#Stanzas

[sttermsofservice]

We go back to Twitter to meet our second Twitter Mod, Elian!

#star trek #tos #aos #star trek zine #star trek aos #star trek terms of service #star trek tos #terms of service zine #mcspirk #spirk #queue: the final frontier #mod elian #stanzas

[aftercamlann]

alone in the forests of our minds

words by stanzasfic / stanzas and art by paintedpigeon Summary:  Dwell not on dreams, lest the illusions linger and delay the waking of the sleeper. Seek what lies beyond the mirrored veil. —— Merlin vanishes at an auspicious time in search of a mystical portal that borders the realm of the fae. Elyan embarks on a quest to find out where Camelot’s favorite Court Magician has disappeared to. Click HERE for the story and HERE for the art!  

#after camlann big bang #merlin #merlin fanfic #merlin fanart #stanzafic #stanzas #paintedpigeon #gen

[zielenna]

To know is to bend over a mirror where the world is reflected, to descry images reflected from sphere to sphere: the medieval man was always before a mirror, both when he looked around himself and when he surrendered himself to his own imagination.

Giorgio Agamben, Stanzas: Word and Phantasm in Western Culture

#giorgio agamben #stanzas #readings

[suicideandcheese]

Everwalks

St. Albert, I remember liking that town best Walked through by the river, detoxing on long-life Libriums. Those half-snows, half-rains. They validated my in-betweens. Those were some solo hellrides, some benders. Those were my near and dears, my never-enders. You think about time and times you died the nines. Live and learn, folly down, wisen up, some Half-god knowing the stench only Of his own shit. We're all holy Assholes. The likes of us. But times have changed. Lonelies submerge. Romances emerge. Families rearrange. Start to manifest beyond fears. The destinies appear. This shitty, though, downtown Edmonton's a gritty neo-blanc Vortex polar, snowcalls hex'd and meth'd. Noir'd to dare. It's extra but not too fallen. Cold. I'm minimal but living silver. Streets walk better here on K-pins. Hot ramen bowls, strike Through tough rhymes, nocturnal beats on repeats, playlists. You walk much and forevers without an engine. Have less, I possess knives, lives, dives, wives, nil more. Not Cars, trucks, lucks, fucks, bars, hours, just guitars. Still play nothing but a 'puter and an oppy more. Downers will lay you down. Cities will sleep you up. Do em downright, upwrong, together. Slurp some Wintry beers on their deathening. And if you wake Again, bone broth from chickens. Better drugs. Better attitudes. Minor alter egos. Minor prayers. Kiss your girl, hug your cat, call your mom, grace your gods. In the afterlives I visit none other than no ones and nothing Really happens and that's a fair city, damned, still. No one but the overwatch and some lack of numbs.

#poetry #poem #poet #writing #free verse #edmonton #poets on tumblr #creative writing #stanzas #my words #comedowns #forevers #boots #benzos #spilled ink #limbos

[merlinbingo]

If You Give A Dragon A Council Seat by stanzas Ship: No ships/gen Main Characters: Merlin, Arthur, Gwen, Kilgharrah Rating: Teen Warnings: No archive warnings apply Major tags: AU - Canon Divergent, Humor, Royal Advisor!Kilgharrah Summary: Kilgharrah is King Arthur's newest royal court advisor. Yes, really.

#bbc merlin #merlin bingo #participant reblog #stanzas #rating: t #format: fic

[frombehindthepen]

Not a Fan of Poetry? I Won't Judge You

Not a Fan of Poetry? I Won't Judge You #PoetryCommunity #Literature #Genre #AcademyOfAmericanPoets

Image Credit: Schnipidy I took a survey the other day that had the following choices to the question “Do you enjoy poetry?” (1) Yes, I enjoy writing and reading it (2) Yes, I enjoy writing it (3) Yes, I enjoy reading it (4) No, I’m not a fan (5) Other. Needless to say, when it showed the results of the people who participated in this survey then, I have to say I was a little disappointed by the…

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#National Poetry Month #Poet #Poetess #Poetry #Poetry Community #Stanzas #Verses

[rachelspoetrycorner]

The Snow Man (1921) and The Well Dressed Man With a Beard (1942) by Wallace Stevens

The first hints of Rachel's Poetry Corner appeared in Episode 5, where she brought these two poems (the highlighted lines specifically) by Wallace Stevens.

