dahlia_moon: (Toph/Sokka=Love)


When I fall asleep

my hands leave me.

They pick up pens

and draw creatures

with five feathers

on each wing.

The creatures multiply.

They say: "We are large

like your father's


They say: "We have

your mother's


I speak to them:

"If you are hands,

why don't you


And the wings beat

the air, clapping.

They fly

high above elbows

and wrists.

They open windows

and leave


They perch in treetops

and hide under bushes


their nails. "Hands,"

I call them.

But it is fall

and all creatures

with wings

prepare to fly



When I sleep

the shadows of my hands

come to me.

They are softer than feathers

and warm as creatures

who have been close

to the sun.

They say: "We are the giver,"

and tell of oranges

growing on trees.

They say: "We are the vessel,"

and tell of journeys

through water.

They say: "We are the cup."

And I stir in my sleep.

Hands pull triggers

and cut

trees. But

the shadows of my hands

tuck their heads

under wings


for morning,

when I will wake


three strands of hair

into one

Siv Cedering

From: www.poets.org

An epigram

Apr. 29th, 2008 07:43 pm
dahlia_moon: (PC Andy)

When the last fight is lost, the last sword broken;
The last call sounded, the last order spoken;
When from the field where braver hearts lie sleeping,
Faint, and athirst, and blinded, I come creeping,
With not one waving shred of palm to bring you,
With not one splendid battle-song to sing you,
O Love, in my dishonor and defeat,
Your measureless compassion will be sweet.

Sophia Jewett

From: poetryfoundation.org
dahlia_moon: (Dumbledore is gay)
What Changes, My Love

What changes, my love,
is the sunlight that slips
and shutters your smile for the night.

What rages, my love
is the night wind that grips
and slackens your hand on my heart.

What tames me, my love,
is your smile that alights
and raises the roof of the day.

What stays me, my love,
is your hand dripping honey
out of my skinflint heart.

Edwin Honig

From: Pocket Poems selected by Paul B. Janeczko

dahlia_moon: (Sokka-Sad)
She Put on Her Lipstick in the Dark

I really did meet a blind girl in Paris once.
It was in the garden of a museum,
Where I saw her touching the statues.
She had brown hair and an aquamarine scarf.

It was in the garden of the museum.
I told her I was a thief disguised as a guard.
She had brown hair and an aquamarine scarf.
She told me she was a student from Grenoble.

I told her I was not a thief disguised as a guard.
We had coffee at the little commissary.
She said she had time till her train to Grenoble.
We talked about our supreme belief in art.

We had coffee at the little commissary,
Then sat on a bench near the foundry.
We talked about our supreme belief in art.
She leaned her head upon my chest.

We kissed on a bench near the foundry.
I closed my eyes when no one was watching.
She leaned her head upon my chest.
The museum was closing. It was time to part.

I really did meet a blind girl in Paris once.
I never saw her again and she never saw me.
In a garden she touched the statues.
She put on her lipstick in the dark.

I close my eyes when no one is watching.
She had brown hair and an aquamarine scarf.
The museum was closing. It was time to part.
I never saw her again and she never saw me.

Stuart Dischell

From: www.theatlantic.com

dahlia_moon: (Doctor + Rose)
Calle Placida Luz de Luna

"Street of Placid Moonlight"? Gimme a break.
My aunt's Arizona subdivision
summoned all my Manhattan derision
-how corny, how gringo, how fake!
But when one night I took my daughter
out for a walk, the moon rode high, and lo,
the even sheen it cast across the faux-
adobe houses, and the way it caught her
exuberant small face, upturned in wonderment,
filled me with the kind of mild serenity
that had, coyotelike, eluded me
in every tranquil desert place we went;
not among the ironwoods and saguaros
but within that synthetic so-called estate,
I found calm indifference to the laws of fate
and a sudden lifting of all sorrows.
Past stagey aloes and transplanted mesquites,
beneath a cliché-encrusted moon,
we pottered along, perfectly in tune-
with what happy steps we walked those placid streets.

