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#my mother would be a falconress
vulnerasti-cor-meum · 8 months
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I would be a falcon and go free. I tread her wrist and wear the hood, Talking to myself, and would draw blood.
My Mother Would be a Falconress (excerpt), Robert Duncan (1968)
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aeide-thea · 2 years
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absolutely no idea what got me thinking about 90s SFF cover art but i really did think this particular set was awfully striking back in the day! and thanks to this very thorough overview of Fionavar Tapestry Cover Art Through the Decades i now know it was done by mel odom, who i'd never heard of before looking him up just now but who it turns out is apparently family, not to mention alive and well and posting on instagram!
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jaigeye · 1 year
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because i am my mother's son. / cassian andor & maarva andor.
Paul Tran, Taint / my mother would be a falconress - bending the bow (1968, robert duncan) / Letter to My Rage: An Evolution, by Lidia Yuknavitch / Aria Aber, Can You Describe Your Years in Prison? / Victoria Chang, from Obit / Eugenia Leigh, from “The Morning I Abandoned My Father, Angels,” Blood, Sparrows and Sparrows / Jeanette Winterson, Frankissstein / Andor, Disney+
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internalintestines · 1 year
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things i read last month (february 2023)
poetry
my mother would be a falconress - robert duncan
kink - imani davis
words for the sri lanka tourist office - indran amirthanayagam
substitution - anne spencer
ice - gail mazur
when the dawn comes to the city - claude mckay
the lammegerier daughter - pascale petit
canopy - arlene keizer
regarding the rottgen piete - elle emerson
missed time - ha jin
february 11th 1990 - wanda coleman
the venus of milo - henrietta cordelia ray
there are no boring people in this world - yevgent yevtushenko
we have not long to love - tennessee williams
eating together - kim addonizio
i have just said - mary oliver
challenge - sterling a. brown
on a train - wendy cope
books
detransition, baby - torrey peters
closer baby closer - savannah brown (poetry collection)
university readings
‘literary criticism’ in lesbian and gay studies: an introduction, vincent quinn, 1987 (intro to queer studies)
‘the greyhound bus station in the evolution of lesbian popular culture’ in new lesbian criticism, angela weir and elizabeth wilson, 1992 (intro to queer studies)
extract from ‘beebo brinker’, ann bannon, (intro to queer studies)
‘modernism, post modernism and art education’, in art education vol 39, patricia clahassey, 1989 (modernism and after)
‘modernity and modernism’ chapter 2 from the condition of postmodernity, david harvey, 1990 (modernism and after)
‘the bauhaus and studio art education’ in art education vol 34, andrew phelan, 1981 (modernism and after)
‘johannes itten and the background of modern art education’ in art journal vol 27, henry p raleigh, 1968 (modernism and after)
substack
evil female: on sensitivitiy, sadness and noticing things
evil female: everyone is grotesque and no one is turned on
grace rother: warmth
evil female: personal style is dead and the algorithm killed it
maybe baby: #135 anti anti social social club
joshua citarella's newsletter: there is no alternative
joshua citarella's newsletter: tag yourself
grace rother: into march
patti smith: milan in three segments
evil female: the tragedy of work shakespear
articles
‘raw eggs, pink pills and embodied identity: online communities creates their own proof in a vaccum of truth’, joshua citarella, document journal, 2023
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shoegaze · 1 year
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my mother would be a falconress by robert duncan
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melxncholyman · 1 year
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the lammergeier daughter and my mother would be a falconress are like yin and yang to me
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ambrose-and-aislinn · 8 months
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My mother would be a falconress, And I, her gay falcon treading her wrist, would fly to bring back from the blue of the sky to her, bleeding, a prize, where I dream in my little hood with many bells jangling when I'd turn my head. Robert Duncan
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lightingway · 11 months
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My mother would be a falconress, / and I her gerfalcon raised at her will, / from her wrist sent flying, as if I were her own / pride, as if her pride / knew no limits, as if her mind / sought in me flight beyond the horizon.
Robert Duncan, “My Mother Would Be a Falconress,” Bending the Bow
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noleavestoblow · 1 year
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My mother would be a falconress, and I her gerfalcon raised at her will, from her wrist sent flying, as if I were her own pride, as if her pride knew no limits, as if her mind sought in me flight beyond the horizon.
