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behind-the-screen-of-bangtan · 5 years

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The poet born from the Sea

This post is part of the TSU. It belongs to the second part: Towards adulthood.

In “Skit: on the start line”, RM concludes the monologue about his fears while he was a trainee with a metaphor:

[...]I am as inconsequential as a speck of dust. It’s as if though before me lies the bluest ocean, and if I turn to look back, a vast desert. In this hourglass-like mindset, in this mood, I spent my three years as a trainee. And now, my debut is finally drawing near. Even after I debut, new oceans and new deserts will likely await me. I am not afraid, because what has made me who I am are the oceans and deserts I have witnessed until this moment. I will never forget the oceans and deserts I have seen.

This image of deserts and seas is one of the most recurrent in Bangtan’s discography. Don’t mix it with the link between Jimin and water though.

The biggest occurrence of this idea is during 화양연화 (The Most Beautiful Moment Life). It starts in the concept for 화양연화 Pt.1 and in the last scene of “I NEED U” (original ver.).

There are 3 concepts: “In Bloom”, “Unrest”, and “Daydream” - that’s set at the same seashore as the end of “I NEED U”.

The pictures were accompanied by poems by Arthur Rimbaud, including a verse from “The drunken boat”:

Then I bathed in the Poem of the Sea, Infused with stars, the milk-white spume blends, Grazing green azures: where ravished, bleached Flotsam, a drowned man in dream descends.

And one from “Eternity”:

It’s found we see. What? – Eternity. It’s the sun, free To flow with the sea.

Jean Richier made interesting interpretations of Rimbaud’s poems in L'Alchimie du verbe de Rimbaud - note however that these interpretations were made on the original texts in French and thus can’t apply on the English translations used here so Big Hit’s artistic team most likely don’t know about it.

Details can be found in the glossary but to summarize, the verse from the “Drunken Boat” refers to Rimbaud’s beginning as a poet and the one from “Eternity” has hidden meanings such as human ignoring their god, and words, the main element in poesy, ending by death. There’s also a strong association between the sea and motherhood - for example, Rimbaud as a poet is born from the "Poem of the Sea”.

Similar ideas can be found in BTS pictures. The main theme of The Most Beautiful Moment in Life is Youth, which implies the death of childhood (also supported by the poem “The sleeper in the valley” used with these pictures):

And the birth of adolescence (from a pond):

The other two concepts are placed in parallel in the two books. “Unrest” is set in a flat and is in color while “Daydream” is set by the sea and is in black and white.

The second one could be their longing for the past (thus the black and white) and the mother sea.

The first one could be the present, namely the newborn youth (they’re still wet) facing the dangers of the youth (the exact theme of 화양연화 Pt.1 as explained in the 151208 interview from MV Bank Stardust for “RUN” around 3:40): alcohol, drugs, loneliness, death...

We find the same thing in “I NEED U” (original ver.): sad and alone in most of the MV but together and happier when they’re at the sea. They come back to the sea to escape reality, especially the two boys that possibly suffered the most in the BU: Seokjin and Taehyung. Indeed, Taehyung faces the sea again in the Prologue, he tries to jump to escape his crime but we see in “RUN” that he’s drowning instead of finding peace. As for Seokjin, the end of the Highlight Reel and his poster show how much he’s missing the sea - both the sea from the BU and the reassuring mother sea. He replaces Taehyung at the top of the scaffolder in Euphoria but instead of jumping, he frees himself from his camera by throwing it in the sea. All these videos - excepted “RUN” - also have a shot of the sea in common:

Lastly, note that this second birth could also be assimilated with the beginning of the boys as artists, just like Rimbaud. It’s supported by the picture of V associated with the verse from “the drunken boat”:

He’s writing while being in the water, like a literal poet from the sea.

In 화양연화 Pt.2, the sea is slightly less present but still here:

This picture is placed in the middle of the photobooks, between the “Je Ne Regrette Rien” and the “Papillon” concepts. The boys oscillate between those two worlds, one being the reality and the other a dream. Just like they swang between “Unrest” and “Daydream”.

We thus have people in a foreign world, so aliens, who come from the water, like whales. Cue “Whalien 52″! (don’t complain about my humor, I know no one’s reading this).

Lonely lonely lonely whale Like this, try calling once again Until this song that doesn’t have a response Reaches tomorrow

The song can be about both the youth and the artist/celebrity not fitting in the world, how they feel lonely because they’re different - like the 52-Hz whale is lonely because it can’t communicate with other whales (more details can be found in Muish’s rambling).

Sadly for the youth/artist, they’re going to wander in the world for a certain time before they can find another sea. It’s the story seen in “Save Me” (they’re at a beach without any sea, so like a desert) and told in “Lost”, the only song from the Wings series including the image of the sea and the desert:

I’m still standing here with my eyes closed Lost between the deserts and oceans I’m still wandering Where should I go yeah I didn’t know there were this many Paths I can’t go and paths I can’t take I never felt this way before Am I becoming an adult?