Ben Downing

From: www.theatlantic.com
dahlia_moon: (Sokka-Sad)
Pink, small, and punctual,
Aromatic, low,
Covert in April,
Candid in May,

Dear to the moss,
Known by the knoll,
Next to the robin
In every human soul.

Bold little beauty,
Bedecked with thee,
Nature forswears

Emily Dickinson

From: Poems of Emily Dickinson selected by Helen Plotz

dahlia_moon: (Kitten 3)
Oh, god, CSI has officially eaten my brain.



That Star Wars fic I've been talking about? Yeah, it's kicking my butt. Only in a good way- still the ending is nowhere in sight, and I just want it to conclude all ready.


A poem:

That distance was between us
That is not of mile or main;
The will it is that situates,
Equator never can.

Emily Dickinson

From: Poems of Emily Dickinson selected by Helen Plotz
dahlia_moon: (I'd rather die than be away from you (Tw)

The old grand piano-
no one here can play it
or one can, but not well.
She's very shy.

Once I returned early and heard inside
a faltering little spray of notes.
But that was meant for her own soul
like a secret between sisters.

I coughed a little outside the door.
She pretended to be dusting.
When she ran the rag hard
over the treble keys

they yelped in pain.

Leonard Nathan

From: Pocket Poems selected by Paul B. Janeczko

dahlia_moon: (Doctor + Rose)
Spring Again

The aspens glisten
like new silver
dollars. The plum trees
spend their blossoms.
Spring, the costly season,
is back in town again,
passing its bad money.
And like a sucker
down on his luck
I ask to be taken in

Ronald Wallace

From: Pocket Poems selected by Paul B. Janeczko

dahlia_moon: (Satoshi)
Paris, After

Helen, why have you come? To hear your name
Possess the harbor like a hymn again?
Your ships are ages gone, nothing's the same:
The seas stand empty of our gods and men.
You wear the easy gown I favored most;
See there, my blood yet clings at breast and thigh-
O, that my wild blood were alone the cost
Of all we set in motion, you and I!
Ten years your lover, I will tell you this:
You loved your legend only. And when soot
Was all that loomed at Troy, and the shore's hiss
The one sane sound, fields smoking to the root,
You took the morning tide, sailing apart,
Resting your case on a blind poet's heart.

Moore Moran

From: poemtree.com

dahlia_moon: (Default)

I live in what I give away:
in photos, flowers, polished stones,
a book or ring, a porcelain trinket,
a figurine of which I say,
This one's my favorite, but it means
much more to me for you to have it.

But also in the time I give,
to listen, try to understand
everything time takes: the flower,
the photo of a relative,
the polish on the stone, a friend,
a pledge and ring that slips the finger.

And finally even how I live,
till I'm afraid to give away
what, for tomorrow, I should keep:
some memory of those who leave,
some token that recalls the way
to stop this dying in my sleep.

Michael T. Young

From: poemtree.com

dahlia_moon: (Doctor + Rose)
So, I'm really ecstatic about this Star Wars story I'm writing. It's a prompt response to the theme 'song' at [livejournal.com profile] the_circlet, except I'm 1,592 words (and that's a LOT for me to write in a mere week) into the story, and the theme hasn't shown up yet. I'm kinda worried, but not really. I'm thinking of how to tie in the song theme at the end, so hopefully it'll all get worked out in the end. *crosses fingers* (However, if it doesn't, then I'll just start writing something new for the theme.)

I'm just SO happy because it's the kind of story, that as a Padme/Anakin shipper, I'd like to read. And I've managed, somehow, to include Obi-Wan and Bail Organa, which also makes me happy because they're awesome characters. Y/Y? The only thing is I've had to be vague about somethings (particularly the main plot which inspired me), but hopefully the vagueness won't hurt the story?

My muse has been exceptionally good to me this week. I will hopefully be able to finish it all up and post it during the weekend.

