I went into a coma-like sleep for 12.5 hours and did absolutely nothing today other than read Kushiel’s Chosen in an empty poster store and talk about LARPing with Ben. And I didn’t create jack yesterday. Maybe we should trade.
Lovely timing on two fronts: I was just working on revising a story for our meeting tomorrow, if you can make it; and the song I was listening to while doing so doubles as the “Goblin Market” song from the Memento soundtrack.
I need a “goblin market” soundtrack, with songs that have an eerie, sensual vibe. I’m thinking the version of “Bolero” from Moulin Rouge should go on such a soundtrack. Any other suggestions?
I imagine it does make you want to do bneuensc’s milk and cookies.
That IS a euphanisim, right?
One of my favorites as well, though for lush beauty, i must give my vote to Xanadu by Coleridge. Which I do, in fact, have memorized. Another great love of mine is a very little-known poet- Elinor Wylie.
Many of hers are very fantastical- this one is less so, but it gives the sense of the rich sensuality of her better works.
WILD PEACHES
1
When the world turns completely upside down
You say we’ll emigrate to the Eastern Shore
Aboard a river-boat from Baltimore;
We’ll live among wild peach trees, miles from town.
You’ll wear a coonskin cap, and I a gown
Homespun, dyed butternut’s dark gold color.
Lost, like your lotus-eating ancestor,
We’ll swim in milk and honey till we drown.
The winter will be short, the summer long,
The autumn amber-hued, sunny and hot,
Tasting of cider and of scuppernong;
All seasons sweet, but autumn best of all.
The squirrels in their silver fur will fall
Like falling leaves, like fruit, before your shot.
2
The autumn frosts will lie upon the grass
Like bloom on grapes of purple-brown and gold.
The misted early mornings will be cold;
The little puddles will be roofed with glass.
The sun, which burns from copper into brass,
Melts these at noon, and makes the boys unfold
Their knitted mufflers; full as they can hold,
Fat pockets dribble chestnuts as they pass.
Peaches grow wild, and pigs can live in clover;
A barrel of salted herrings lasts a year;
The spring begins before the winter’s over.
By February you may find the skins
Of garter snakes and water moccasins
Dwindled and harsh, dead-white and cloudy-clear.
3
When April pours the colors of a shell
Upon the hills, when every little creek
Is shot with silver from the Chesapeake
In shoals new-minted by the ocean swell,
When strawberries go begging, and the sleek
Blue plums lie open to the blackbird’s beak,
We shall live well–we shall live very well.
The months between the cherries and the peaches
Are brimming cornucopias which spill
Fruits red and purple, somber-bloomed and black;
Then, down rich fields and frosty river beaches
We’ll trample bright persimmons, while we kill
Bronze partridge, speckled quail, and canvas-back.
4
Down to the Puritan marrow of my bones
There’s something in this richness that I hate.
I love the look, austere, immaculate,
Of landscapes drawn in pearly monotones.
There’s something in my very blood that owns
Bare hills, cold silver on a sky of slate,
A thread of water, churned to milky spate
Streaming through slanted pastures fenced with stones.
I love those skies, thin blue or snowy gray,
Those fields sparse-planted, rendering meager sheaves;
That spring, briefer than apple-blossom’s breath,
Summer, so much too beautiful to stay,
Swift autumn, like a bonfire of leaves,
And sleepy winter, like the sleep of death.
Nice. Have you ever read any Amy Lowell? I suddenly realized that her poem “Patterns” might have a very strong Nadja vibe:
Patterns
by Amy Lowell
I walk down the garden paths,
And all the daffodils
Are blowing, and the bright blue squills.
I walk down the patterned garden-paths
In my stiff, brocaded gown.
With my powdered hair and jewelled fan,
I too am a rare
Pattern.As I wander down
The garden paths.
My dress is richly figured,
And the train
Makes a pink and silver stain
On the gravel, and the thrift
Of the borders.
Just a plate of current fashion,
Tripping by in high-heeled, ribboned shoes.
Not a softness anywhere about me,
Only whalebone and brocade.
And I sink on a seat in the shade
Of a lime tree.For my passion
Wars against the stiff brocade.
The daffodils and squills
Flutter in the breeze
As they please.
And I weep;
For the lime-tree is in blossom
And one small flower has dropped upon my bosom.
And the plashing of waterdrops
In the marble fountain
Comes down the garden-paths.
The dripping never stops.
Underneath my stiffened gown
Is the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin,
A basin in the midst of hedges grown
So thick, she cannot see her lover hiding,
But she guesses he is near,
And the sliding of the water
Seems the stroking of a dear
Hand upon her.
What is Summer in a fine brocaded gown!
I should like to see it lying in a heap upon the ground.