-Robert Duncan
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My Mother Would Be a Falconress
By Robert Duncan
My mother would be a falconress,
And I, her gay falcon treading her wrist,
would fly to bring back
from the blue of the sky to her, bleeding, a prize,
where I dream in my little hood with many bells
jangling when I'd turn my head.
My mother would be a falconress,
and she sends me as far as her will goes.
She lets me ride to the end of her curb
where I fall back in anguish.
I dread that she will cast me away,
for I fall, I mis-take, I fail in her mission.
She would bring down the little birds.
And I would bring down the little birds.
When will she let me bring down the little birds,
pierced from their flight with their necks broken,
their heads like flowers limp from the stem?
I tread my mother's wrist and would draw blood.
Behind the little hood my eyes are hooded.
I have gone back into my hooded silence,
talking to myself and dropping off to sleep.
For she has muffled my dreams in the hood she has made me,
sewn round with bells, jangling when I move.
She rides with her little falcon upon her wrist.
She uses a barb that brings me to cower.
She sends me abroad to try my wings
and I come back to her. I would bring down
the little birds to her
I may not tear into, I must bring back perfectly.
I tear at her wrist with my beak to draw blood,
and her eye holds me, anguisht, terrifying.
She draws a limit to my flight.
Never beyond my sight, she says.
She trains me to fetch and to limit myself in fetching.
She rewards me with meat for my dinner.
But I must never eat what she sends me to bring her.
Yet it would have been beautiful, if she would have carried me,
always, in a little hood with the bells ringing,
at her wrist, and her riding
to the great falcon hunt, and me
flying up to the curb of my heart from her heart
to bring down the skylark from the blue to her feet,
straining, and then released for the flight.
My mother would be a falconress,
and I her gerfalcon raised at her will,
from her wrist sent flying, as if I were her own
pride, as if her pride
knew no limits, as if her mind
sought in me flight beyond the horizon.
Ah, but high, high in the air I flew.
And far, far beyond the curb of her will,
were the blue hills where the falcons nest.
And then I saw west to the dying sun--
it seemd my human soul went down in flames.
I tore at her wrist, at the hold she had for me,
until the blood ran hot and I heard her cry out,
far, far beyond the curb of her will
to horizons of stars beyond the ringing hills of the world where the falcons nest
I saw, and I tore at her wrist with my savage beak.
I flew, as if sight flew from the anguish in her eye beyond her sight,
sent from my striking loose, from the cruel strike at her wrist,
striking out from the blood to be free of her.
My mother would be a falconress,
and even now, years after this,
when the wounds I left her had surely heald,
and the woman is dead,
her fierce eyes closed, and if her heart
were broken, it is stilld
I would be a falcon and go free.
I tread her wrist and wear the hood,
talking to myself, and would draw blood.
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/53073/my-mother-would-be-a-falconress
No Audio Included
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mvaljean525 · 4 years
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My mother would be a falconress, And I, her gay falcon treading her wrist, would fly to bring back from the blue of the sky to her, bleeding, a prize, where I dream in my little hood with many bells jangling when I'd turn my head.
My mother would be a falconress, and she sends me as far as her will goes. She lets me ride to the end of her curb where I fall back in anguish. I dread that she will cast me away, for I fall, I mis-take, I fail in her mission.
She would bring down the little birds. And I would bring down the little birds. When will she let me bring down the little birds, pierced from their flight with their necks broken, their heads like flowers limp from the stem?
I tread my mother's wrist and would draw blood. Behind the little hood my eyes are hooded. I have gone back into my hooded silence, talking to myself and dropping off to sleep.
For she has muffled my dreams in the hood she has made me, sewn round with bells, jangling when I move. She rides with her little falcon upon her wrist. She uses a barb that brings me to cower. She sends me abroad to try my wings and I come back to her. I would bring down the little birds to her I may not tear into, I must bring back perfectly.
I tear at her wrist with my beak to draw blood, and her eye holds me, anguisht, terrifying. She draws a limit to my flight. Never beyond my sight, she says. She trains me to fetch and to limit myself in fetching. She rewards me with meat for my dinner. But I must never eat what she sends me to bring her.
Yet it would have been beautiful, if she would have carried me, always, in a little hood with the bells ringing, at her wrist, and her riding to the great falcon hunt, and me flying up to the curb of my heart from her heart to bring down the skylark from the blue to her feet, straining, and then released for the flight.
My mother would be a falconress, and I her gerfalcon raised at her will, from her wrist sent flying, as if I were her own pride, as if her pride knew no limits, as if her mind sought in me flight beyond the horizon.
