#poem title is ‘Genesis’ | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

getvalentined · 9 months

Text

Friendly reminder that the only reason Genesis is the antagonist of Crisis Core is because Zack is with Shinra. Literally.

Once he's on the run, once Genesis knows that Zack can't help him, he literally brings Hollander to Gongaga for Zack to kill—he tells Zack what Hollander is planning under the guise of it being a joint effort, but once Hollander runs off, Genesis then tells Zack what he intends to do. He talks to him about Loveless and the Lifestream, he shoves a Banora White into his hands when Zack charges at him, and then he leaves. Hollander is left behind—in Zack's hometown, his own turf, so there's nowhere to run and nowhere to hide—allowing Zack to enact poetic justice at last by striking down Angeal's birth father with the very sword that the man who actually raised Angeal died to earn, the sword that honorless Gillian said represented all the honor the Hewleys had left.

And then, finally realizing what's actually going on, Zack sets out to to Banora to save Genesis from dying.

There's no point after Modeoheim that Genesis outright attacks Zack until he's cured at the Light of Doom; there, he calls Zack First Class SOLDIER even though he's not anymore, because Genesis isn't trying to strike down Zack, he's trying to reclaim the right to the only title he's ever had that felt worth anything, and he's trying to take the burden of that title from Zack.

If he wins, Genesis takes the guilt of killing both Angeal and Sephiroth—because he doesn't know Cloud's role, he doesn't know that Zack wasn't the one to strike Sephiroth down, he doesn't even know Cloud's name. Conversely, if he loses, then it's confirmation that Zack is the hero of the story, truly and completely, and that's all right too. If that's how the story ends, that's how it ends. (Minerva intervenes, pulls Genesis from the duel, and he never gets to see the ending. The final act, as in his beloved ancient poem, remains a mystery.)

Genesis is the main antagonist of Crisis Core, but he's never been the bad guy. The entirety of Final Fantasy VII has a single monolith of villainy, and that's always been—and will always be—Shinra. Shinra made the Reactors and dug up Jenova. Shinra made Genesis, Sephiroth, Angeal, and DeepGround. Shinra burned Kalm, Banora, and (partially) Nibelheim. Shinra used any corpse they found or made as research fodder. Shinra killed the last fullblooded Cetra and drove her only daughter to a place where the only way to save the people she loved was through her death. Shinra is the bad guy.

Zack is with Shinra for the majority of the game, and thus the story behaves accordingly. Shinra's enemies are Zack's enemies, because that's the side he's on. Shinra sees Avalanche as enemies, too, but no one ever refers to Barret or Elfe as "irredeemably evil" the way they do Genesis. Barret dresses up his quest for revenge in the guise of saving the planet, but all that matters to him is that anyone even remotely connected to the company suffers the way he's suffered. Elfe allowed Fuhito to experiment on people, to take the corpses of SOLDIER and make undead weapons out of them, violating the sanctity of their final rest and denying them entry to the Lifestream altogether.

"Genesis experimented on his men!" It was a desertion, not an abduction. People who become Copies when they aren't properly enhanced don't get the same enhanced abilities as a First and they degrade very quickly, we see that in Hollander and Lazard—meaning that every single Genesis Copy was one of those SOLDIER Seconds or Thirds that defected with Genesis of their own free will in Wutai after he grew a wing and the world turned upside-down. Genesis' men loved him and they went along willingly.

When Genesis locks himself up in the Light of Doom, his last hope for a cure, he has one last Copy in there with him. When Zack unlocks the gate, he's attacked by one last Copy, even though Genesis has been waiting for him, he's not antagonistic toward him anymore, he hasn't been for a long time.

Genesis took that last Copy, a man with a horrible disease who is definitely too far gone to save, and brought him along to the Light of Doom in the hopes that maybe, maybe things could be set right. When Zack unlocks the gate, that man throws himself at him to protect Genesis, because this is his last chance and Genesis' men love him.

When Zack fights Genesis' Weapon avatar and is attacked by incomplete and twisted ghosts of Genesis Copies, magical inhuman wisps that hold him back while Genesis heals—they're in the Lifestream then, the Light of Doom pulled them both in. Those Copies are literally the ghosts of Genesis' men, unable to diffuse into the Lifestream because of their Jenova infection, fighting to protect him from beyond the grave. Genesis' men love him. They want to save him. They went with him willingly.

"Genesis killed his parents!" The parents who lied to him his entire life in order to keep getting a paycheck from Shinra? The parents that funded his fanclub as a form of marketing for a company that literally wouldn't exist without Genesis' world-changing contribution to food processing as a teenager? Those parents?

Genesis has a little shrine in the Banora Underground where he keeps all his awards and achievements—a little desk with a lantern in an unfinished stone tunnel. They survived the bombing of Banora because they weren't in the house; the chalkboard has sketches of what would clearly become the Banora brand logo, which was presumably made about a decade prior to the Nibelheim Incident, not long after Genesis figured out how to make Banora White juice shelf stable, not long before he left for Midgar to enlist.

Having all the proof of every good thing Genesis has ever done shoved into a tunnel under his hometown, hidden from the public, while his family raked in huge amounts of wealth based on those achievements, indicates quite clearly that Genesis' parents were the exact opposite of good and loving.

But he buried them anyway, didn't he?

Genesis may not be a particularly good person, but he's never been evil, he's never been the bad guy. Genesis was right—more than that, he was justified. His methods were not. He did terrible things. He hurt and killed a lot of people.

But he was only ever the enemy because Shinra said he was. Genesis doesn't need a redemption arc because he already had one, and Minerva herself said he could serve the planet forever to prove it.

#long post #fandom ramble #genesis rhapsodos #crisis core #crisis core reunion #CCFF7R #final fantasy 7 #FF7 #fandom vent #I am so frustrated #characters fandom says are not beyond redemption:#sephiroth and angeal #and barret and elfe #and tseng and reno and rude and elena #and rufus and reeve and gast and lucrecia #characters fandom says are completely beyond redemption:#genesis specifically for some fucking reason

396 notes · View notes

nateconnolly · 6 months

Text

Hozier Reading List of Free Texts You Can Finish in Less Than A Week

Another Hozier reading list is floating around the Internet, and it’s very thorough. Huge respect to @notmysophie for putting that together, they put in a lot of effort and research and it really shows. This is an alternative reading list for people who are too busy or tired to read all the entries on a complete list of Hozier’s literary influences. This list is incomplete—even after finishing it, there will be some very prominent literary references in Hozier’s music that might go over your head. But this will definitely help you appreciate the depth of thought in his songs, and if you read just five pages a night, you’ll be able to finish this reading list in less than one week.

