32 thoughts on “”

  1. 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.

  2. 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.

    1. 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?

      1. 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.

  3. 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.



    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.


    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.


    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.


    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.

    1. Nice. Have you ever read any Amy Lowell? I suddenly realized that her poem “Patterns” might have a very strong Nadja vibe:

      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?

      1. 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. 😉

  4. 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. >.

    1. 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?”.

      1. 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

      1. 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!

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