Ah, but high, high in the air I flew. And far, far beyond the curb of her will, were the blue hills where the falcons nest. And then I saw west to the dying sun-- it seemd my human soul went down in flames.
I tore at her wrist, at the hold she had for me, until the blood ran hot and I heard her cry out, far, far beyond the curb of her will
to horizons of stars beyond the ringing hills of the world where the falcons nest I saw, and I tore at her wrist with my savage beak. I flew, as if sight flew from the anguish in her eye beyond her sight, sent from my striking loose, from the cruel strike at her wrist, striking out from the blood to be free of her.
My mother would be a falconress, and even now, years after this, when the wounds I left her had surely heald, and the woman is dead, her fierce eyes closed, and if her heart were broken, it is stilld
I would be a falcon and go free. I tread her wrist and wear the hood, talking to myself, and would draw blood.
----
My Mother Would Be a Falconress
Robert Duncan  1919-1988
----
Graphic - Jason A. Mowry  (B.1970)
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vulnerasti-cor-meum · 11 months
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I think my mother has taken the hint that I simply do not like taking meals with her together. now we eat our meals separately, and when I eat dinner she’ll simply sit in the living room, and she’ll eat her dinner when I’m in my own room.
makes me feel a little ambivalent because on the one hand, yes, I don’t like eating with her (it’s always awkward, I have nothing to say, also I just don’t like my mother and my resentments against her eat me up from the inside every minutes of every day) but on the other hand it’s like, okay so you don’t like spending time with me? 
but ultimately I suppose she’s respecting my comforts
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aeide-thea · 3 years
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My Mother Would Be a Falconress
My mother would be a falconress, And I, her gay falcon treading her wrist, would fly to bring back from the blue of the sky to her, bleeding, a prize, where I dream in my little hood with many bells jangling when I'd turn my head.
My mother would be a falconress, and she sends me as far as her will goes. She lets me ride to the end of her curb where I fall back in anguish. I dread that she will cast me away, for I fall, I mis-take, I fail in her mission.
She would bring down the little birds. And I would bring down the little birds. When will she let me bring down the little birds, pierced from their flight with their necks broken, their heads like flowers limp from the stem?
I tread my mother's wrist and would draw blood. Behind the little hood my eyes are hooded. I have gone back into my hooded silence, talking to myself and dropping off to sleep.
For she has muffled my dreams in the hood she has made me, sewn round with bells, jangling when I move. She rides with her little falcon upon her wrist. She uses a barb that brings me to cower. She sends me abroad to try my wings and I come back to her. I would bring down the little birds to her I may not tear into, I must bring back perfectly.
I tear at her wrist with my beak to draw blood, and her eye holds me, anguisht, terrifying. She draws a limit to my flight. Never beyond my sight, she says. She trains me to fetch and to limit myself in fetching. She rewards me with meat for my dinner. But I must never eat what she sends me to bring her.
Yet it would have been beautiful, if she would have carried me, always, in a little hood with the bells ringing, at her wrist, and her riding to the great falcon hunt, and me flying up to the curb of my heart from her heart to bring down the skylark from the blue to her feet, straining, and then released for the flight.
My mother would be a falconress, and I her gerfalcon raised at her will, from her wrist sent flying, as if I were her own pride, as if her pride knew no limits, as if her mind sought in me flight beyond the horizon.
Ah, but high, high in the air I flew. And far, far beyond the curb of her will, were the blue hills where the falcons nest. And then I saw west to the dying sun-- it seemd my human soul went down in flames.
I tore at her wrist, at the hold she had for me, until the blood ran hot and I heard her cry out, far, far beyond the curb of her will
to horizons of stars beyond the ringing hills of the world where the falcons nest I saw, and I tore at her wrist with my savage beak. I flew, as if sight flew from the anguish in her eye beyond her sight, sent from my striking loose, from the cruel strike at her wrist, striking out from the blood to be free of her.
My mother would be a falconress, and even now, years after this, when the wounds I left her had surely heald, and the woman is dead, her fierce eyes closed, and if her heart were broken, it is stilld
I would be a falcon and go free. I tread her wrist and wear the hood, talking to myself, and would draw blood.