ONE: ICARUS

Hozier puts the myth of Icarus to song in I, Carrion. You could very easily argue that Sunlight is also a response to Icarus. Many classical writers have told or mentioned his story, but I’ll let my own personal tastes shape this list, and recommend Ovid’s Metamorphoses. He tells the story of Icarus in Chapter 8 Lines 183–235. If you can afford it, I love the Charles Martin translation. You could consult the free Brookes More translation, or the one by A. S. Kline. Remember, you don't have to read the whole chapter--just find the part named "Daedalus and Icarus"

TWO: DOOMSDAY CLOCK

The title track Wasteland, Baby! is such a gentle love ballad, I almost have trouble remembering it’s about the apocalypse. Wasteland, Baby! finds hope and love in the face of annihilation. Hozier wrote this song as a direct response to the Doomsday Clock moving two minutes in 2018, one year before the album was released.

THREE: GENESIS 1-3

I also recommend reading Genesis Chapters 1-3. You’re probably familiar with the plot, but I think From Eden is such an ingenious twist on the familiar story that you’ll appreciate it even more after consulting the original. Hozier takes the symbols of Genesis 1-3 and uses them to make his own radically different point. The stories of Eden also come up in Be.

My favorite translation is by Robert Alter, but it’s currently not free online, so you might want to check out the Sefaria translation or the New King James Version (NKJV), both of which manage to capture the beauty of Genesis without becoming difficult for the average English reader. The King James Version (KJV) is also roughly the same level of difficulty as a Shakespeare play. I definitely think the KJV is beautiful, but at the end of a long hard day, you might be better off with the Sefaria, the NKJV, the NIV, or the NRSV. You can Google “Genesis 1” followed by any of those names/abbreviations, and you’ll find it right away.

FOUR: A MODEST PROPOSAL

Jonathan Swift’s A Modest Proposal, written in 1729, might be the most gutting satire in history. UCLA students put together a very thorough explanation of the economic suffering and the proposed “solutions” that inspired Swift. References to A Modest Proposal form the skeleton of Hozier’s Eat Your Young.

FIVE: SEAMUS HEANEY

Before learning about Seamus Heaney, you’ll need some background information on the Troubles. I recommend this National Geographic article. I also recommend looking through these Chris Steele Perkins photographs of life during the Troubles.

During the Troubles, Heaney wrote a series of poems about bog bodies. His poetry directly inspired the corpse imagery in Work Song, Like Real People Do, and In a Week.

Disclaimer: I cannot read Hebrew or Latin. I am evaluating these translations solely by 1) how difficult they are to read and 2) how beautiful they sound. I cannot independently review them for accuracy. Just know that all the translations I’ve listed are widely respected among academics and/or religious leaders.

Anyways if you liked reading this go check out my Substack where I originally posted it.

#hozier #reading lists #original post

94 notes · View notes

yutaleks · 8 days

Note

Can you pls link the fics that you said changed your life? Or tell us where to find them pretty please?

side note: plugging my side blog @smrecs where I have more organized reblogs of fics lol. tho I haven't updated the tags in a while. I think a lot of the links there are broken... I'll fix it eventually...

anyway

here I will link some of my favorite fics ive read over the years. some of these I mention only by name because they have been deleted/or the person who wrote it deactivated... all of these are fics that I have read more than once/fics that have gutted me/fics that made me cry/had me in a puddle of cum/ etc etc etc

some of these are series that are abandoned but it doesnt matter to me, they are works of art even if unfinished <3

Eren x reader:

lights camera action

the secrets between us

cross your heart hope to die

one day the only butterflies left

poems for driftwood

reason & responsibility

thumb bites and pocket knives (LEGENDARY FIC TO ME. I cannot stress enough)

irresistible

mode of survival

endure

the swords legacy (I cannot. cannot exaggerate to you. the work that went into this fic. truly it deserves to be a novel. kriza you are amazing)

killshot

what lies underneath

home in your hands

eternity

the last song

armin x reader:

honeymoon by eremikan (RIP legend)

malware by eremikan (also RIP legend)

multi aot x reader:

angel standing in the sun

Yuuta x reader:

phantom hunt

dimanche

seven days at granny orimoto's flower shop

また君に恋してる

serial bereavements

business or pleasure

the ocean grew hands to hold me

blood in the water

pomegranate ink

Gojo x reader:

how to be a dog

the white rabbit

intrinsic warmth (I have only read a couple of chapters but the ones I read were great)

megumi x reader:

Those Nights

toji x reader:

hidden inventory: the lost tapes

multiple JJK x reader:

final girl

JJK ship fic:

yuuta x hikari x kirara: symbiosis

yuuta x toge: illicit affairs

Nanami x yuuta: crawl for your love in my life

sukuna x yuuta: hide and seek

bnha x reader:

genesis by eremikan (RIP) that fic was so legendary. if Mari ever reposts it I highly highly highly recommend reading it.

sunflowers don't grow in the city by eremikan

I don't remember the title of the fic but eremikan also posted a cannibal keigo fic... that one was so good...

aki hayakawa x reader:

menthol

bluebird

hsr:

Mao's translation fic was so good

#being very brave by telling u some of those ship fics lkjahsdlas but alas those fics have stuck in my memory...#I don't necessarily ship those ships more like I will read anything if yuuta's in it. lol #fic #ϟ asking aleksandria #if u read any of the fics on this list come gush about them in my inbox <3

53 notes · View notes

zellink · 4 months

Text

all the bells say

a pre-calamity zelink longfic. [chapter 1 of 28 // Act 0 of 5]

>> Read Act 0: "Genesis / Heavy" on AO3

Summary:

Rating: M Main Tags: canon compliant / angst with a happy ending / character study / romance / slow burn / all the goddamn tension. / mutual pining / self-doubt / following all the botw memories / Zelda is an unreliable narrator / Link is so hopelessly in love (until it's not) What will you do with what you've been given when the story forever tolls the same way? Link and Zelda, the Calamity, and their tale of inevitability and doom, and most of all, of love.

Notes:

Here I am, 7 years late to the party, 3 years after witnessing my boyfriend first play BOTW, with a Starbucks in hand and yet another pre-Calamity long fic that absolutely nobody asked for. But I have to do it. I have to bounce these two blonde elves in my head indefinitely and breathe life into my many, many headcanons.

All my love and thanks to my trench buddy and writing soulmate @1up-girl for all your invaluable beta'ing, brainrotting, and everything in between—I seriously owe you forever and ever. Thousands of thanks to the lovely @mustardcheesedog for your amazing energy and hype as an early reader and the daily zelink brainrot.

I also wanna to thank @milkywayes for doing the beautiful banner art for Bells; for understanding my vision and for all the conversations we've had about zelink—headcanons concocted in our DMs that I eventually adopted into this fic.