All the pink and silver crumpled up on the ground.
I would be the pink and silver as I ran along the paths,
And he would stumble after,
Bewildered by my laughter.
I should see the sun flashing from his sword-hilt and the buckles
on his shoes.
I would choose
To lead him in a maze along the patterned paths,
A bright and laughing maze for my heavy-booted lover,
Till he caught me in the shade,
And the buttons of his waistcoat bruised my body as he clasped me,
Aching, melting, unafraid.
With the shadows of the leaves and the sundrops,
And the plopping of the waterdrops,
All about us in the open afternoon —
I am very like to swoon
With the weight of this brocade,
For the sun sifts through the shade.
Underneath the fallen blossom
In my bosom,
Is a letter I have hid.
It was brought to me this morning by a rider from the Duke.
“Madam, we regret to inform you that Lord Hartwell
Died in action Thursday se’nnight.”
As I read it in the white, morning sunlight,
The letters squirmed like snakes.
“Any answer, Madam,” said my footman.
“No,” I told him.
“See that the messenger takes some refreshment.
No, no answer.”
And I walked into the garden,
Up and down the patterned paths,
In my stiff, correct brocade.
The blue and yellow flowers stood up proudly in the sun,
Each one.
I stood upright too,
Held rigid to the pattern
By the stiffness of my gown.
Up and down I walked,
Up and down.
In a month he would have been my husband.
In a month, here, underneath this lime,
We would have broke the pattern;
He for me, and I for him,
He as Colonel, I as Lady,
On this shady seat.
He had a whim
That sunlight carried blessing.
And I answered, “It shall be as you have said.”
Now he is dead.
In Summer and in Winter I shall walk
Up and down
The patterned garden-paths
In my stiff, brocaded gown.
The squills and daffodils
Will give place to pillared roses, and to asters, and to snow.
I shall go
Up and down,
In my gown.
Gorgeously arrayed,
Boned and stayed.
And the softness of my body will be guarded from embrace
By each button, hook, and lace.
For the man who should loose me is dead,
Fighting with the Duke in Flanders,
In a pattern called a war.
Christ!What are patterns for?
That *is* a good Nadja poem. She is so correct and restrained (well, mostly- getting stoned with Dino probably does not count as “restrained.” But it was at a wake, for God’s sake. It was practically de rigeur.). I am still making up my mind what she would be like in Arcadia… I will send you guys some ideas soon- for one thing, I need to tidy up my backstory. It was written before I understood how some things worked in Changeling- such as reincarnation vs Sidhe existance.
Anyway, no need to chew your ear here. 😉
Okay, this is mucho odd.
I just found a copy of Goblin Market I had e-mailed to myself a couple of years ago because I love that poem so (ever since my Victorian Sexualities class.)
I’d be interested to hear how it was presented in your class and what your thoughts are. I’m not familiar with any of the lit-crit on it, but I know that Rossetti was deeply involved in Anglican movements in the 19th century, and that much of her stuff has a heavy redemption/christian vibe. It seems jarring compared to the fairly blatant incest/sexuality vibe that this poem has going on, but then there’s that whole unsatisfying, tepid ending that just makes me go “wha-huh?”.
I don’t really remember much about how Dr. Stern presented it, save that she seemed to be really into the heavy overtones of incest between the two sisters and how the goblins were a representation of the whole “temptation of the country girl going into the city” Victorian theme. We studied several paintings at that time too about that particular theme…
Man, I wish I still had the lesson notes on it. I just really love the eroticism of the poem…
Though I tend to think Rossetti had a thing for her brother. Of course, it’s all speculation and there’s really no fact, save that I think it would be a fair cop. LOL
I am totally unsurprised. And yet delighted! Congrats!
At some point, probably Friday or Monday? We should coordinate and figure out when everybody’s in town. I’m gonna be gone Saturday and Sunday, but i’m free Friday, Monday and Tuesday of that weekend. And i’ve got Friday through Tuesday off for the next weekend for Ben and Amelia’s wedding, too.
Alyc Helms 
I went into a coma-like sleep for 12.5 hours and did absolutely nothing today other than read Kushiel’s Chosen in an empty poster store and talk about LARPing with Ben. And I didn’t create jack yesterday. Maybe we should trade.
Lovely timing on two fronts: I was just working on revising a story for our meeting tomorrow, if you can make it; and the song I was listening to while doing so doubles as the “Goblin Market” song from the Memento soundtrack.
I need a “goblin market” soundtrack, with songs that have an eerie, sensual vibe. I’m thinking the version of “Bolero” from Moulin Rouge should go on such a soundtrack. Any other suggestions?
Ngggggh. Yes, lots, but picking them out would require a session with iTunes. If you ever want to hang out and go through music, let me know.