Just like in “Skit: on the start line”, the boy is walking between the desert and the sea.

Love Yourself is the next step. In this series, the yellow and blue colors were heavily used (details here). Yet, there’s almost no view of the sea.

The first mention is in “Best Of Me”:

Though I’ve not seen the end for me too If such an end exists, would that be you Though I wished for tender waves Why didn’t I know that you are the sea How am I speaking your language And also breathing your breath I’ll be you you who’s grasping on I meet your lips on the knife

The whole Love Yourself 承 Her album is about finding a destined love, so the sea. It’s confirmed in “Serendipity”. Jimin is in a yellow room figuring the desert and the sea is right in front of him.

Sadly, as explained in the hidden track “바다 (Sea)” and later in Love Yourself 轉 Tear, this sea was actually a desert - just like a mirage, you see it but you can’t reach it.

Is this place that I’ve reached really the sea, or is it a blue desert?

The sea ending up being a desert can also be seen in “FAKE LOVE (extended ver.)” MV with the transformation of the main room:

The boy interrupted his search of the sea in Love Yourself 結 Answer, the time for him to realize he had to love himself first before trying to find the sea. Now that he’s done with that, he’s finally rewarded in Map of the Soul Persona, where he meets the ARMY Bomb ocean:

It’s confirmed in both “Make it right”:

Across the desert and the seas I wandered across the Wide wide world Baby I

[...] In the desert that I waded through without you, I’m thirsty So please quickly come and hold me I know that the sea without you Will be just like a desert in the end

And “HOME”:

I left home Hoping that all of these imaginations Won’t end as a mere mirage

[...] I felt like I could achieve anything I wanted I saw the ocean yeah Before I even opened this door Oh yeah

BTS has found their sea, their source of hope and love in ARMY. And with all this power, they turn from a poet to a god and change the water (love) in wine (art) in “Dionysus”:

Right now I’m in front of the door of the world The cheers that I hear when I step on the stage Can’t you see my stacked Broken thyrsus Now I’m born again, finally

[...] Born as a Kpop idol The reborn artist The reborn artist The reborn artist

[...] Drink it all up up up My wine glass ay Everyone fall in in in Into the crazy artist One glass one shot Two glasses two shots Drunk on art, sing it Ong-heya

#BTS #TSU #towards adulthood

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uniqueharreh · 5 years

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Poems For Her - Chapter Two

P R E V I O U S CHAPTER

I started visiting the café often, maybe in hope to see your beautiful eyes again, maybe in the hope our eyes will meet. I even tried some sweet stuff from the menu, to try to understand you. To see what your tastes are. And they were quite delightful.

But it was around ten days since you haven’t shown up at all. Not even for a go to coffee. I swallowed my pride a few times and asked the waiter for you even. After I entered the café a few more times, he already shook his hand in a sign that you haven’t been there the entire day.

I was wondering what were you doing. Maybe you moved out of the country, or maybe you were here just getting inspiration for your art, that’s literally what I do. Or maybe you found better café, that was quieter and without weird strangers staring at you. I shouldn’t stare at you that much, right?

But I stare at the sun often, even though I know my eyes will get watery and hurt a bit afterward. I can’t seem to look away from beautiful things in life. They just kind of make you to stare, to get in all the beauty, to appreciate the little imperfections. I’m sorry I couldn’t look away.

I was in the middle of my second tea, humming a melody to the lyrics I have written when you sat right in front of me, across the whole café. Sometimes I even looked there in the hope you’d be sitting there, sipping on your black coffee. And maybe having the first taste of a cake sitting in front of you.

I couldn’t get the melody quite right, and it was already bumming me, my band loved the lyrics. They even asked if it’s about anyone in particular. I lied. I didn’t need to be mocked from being head over heels for you, and not talking to you even. Maybe you were a horrible person, the kind of person everyone keeps the distance from. But I might even never find out now because you stopped going there.

It was maybe an hour to closing when doors opened and the little bell announced a new customer, I didn’t even have to look up, to know it was you. During the rainy day, your presence seemed like it was mid-summer and everyone was trying to hide from the sunshine. I smiled, when I saw you taking your usual spot. But you didn’t seem alright.

Your nose was a bit red, and your eyes were bit watery. You seemed like you had a cold. You left your golden locks out of your bun, the second you sat down and looked around. Meeting my eyes, staring into them for a bit, before you formed a small and tired smile on your face. My left lip had risen a bit more than the other.