Fic title taken from the famous John Berryman poem, "Dream Song 29".

~~~ Please go to the fic page on AO3 and read the extended author's note in the beginning for warnings! ~~~

Anyway..... here's Act 0, y'all!

Act 0: Genesis / Heavy

There sat down, once, a thing on Henry's heart só heavy, if he had a hundred years & more, & weeping, sleepless, in all them time Henry could not make good. […] Ghastly, with open eyes, he attends, blind. All the bells say: too late. This is not for tears; thinking. “Dream Song 29” - John Berryman

Link is no stranger to death.

At five years old, he’s already witnessed more than his peers ever would. Growing up at a farm can do that to a kid. Cows, lambs, cuccos—all to the slaughter for sustenance, for profit. He stations himself beside Father and Mother as they butcher them to sell at the family shop. He’s also seen Father shoot countless deers and elk during their leisure hunts whenever Father is back home from Castle Town. More often than not, Father would let him borrow his old bow, and Link would contribute to their hunt, too.

But then Link’s pet fish dies one afternoon—a fat white freshwater carp with gold and black splotches he named Goldie—and he weeps and weeps in Mother’s lap. Goldie was his friend. Goldie was always there in the morning when he would wake up, and was there at night before he’d go to bed. But now Goldie is floating in the pond, its tiny mouth agape.

Mother strokes his hair. “It’s okay, Link. Goldie is with the Goddess, now.”

“Can I be with the Goddess, too?” he asks. Snot runs down his nose.

“Well, no.” Mother huffs a laugh. “Where Goldie is… we cannot go there. But what you can do is pray.”

Link withdraws his head from Mother’s lap. He wipes the tears from his face with the heel of his palms.

“Can we pray together, Mom?”

At that, something unreadable passes through Mother’s face. Her blue eyes turn steely.

“You can pray, Link,” she says, something sad about her small smile. “I won’t join. But we can arrange a funeral for Goldie, if you would like that?”

So they spend the rest of the day gathering flowers from the brambles that surround their estate until Mother’s wicker basket is full of white roses, blue nightshades, and armoranths. Mother also allows him to use the small wooden box that sits atop her vanity—a coffin perfect for Goldie. Mother says that it’s a box that used to house a necklace she bought and gave to Father long ago, but that necklace is long lost, so she has no use for it now.

Link wraps Goldie in an old rag and lays it gently inside the box. Then, they dig a hole in their backyard and bury the box and Goldie in it. He cries again, but not as hard as earlier. He clasps his hands in front of his chest, shuts his eyes, and utters his prayers aloud.

“Goddess Hylia, please welcome Goldie in your loving arms, give it many, many worms to eat, and bring it back as a strong and healthy fish in its next life.” Let its next life start tomorrow, please, Link does not say aloud.

When they make it back inside the living room, Father is already there, sitting at the dining table with a cup of coffee. He asks about what they have been up to, and Link answers honestly. Father doesn’t press on, and he looks rather exhausted, so Link goes back into his bedroom and closes the door behind him.

He climbs into his bed and crawls toward the far end of the wall, looking out from the window and into the backyard. He sees it—a small grave by the shrubs, complete with a rock roughly the shape of an oval as the tombstone, with flowers surrounding the little plot of land.

He hears voices from beyond his bedroom door.

“I don’t think it is best for us to go soft on him.”

“Wha— soft? He is five and his pet just died!”

“And you helped him throw a funeral. For a fish.”

“Because he’s just a child!”

There’s a grating sound—a chair being dragged on the floor. “Well, he’s always said that he wants to become a knight. Then we must prepare him for such an occupation.”

“Being a knight does not mean he can’t feel emotions.”

“Eleana, being a knight is not easy. He will see hundreds of deaths in his lifetime. The next death he’ll witness won’t be of a fish, but of a comrade. I just want to prepare him for when he eventually becomes one.”

“Well—” a pause, “—then I hope, for Link’s sake, he never becomes one.”

Link, however, doesn’t pay much attention to his parents’ conversation. Instead, he imagines Goldie wiggling its way past the layers of cloth and wood and soil, flopping around the backyard until it finds its way to the pond again. Once everybody is asleep Goldie will rise up from its grave, he thinks. He prayed to the Goddess, after all.

But come morning, the pond is still empty, and Goldie remains lifeless in its little coffin.

And he never sheds another tear after that.

****************

Link is no stranger to death, and no stranger to funerals, either.

A year after Goldie’s humble funeral in his backyard in Hateno Village, Father must attend one of the most important funerals in the kingdom for as long as Link can remember.

(Well, six years is quite long for him, anyway.)

So here he is, holding Mother’s gloved hand, in the congregation at the Grand Chapel of Hyrule Castle. It’s a sad occasion, of course—everyone’s wearing black, all the women have their faces obscured with a veil, and he can hear sniffles from the crowd. But Link also can’t wait to tell his friends back home of his first real experience in the castle.

There are speeches, sermons, hymns, and many, many other long-drawn-out processions that he has no choice but to zone out on. But once the burial is over, Link is rather excited, because the Royal Guards (and by extension, Father) must accompany the Prince Consort to the Sanctum for an intimate reception.

The Sanctum is grand—big, luxurious, grand. Red velvet is draped everywhere—the thrones, the floor, the curtains, the banners. There’s also a lot of gold, and streaks of blue here and there. Link likes the blue the most.

When Father makes his way through the crowd to find Link and Mother, Link knows it’s time. He straightens his back, draws his chin a little bit higher, and follows Father.

“This is pretty exciting, right, Mom?” Link whispers. “Meeting the Prince!”

“The King,” Father corrects him. “He was the Prince, and now, without the Queen, he has become the King.” He sounds annoyed. “Please don’t make that mistake in front of His Majesty.”

Link clears his throat. “Sorry, Father.”

He gazes up at Mother again, but she’s quiet, and it’s hard to look past her veil.

They climb the grand marble staircase leading to the floating dais above the room, and find a large man standing in front of the throne.

Father and Mother immediately drop to their knees. Link follows suit.

“Your Majesty,” Father says, his head bowed.

“Sir William! Please, no need for this,” the King’s voice booms. Father rises, followed by Mother, and then Link. “I am very pleased to see you again, Lady Eleana. It’s been too long.” The King sounds friendly, but there’s a lot of sadness at the edge of his voice. That makes sense, Link thinks. He just lost his wife.

Then, the King sets his eyes on Link.

Link’s hands feel clammy, all of a sudden.

“And you, young boy—how you have grown! It was not that long ago when your father brought you as an infant to the Castle to celebrate my daughter’s birth,” he says. Link can only muster up a nod and a shaky smile. “Speaking of—” the King turns around to shoo something from his back. “Don’t just hide! Introduce yourself.”

From behind the King’s robe, a little girl emerges, clad in a black dress and a black surcoat. Her face, however, isn’t covered with a veil like the other women, and the first thing Link notices is how golden her hair is compared to the rest of her outfit. It’s almost blinding.