Anyway, just wanted to document this rare occurrence of where a story actually goes the way I plan, and makes me all giddy just thinking about it. (Who knows when it'll happen again...)


Soft grey ghosts crawl up my sleeve
to peer into my eyes
while I within deny their threats
and answer them with lies.

Mushlike memories perform
a ritual on my lips
I lie in stolid hopelessness
and they lay my soul in strips.

Maya Angelou

From: Pocket Poems selected by Paul B. Janeczko
dahlia_moon: (Sokka-Sad)

You are that point
on the horizon
where nobody glances

where nobody feels at home.

When you speak,
when you wave your arms
at the universe

there is laughter from the darkness.

There is no word known
can break this circle
of insignificance.

When you invent a word
it will blow away
on the breeze

like any old silk scarf.

Derrick Buttress

From: shadowtrain.com
dahlia_moon: (Box of Fun)
The Owl and the Pussy-Cat
The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea
In a beautiful pea-green boat,
They took some honey, and plenty of money,
Wrapped up in a five-pound note.
The Owl looked up to the stars above,
And sang to a small guitar,
"O lovely Pussy! O Pussy, my love,
What a beautiful Pussy you are,
You are,
You are!
What a beautiful Pussy you are!"

Pussy said to the Owl, "You elegant fowl!
How charmingly sweet you sing!
O let us be married! too long we have tarried:
But what shall we do for a ring?"
They sailed away, for a year and a day,
To the land where the Bong-Tree grows
And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood
With a ring at the end of his nose,
His nose,
His nose,
With a ring at the end of his nose.

"Dear Pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling
You ring?" Said the Piggy, "I will."
So they took it away, and were married next day
By the Turkey who lives on the hill.
They dined on mince, and slices of quince,
Which they ate with a runcible spoon;
And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,
They danced by the light of the moon,
The moon,
The moon,
They danced by the light of the moon.

Edward Lear

From: poetryfoundation.org
dahlia_moon: (Default)
Acts of Love

If endear is earned
and is meant to identify
two halves

then it composes
one meaning

which means
a token

a knot
a note

a noting in the head
of how it feels

to have your heart
be the dear one

Pam Rehm

From: poetryfoundation.org

dahlia_moon: (Doctor + Rose)
The Sleeper

At midnight, in the month of June,
I stand beneath the mystic moon.
An opiate vapor, dewy, dim,
Exhales from out her golden rim,
And softly dripping, drop by drop,
Upon the quiet mountain top,
Steals drowsily and musically
Into the universal valley.
The rosemary nods upon the grave;
The lily lolls upon the wave;
Wrapping the fog about its breast,
The ruin moulders into rest;
Looking like Lethe, see! the lake
A conscious slumber seems to take,
And would not, for the world, awake.
All Beauty sleeps!-and lo! where lies
Irene, with her Destinies!

Oh, lady bright! can it be right-
This window open to the night?
The wanton airs, from the tree-top,
Laughingly through the lattice drop-
The bodiless airs, a wizard rout,
Flit through thy chamber in and out,
And wave the curtain canopy
So fitfully-so fearfully-
Above the closed and fringed lid
'Neath which thy slumb'ring soul lies hid,
That, o'er the floor and down the wall,
Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall!
Oh, lady dear, hast thou no fear?
Why and what art thou dreaming here?
Sure thou art come o'er far-off seas,
A wonder to these garden trees!
Strange is thy pallor! strange thy dress!
Strange, above all, thy length of tress,
And this all solemn silentness!

The lady sleeps! Oh, may her sleep,
Which is enduring, so be deep!
Heaven have her in its sacred keep!
This chamber changed for one more holy,
This bed for one more melancholy,
I pray to God that she may lie
Forever with unopened eye,
While the pale sheeted ghosts go by!

