fahye: ([orig] mistress of an empty kingdom)
springs eternal

It irks us that you never listen
when we sing our joys to you.
Water makes our skin to glisten,
eyes with pearl are all shot through;

and yet you turn your eyes away,
call us siren-folk or worse.
You shiver in the sea's fine spray,
cross yourself and speak a curse.

If only you had wit to hear us,
and the wonders we describe!
If only you would dive in, fearless,
come to join our fishy tribe!

Escape that glaring eye, the sun;
find down here a better life.
Embrace the tides and leave undone
all those things that cause you strife.

No earth-bound pleasure can compare,
once you've tasted heady salt;
we know you'd gladly give up air,
if once you had. It's not your fault.

But as you lack the sense to dive
and take our offer freely,
we pull you under, still alive
(you'd come yourself, ideally).

Your species is so slow at study;
even if we hold you down
until your pearl-less eyes go muddy,
stubbornly you'd rather drown.

We only want to show you joy, and
never meant to make you grieve.
Like your corpses, hope is bouyant:
one day you will learn to breathe.


(Del, you asked for 'the joy of being a fish' and I gave you homicidal mermaids in the style of Dorothy Parker. Uh. HAPPY BIRTHDAY.)
fahye: ([orig] tell your own reality)
I had heaps of fun with my stories! Two full gifts and two treats, and I don't think anyone guessed that they were by me (muahahahaha?)

Phantomwise (11556 words)
Fandom: Alice (2009)
Summary: Hatter’s tried to explain the problem that Wonderland folk have with standing between two mirrors, but none of it makes a lot of sense. It’s something that you don’t do, something to do with memories, and Alice can’t quite tell if it’s anything more than superstition.

I watched Alice almost the day before signups, and I'm so glad I offered it! Writing this allowed me to stretch my weak plot-muscles, and include a huge amount of random stuff from the books, and generally kick around in an absurdist sandbox for a while.

seven wonders of the scientific world (2376 words)
Fandom: Luther (TV)
Summary: Alice has long known that she only has respect for things she can't manipulate; very few people fall into this category, which is mostly populated by constellations and the elusive wavelengths of invisible light.

I nabbed this as a pinch-hit; I'd really hoped to write something about Alice Morgan, and this came out just as I wanted.

eff-em-ell, and other quotes for the official biography (2334 words)
Fandom: Shakespeare Retold
Summary: Tim flat-out refuses to use either 'ma'am' or the proper styling of The Right Honourable with someone who's been comparing him to various parts of a donkey's anatomy for as many years as Katherine has, so Prime Minister it is.

Last minute treat! SO MUCH FUN. I love the Retold version of Taming of the Shrew.

A Daughter of the American (Psycho) Revolution, via the Lineage of Marion Crane (645 words)
Fandom: World's Wife - Carol Ann Duffy
Summary: Bad things happen to girls who want too much.

Woo, poetry! Poetry about girls who die in horror movies!
fahye: ([inc] blueprint for the manor)
About to head off to Brussels after spending a wonderful weekend in Oxford with [livejournal.com profile] dr_biscuit and husband. Maybe one day I will return when it is not almost too cold to be outside.

We saw The King's Speech; I adored it, and of course the reference to shell-shock collided in my head with all the stuff about stammers in the Regeneration trilogy and, well, this happened. 20% King George, 20% Billy Prior, 60% excuse to alliterate a lot.


speech therapy

Between my teeth and the tip of my tongue
is Timbuktu: a city's span of sibilance,
stuttered streets and missing sounds.
No hiss of gas. My palate holds impossible
peaks of pristine mountains, iced and marbled, pale.

What can't you say, my boy,
my brave bold boy with bombed-out
eyes and ceasefire sighs
-- repeat it ten times fast. Go on.
What is it you can't say?

This is not my language, this lump of lead
laid in the larynx. From the clutch of my throat
to the edge of my lips is the earth to the sun,
a sprained and spitless space;
my voice the vacuum. My language lost.

Could hear a pin drop into the mud
of far-off fields, the flutter of fingers awake
and afraid on folded sheets. What won't you say?
My own tongue, sympathetic, dries to stone.
I could be deaf but for the clock.

