|
Post by Andorinha on Jan 17, 2007 2:54:42 GMT -6
The Realization of Losses Accumulated through Time
I falter in the snow, and turn my raw neck to near the knotting point, trying ever to see where I have already been, letting my dumb, mechanical feet carry me to those places I've no real desire to ever see again, leaving behind the only points of connection that really counted just to leap into the dubious motions dictated by one line.
I'm built all backward, I'd swear to any fellow traveller I just might chance to meet -- me head's stuck somewhere yonder still trying to figure it all out.
The further I get through this Fairie, the less further I want to go, and all I'd really ask is just the courtesy of being left here all alone. I'll have to run hard backwards, just to get to where I was, and then hope I still recognize that soft and subtle point of perfect balance, where I'd wish to finally stay -- just outside of Bree, on the marshes, where they start to form, and the Iron cloud of the draining midges dance like black bars across the Sun...
But, I drift away from Middle-earth, forgetting for great blocks of time that I have ever been here. And the machineries of a drabber life push all the Faerie Consequences into the blanking-steams that rise dead-grey above the supposed wonder of the dawn.
I'll never quite return, will I?
|
|
|
Post by Fangorn on Dec 1, 2007 20:47:46 GMT -6
Yes, Andorhina, there is a Santa Claus.
The realm of faerie is real. It is our machinations of fear that are not. The fear of being left alone as the boughs of the Old Forest bend ominously toward us. The leer of the southron, peering at us through the hedgerow, or of our OWN Grima sneaking up behind us with a dagger for our back.
Yes, Andorhina, there is a Santa Claus.
The bells on the reigns of Glorfindel's horse Asfaloth, still rings clear on a dark grey day and spurs us forward. Arwens sweet Elvish voice sends nurishment through our weary limbs and we fancy visions of the Last Homely Realm. Little Rosie sits on Sam's lap with giggles and smiles, in a warm comfy hole at Bag End.
Yes, Andorhina, there is a Santa Claus. He is Father Christmas, and his name is John Ronald Ruel Tolkien.
Fang
|
|
|
Post by Andorinha on Dec 2, 2007 10:50:37 GMT -6
Ah, I had quite forgotten posting this, LOL!
Well, Fang, I'll take your word for it, that there is a Santa Claus, because I have, from time to time, returned after all.
Thanks!
|
|
|
Post by Andorinha on Dec 21, 2007 10:52:16 GMT -6
Poem 4
Today, at 9:08 of the morning when there should be five doves at the fountain and a brown-red scatter of fat finches beneath the window, nothing moves on the patio, nothing but a heavy air, thick with the clinging drops of an almost fog -- a mist?
What cataclysmic eventuality has overtaken the Sun today? This twilight started at dawn, -- I'll wager -- though I was not up to confirm that notion, and taken simply by its texture it shall endure past the Noon.
My hopes for a long walk into the golden scatters of a sunshine-morning, into the drifting-dreaming coils of a self-indulging revery must be postponed -- until the sweeping isobars can clean away the glooms.
A seamless sort of day then, shadows woven from its hem to the very edge of its collar -- night blending into night for 24 solid hours...
What good thing was ever accomplished in the twilight of the Noon? Should I go back to bed?
|
|
|
Post by Andorinha on Mar 10, 2008 11:15:46 GMT -6
POEM 17
Indications of a Cosmic Slump
Today we woke up thinking it would be much the same as yesterday.
The same doves on the roof; the bang Fred always makes (next door) each time he slams the garbage lid (hard) upon the bent rim of its barrel; the dull rumble of a passing jet making the same old run down to San Diego.
But the coffee I sthingyed* into my cup refused to melt into the milky water. It rotated there, a small continent, dark-brown -- loamy, crumbling slightly at the edges where the "all-dissolving" surf still tried to devour the strangely perdurative stuff.
At half past eight I had to give it up, and turn trembling, (coffeeless) to face the rest of a day that was potentially slipping into madness, disarranged, freighted with wildness.
If coffee won't melt, what else has been jarred awry? Has the Great Unravelling begun?
____________ * sigh - "s p o o n e d"
|
|
|
Post by Stormrider on Mar 10, 2008 17:41:49 GMT -6
Andorinha: Why not just go into the main part of the poem and space the word "s p o o n e d" there? Actually, the censored word is "p o o n" whatever that is!
|
|
|
Post by Andorinha on Mar 10, 2008 23:24:49 GMT -6
Sigh, kind of grown accustomed to seeing s-p-o-o-n mystically transfigured into "sthingy" -- would probably miss it, another alteration in a universe already changing faster than I can comprehend...
|
|
|
Post by Stormrider on Mar 11, 2008 6:24:37 GMT -6
I went back to the censored words in the administration area and was able to delete "member" and "poon" from the list. It actually allowed me to delete them. I went back after the screen refreshed and they were gone. Let's see what happens when I post this comment.
|
|
|
Post by Stormrider on Mar 11, 2008 6:25:08 GMT -6
yeah! it woiked!
member
spoon
|
|
|
Post by Andorinha on Mar 11, 2008 9:29:34 GMT -6
Kool! I wasn't sure you could edit the censor! Well, spoon and remember will still have a special place in my memories... Good bye Little Sthingy! LOL! Thanks Stormrider!
|
|
|
Post by Stormrider on Mar 11, 2008 16:38:14 GMT -6
I couldn't edit it when they first created the sensorship words. We had a member photobucket album set up for our members to post their art or other Tolkien pictures they wanted to share. The url had the word "member" in it so the pictures weren't posting! I found the new sensorship area in the admin section and tried to delete the word "member" from the sensored words but it would not allow me to do that. I guess there was enough flack from the hords of proboards users to be allowed to unsensor some words and now I can! yeah!
|
|