Rachel: So here, here's my thing with Wallace Stevens. It's very rare for me to like entire Wallace Stevens poems, but he's got these little pithy stanzas that just kill me... Griffin: Can -we've never talked about this, like ever- Rachel went to school for poetry and it is not a thing that like really comes up a lot. But whenever it does, like, I cannot tell you how much happiness it brings me.

If you'd like to hear Rachel's segment, you can do so here: Robert Frost Fist Fight, from 12:05 - 19:30.

#poetry #world poetry day #rachel mcelroy #griffin mcelroy #poem #wonderful! #wonderful! podcast #wallace stevens #rachel's poetry corner #writing #words #literature #episode 5 #poet #winter #stanzas

[huhl9yy93dqrwm]

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#rammage #namda #imperforated #precollusive #Pro-armenian #ageusic #Seseli #mimickers #electroori #cities #stanzas #Altman #gustables #phantasmagorianly #agitations #rethink #specificatively #sinbad #merchandized #wittiness

[rhadko]

happy anniversary to the stanley parable: ultra deluxe! (4/27)

#the stanley parable #tsp #stanarrator #sketches & stanzas 1/3/5 - rk #rendering & stanzas 2/4 - beetle #is it the moon pulling the waves or is it the waves pulling the moon #pssst. you can use this as your phone wallpaper. :)

[unleashyourbuddhanature]

Stanzas of Mind Training (podcast series)

Stanzas of Mind Training (podcast series)

This is a series of talks on “The Eight Stanzas of Mind Training” I hope these talks are helpful. Beings Are Precious Others Are Paramount All The Time Beings of Bad Character Attacks From Others Great Hopes and Harm Offering to Mothers Worldly Concerns

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#langri tangpa #mahayana #mind training #stanzas #tibetan buddhism

[tendergraphite]

So Claws Out Catch My Wings Pull Their Threads Use It For Our Bedding

| Poem Composed [26/08/2022] – Poem Finalised [19/05/2023] | Timeline Began [2021] – Timeline End [2022] | - Gardens are rather liminal in nature, don't you think? You visit them, but can never stay. For that reason, they're a lot like an actors' stage: You go to one for dinner parties full of gown and cake—or dates under bouquets of bushel, with arms caressed and torsos cradled.

They are places of performance, that I can assure.

I, for one, go to such a place to ponder; Years have startled around me, you see, non the same nor the luckiest. I’d yet to become a person, long since given up on the idea of an identity. A soul is their memories—or so ones told—to whom that makes my own being I am uncertain, as before the dawns my memories are aloft; A true series of misfortunes to have their mere drafts swept into lost paper-bins, stolen by the gardens morrow.

I'd often catch myself in a murmur, too: ‘’What kind of person had I been? I can no longer recall...'' Such a question cannot meet truth, for if answered by another's memory it is destined to be unfaithful—but therein lies their peculiar value: The ability to remember, and to do so falsely, for another's hand to form anew who I’d been.

With a fraying mind such as my own, it’s alluring for another to grasp and pull—One page, now in two. It’s fragile, in all earnestness; No longer is it a question of if someone will unravel me, but of whom, and of whether I'll let them be the one to do so.

-

During my accepted absence from reality, I'd scrutinized the gardens' everchanging inhabitants. The space often used for rent, I'd seen a theatre's stage and it's actors come and go, it's fresh creaking beams quick to build and quick to depart—Each scholar's display of passion proving incoherent to the likes of myself, as they’d all proclaim art to be of life itself. But my own is such a smear—The gift of an understanding for such tales I perfectly lacked.

But the day would turn, and from my tree's shade I’d be handed a script. I must’ve been mistaken for a student, as in place of the missing, I’d sat—not that it matters now, as thus forth my role would be uttered; I was to be the Harvest withering, the Feathered Fox—My domain of hot wine and quaking minds, paws woven from thorn and bundles of restless sticks.

I'd be put centre stage, skin prickling at the rise of a directors voice, it's commanding force heaving my eroded corpse into motion: ''Open your eyes, become your role.'' A clapped hand ''Ears high!'' And I'd bounce—bushy tail a spiralling sprout, and new muzzle stretching wide into a rancid howling snarl.

