Lindsay and Nicholas Bradford-Ewart are Bise-en-Scene.

 

In Every Life by Alicia Ostriker
In every life there’s a moment or two when the self disappears, the cruel wound takes over, and then again at times we are filled with sky or with birds or simply with the sugary tea on the table said the old woman


I know what you mean said the tulip about epiphanies for instance a cloudless April sky the approach of a butterflybut as to the disappearing self no I have not yet experienced that

You are creating distinctions that do not exist in reality where “self” and “not-self” are like salt in ocean, cloud in sky oxygen in fire said the philosophical dog under the table scratching his balls

In Every Life by Alicia Ostriker

In every life there’s a moment or two 
when the self disappears, the cruel wound 
takes over, and then again 
at times we are filled with sky 
or with birds or 
simply with the sugary tea on the table 
said the old woman

I know what you mean said the tulip 
about epiphanies 
for instance a cloudless April sky 
the approach of a butterfly
but as to the disappearing self 
no 
I have not yet experienced that

You are creating distinctions 
that do not exist in reality 
where “self” and “not-self” are like salt 
in ocean, cloud in sky 
oxygen in fire 
said the philosophical dog 
under the table scratching his balls

Song in my Heart by Diane SuessIf there’s pee on the seat it’s my pee, battery’s dead I killed it, canary at the bottom of the cage I bury it, like God tromping the sky in his undershirt carrying his brass spittoon, raging and sobbing in his Hush Puppy house slippers with the backs broke down, no Mrs. God to make him reasonable as he gets out the straight razor to slice the hair off his face,using the Black Sea as a mirror when everyone knows the Black Sea is a terrible mirror, like God is a terrible simile for me but like God with his mirror, I use it.

Song in my Heart by Diane Suess

If there’s pee on the seat it’s my pee, 
battery’s dead I killed it, canary at the bottom 
of the cage I bury it, like God tromping the sky 
in his undershirt carrying his brass spittoon, 
raging and sobbing in his Hush Puppy house 
slippers with the backs broke down, no Mrs. 
God to make him reasonable as he gets out 
the straight razor to slice the hair off his face,
using the Black Sea as a mirror when everyone 
knows the Black Sea is a terrible mirror, 
like God is a terrible simile for me but like 
God with his mirror, I use it.

Snake Oil, Snake Bite by Dilruba Ahmed

They staunched the wound with a stone.They drew blue venom from his blood                until there was none.When his veins ran true his face remained lifeless and all the mothers of the village wept and pounded their chests until the sky                 had little choice but to grant their supplications. God made                 the boy breathe again.
God breathes life into us, it is said, only once. But this case was an exception. God drew back in a giant gust and blew life into the boy and like a stranded fish, he shuddered, oceanless.
It was true: the boy lived. He lived for a very long time. The toxins were an oil slick: contaminated, cleaned. But just as soon as the women kissed redness back into his cheeks the boy began to die again.He continued to die for the rest of his life. The dying took place slowly, sweetly. The dying took a very long time.

Snake Oil, Snake Bite by Dilruba Ahmed

They staunched the wound with a stone.
They drew blue venom from his blood
                until there was none.
When his veins ran true his face remained
lifeless and all the mothers of the village
wept and pounded their chests until the sky
                 had little choice
but to grant their supplications. God made
                 the boy breathe again.

God breathes life into us, it is said,
only once. But this case was an exception.
God drew back in a giant gust and blew life into the boy
and like a stranded fish, he shuddered, oceanless.

It was true: the boy lived.
He lived for a very long time. The toxins
were an oil slick: contaminated, cleaned.
But just as soon as the women
kissed redness back into his cheeks
the boy began to die again.
He continued to die for the rest of his life.
The dying took place slowly, sweetly.
The dying took a very long time.

i thank You God for most this amazing by e.e. cummingsi thank You God for most this amazing day:for the leaping greenly spirits of trees and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything which is natural which is infinite which is yes(i who have died am alive again today, and this is the sun’s birthday; this is the birthday of life and of love and wings: and of the gaygreat happening illimitably earth)how should tasting touching hearing seeing breathing any–lifted from the no of all nothing–human merely being doubt unimaginable You?(now the ears of my ears awake and now the eyes of my eyes are opened)

i thank You God for most this amazing by e.e. cummings

i thank You God for most this amazing 
day:for the leaping greenly spirits of trees 
and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything 
which is natural which is infinite which is yes

(i who have died am alive again today, 
and this is the sun’s birthday; this is the birth
day of life and of love and wings: and of the gay
great happening illimitably earth)

how should tasting touching hearing seeing 
breathing any–lifted from the no 
of all nothing–human merely being 
doubt unimaginable You?