    —Robert Duncan
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universitybookstore · 4 years
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MY MOTHER WOULD BE A FALCONRESS
My mother would be a falconress, And I, her gay falcon treading her wrist, would fly to bring back from the blue of the sky to her, bleeding, a prize, where I dream in my little hood with many bells jangling when I'd turn my head. My mother would be a falconress, and she sends me as far as her will goes. She lets me ride to the end of her curb where I fall back in anguish. I dread that she will cast me away, for I fall, I mis-take, I fail in her mission. She would bring down the little birds. And I would bring down the little birds. When will she let me bring down the little birds, pierced from their flight with their necks broken, their heads like flowers limp from the stem? I tread my mother's wrist and would draw blood. Behind the little hood my eyes are hooded. I have gone back into my hooded silence, talking to myself and dropping off to sleep. For she has muffled my dreams in the hood she has made me, sewn round with bells, jangling when I move. She rides with her little falcon upon her wrist. She uses a barb that brings me to cower. She sends me abroad to try my wings and I come back to her. I would bring down the little birds to her I may not tear into, I must bring back perfectly. I tear at her wrist with my beak to draw blood, and her eye holds me, anguisht, terrifying. She draws a limit to my flight. Never beyond my sight, she says. She trains me to fetch and to limit myself in fetching. She rewards me with meat for my dinner. But I must never eat what she sends me to bring her. Yet it would have been beautiful, if she would have carried me, always, in a little hood with the bells ringing, at her wrist, and her riding to the great falcon hunt, and me flying up to the curb of my heart from her heart to bring down the skylark from the blue to her feet, straining, and then released for the flight. My mother would be a falconress, and I her gerfalcon raised at her will, from her wrist sent flying, as if I were her own pride, as if her pride knew no limits, as if her mind sought in me flight beyond the horizon. Ah, but high, high in the air I flew. And far, far beyond the curb of her will, were the blue hills where the falcons nest. And then I saw west to the dying sun- it seemd my human soul went down in flames. I tore at her wrist, at the hold she had for me, until the blood ran hot and I heard her cry out, far, far beyond the curb of her will to horizons of stars beyond the ringing hills of the world where the falcons nest I saw, and I tore at her wrist with my savage beak. I flew, as if sight flew from the anguish in her eye beyond her sight, sent from my striking loose, from the cruel strike at her wrist, striking out from the blood to be free of her. My mother would be a falconress, and even now, years after this, when the wounds I left her had surely heald, and the woman is dead, her fierce eyes closed, and if her heart were broken, it is stilld I would be a falcon and go free. I tread her wrist and wear the hood, talking to myself, and would draw blood.
-- Robert Duncan
New in paperback from University of California Press, The Collected Later Poems and Plays, and Collected Essays and Other Prose, by Robert Duncan.
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mahalblackteapot · 5 years
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My Mother Would Be A Falconress
Fandom: Marvel
In English, by AuthorAuthor, Rated Gen
Synopsis: Loki is her consolation prize. He is the last thing she expects when her husband returns from his wars, reeking of blood and unwashed leather, but the paternal instinct can soften even the most battle-hardened warrior. As he stands before her, clasping the Jotun-blue baby in his arms, the mighty All-Father looks as anxious as a mother cat trying to nurse a duckling.   Frigga puts out her hands, accepts him for what he is: a replacement for the son Odin has claimed as his own. A prize, looted from the battlefield by the All-Father himself.  She looks down at the squalling, alien child, already made fretful by the heat of the room, and thinks: yes. This one will be mine.
Pairing: Frigga and Loki mother/son relationship
1 chapter, Complete -> here 
Why do I recommend it: Because I’ve never read a characterization of Frigga so interesting, complex and ringing true. The resulting OS is really amazing and questions a lot of things about Asgard and Thor’s universe. I can’t really say much more about it: so go read it. It’s kind of mindblowing!
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veliseraptor · 6 years
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Head canon: Frigga's marriage to Odin was political, a result to the war between Asgard and Vanaheim. Thor *is* contractually considered Odin's son, bc his heir, and so she's not allowed to raise him under any Vanir custom. It is different with Loki, and in fact the reason Loki felt like he didn't fit? It is not because he was Jotnar, but due to being raised more as a Vanir than as an Aesir.
There is actually a fic about this one! My Mother Would Be a Falconress by AuthorAuthor. It’s not precisely my headcanon, but it is a very good fic.
I do like the idea of Frigga being a) Vanir b) politically married to Odin and c) bringing some of that culture into Asgard and specifically with Thor and Loki (and a little more with Loki, because he’s less tied strongly to Asgard and Asgardian culture - and so more open to alternatives). 
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