Without a doubt I knew, truly—I'd become the Harvests embodiment, it's Scythe—And upon the rise of red licked ears, they'd catch the early Vernal-equinox's festival songs, and pine. Fresh as a newborn, I would leap—Septembers candle light flickering away as plums winked back into blossoms, the soils transfiguration beneath me, stopping once I entered the waters dew of Springs May.

As my thorn took quiet rest in lush brush, I'd hear Spring's melody clear as day—And upon my sappy ambers sunrise from my paws, they'd soak up the grace of welcoming arms and lips full of joyful greeting, the soft pink curving in a perfect mirror of my own as I, in that stuttering moment—Would learn Springs Lamb could grow talons. - ‘’Now gaze upon this and understand: Things will not last, petals fly away in the wind.’’

Beauty, that's what I gazed upon—The Blossoms Lamb; throat filled with early ribbons and soothing morning song; the great awakening, the beginning of all beginnings, the rebirth. Spring is no tale for faeries, it's flowers ready to kiss wind and dreams keen to bloom.

In reality, she'd been a mere theatre student; To me, a new world.

Shy as a morning daisy, I'd admonish my delight for their melody—The Lambs retort a chirping giggle as they'd beckon me to follow in their step to the rose-bud. The garden lush with pink, its brim an overfilled glass spilling outward that we'd gather, the petals tickling our barely parted palms as we placed them within cherry-wood boxes, and filled the inside with kissed lashes.

In a hush under the honey-dew, I’d murmur that their voice reminded me of the blush of the rose, of the milky smooth skin, and the smell of sweet balm. She’d beam lightly how I smelled of blackberry, of wet moss covering tired stones.

I’d whisper of dreams, quietly daring the world to snatch my very word away—And speak of green thumbs and a home with them: ‘’It will have tinted windows, and we’ll drink fruit tea in our tomorrows.’’ Our promise. ''A backgarden, too! Askew with my dedication to you.'' A mischievous grin. ‘’We’ll be happy, always and forever!'’ I'd so sure, proclaim.

The tranquillity would be broken when a brazen voice boomed from backstage, where weeds grew untamed. ''Isn't Spring too sweet? Tacky like taffy.'' A lesser role, too loud yet for a fellow student. ''Dreams fancy is nothing but folly!'' I'd wonder why they couldn't just be quiet, and I'd cover my ear; that'll show them, that'll make them flounder away—I'd so foolishly assure my beating drum.

But Spring, ever so fleeting, would flash us by. Soon I'd be reminded: The ripest of fruits are always the first to spoil. - My brittle Autumn had leaped upon us, its howling winds beginning to creep, rippling flower beds whom were unable to handle such a harsh hand—Their lid's sagging, heavy as they’d soon wilt—With them, our bond.

Crumpled leaves would settle within Springs windpipe, leaving them speechless—She couldn’t see how my Autumn was inevitable, couldn’t conceive how rot made way for trees to grow anew.

The garden would become an endless waste, still our stage despite the disrepair as it continued on with its reluctant show. I'd reach for their peach soft hands, searching for their kindness as I’d try to alight my own dance to share—Only to discover my touch to bruise their skin like dropped apples, and smear like smudged dust from a butterflies wing.

Their heels would prance away at such a grief as they’d twirl in scarlet, beginning their very own dance I did not recognise—One of backhanded touches; One I could not join off my feathers being plucked—One two three, spinning around me—Two three four.

One by one, only small little things at first: The birds wouldn’t be allowed to make their grand journey, instead pinned to branches and forced to sing their beloved songs threw rust until no longer could they soar; And those lovely rosy cheeks, I ever yet still adored—Would pinch into a smile, fastened to high not to be a grimace: ‘’Truly’’ They’d mumble. ‘’There isn’t a sign of a thing amiss.’’ But as fingertips glanced my plume, flesh soon became noticeable—But as my frustration showed, it’d only worsen; Still, as I wept, the pricks continued on, ceaseless.

''Taloned feet against marble, a quickened pace!''

No sign of an end, no sign of an inclusion—We both knew Spring couldn’t thrive within My Fall, and knew of our choices: To sleep, or too wilt away.

My voice gruff as dried bark, I'd demand a conclusion; Springs response a clawful grip of my feather before a rough yank: She'd call the salmon pink ugly, I'd snap how I would be happy to have feathers at all.