(now the ears of my ears awake and 
now the eyes of my eyes are opened)

God’s Work by Anne CarsonMoonlight in the kitchen is a sign of God.The kind of sadness that is a black suction pipe extracting youfrom your own navel and which the Buddhists call"no mindcover" is a sign of God.The blind alleys that run alongside human conversationlike lashes are a sign of God.God’s own calmness is a sign of God.The surprisingly cold smell of potatoes or money.Solid pieces of silence.From these diverse signs you can see how much work remains to do.Put away your sadness, it is a mantle of work.

God’s Work by Anne Carson

Moonlight in the kitchen is a sign of God.
The kind of sadness that is a black suction pipe extracting you
from your own navel and which the Buddhists call

"no mindcover" is a sign of God.
The blind alleys that run alongside human conversation
like lashes are a sign of God.

God’s own calmness is a sign of God.
The surprisingly cold smell of potatoes or money.
Solid pieces of silence.

From these diverse signs you can see how much work remains to do.
Put away your sadness, it is a mantle of work.

And the days are not full enough by Ezra PoundAnd the days are not full enough And the nights are not full enough And life slips by like a field mouse                 Not shaking the grass

And the days are not full enough by Ezra Pound

And the days are not full enough 
And the nights are not full enough 
And life slips by like a field mouse
                 Not shaking the grass

Mine by Shail D Patel
Pain trains an undisciplined mind.I will end yours if  you end mine. 
Little feet, little feet are playingHopscotch among the landmines.
Hope has worked miracles before.If yours didn’t, how can mine?
I could have learned to welcome night,If only you had been mine.

How dare you put words in God’s mouth, Shail?  Why not. He put ashes in mine.

Mine by Shail D Patel

Pain trains an undisciplined mind.
I will end yours if  you end mine.

Little feet, little feet are playing
Hopscotch among the landmines.

Hope has worked miracles before.
If yours didn’t, how can mine?

I could have learned to welcome night,
If only you had been mine.

How dare you put words in God’s mouth,
Shail? 
Why not. He put ashes in mine.

We Lived Happily During the War by Ilya KaminskyAnd when they bombed other people’s houses, weprotested but not enough, we opposed them but notenough. I was in my bed, around my bed Americawas falling: invisible house by invisible house by invisible house. I took a chair outside and watched the sun.In the sixth month of a disastrous reign in the house of moneyin the street of money in the city of money in the country of money our great country of money, we (forgive us)lived happily during the war.

We Lived Happily During the War by Ilya Kaminsky

And when they bombed other people’s houses, we

protested 
but not enough, we opposed them but not

enough. I was 
in my bed, around my bed America

was falling: invisible house by invisible house by invisible house. 

I took a chair outside and watched the sun.

In the sixth month 
of a disastrous reign in the house of money

in the street of money in the city of money in the country of money 
our great country of money, we (forgive us)

lived happily during the war.

The Argument by Jane Kenyon On the way to the village store I drive through a down-draft from the neighbor’s chimney. Woodsmoke tumbles from the eaves backlit by sun, reminding meof the fire and sulfur of Grandmother’s vengeful God, the one who disapproves of jeans and shorts for girls, dancing, strong waters, and adultery.A moment later the smoke enters the car, although the windows are tight,insinuating that I might, like Judas, and the foolish virgins, and the rich young man, have been made for unquenchable fire. God will need something to burn if the fire is to be unquenchable.“All things work together for the good for those who love God,” she said to comfort me at Uncle Hazen’s funeral, where Father held me up to seethe maroon gladiolus that trembled as we approached the bier, the elaborate shirred satin, brass fittings, anything,oh, anything but Uncle’s squelched and made-up face. “No! NO! How is it good to be dead?” I cried afterward, wild-eyed and flushed. “God’s ways are not our ways,”she said then out of pity and the wish to forestall the argument.