My silence is the sound before shells,
when worn and wet we wait the same eternity
that exists when I open my mouth.
In the pause before each consonant
six soldier's lifetimes tick by.
fahye: (Default)
a brief period of turbulence

ladies and gentlemen, please remain calm.
this is nothing more than a reminder
that the oversized metal box
to which you have entrusted the continuation
of your single precious and all too mortal life
is being hurled through the air at unimaginable speeds,
held countless miles above foreign surfaces
by some obscure laws of physics
in which you have never really believed.

you will notice that the captain has switched on the seatbelt sign;
the toilets on board may no longer be used.
please remain in your seats
sedating your nerves with complimentary drinks,
and with your seatbelt fastened
low and tight across your bladder.

our crew is here for your convenience
and to prove the plausibility of wobbling one's way
up and down the forbidden aisles
in three-inch heels. their smiles
will remain sunny even in direst straits,
and should therefore not be used
as an indicator of safety.

should oxygen masks be required,
tachypnoea is frowned upon:
please conduct your respiration
with the decorum fitting a world traveller
to whom a trifling indication that the air itself is unsafe
is hardly a reason to breathe faster.

in the event of an emergency landing at sea,
please adopt whatever position best serves
to instill a sense of blind hope.
the light on your lifejacket is activated by water
and has a battery life of approximately two hours longer
than the time it will take for hypothermia to set in.

once in the lifeboats,
those of you who brought your laptops
despite our explicit instructions
to leave all possessions behind
will be turned upon
and eaten first.

we do thank you for your patience at this time.
fahye: ([science] dr fahye needs coffee)

You will not find the soul within my eyes;
no steady gaze or sunset-lidded glance
holds such a thing. And should you try to prise

apart my truer ribs, you'll realise
the heart beats dumb and takes no eager stance
on poetry. Ask not if the soul lies

in molecules that mingle and enhance
the neuron's power to fire and analyse,
the trembling of a shoulder turned askance;

distill me not to body parts. You'll chance
upon the soul in no such bleak disguise;
the soul is not the feet: it is the dance.
fahye: ([other] they carry your reflection)
invention challenge

it's hard not to dream in recipes
when the only text that unblurs in my sleep,
just long enough to be read,
is a list of instructions to be followed.
my daydreams are beginning to suffer likewise
the culinary form as their spine:

they scoliose, and in their bending they require
three cups of coffee drunk only for the taste,
a stirring narrative with a citrus twist,
a pinch to wake myself up
and two handfuls of your hands, full
to bursting with ripe promises and love.

there are recipes catering to every palate:
those who cannot tolerate responsibility, those
whose stomachs churn at the lightest taste
of debt. acid reflux on the lips warns
against wanting more than I can realise
with the ingredients that make me up, and

rows of black words take control of my wants.
I will learn to yearn as directed,
to whisk up a foam from an empty space,
to take a mortar and pestle to my life
and moleculise the loneliness --
crush and blend it with the rest.

I awaken with no flour in my hair, no burns
on my fingers, but at night the kitchen is
alive with mistakes. things curdle. begin again
and use less salt this time. the book
falls open at a page stained with repetition
and molasses, and the recipe says:

in a moderate heat bake the gingerbread shapes
of a family and ice them with harsh city noise;
for their eyes use the memory of sky.
by day I grind down my own bones
and by night I will forever be here
whipping up dream futures spiced with

partings, age, raspberries and time
growing fast and as wild as can be
in a box painted with clouds and set
out in the city air, sixteenth floor, to grow
high above loud lymph traffic lighting its own way
back to the sentinel nodes.
fahye: ([hb] shine forth upon our clouded hills)
we spent this morning carolling the dust
from every corner of our mouths,
words unbelieved but soothing for the skin
with talk of snow and holly dreams;
these otherworlding winds and symbols writ
on gilded card. salvation for the blood
that comes from green and pleasant lands
far from the city of Jerusalem;
born singing stern and drifting now
across an island wrapped in salt,
alone and sunburnt to the core.

our own dear heat pulls scent from pine
all lightly garlanded with history,
with gleaming string. no colours here
but these: brute red the dirt, pale gold the grass
and green the wish in hopeless hearts
who scan the lovely sky for rain.