Like a child, Spring would cry. ‘’But why! Oh why can't you just let it go?’’ Tears fat as they'd whimpered ‘’Why won’t you let us be happy!’’ At the question, I’d glare at the thorn bushes that wrapped around my scraped feet. I'd nip at my tongue, refusing to make an allowance as I turned my back: I couldn’t allow them to become comfortable in such a morbid contortion, a mockery even, of fragility.

As we parted ways, devastation would rake me frozen. I'd never gotten close enough to dance with their beginnings, and she'd never embraced my endings: I'd wail for relief from reality, my fallen fathers alighting with flame at my bare feet. Slowly the dried rotting trees whose branches and leaves had never been allowed to fall, caught. - I'd left them under my pillow case in a box, our petals—They've oranged with age, now. Yet still, they smelled the same; Even if they but an echo, in current day I pull them out and let them fly like sand between my fingers, and wonder: Is there a matching box under their pillowcase, too? Or had they put them in a drawer of forgotten things—Perhaps they left it hidden within their heart, where the thoughts that tormented them so slumbered.

I never really did know how they truly felt of the end.

I’ve always known my love to be deformed, like the very blackberry brambles that seem to sprout between my toes and wrap around my thighs—Until no one else can hold me without being pricked. But it hadn't been a delicate glass; Mayhaps they'd believed my love to be like their own, feeble. I realize now, that maybe I just never understood them.

And I'd never get the chance to know them again, a forest I had not burned down. Oh no, I'd burnt down our very stage and the garden that housed it, I'd put in ruin our very performance—I, all that remained in the charred remains.

Even if they'd survived, that audience and the story's actors—Our Spring would never come back, someone would take its place always—A new face I would be guaranteed to hate, because it would not be them; I could never be reformed the same in another's hand, I could never be Fall again; Thus, I shall forever morn my own ending.

#I've decided to stop being indesisive this blog indeed will double as a poetry blog #I will not go back on this decision #I promise #cough #really I mean it this time #poetry #poem #original poetry #poets of tumblr #stanzas

[jack-the-fool]

Today, I will not apologize when I do not know who I am playing

#doing some experiments~ #nimona #nimona movie #nimona 2023 #ballister boldheart #gloreth #nimona gifs #nimona edit #also tell me this poem doesn't SCREAM nimona #only reason i didn't do the first stanza as well was I had already worked too long on this #and wasn't sure what clips to use anyway :/ #n nimona #n ballister #jack.edit #jack.gif #jack.txt

[zielenna]

They had the intuition of a polarity - the same that would later lead the humanists to reevaluate melancholy positively - in which the obsessive emphasis of a pathological experience well known to medical diagnostics goeshand in hand with its soteriological ennoblement; lhus mortal disease and salvation, obscuration and illumination, privation and fulfillment, appear problematically and inextricably joined. The proof of this polarity is contained in a chapter of the history of medicine in which love assumes tbe dark saturnine mask of a malady "similar to melancholy" that desiccates the face and eyes of lovers and plunges them into madness and death. This malady appears, in medieval medical treatises, under the name of amor hereos (heroic love).

Giorgio Agamben, Stanzas: Word and Phantasm in Western Culture

#giorgio agamben #stanzas #readings

[suicideandcheese]

Workouts

Golden piss raining down your Throat, mind, hell, raise it Down a notch. You're fuckin' gods again, no You. Just don't know Better. Unknowns, now. But damn, they're not Enough anyway, you think. Fuck I need a fear. Anxiety, You rat bastard, back again. Old friends, right. Mhm. Just you, skippin' my breath. Heart in tatters. Rugged, ragged, Ruined, for the most, partly Toned through, though, too.

#poetry #poem #poet #writing #free verse #heart disease #beers #work nights #fml #poems on tumblr #deep breaths #anxious #sleepless #hi #good night #stanzas #real shit #reps

[merlinbingo]

worth the yearning, worth the wait by stanzas Ship: Gwaine/Percival/Elyan Main Characters: Gwaine, Elyan, Percival Rating: Teen Warnings: No archive warnings apply Major tags: “I know no matter how far they have to go, Arthur and the others will return.” Summary:

#bbc merlin #merlin bingo #participant reblog #stanzas #rating: t #elyan/gwaine/percival #format: fic

[vincekris]

Il tuo vizio è una stanza chiusa e solo io ne ho la chiave (1972) Sergio Martino

#Il tuo vizio è una stanza chiusa e solo io ne ho la chiave (1972) Sergio Martino