The second thing Link notices is how green her eyes are. Very green. Like grass, like trees. Like the forests that he likes to spend time in.

The girl extends a gloved hand. Palm facing down.

“I’m Princess Zelda,” she says. “Nice to meet you.”

Link takes her hand in a gentlemanly way that Father has taught him when greeting noblewomen. His thumb pad rests on her knuckles. His left hand rises to splay over his right breast. Then, he puts one foot in front of the other and bends his knees, bowing his head.

“Nice to meet you, Princess,” he says. “My name is Link.”

As he straightens up again, Link finds it hard to let go of her hand. The Princess doesn’t, either; her forest green gaze is still piercing through his eyes. It feels like vines are growing out of his wrist and twining around his hand and the Princess’.

“Hello, Link,” she says.

Oh, his heart is racing.

Father lets out a cough, and the vines vanish. Link withdraws his hand as if shocked by a jolt of electricity. The Princess lets her arm fall limp at her side once more, but her eyes are still on him. Mother grabs him by his shoulders, pulling him back to stand next to her again.

“Your Majesty, once again, Eleana, Link, and I would like to offer our deepest condolences for your loss,” Father says. “For this kingdom’s loss. The Queen is—was—a strong and wise monarch, and as a people, we shall mourn her absence forevermore.” His lips are trembling a little, Link notes. He’s never seen that on Father before.

“Thank you, Sir William,” the King says. “You were a steadfast presence in her life, truly.” At that, Mother’s grip tightens. Link tilts his head up to look at her, but is met with that layer of veil again. “Well, I must be on my way. Duty calls upon us all, after all.”

With one last bow from Father, Mother, and Link himself, the King makes his way toward the other end of the dais and descends the opposite staircase. The Princess follows, her back straight and steps never once faltering.

She doesn’t turn back to cast one last glance at his family, but Link watches and watches and watches. He’s still watching as she disappears beneath the grand archway that leads further into the castle.

On the walk back to Castle Town where Father resides, Link feels something heavy settling in his gut. Like his little inconsequential life makes sense, all of a sudden. Like being six years old doesn’t really matter because, in that moment, he feels like there are hundreds of ancient men residing within the confines of his bones. And all those men are whispering the same name over and over.

The name he heard just a half hour ago.

So he speaks up.

“Father, I think I’m ready to really train,” he says. “I really wanna be in the Royal Guard.”

Father laughs.

Mother, beneath her black veil, stays quiet.

>> Continue reading on AO3

#my fic #zelink #zelink fic #breath of the wild #botw #botw fic #tloz #the legend of zelda #ao3 fanfic #bells tag

31 notes · View notes

theprogrockbstheorist · 1 year

Text

BS Analysis no. 2: The Parody of Thick as a Brick

“Really don’t mind if you sit this one out…”

This may be the most ambitious analysis I’ve done yet, which is going to be a breakdown and analysis of Jethro Tull’s 1972 album Thick as a Brick, notable in the prog community for being an entire album comprising of a singular song: the titular “Thick as a Brick”. This song is divided into two parts, however, the only reason for the split was due to the limitations of vinyl records: a singular side of vinyl can only hold around 20 minutes of music, therefore the song needed to be split in two. “Thick as a Brick” pt.1 and pt.2 are a combined 43 minutes in length, with the album package as well meant to be taken as part of the piece. To highlight the meticulous creation of the iconic newspaper album cover, the album's recording took less time than the cover!

The newspaper album cover is important because it relays the story of Gerald Bostock: a fictional 8-year-old child prodigy whose poem, “Thick as a Brick” was disqualified from winning an award due to being too abrasive and, according to the article on the album cover, “unwholesome”. Bostock’s character was made up by frontman and flutist Ian Anderson, who wrote the lyrics to the song in character, describing Bostock’s choices as a young man: either to become a soldier and go into the military like his father or to follow his own wishes and to become a poet. Already present is this sort of layered story of creating a character, writing from that character’s perspective, creating a newspaper article detailing the character's life, and including an article in the newspaper that claims that the band set Bostock’s poem to music. It’s honestly a bit convoluted, which may have been on purpose.

The song itself criticizes British society, specifically that of the middle and upper classes, both satirizing the concept of being a proper gentleman that went into the military, and also being self-aware that poets, artists, and musicians can be too idealistic. The title of the song is essentially calling out the pretentiousness of supposed wisemen in society that assume they know everything with the lines, “So you ride yourselves over the fields/ And you make all your animal deals/ And your wise men don’t know how it feels/ To be thick as a brick”. These lines are in the song's first verse and are repeated at the very end, emphasizing the message and tying the whole piece together. It is interesting that the song deals so explicitly with class and one’s place in society, when prog rock itself primarily developed from people with middle-class British backgrounds, with a few exceptions, and that the main character is a prodigy, and several prog musicians have been called virtuosos at their instruments. This is especially notable since Ian Anderson has claimed in the past that the song is a self-aware parody of the genre, coming about after critics interpreted Aqualung as a concept album (which I’ll definitely share my opinions on at some point!). In response, he created Thick as a Brick.

Now, what is notable about Thick as a Brick is that it is a relatively early development in the history of prog: it was released on January 7th, 1972, which was before:

Foxtrot by Genesis (released in the spring of 1972)

Close to the Edge by Yes (released in the summer of 1972)

Trilogy by ELP (released in the summer of 1972)

Dark Side of the Moon by Pink Floyd (released the winter of 1973)

Larks’ Tongue in Aspic by King Crimson (released in the spring of 1973)

Tales from Topographic Oceans AND Brain Salad Surgery, by Yes and ELP respectively (both released in the autumn of 1973)

This begs the question: if this is indeed a parody… what was it parodying?

Now, there were epic songs and concept albums in existence before Thick as a Brick: both of ELP’s prior albums had contained an epic song (“Tarkus”, released in 1971, and “Take a Pebble”, 1970), Pink Floyd had already done “Echoes”, and The Nice had done “Ars Longa Vita Brevis” all the way back in the 60s. However, the epic wasn’t really central to the prog genre yet, although the suite had existed for some time, and bands were experimenting with longer song forms. Besides, Jethro Tull wanted to move in a more progressive direction anyway, so why parody the form of music?

