magazine sat the trio. Holding a thick scrapbook.

“Your Mom never told you Walker was your grandpa?” Sam said.

“It’s so weird to see him like that,” said Tucker.

“Alive?” replied Danny.

“No, the smile.”

“Walker has never smiled before.”

“Not like that.”

“True.”

“What if you showed Walker this?” Sam spoke up, “Maybe it would jog his memory? Get him to be nicer to you? Or give you a free pass?”

“Oh! Hey Sam's on to something here. Maybe you can pull a few strings and we could finally get somewhere without a ghost map,” Tucker said.

“Yeah, but what if he doesn't care and wipes the floor with me again?” Danny said.

“You never know until you try?” Sam

-----

What was he even doing here? Even if Walker had forgotten most of his human memories, like some ghosts did, he wouldn't suddenly turn good. Maybe?

“Freeze! Ghost boy!” Danny flew, his feet were swept off the ground by his own flight response, their ghostly trail trying desperately to catch up with his torso.

See the full post

90 notes - Posted November 3, 2022

Watch me do a speedpaint of this picture here!

91 notes - Posted September 3, 2022

The Danny Phantom fandom is cool and all. But it really feels like the people in here would willingly stomp you to death in order to maintain the image of a small peaceful, no issue fandom. An example might be "hey, can you not say you don't like ghost hunger fics? B/c someone who really likes ghost hunger fics might become discourage and leave the fandom. Thanks and try to be a better person next time! 💖🥰"

Fam, people are allowed to leave fandoms for whatever reason no questions asked. Its not a social club, its a bunch of random people online who like the same 2007 children's show. If someone wants to leave after such a cold take. I would let them. Why force them to stay in a place where even a slightest disagreement makes them wanna run?

104 notes - Posted September 22, 2022

You were only 14 when you decided to fight the world.

Ectober day 6

150 notes - Posted October 12, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

Am I the Asshole for trying to ask my college sweetheart out after her husband disfigured me?

I (42M) was friends with (names changed for privacy) Molly (42F) and John (44M) in college. John and I were good friends and we both had crushes on Molly. I was going to ask her out on a date, when during an experiment John dumped the wrong chemical down the hatch and the experiment blew up in my face, disfiguring me for life. I spent the next ten years in the hospital fighting for my life. While John asked Molly out. They are now married and have two kids (16F and 14M). I have mostly recovered and have reconnected with my friends. While they never visited me in the hospital I have forgave them. I still have a crush on Molly so I asked her if there was any change between us. Her son overheard and now the family won't talk to me. Am I the asshole?

EDIT John claims he never meant to disfigure me EDIT 2 Some of you have been asking why would I ask a married woman out? I feel like my life was stolen from me and the least they could do as my friends was give me a chance.

172 notes - Posted May 7, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

#tumblr2022 #year in review #my 2022 tumblr year in review #your tumblr year in review

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