The Argument by Jane Kenyon 

On the way to the village store 
I drive through a down-draft 
from the neighbor’s chimney. 
Woodsmoke tumbles from the eaves 
backlit by sun, reminding me
of the fire and sulfur of Grandmother’s 
vengeful God, the one who disapproves 
of jeans and shorts for girls, 
dancing, strong waters, and adultery.

A moment later the smoke enters 
the car, although the windows are tight,
insinuating that I might, like Judas, 
and the foolish virgins, and the rich 
young man, have been made for unquenchable 
fire. God will need something to burn 
if the fire is to be unquenchable.

“All things work together for the good 
for those who love God,” she said 
to comfort me at Uncle Hazen’s funeral, 
where Father held me up to see
the maroon gladiolus that trembled 
as we approached the bier, the elaborate 
shirred satin, brass fittings, anything,

oh, anything but Uncle’s squelched 
and made-up face. 
“No! NO! How is it good to be dead?” 
I cried afterward, wild-eyed and flushed. 
“God’s ways are not our ways,”
she said then out of pity 
and the wish to forestall the argument.

Children of the Epoch by Wislawa SzymborskaTranslated by Austin FlintWe are the children of the epoch. The epoch is political.All my daily and nightly affairs, all your daily and nightly affairs, are political affairs.Whether you want it or not, your genes have a political past, your skin is a political tone, your eyes a political color, What you say resounds,what you don’t say is also politically significant.Even coming through the rye, you walk with political steps on political ground.Apolitical poems are also political, and in the sky there’s a moon that’s no longer moonlike.To be or not to be, that is a question. Oh darling, what a question, give a suggestion. A political question.You don’t have to be human to acquire a political meaning. It’s enough to be petroleum, cattle fodder, raw material. Or just a conference table whose shape was disputed for months.In the meantime, people were killed. Animals died, houses burned, fields grew wild,as in distant and less political epochs.

Children of the Epoch by Wislawa Szymborska
Translated by Austin Flint

We are the children of the epoch. 
The epoch is political.

All my daily and nightly affairs, 
all your daily and nightly affairs, 
are political affairs.

Whether you want it or not, 
your genes have a political past, 
your skin is a political tone, 
your eyes a political color, 
What you say resounds,
what you don’t say is also 
politically significant.

Even coming through the rye, 
you walk with political steps 
on political ground.

Apolitical poems are also political, 
and in the sky there’s a moon 
that’s no longer moonlike.

To be or not to be, that is a question. 
Oh darling, what a question, give a suggestion. 
A political question.

You don’t have to be human 
to acquire a political meaning. 
It’s enough to be petroleum, 
cattle fodder, raw material. 
Or just a conference table whose shape 
was disputed for months.

In the meantime, people were killed. 
Animals died, 
houses burned, 
fields grew wild,
as in distant 
and less political epochs.

A Sketch for a Modern Love Poem by Tadeusz RosewiczTranslated by Czeslaw MiloszAnd yet whitenesscan be best described by greyness a bird by a stonesunflowersin decemberlove poems of oldused to be descriptions of flesh they described this and that for instance eyelashesand yet rednessshould be describedby greyness the sun by rain the poppies in november the lips at nightthe most palpable description of bread is that of hunger there is in ita humid porous corea warm insidesunflowers at nightthe breasts the belly the thighs of Cybelea transparent source-like description of water is that of thirst of ashof desertit provokes a mirage clouds and trees enter a mirror of waterlack hungerabsenceof fleshis a description of love in a modern love poem

A Sketch for a Modern Love Poem by Tadeusz Rosewicz
Translated by Czeslaw Milosz

And yet whiteness
can be best described by greyness 
a bird by a stone
sunflowers
in december

love poems of old
used to be descriptions of flesh 
they described this and that 
for instance eyelashes

and yet redness
should be described
by greyness the sun by rain 
the poppies in november 
the lips at night

the most palpable 
description of bread 
is that of hunger 
there is in it
a humid porous core
a warm inside
sunflowers at night
the breasts the belly the thighs of Cybele

a transparent 
source-like description 
of water is that of thirst 
of ash
of desert
it provokes a mirage 
clouds and trees enter 
a mirror of water
lack hunger
absence
of flesh
is a description of love 
in a modern love poem