The parody of Thick as a Brick is not necessarily the music itself, although you could argue that it was exaggerating the music that already existed for comedic effect. However, Jethro Tull is considered a prog band after all, and this would not be the last of their prog works; what it is primarily parodying is the attitude of some prog musicians during the time period: to make their music longer, more experimental, more difficult to play, and more inaccessible to audiences. It does this by using jarring time signature changes, studio effects, some odd experimental sections, specifically in the second half, and of course, the length being double anything that came prior. Part of the parody, as well, is the concept: a child prodigy, writing about class conflict is reminiscent of both the backgrounds of many prog musicians and also reflective of how underqualified many of them are for making statements on political affairs, while also being the creation of a prog musician. They are simultaneously the overly confident and pretentious “wise men” that are described in the lyrics, and Bostock himself, making fun of the “wise men” while being a literal child and debating his own place in life. It is not a scathing criticism, however: the whole album does come from a place of respect for the musicians. Jethro Tull toured with several other prog bands and struck up friendships with various members of those bands, so it’s more of a reminder for prog musicians to take themselves less seriously.

Did they do that? Well… uh… no, not really. As evidenced by seeing what came out after Thick as a Brick, the music the prog musicians were making became even more ambitious and challenging, creating almost a self-fulfilling prophecy of Thick as a Brick being a parody. In fact, I’m willing to bet that at least one member of Yes saw this album, went, “Shit, Jethro Tull just made an album consisting entirely of one song, we’ve got to one-up Ian and the lads!”, and then proceeded to make Tales from Topographic Oceans. That’s not a diss towards Tales…, by the way, because I do love that album, but it is basically the very thing that Thick as a Brick was parodying, and it came out over a year after Thick as a Brick.

The unique thing about Thick as a Brick is that it is simultaneously a parody of the genre, while also making a genuine effort to make a prog album, so there is some sincerity in the themes that Anderson wrote about. It is comedic: how could anyone not laugh a little at the lines, “Your sperm’s in the gutter/ your love’s in the sink”, especially coming from a character that’s supposed to be a child? But, like any good parody, it also does have real messages and criticisms of not only progressive rock, but also British society in the 20th Century.

#prog rock #progressive rock #prog #jethro tull #thick as a brick #analytical essay

25 notes · View notes

seikilos-stele · 1 year

Note

What’s in a Name?

I’m not sure that I ever titled one of my asks before, but after pondering this particular topic, I think that I will start incorporating titles much like we do fics.

For about a year, I had the orphaned title of a fic, A Thing of Beauty stuck in my head. It was an orphan due to the fact that the title was so suggestive for a horror fic, that I could not due it justice. The title stole the thunder of the fic that never was. (Actually, I did eventually write/publish the fic as part of a group challenge, but its best that it remain lost to time 🤣) It set me to thinking about just how important naming a fic really is, so this brings me to the master of fic namers, @seikilos-stele . More familiarly known as Drac.

Welcome back to the Askers Studio™️ Drac, it’s that time again to rummage my brain and pick yours 🤣! Last night, when we were discussing ideas for a new fic, you almost halted mid-sentence and declared that once a name was chosen for this fic, it would practically write itself (which turned out to be true) Now, over the last few months, I have had a sneak peak at the process by which you go about choosing fic names & I have also experienced the gob-smacking significance of those names at varying points in your fics.

I am going to list three of the most profoundly named fics of yours below, and I would like you to tell us at what point they were named, whether the fic induced the name or the other way around. Or anything else you would like to add. I will add that either you have a repository of Shakespeare, poems, and Latin tucked away, or you have incredible recall abilities.

1. The Ferryman

This title was very subtle It does not occur to the reader until the very end, and then it becomes shockingly obvious. Since I had to make an illustrated map of Greek mythology, it was all to apparent who/what we were talking about: Charon. So many questions plagued me about this title/end!! Did you construct a whole fic around this poignantly connected title/ending?? This ranks in my top 5 of your fics, it is by no small part due to the title-end connection.

2. Out of the Woods

Welcome to my all-time favorite fic by Drac. Now, this title sneaks up on you fairly quickly. In fact, @coruscantiscribbler and I were reading it at the same time, and I gave my very elaborate geusstimation of what I thought was going on, and it turned out to be correct. But folks, my very clinical x-section of the plot did not due justice to the beauty & passion that was the fic, itself. The title is a phrase that I use all the time at work. I didn’t have to overthink it…the scenario was dire enough to remove all doubt

3. Requiscant

And here it is: the masterpiece of the Art of Hunger franchise (I seriously think this group of fics deserve their own category in your catalogue) Requiscant in Pace. One does not have to be altogether familiar with Latin to know this one. Stroll by any grave in an Italian cemetery and one will see it on all the stones. So, this was on my mind as I read this fic. A certain anxiety was boiling over as I read chapter to chapter. Finally, I blurted out the truth as I saw it, in the comments. Nadia assured me that I was correct. This revelation is like like cold claws scratching you from the inside. I want to know the genesis of naming this fic in particular, because the title holds the key to everything about this fic. Joint decision? You? Nadia?

It has been a pure joy ruminating about this topic since last night. I cannot wait to read your long, in-depth answer.

As an aside, I would love for other fic writers to pitch in with their own experiences in naming their fics!

Welcome back, Drac.

It’s good to see you again!!

…so this brings me to the master of fic namers, @seikilos-stele . More familiarly known as Drac.

🥺💙

Last night, when we were discussing ideas for a new fic, you almost halted mid-sentence and decided that once a name was chosen for this fic, it would practically write itself (which turned out to be true).

Yes!! Actually, the fic is called “And Thou No Breath At All”, and it’s done now! You can read it here. It’s a dark parasitic horror for Legends Thrawn.

Okay, let’s see. I really wish I’d kept notes on how I came up with titles now 💀 A lot of the time, I just write a oneshot and pull the title out of my ass when it’s complete, or if I’m writing from a prompt list, I just lazily slap the prompt itself on as a title, no matter how bad it is. But keeping in mind that two of these fics are a few years old, I’ll try to answer.

For “The Ferryman”, (yes, after Charon) when I named the document I was working on, I chose this title as filler. I knew my story would involve Ascendancy-era Thrawn receiving mysterious photographs of his childhood, and that he would visit Rentor with Ar’alani, Thalias, Samakro, and Che’ri to figure out where these photographs came from and who was sending them. I knew that the photos would eventually be revealed as coming from Thrass, and that the fic would explore Thrawn’s grief for his brother.