we spent this morning hiding from the air;
we watched the shadows shrink and turned
like fools to hotter flames,
believing in the mythos of our meal;
baked heat into the house
then slid the ice across our tongues
and called forth winter laughs.

another scrap of paper sticks to feet
unshod and lazy stretched like tinsel bows.
tape sticks like guilt and wattle gum,
like wine sticks in the throat,
wine lifting the horizon bare:
a soft broad oneness indistinct and warm
sings glory in the thirsty earth,
a glory in the sheets laid wet against my cheek
then pegged and billowed by the breeze,
sings glory glory hallelujah to the age of trees
slouched silver green and steady, dazed
and thinking charcoal thoughts at highest noon.

beneath our careless hearts, our shallow thanks,
the year goes tense -- awaits its end
and bares its browning limbs beneath the sun.

for Ji :)

12 Nov 2009 11:55 pm
fahye: ([other] whosoever has the will)

morning in the principality sees
the slow ticktock of those whose rhythms fall
by chemicals not clockwork,
minds pushing towards their own peak and
chasing Pipe dreams in the grey morning air.
dreams of our sort only:
the waking images pieced together
and projected onto nothing.
no act of sabotage, no guns
no speech no written law will force
the true dead dreaming into our heads.
the morning is a symbol. the morning --
is an arbitrary birth
for those who wake from nothing, or never.
our cogwheel hypnagogia lie parallel
to their gradual climb upwards into noonday smarts.

no place now for every god
who daily sang the sun into the sky,
and fewer candles every week
are lit by feebler hands than mine.
the larger picture (projected -- where?) suggests that this
was never my purpose; it was always yours.
the fires set alight in minds and
what we might call hearts
are of your devising, you who named me
something new
so all of me became the voice
telling gossamer tales of equity
to loop around their necks;
to draw them tight and willing
into the blazing dawn that they found in your face.

morning in the new world of ideas means
ownership of nobody by nobody,
your dream ambition called into being
by many voices all at once;
mine being the careful sound of history,
the record of your own desire.
but we are built on factory lines
and in this image was I made,
created unequal and infused with the spirit
of a searching need,
a fullness of existence that requires
an ownership of shining sorts;
never mine and always yours.

though given a biology to call my own
(I project, the image, the waking construction)
I might be in need of an afterlife;
might hold myself beloved of a God,
a faith full manifest and blind
and breathing through the work of my two hands.
my body would possess
all glorious redundancies
and in my dumbfound dreams the dust
would smother all our gears,
leaving only what remains when the clocks are stopped,
the faint grey mourning of the souls
we do not possess.
fahye: ([bones] our dear invisibilities)
a list of petty guilts

Knowing that the moment you call in sick
your headache will start to fade,
but doing it anyway;

setting down an article as soon as it discomforts you,
lacking the motivation required
to challenge yourself;

and lying to the television screen
that you would have the guts to confess your love,
no matter what.

The first of -- hopefully! -- many. If you want to leave me poetry prompts, the post is still there.
fahye: (Default)
guidelines for safety

my love you are the envelope of many-coloured money
near which my hand will never stray
as it lies rustling,
inside my bag as I stride fast and conscious of the wealth
beneath my palm. you are the yellow sign
at which I will never exchange it for the slow compression of space.

you are the cosy darkness of my fear,
waterwashed weak by the canvas between
but nanostrong and microdeep,
that I could lose you to a smarter tongue;
a closer touch;
a better pair of boots.
you are the pale grey fingers gloved and closed around your own left hand,
to the sight of which
I will never object.

you are oilslick down the sluggy wings of change,
the easy rainbow slide of lying abed past noon
and a life cut out from chiffon silk
with scissors so sharp they whisper fine
and twisted romances into the silver air.

you are the wide blue geodesic down which I will never fall;
my love you are the distance that has freed my heart.


9 Sep 2009 04:53 pm
fahye: ([mer] euclidian geometry)
I enjoy dates like this one! Obviously it can never be as good as the time I put Lucifer into Milliways on 06-06-06, but you know, one must celebrate the little symmetries as they arise.

I wish there were some kind of complex meme-tagging system on LJ that allowed one to view all iterations of a particular meme, even by people who are not on your reading list; I want to read every single 15-word love poem that has been written! And then collate them somehow.