[I Saw Myself] by Lew WelchI saw myselfa ring of bonein the clear stream of all of itand vowed,always to be open to itthat all of itmight flow throughand then heard “ring of bone” where ring is what abell does

[I Saw Myself] by Lew Welch

I saw myself
a ring of bone
in the clear stream 
of all of it

and vowed,
always to be open to it
that all of it
might flow through

and then heard 
“ring of bone” where 
ring is what a

bell does

medievalpoc:

eliasand:

There were three sorts of Dornishmen, the first King Daeron had observed. There were the salty Dornishmen who lived along the coasts, the sandy Dornishmen of the deserts and long river valleys, and the stony Dornishmen who made their fastnesses in the passes and heights of the Red Mountains. The salty Domishmen had the most Rhoynish blood, the stony Dornishmen the least.

All three one sorts seemed well represented in Doran’s retinue. The salty Dornishmen were lithe and dark white as fuck, with smooth olive pale ass skin and long black hair racist turbans streaming in the wind. The sandy Dornishmen were even darker whiter, their faces burned brown white by the hot Dornish sun. They wound long bright scarfs around their helms to ward off sunstroke. The stony Dornishmen were biggest and fairest (finally some more white people up in here), sons of the Andals and the First Men, brownhaired or blond, with faces that freckled or burned in the sun instead of browning.

The lords wore silk and satin robes with jeweled belts and flowing sleeves. Their armor was heavily enameled and inlaid with burnished copper, shining silver, and soft red gold. They came astride red horses and golden ones and a few as pale as snow, all slim and swift, with long necks and narrow beautiful heads. The fabled sand steeds of Dorne were smaller than proper warhorses and could not bear such weight of armor, but it was said that they could run for a day and night and another day, and never tire.

#i took some liberty and corrected the shitty book version to make it into the vastly superior david&dan version #thank you for your time #who needs representation anyways since we all can see how spanish/italian inspired dorne obviously is

Thank you for this great gifset contrasted with the original text description of the Dornishmen. I think just about everyone was fairly disappointed in the casting here. It shouldn’t have to be pointed out that:

1. the books (ASOIAF) are not accurate to history in a general sense

2. the books are not accurate to history in the sense of dragons and magic

3. the show (Game of Thrones) is not accurate to the books in terms of people and casting as the characters are described, in many ways that do a disservice to people of color

4. this is inarguable whitewashing, and I do not generally use that term very often.

Once more, I’ll point out that Fantasy is not History. Once again, I’ll point out that whether or not Dorne is supposed to be ‘inspired by’ Medieval Spain or Italy, this is still inaccurate.

Medievalpoc posts tagged ‘Spain’

Medievalpoc posts tagged ‘Italy’

"But these are aristocrats/nobility and I think that means something about my ideas on race and history”

Medievalpoc tagged “ASOIAF”

Medievalpoc tagged “Game of Thrones”

And a final reminder: These books and the show based on it were created on purpose by human beings for an audience-both of whom are modern people and part of American culture, right here, right now. The choices made, the casting, the storylines and plot points, all are conscious decisions made by people. Game of Thrones isn’t history, it is a fantasy show.

P.S. I personally am a fan of the show and the books, I have seen every episode and read every book, including some of the short fiction (so no worries about spoiling me).  I don’t feel particularly conflicted in being critical of it, or analyzing it.