The rest wasn’t planned yet. It’s one of those stories where everything unfolds as you’re writing it. So the title definitely informed the rest of the fic. Because the WIP had “THE FERRYMAN” written on the header in big bold letters, whenever I finished a scene and wondered, “What should I do next?” I would glance up and start brainstorming about death. That’s how I got to the worldbuilding about Rentor’s local sea otters that ferry the souls of the dead across the sea; and that’s how Ar’alani and Thrawn end up in his childhood home, examining the little carvings that Thrawn’s dead father made of his children … and now Thrawn is the only survivor. That’s also how we came to see the shroud ceremony on the ice and finally the family fishing weights that were released into the sea in memory of Thrass.

For this fic, the title definitely informed and influenced the story itself. If I’d given it a temporary name like “Thrawn visits Rentor” or “Chiss family vacation” it would be a much shorter story, though it would still have a sad Thrass-related ending. I bet it would only be about 1K, and it wouldn’t particularly stand out from my other short angst fics. But also, “The Ferryman” was only meant to be temporary! I didn’t personally like it, and I always feel like I’m cheating when someone mentions it. Like I turned in an assignment where I spelled my name wrong XD

2. Out of the Woods

I really like this fic too! I knew what this one would be called as soon as the plot-bunny popped into my head. And yeah, it definitely informed the story again. This was another long oneshot, so the whole time I was writing, I had “OUT OF THE WOODS” in the header, and that helped me form the theme: it’s not just a cute cottagecore Thrawn/Pellaeon fic where they’re retired; it’s not just a spooky horror story; it’s got to be a story of recovery and escape.

So naturally, as the story unfolds, it becomes clear that Thrawn and Pellaeon are living in a false world of some sort, and slowly you uncover clues that one or both of them is trapped in a dream … or a neuromodulator … and all the pieces come together, and you realize this is a story about trauma and accepting help when you need it. Plus, with a pithy title like this, it makes it very easy to solidify your ending early on: Thrawn and Pellaeon will eventually leave their cottage behind and go out of the woods together.

(I had “into the woods and out of the woods and home before dark” stuck in my head the whole time I was writing this)

3. Requiescat

This is my favorite AoH too! And my favorite title on this list! And the lamest story about how I picked it!

I asked Nadia to be sure, and she confirmed my memory. The story behind this one is:

Nadia: “Have you thought of a title?” Me: “I was thinking Requiescat. How does that sound?” Nadia: “Yes, good title!”

The sad thing is, I’m certain there’s more to it. I know I had a whole other title picked out initially. And I know I was reading something, and stumbled across a passage somewhere that made me think of this… but as you know there was a lot going on in my life when I was writing Requiescat, so I don’t remember the details.

(Unfortunately, this title had no bearing on the fic whatsoever. Nadia and I had already hashed out the whole plot in detail more than a year before I selected it to write because I was bored and it just felt right at the time.)

I did find this early version of the fic that might interest you. I think all of this got cut and rewritten when I sent it to Nadia. It involves a Leia who’s not tied up, and a simple cave instead of a kings’ tomb.

****

Requiescat - a prayer for the repose of the dead

There was no light.

When the Noghri pushed her inside, Leia fell to her knees. The harsh slate floor tore through her fine linen robes like they were nothing; in the darkness she could feel flecks of stone embedded in her skin, the hot sting of blood, but she couldn’t see it. Not yet.

Behind her, a slab of stone slid into place, blocking off the last pale rays of sunlight. Shadow swallowed Leia whole. Strands of sweat-damp hair clung to her cheek; her own breathing was harsh in her ears.

“Fitting, I suppose,” said a voice in the dark.

Leia turned away. She placed her scraped palms against the makeshift door and pushed with all her might. It didn’t budge; it just left her shoulders sore and her elbows clicking. Straightening up she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She forced her emotion to swell and then dissipate: outrage, betrayal, a spark of fear, all of it faded away. In the emptiness that followed, there should have been the Force.

There wasn’t.

“Rukh is unusually intelligent for a Noghri,” said the voice in the dark: calm, cultured, bored. “And of course he’s been at my side for many years now. He was positioned perfectly both to understand the usefulness of my ysalamiri and to foresee a time when they might come in handy.”

The ysalamiri. Leia shifted until her back was against the stone slab. “He didn’t tell me he took an ysalamir with him,” she said.

“Why would he?” Thrawn asked. “Who do you suppose he planned to use them against?”

His voice broke a little. Not from emotion. He was hoarse, ragged, barely audible. That was only to be expected. For the past twelve hours he’d had nothing to eat or drink. While Leia sat on the sidelines on Thrawn’s old throne, the Noghri saw to her every need, plying her with local delicacies, all their most-edible foods and pleasing beverages. And just meters away, at the same time, Thrawn’s naked body hung on the makeshift gallows, his arms and legs tied to wooden posts, the sounds of torture and rape filling Leia’s ears.

He was supposed to be buried in here, or better yet, left on Honoghr’s poisoned plains for the birds to pick at his corpse. Leia wasn’t supposed to be in this stone tomb at all.

“You’re awfully calm about this mess,” Leia spat.

Thrawn hummed from the shadows. “I’ve had twelve hours to come to terms with death,” he said neutrally. “You’ve had forty-five minutes. Give it time.”

In her mind’s eye, Leia could see the pale sun glinting off Rukh’s knife as he cut Thrawn’s gag. The rules of Honoghran execution were clear. First came public humiliation --— for someone like Thrawn, who’d poisoned Honoghr and deceived his loyal soldiers for so long, that meant rape. Twelve executioners took their turns. Next came torture. On some planets it was called death by a thousand cuts. The Noghri were a bit too bloody for that term. They used knives, teeth, claws. They tore flesh from the bone, cauterized the wounds to stop the prisoner from bleeding, paused whenever he lost consciousness to ensure he felt every blow.

They left certain areas intact. His jugular. His genitals. His eyes, nose, lips, tongue. Those were saved for last. Those would be taken only when the dirt beneath him was so soaked with blood that it had become a muddy river.

But when Rukh cut Thrawn’s gag and placed his knife blade at the root of Thrawn’s tongue, the Grand Admiral spoke.

Vader poisoned Honoghr, he said. Not me.

And the Noghri could smell the honesty in his blood.

With a low growl, Leia smacked the stone wall. On the other side, there was a scrabble of claws and a reptilian hiss. Ysalamiri. Deeper in the walls, crawling through the tunnels, there was something else: small local animals burrowing through the stone. Leia whispered a curse.

“Be calm,” Thrawn advised. Her eyes were adjusting now, and Leia could just make him out. The Noghri had laid his broken body out on a horizontal slab of stone.

“Help me push,” Leia said. “If we work together…”

In the dark, two red slits appeared. Thrawn had opened his eyes.