My “Goblin Market” song for Memento is Faith and the Muse’s “Elyria,” which is a bit on the cold and dark side of eerie.
Wow. Would you believe I’ve never read that?
Glad to broaden your horizons with thinly-veiled sister-on-sister fruit-cest. It makes me want to do bneuensc’s milk and cookies.
Hey, what better kind of fruit-cest is there?
I imagine it does make you want to do bneuensc’s milk and cookies.
That IS a euphanisim, right?
One of my favorites as well, though for lush beauty, i must give my vote to Xanadu by Coleridge. Which I do, in fact, have memorized. Another great love of mine is a very little-known poet- Elinor Wylie.
Many of hers are very fantastical- this one is less so, but it gives the sense of the rich sensuality of her better works.
WILD PEACHES
1
When the world turns completely upside down
You say we’ll emigrate to the Eastern Shore
Aboard a river-boat from Baltimore;
We’ll live among wild peach trees, miles from town.
You’ll wear a coonskin cap, and I a gown
Homespun, dyed butternut’s dark gold color.
Lost, like your lotus-eating ancestor,
We’ll swim in milk and honey till we drown.
The winter will be short, the summer long,
The autumn amber-hued, sunny and hot,
Tasting of cider and of scuppernong;
All seasons sweet, but autumn best of all.
The squirrels in their silver fur will fall
Like falling leaves, like fruit, before your shot.
2
The autumn frosts will lie upon the grass
Like bloom on grapes of purple-brown and gold.
The misted early mornings will be cold;
The little puddles will be roofed with glass.
The sun, which burns from copper into brass,
Melts these at noon, and makes the boys unfold
Their knitted mufflers; full as they can hold,
Fat pockets dribble chestnuts as they pass.
Peaches grow wild, and pigs can live in clover;
A barrel of salted herrings lasts a year;
The spring begins before the winter’s over.
By February you may find the skins
Of garter snakes and water moccasins
Dwindled and harsh, dead-white and cloudy-clear.
3
When April pours the colors of a shell
Upon the hills, when every little creek
Is shot with silver from the Chesapeake
In shoals new-minted by the ocean swell,
When strawberries go begging, and the sleek
Blue plums lie open to the blackbird’s beak,
We shall live well–we shall live very well.
The months between the cherries and the peaches
Are brimming cornucopias which spill
Fruits red and purple, somber-bloomed and black;
Then, down rich fields and frosty river beaches
We’ll trample bright persimmons, while we kill
Bronze partridge, speckled quail, and canvas-back.
4
Down to the Puritan marrow of my bones
There’s something in this richness that I hate.
I love the look, austere, immaculate,
Of landscapes drawn in pearly monotones.
There’s something in my very blood that owns
Bare hills, cold silver on a sky of slate,
A thread of water, churned to milky spate
Streaming through slanted pastures fenced with stones.
I love those skies, thin blue or snowy gray,
Those fields sparse-planted, rendering meager sheaves;
That spring, briefer than apple-blossom’s breath,
Summer, so much too beautiful to stay,
Swift autumn, like a bonfire of leaves,
And sleepy winter, like the sleep of death.
Nice. Have you ever read any Amy Lowell? I suddenly realized that her poem “Patterns” might have a very strong Nadja vibe:
Patterns
by Amy Lowell
I walk down the garden paths,
And all the daffodils
Are blowing, and the bright blue squills.
I walk down the patterned garden-paths
In my stiff, brocaded gown.
With my powdered hair and jewelled fan,
I too am a rare
Pattern.As I wander down
The garden paths.
My dress is richly figured,
And the train
Makes a pink and silver stain
On the gravel, and the thrift
Of the borders.
Just a plate of current fashion,
Tripping by in high-heeled, ribboned shoes.
Not a softness anywhere about me,
Only whalebone and brocade.
And I sink on a seat in the shade
Of a lime tree.For my passion
Wars against the stiff brocade.
The daffodils and squills
Flutter in the breeze
As they please.
And I weep;
For the lime-tree is in blossom
And one small flower has dropped upon my bosom.
And the plashing of waterdrops
In the marble fountain
Comes down the garden-paths.
The dripping never stops.
Underneath my stiffened gown
Is the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin,
A basin in the midst of hedges grown
So thick, she cannot see her lover hiding,
But she guesses he is near,
And the sliding of the water
Seems the stroking of a dear
Hand upon her.
What is Summer in a fine brocaded gown!
I should like to see it lying in a heap upon the ground.
All the pink and silver crumpled up on the ground.
I would be the pink and silver as I ran along the paths,
And he would stumble after,
Bewildered by my laughter.
I should see the sun flashing from his sword-hilt and the buckles
on his shoes.