(Source: stannisbaratheon)



Instructions for a Body by Marty McConnell
praise the miracle body: the odd and undeniable mechanics of hand, hundred-boned foot, perfect stretch of tendontell me there are no gods then, no master plans for this anatomy with its mobile and evident sparksomeone says “children of light” and another, “goddessfragment” and another, “chosen” / a dozen makers, myriad paths, one goal:some scalpel, some chisel, some crazed sentimental engineer giving rib, giving eyelash, giving gut and thumb –all mattering. all set down in a going world, vulnerable and divinein the beginning was the word.or before time there was a void until a voice said “I” and wasor there was star and dust, explosion and animal, mineral, us::praise the veins that river these wrists praise the prolapsed valve in a heart praise the scars marking a gall bladder absentpraise the rasp and rattle of functioning lungs praise the pre-arthritic ache of elbows and ankles praise the lifeline sectioning a palm praise the photographic pads of fingertips praise the vulnerable dip at the base of a throat praise the muscles surfacing on an abdomen praise these arms that carry babies and anthologies praise the leg hairs that sprout and are shaved praise the ass that refuses to shrink or be hidden praise the cunt that bleeds and accepts, bleeds and accepts praise the prominent ridge of nose praise the strange convexity of ribcage praise the single hair that insists on growing from a right areola praise the dent where the mole was clipped from the back of a neck praise these inner thighs brushing praise these eyelashes that sometimes turn inward praise these hips preparing to spread into a grandmother’s skirt praise the beauty of the freckle on the first knuckle of a left little fingerwe’re gone / in a blizzard of seconds love the body human while we’re here, a gift of minutes on an evolving planet, a countryin flux / give thankswhat we take for granted, bone and dirt and the million things that will kill us someday, motion and the pursuit of happiness / no guarantees / give thanksfor chaos theory, ecology, common sense that says we are web. a planet in balance or out, the butterfly in tokyo setting off thunderstorms in iowa, tell me you don’t matter to a universe that conspired to give you such a tongue, such rhythmor rhythmless hips, such opposable thumbs – give thanks or go home a waste of sparkspeak or let the maker take back your throat march or let the creator rescind your feet dream or let your god destroy your good and fertile mindthis is your warning / this your birthright / do not let this universe regret you

watch her perform this poem here
Instructions for a Body by Marty McConnell

praise the miracle body: the odd 
and undeniable mechanics of hand, 
hundred-boned foot, perfect stretch 
of tendon

tell me there are no gods then, 
no master plans for this anatomy 
with its mobile and evident spark

someone says “children of light” 
and another, “goddessfragment” and 
another, “chosen” / a dozen makers, 
myriad paths, one goal:

some scalpel, some chisel, some crazed 
sentimental engineer giving rib, giving 
eyelash, giving gut and thumb –

all mattering. all set down 
in a going world, vulnerable 
and divine

in the beginning was the word.

or before time there was a void 
until a voice said “I” and was

or there was star and dust, 
explosion and animal, mineral, us::

praise the veins that river these wrists 
praise the prolapsed valve in a heart 
praise the scars marking a gall bladder absent
praise the rasp and rattle of functioning lungs 
praise the pre-arthritic ache of elbows 
and ankles 
praise the lifeline sectioning a palm 
praise the photographic pads of fingertips 
praise the vulnerable dip at the base of a throat 
praise the muscles surfacing on an abdomen 
praise these arms that carry babies 
and anthologies 
praise the leg hairs that sprout 
and are shaved 
praise the ass that refuses to shrink 
or be hidden 
praise the cunt that bleeds 
and accepts, bleeds 
and accepts 
praise the prominent ridge 
of nose 
praise the strange convexity of ribcage 
praise the single hair that insists on growing 
from a right areola 
praise the dent where the mole was clipped from the back 
of a neck 
praise these inner thighs brushing 
praise these eyelashes that sometimes turn inward 
praise these hips preparing to spread 
into a grandmother’s skirt 
praise the beauty of the freckle 
on the first knuckle of a left little finger

we’re gone / in a blizzard of seconds 
love the body human 
while we’re here, a gift of minutes 
on an evolving planet, a country
in flux / give thanks

what we take for granted, bone and dirt 
and the million things that will kill us 
someday, motion and the pursuit 
of happiness / no guarantees / give thanks
for chaos theory, ecology, common sense that says 
we are web. a planet in balance or out, the butterfly 
in tokyo setting off thunderstorms in iowa, 
tell me you don’t matter to a universe that conspired 
to give you such a tongue, such rhythm
or rhythmless hips, such opposable thumbs –
give thanks or go home a waste of spark

speak or let the maker take back your throat 
march or let the creator rescind your feet 
dream or let your god destroy your good and fertile mind

this is your warning / this 
your birthright / do not let 
this universe regret you