“Help you push?” he repeated, a smile in his voice. “Come closer.”

Leia almost didn’t obey. But what did she have to lose? She pushed to her feet and crossed the cramped tomb slowly, careful not to trip over the uneven floor. Thrawn’s eyes put off a dim glow, but it wasn’t much use to her --— not until she was so close that every breath filled her lungs with the thick reek of blood and charred flesh. Thrawn’s eyes met hers, but his head didn’t move.

“This is all I can manage,” he said. “My lips. My eyes. Nothing else.”

Leia looked down at his body. It was wrapped tight in a linen shroud now, his wounds hidden from sight, but Leia knew what lurked just beneath the stained cloth. Massive strips of muscle had been stripped from his shoulders, his legs, his torso. There was hardly anything left on his arms or chest. Beneath the scent of copper and smoke there was something else, cloying and green and artificial.

“I thought they treated you,” Leia said, her voice coming out hushed. “When they took you away.”

Thrawn’s eyelids dipped. It was the closest to a nod that he could manage. “Rukh did,” he said. “He fed me an analgesic for the pain. He washed my wounds.” He met her eyes again. “What else can he do for me?” he asked.

There was no self-pity in his voice. His tone was matter-of-fact and unbothered. But a cold shadow swooped up from Leia’s stomach and enveloped her heart at the words. She walked backwards, blind, until her back hit the door and she slid once more to the rough ground. She would die here. Thrawn would die first; he would succumb to his injuries. Then what would she do? Would she eat his body to stay alive, to buy whatever short moments she could grasp? How long would it take her to die of thirst?

Leia let out a long slow breath. She buried her face against her scraped knees and tasted blood.

“Peace,” Thrawn said, like it was an order. “You won’t be here long.”

Leia laughed to herself. “You have a rescue team coming?” she asked.

Surely he did. It wouldn’t take the Imperials long to reach Honoghr. A few days, at most. But Thrawn didn’t bother to answer the question directly; perhaps he realized that Imperial capture for her wouldn’t be much better than being entombed.

“You have a rescue team coming,” he said. “Your brother will be here before the Chimaera arrives.”

“Excellent,” Leia said sharply. “So the Noghri can strip the Force away from him and throw him in here to die as well.”

Thrawn was silent for so long that it made her feel silly. She sniffed and raised her head, peering through the dark at him. Red light cast strange shadows over his face, but he didn’t look frightened, didn’t look irritated. His features were relaxed, eyes hooded. He looked thoughtful, composed … and suddenly Leia was aware of the way her lips were twisting, the ugly pinch of her eyebrows. She smoothed her face into a politician’s mask.

“The Noghri have no quarrel with your brother,” said Thrawn softly.

Leia swallowed another dark laugh. “He’s Vader’s blood, too.”

“But he did not lie to them,” said Thrawn. His eyes shifted away. Red light bounced off the tomb’s stone walls. “To the Noghri, Vader was a god. A god is permitted to be capricious, temperamental. If he poisoned Honoghr, then that was his right, and the Noghri will rationalize that they must have deserved it.”

Leia frowned. It made a certain amount of sense to her. There were old gods on Alderaan who tortured the mortals at will, cursed them with painful disfigurements, turned them into wretched animals. But…

“But then why would they punish you?” asked Thrawn, reading her mind. “Because in Noghri tradition, the gods do not lie. You lied to them; therefore, despite your divine blood, you cannot be a god.”

Leia wrapped her arms around her knees. “You lied to them,” she murmured.

“So I did. And here I am.” A quiet huff escaped from Thrawn’s lips. Maybe it was his version of a laugh; Leia couldn’t tell. “Besides,” he said softly, “I only sat on their throne. I was never their god.”

A damp chill rustled through the tomb. Leia swallowed, her throat so dry it clicked. The seam where the slab met the wall was near her left ear, but as hard as she listened, she still couldn’t hear anything outside. She wanted to hear the scream of a Y-wing’s engines, the shouts of frightened Noghri, the hum of a lightsaber. But everything outside was still and calm.

“Are you…” she started.

Red lights blinked on and off in the dark.

“Are you in pain?” Leia asked, her voice stilted.

She listened for his breathing, but she couldn’t hear it. Too quiet.

“No,” Thrawn said finally. He sounded younger now, less sure of himself. Like the show of concern put him on the back foot. Overhead, a pebble fell from the ceiling and there was a snuffling noise as a small, unintelligent animal poked its nose through a hole in the stone.

Would the air run out before they died of thirst? No, there was a breeze coming from the very top of the tomb. No light, but at least a little air. Leia shifted in her spot and kneaded her temples. Water dripped from the damp stones overhead, with one study droplet landing close to Thrawn’s ear. He couldn’t move his head away from the puddle that formed, and Leia couldn’t bring herself to help him; her limbs were heavy, her tongue frozen.

“I have a message for you to deliver,” said Thrawn.

A laugh bubbled into Leia’s throat. She closed her lips tight against it, but still, when she spoke, she could hear it in her own voice, harsh and ugly. “Last words for a lover?” she asked.

“In a sense.”

Leia’s stomach rolled. When she blinked she saw Han’s soft smile, felt his callused hands against her skin. She could hear her children crying for her from a galaxy away and suddenly there was a sour gush of bile on her tongue. “Tell me,” she said. “I’ll memorize it.”

Red eyes bored into her through the shadows. What kind of family did Thrawn have? She didn’t think of Imperials as family men, certainly not high-ranking officers like him, but of course she’d danced with them at balls, shaken hands with their children, probed their wives for intel over tea. She imagined Thrawn with a child in his arms, and just an hour ago she would have laughed at the image, but now it made her feel sick.

“For Voss Parck on Nirauan,” Thrawn said. “Tell him you come with my approval. Ask him about the Far Outsiders.”

Him. Leia sat up a little straighter, her eyes sharpening. The tightness in her throat faded away.

“Voss Parck,” she said. “A military colleague?”

“Yes,” said Thrawn. “An old friend. And a valuable ally in the coming war. You will need his assistance, his resources, if you wish to survive.”

The coming war, he said. Slowly, Leia got to her feet. She wove toward the glowing red lights of Thrawn’s eyes like she was in a daydream, and when she reached his side, she loomed over his body, her fingers clenched tight in the folds of her robes.

“What do you mean, the coming war?” she asked, her voice low. By instinct, she called to the Force, begging it to help her read him — but it didn’t answer. In the darkness, near the shell of Thrawn’s ear, something shifted — a glint of light shining off a carapace, a cave beetle scratching at his skin. It wasn’t the only one. His hair moved gently, subtly, as insect legs picked across his scalp. “You didn’t say anything,” said Leia in a murmur, biting back her horror. She brushed the beetles from his face, tried not to think about how futile it was, how many other creatures were waiting in the dark to feast on him while he lay paralyzed. A drop of cold water plopped down from the ceiling and splattered on the stone slab right next to Thrawn’s head. Dim, dull eyes stared up at her, expressionless: not wincing from the beetles, not thanking her for chasing them away.