My love, she sleeps! Oh, may her sleep,
As it is lasting, so be deep!
Soft may the worms about her creep!
Far in the forest, dim and old,
For her may some tall vault unfold-
Some vault that oft hath flung its black
And winged pannels fluttering back,
Triumphant, o'er the crested palls
Of her grand family funerals-

Some sepulchre, remote, alone,
Against whose portals she hath thrown,
In childhood, many an idle stone-
Some tomb from out whose sounding door
She ne'er shall force an echo more,
Thrilling to think, poor child of sin!
It was the dead who groaned within.

Edgar Allan Poe

From: poetryfoundation.org

dahlia_moon: (PC Andy)

There is a hawk that is picking the birds out of our sky.
She killed the pigeons of peace and security,
She has taken honesty and confidence from nations and men,
She is hunting the lonely heron of liberty.
She loads the arts with nonsense, she is very cunning,
Science with dreams and the state with powers to catch them at last.
Nothing will escape her at last, flying nor running.
This is the hawk that picks out the stars' eyes.
This is the only hunter that will ever catch the wild swan;
The prey she will take last is the wild white swan of the beauty of things.
Then she will be alone, pure destruction, achieved and supreme,
Empty darkness under the death-tent wings.
She will build a nest of the swan's bones and hatch a new brood,
Hang new heavens with new birds, all be renewed.

Robinson Jeffers

From: poetryfoundation.org
dahlia_moon: (Dumbledore is gay)

Why hast thou nothing in thy face?
Thou idol of the human race,
Thou tyrant of the human heart,
The flower of lovely youth that art;
Yea, and that standest in thy youth
An image of eternal Truth,
With thy exuberant flesh so fair,
That only Pheidias might compare,
Ere from his chaste marmoreal form
Time had decayed the colours warm;
Like to his gods in thy proud dress,
Thy starry sheen of nakedness.

Surely thy body is thy mind,
For in thy face is nought to find,
Only thy soft unchristen'd smile,
That shadows neither love nor guile,
But shameless will and power immense,
In secret sensuous innocence.

O king of joy, what is thy thought?
I dream thou knowest it is nought,
And wouldst in darkness come, but thou
Makest the light where'er thou go.
Ah yet no victim of thy grace,
None who e'er long'd for thy embrace,
Hath cared to look upon thy face.

Robert Bridges

From poetryfoundation.org
dahlia_moon: (Kitten 3)
Cadmus and Harmonia

Far, far from here,
The Adriatic breaks in a warm bay
Among the green Illyrian hills; and there
The sunshine in the happy glens is fair,
And by the sea, and in the brakes.
The grass is cool, the sea-side air
Buoyant and fresh, the mountain flowers
More virginal and sweet than ours.

And there, they say, two bright and aged snakes,
Who once were Cadmus and Harmonia,
Bask in the glens or on the warm sea-shore,
In breathless quiet, after all their ills;
Nor do they see their country, nor the place
Where the Sphinx lived among the frowning hills,
Nor the unhappy palace of their race,
Nor Thebes, nor the Ismenus, any more.

There those two live, far in the Illyrian brakes!
They had stay'd long enough to see,
In Thebes, the billow of calamity
Over their own dear children roll'd,
Curse upon curse, pang upon pang,
For years, they sitting helpless in their home,
A grey old man and woman; yet of old
The Gods had to their marriage come,
And at the banquet all the Muses sang.

Therefore they did not end their days
In sight of blood, but were rapt, far away,
To where the west-wind plays,
And murmurs of the Adriatic come
To those untrodden mountain-lawns; and there
Placed safely in changed forms, the pair
Wholly forgot their first sad life, and home,
And all that Theban woe, and stray
For ever through the glens, placid and dumb.

Matthew Arnold

From: poetryfoundation.org

dahlia_moon: (Happiness)
We never know how high we are
Till we are called to rise;
And then, if we are true to plan,
Our statures touch the skies.

The heroism we recite
Would be a daily thing,
Did not ourselves the cubits warp
For fear to be a king.

Emily Dickinson

From: Poems of Emily Dickinson selected by Helen Plotz



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