I would choose
To lead him in a maze along the patterned paths,
A bright and laughing maze for my heavy-booted lover,
Till he caught me in the shade,
And the buttons of his waistcoat bruised my body as he clasped me,
Aching, melting, unafraid.
With the shadows of the leaves and the sundrops,
And the plopping of the waterdrops,
All about us in the open afternoon —
I am very like to swoon
With the weight of this brocade,
For the sun sifts through the shade.
Underneath the fallen blossom
In my bosom,
Is a letter I have hid.
It was brought to me this morning by a rider from the Duke.
“Madam, we regret to inform you that Lord Hartwell
Died in action Thursday se’nnight.”
As I read it in the white, morning sunlight,
The letters squirmed like snakes.
“Any answer, Madam,” said my footman.
“No,” I told him.
“See that the messenger takes some refreshment.
No, no answer.”
And I walked into the garden,
Up and down the patterned paths,
In my stiff, correct brocade.
The blue and yellow flowers stood up proudly in the sun,
Each one.
I stood upright too,
Held rigid to the pattern
By the stiffness of my gown.
Up and down I walked,
Up and down.
In a month he would have been my husband.
In a month, here, underneath this lime,
We would have broke the pattern;
He for me, and I for him,
He as Colonel, I as Lady,
On this shady seat.
He had a whim
That sunlight carried blessing.
And I answered, “It shall be as you have said.”
Now he is dead.
In Summer and in Winter I shall walk
Up and down
The patterned garden-paths
In my stiff, brocaded gown.
The squills and daffodils
Will give place to pillared roses, and to asters, and to snow.
I shall go
Up and down,
In my gown.
Gorgeously arrayed,
Boned and stayed.
And the softness of my body will be guarded from embrace
By each button, hook, and lace.
For the man who should loose me is dead,
Fighting with the Duke in Flanders,
In a pattern called a war.
Christ!What are patterns for?
That *is* a good Nadja poem. She is so correct and restrained (well, mostly- getting stoned with Dino probably does not count as “restrained.” But it was at a wake, for God’s sake. It was practically de rigeur.). I am still making up my mind what she would be like in Arcadia… I will send you guys some ideas soon- for one thing, I need to tidy up my backstory. It was written before I understood how some things worked in Changeling- such as reincarnation vs Sidhe existance.
Anyway, no need to chew your ear here. 😉
Okay, this is mucho odd.
I just found a copy of Goblin Market I had e-mailed to myself a couple of years ago because I love that poem so (ever since my Victorian Sexualities class.)
Funny how things like this happen. >.
I’d be interested to hear how it was presented in your class and what your thoughts are. I’m not familiar with any of the lit-crit on it, but I know that Rossetti was deeply involved in Anglican movements in the 19th century, and that much of her stuff has a heavy redemption/christian vibe. It seems jarring compared to the fairly blatant incest/sexuality vibe that this poem has going on, but then there’s that whole unsatisfying, tepid ending that just makes me go “wha-huh?”.
I don’t really remember much about how Dr. Stern presented it, save that she seemed to be really into the heavy overtones of incest between the two sisters and how the goblins were a representation of the whole “temptation of the country girl going into the city” Victorian theme. We studied several paintings at that time too about that particular theme…
Man, I wish I still had the lesson notes on it. I just really love the eroticism of the poem…
Though I tend to think Rossetti had a thing for her brother. Of course, it’s all speculation and there’s really no fact, save that I think it would be a fair cop. LOL
I am totally unsurprised. And yet delighted! Congrats!
ty, ty! Most nervewracking week ever 😀
glee!
The only sadness is that I won’t be making it to the wedding 😦 Cause… yeah… a week off work in the first month… not so much!
Hoooray!
When are you next on this coast?
I’m not sure. I’d really like to make it out sometime in 2011. Maybe around my birthday in October?
Can world domination be far behind? I think not! Muhahahahaha!
Shhh!!! Don’t tell!
Monsanto is going down first. There can be only one evil overlord.
Awesome! Congrats! 🙂
TY! You should come see Top Gun with us!
WOOOO!!
I am assuming this means we will not be seeing you in May? 😉
It is the one sadness 😦 BUT! I will have money to maybe come visit later
…Because you’re AWESOME! *fistbump* Way to go!
🙂 Ty! And it seems I will likely see you over Memorial Day?
At some point, probably Friday or Monday? We should coordinate and figure out when everybody’s in town. I’m gonna be gone Saturday and Sunday, but i’m free Friday, Monday and Tuesday of that weekend. And i’ve got Friday through Tuesday off for the next weekend for Ben and Amelia’s wedding, too.
Regardless… yay!
Congratulations!
I said this yesterday, but again, congrats!
This pleases me.
Whoo-hoo!