“There are forces in this galaxy -- outside this galaxy -- that could destroy entire systems in one sweep,” Thrawn said, his voice soft. Leia combed her fingers through his hair and then left them there, curled in Thrawn’s black, blood-matted locks. Her thumb stroked against his temple: cold skin, scraped and sore. “Forces that would destroy us, gladly,” Thrawn went on. “My people know of them. They’ve consumed everything there is to consume in their own galaxy; some years ago, they made their way across the border, into ours. I’ve seen the destruction firsthand.”

His voice fractured. His words folded in on themselves. His eyes closed, all light fading.

“Work with the Empire,” he said in the darkness. “Find Voss Parck. He has resources you’ll need. Allies. Information.”

#my asks #thrawn

10 notes · View notes

genesis365 · 1 year

Text

#16

4/2 of April Poetry Month Prompt: Write a poem titled "Frozen"

Frozen

it's a time thing.

Like moments passing you

while you stand

still.

Frozen.

Not in the let it go sense

more like

put your coat on

You don't want

to be found

frozen.

I feel the thawing

like a preserved sense of

myself protected from

time - almost ready

to move.

Bend again.

Feeling air around my fingertips at a

pace where every

sensation

is the potential of rebirth.

❤️ Genesis

#365 #expression #365dias #poetry #365 challenge #the journey #april poetry #poetrymonth

8 notes · View notes

cyarskaren52 · 1 year

Text

OPINION

Memorial Day: The Authentic Story Of How This Holiday Came Into Being

The early evolution of the Memorial Day holiday was a manifestation of President Lincoln’s hope for reconciliation between North and South.

Written byRichard Gardiner

Published onMay 28, 2023

NewsOne Featured Video

Black American soldiers stand beside the graves of their fallen comrades from the present Normandy war to fire a volley in their memory during Memorial Day. The memorial was held at Blosville American Cemetery (Blosville Temporary Cemetery Memorial) near Sainte-Mère-Église, France, on June 13, 1945. | Source: Archive Photos / Getty

In the years following the bitter Civil War, a former Union general took a holiday originated by former Confederates and helped spread it across the entire country.

The holiday was Memorial Day, an annual commemoration was born in the former Confederate States in 1866 and adopted by the United States in 1868. It is a holiday in which the nation honors its military dead.

Gen. John A. Logan, who headed the largest Union veterans’ fraternity at that time, the Grand Army of the Republic, is usually credited as being the originator of the holiday.

Yet when General Logan established the holiday, he acknowledged its genesis among the Union’s former enemies, saying, “It was not too late for the Union men of the nation to follow the example of the people of the South.”

I’m a scholar who has written – with co-author Daniel Bellware – a history of Memorial Day. Cities and towns across America have for more than a century claimed to be the holiday’s birthplace, but we have sifted through the myths and half-truths and uncovered the authentic story of how this holiday came into being.

Generous acts bore fruit

During 1866, the first year of this annual observance in the South, a feature of the holiday emerged that made awareness, admiration and eventually imitation of it spread quickly to the North.

During the inaugural Memorial Day observances which were conceived in Columbus, Georgia, many Southern participants – especially women – decorated graves of Confederate soldiers as well as, unexpectedly, those of their former enemies who fought for the Union.

Shortly after those first Memorial Day observances all across the South, newspaper coverage in the North was highly favorable to the ex-Confederates.

“The action of the ladies on this occasion, in burying whatever animosities or ill-feeling may have been engendered in the late war towards those who fought against them, is worthy of all praise and commendation,” wrote one paper.

On May 9, 1866, the Cleveland Daily Leader lauded the Southern women during their first Memorial Day.

“The act was as beautiful as it was unselfish, and will be appreciated in the North.”

The New York Commercial Advertiser, recognizing the magnanimous deeds of the women of Columbus, Georgia, echoed the sentiment. “Let this incident, touching and beautiful as it is, impart to our Washington authorities a lesson in conciliation.”

Power of a poem

To be sure, this sentiment was not unanimous. There were many in both parts of the U.S. who had no interest in conciliation.

But as a result of one of these news reports, Francis Miles Finch, a Northern judge, academic and poet, wrote a poem titled “The Blue and the Gray.” Finch’s poem quickly became part of the American literary canon. He explained what inspired him to write it:

“It struck me that the South was holding out a friendly hand, and that it was our duty, not only as conquerors, but as men and their fellow citizens of the nation, to grasp it.”

Finch’s poem seemed to extend a full pardon to the South: “They banish our anger forever when they laurel the graves of our dead” was one of the lines.

Almost immediately, the poem circulated across America in books, magazines and newspapers. By the end of the 19th century, school children everywhere were required to memorize Finch’s poem. The ubiquitous publication of Finch’s rhymemeant that by the end of 1867, the southern Memorial Day holiday was a familiar phenomenon throughout the entire, and recently reunited, country.

General Logan was aware of the forgiving sentiments of people like Finch. When Logan’s order establishing Memorial Day was published in various newspapers in May 1868, Finch’s poem was sometimes appended to the order.

‘The blue and the grey’

It was not long before Northerners decided that they would not only adopt the Southern custom of Memorial Day, but also the Southern custom of “burying the hatchet.” A group of Union veterans explained their intentions in a letter to the Philadelphia Evening Telegraph on May 28, 1869:

“Wishing to bury forever the harsh feelings engendered by the war, Post 19 has decided not to pass by the graves of the Confederates sleeping in our lines, but divide each year between the blue and the grey the first floral offerings of a common country. We have no powerless foes. Post 19 thinks of the Southern dead only as brave men.”

Other reports of reciprocal magnanimity circulated in the North, including the gesture of a 10-year-old who made a wreath of flowers and sent it to the overseer of the holiday, Colonel Leaming, in Lafayette, Indiana, with the following note attached, published in The New Hampshire Patriot on July 15, 1868:

“Will you please put this wreath upon some rebel soldier’s grave? My dear papa is buried at Andersonville, (Georgia) and perhaps some little girl will be kind enough to put a few flowers upon his grave.”

President Abraham Lincoln’s wish that there be “malice toward none” and ��charity for all” was visible in the magnanimous actions of participants on both sides, who extended an olive branch during the Memorial Day observances in those first three years.

Although not known by many today, the early evolution of the Memorial Day holiday was a manifestation of Lincoln’s hope for reconciliation between North and South.

Richard Gardiner, Associate Professor of History Education, Columbus State University

This article is republished from The Conversationunder a Creative Commons license. Read the original article.