Here are a few more from me.


jealousy of others,
vicarious joy:
all feelings are stronger
when felt about you

every other person in the world
can think of me
however they damn well please

what if
this really is
as perfect as it gets?
(I don't think I'd mind)
fahye: ([office] getting high on my mortality)
Stolen from [livejournal.com profile] villainny, among others:

Write a love poem in 15 words

I might write more of these. SO MUCH FUN. Have a go!

generally I dislike monotones,
but --

I want to paint the world
the colour of you


26 Feb 2009 11:30 pm
fahye: ([other] this is the day)
This one has been waiting, patiently, for a poetry mood to strike. Since -- well, since Prague.

I feel like maybe it's not quite my story to tell, but the experience was mine to react to. And this is how I react.


seven seven two nine seven is not a prime number;
divisibility makes it easier to handle.
easier to bear. hold the number in your mind
and focus your eyes closer than the wall,
(choose a year closer to the present)
such that no one name can be seen in its entirety.
easier to handle.
seven seven two nine seven --
consider the number instead of the names
and see if anything appears,
if any ghosts slide into coherence.

the question of death is: how do we defeat the past? )
fahye: ([other] ouroboros society)
written on the 423 down Castlereagh

the city is a glittering, aching, clawing thing
with bats strung between buildings in the blue dusk
not fighting crime but reporting it:
from glass to glass their sonar shout
a ricochet of breaking waves
sketching the airways of the beast

and every voice you hear is the city's voice
she speaks in tongues
tongues of devil men and downtreading
and uplooking and sidewalking

nightly buildings tesselate the sky

you walk faster in the city
nicer dress, painted lips, higher heels
faster faster faster click click
the city speaks in soles and cement

and every person that you pass
is living in a different city


1 Aug 2008 07:55 pm
fahye: ([other] our love goes under the knife)
This refused to let me type up my sleep disorder notes until I wrote it down. Which should in no way be taken as an indication of quality, just bossiness.

Uh, I'm clearly in a whimsical mood tonight )
fahye: ([hcl] this is my time travel coat)
and dusk is a blue slap in the face )


26 Jun 2007 09:53 pm
fahye: ([ww] cj - lights that don't go out)
Now greet me with your red wine evening face,
all flushed and bitter-warm, all drowning smells
and dusk. Decant yourself to my embrace
and sing to me of languid caramels
with rising floral notes. Now give to me
your champagne laugh that catches just below
the nose and sizzles there in ecstasy
then dissipates into the blood. Now show
your amber tones for all they're worth; now burn
me with your brandy tastes. Dive smooth and sweet
into my inner self and then return,
ensnare my hands and paralyse my feet
'til I am heady with your words and caught
by darker acid pulls, eyes low, breath taut.

oh dear

29 Jan 2007 01:05 am
fahye: ([other] fahye - new crack bible)
Not even close to being a GIP, even though this icon GLADDENS MY HEART - thank you, [livejournal.com profile] chaos_pockets - because I have to display the results of my insanity (& gross enabling on boxchat's behalf) as well.

This is set loosely after 2522, Rematch and Disrepair.

It's a sestina. Much to my disgust, it also insisted on being written in iambic pentameter. I have structured myself into oblivion. Later on I may write, you know, actual fic.

Distillation )
fahye: ([ss] but wild and whirling words)
A couple of months ago I was on a Shakespeare kick and offered to write fandom-sonnets for people. While in Mooloolaba I finished almost all of them, so this is going to be a long long post of personalised iambic pentameter. YAY. Huge apologies to [livejournal.com profile] genarti and [livejournal.com profile] madbonnycaptain, the only two whose requests I haven't filled yet. I'll get there! (Though, Beth, if you'd like to request someone other than Lear, I'll get there...sooner. I've only read the play once. Um. Some other fandom, maybe? I am slightly Shakespeared-out.)

Comments on your own sonnet and/or anyone else's would be appreciated. I've never written this many poems in such a short time before and I'm still leery of the quality. Most of them are second-person because apparently I am incapable of writing any other POV at the moment.

I'll kick off with the original sonnet that started the idea, too.

12 sonnets in all )

October 2016

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