You weren’t even writing, Celine. You were just sitting there, enjoying your coffee and trying to choose something from the menu. The waiter stopped at you for longer than usual, you had a sincere conversation, you both laughed at something and after he took your final order, he left. But your eyes found mine again. And you stood up, walking right to my table.

I would lie if I said that my heart wasn’t beating fast. Faster than usual. Faster than before or after sex. Or any adrenaline sport I was forced to do by my friends.

“Hello, Jean over there told me you’ve been asking after me?” your English was perfect, a bit of a French accent, but I could tell you were fluent. “I’m Celine.”

I should probably close my mouth, maybe even wipe out the drool forming in the corner of my mouth. She was so beautiful, your voice was kind of high pitched, yet not squeaky. It was sort of calming, comforting even.

I.. uh... should answer. Please answer now so you don’t look like a staring weirdo.

“I, yes. I’m Harry.” I offered to shake your hand and you accepted. Thank God you did, because I got to feel the softness of your palms. You sat in front of me.

“So, what do you do for a living Harry? You’re not from here, are you?” you had a beautiful smile, the one that brightens your day in the morning, even though you had a pretty shitty week.

“I am a musician, singer. I try to be a songwriter, so, that’s basically why I am in Paris. To get inspiration.” I smiled at you, I noticed that you were focusing yourself a lot on what I was saying and it took you a second to process all that.

“A singer? Where from the UK are you?”

“I was born in Cheshire, but now I am living in Manchester and London, it’s kind of fifty situations.” I smiled politely at you. “How did you know I’m from England?” I started laughing a bit, already knowing what got me caught.

“Well, you have a very strong accent.” you were laughing with me, but not full from the heart, more like a giggle saying “you fool”.

“Your accent is very beautiful,” I said all of sudden and I noticed your cheeks to turn a bit reddish.

“You are a straight forward man, aren’t you, Harry?” you smiled at me brightly. “So, got any songs inspired by the beautiful Paris?” you sat on the chair in front of mine and watched my every move. I didn’t know how to tell you, that you inspired one. I never did that with anyone. Maybe my sister, Gemma. She inspired many soft rock ballads because she was one of the purest people walking on the Earth.

She was that kind of person, who cared. She cared if other’s were well informed, she tried to change the knowledge of the public, and it was going well. She was well praised for what she was doing, and how she was using her platform. She was all about social media, while I was quite opposite.

“One yes, but I think you’d have to hear it for yourself when it’s out.” I smiled mischievously and you started laughing.

“You think I’d like your music?”

“I think you might. Depends on your taste.”

“I don’t really listen to many new artists, to be honest. I’m staying faithful to music like Fleetwood Mac, Rolling Stones, Queen. A lot of those, maybe even Amy Winehouse, I really love her.” your eyes were playing multiple colors and you had a bit of a sparkle in them, you loved talking about your taste. About what you love and what makes you happy.

“I see we have similar music taste.” I smiled nicely, and you looked me in the eyes, staring for a bit and then let out a quiet chuckle. You were so lively, an open book. But it was confusing to read in you.

“What song you like from Fleetwood Mac? I think I love Dreams the most.”

“Personal favorite? I can’t really tell. There’s too many. But currently, it’s You Make Loving Fun. I would love to play with them once. Or at least to meet them, to be honest. Stevie Nicks is my hero. One of my inspiration in music. In why I do what I do.” I said honestly, even though many people thought it was weird to have a woman as a musical inspiration.

“It’s interesting. You saying a woman musician is your inspiration. Many ordinary men would be ashamed to admit that.” and you said, what everyone was thinking. “But it’s interesting in a good way. I think some female artists don’t get enough credit only because they are women. So, when a man is brave enough to admit, that woman inspired him. I find it beautiful. And so pure.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, it shows you clearly have a beautiful and brave soul.”

“Thank you, really, it means a lot, coming from you.”

* * *

We talked a lot. You let me get to know you, but as a perfect lady, you never let out too much. You know how to keep me around, and how to keep me interested. After Jean, the waiter interrupted us because of the café closing, we decided to take a walk. Maybe I could walk you home, is what I was thinking.

“Are your books in English as well?”

“What, are you interested to read my poetry?” she started laughing as if it was so weird to long after reading what her mind puts together.

“I love poetry. So yes. Nothing to laugh about out.”

“You’re so feminine.” I think that you were the first person in my entire life to ever address that. I was indeed in touch with my feminine side. I loved exploring who I am, and maybe two, three years ago, I just realize that liking some feminine clothes and activities wasn’t wrong.

“I know, I’m quite proud of that.” I laughed a bit nervously.

“Really? I think it’s interesting.” and you thought a lot of things about me were interesting, but your tone never specified whether it was a good interesting or bad interesting. “I think, the world needs more men that aren’t toxically masculine. That isn’t afraid to admit they like something, that is by society declared as a women’s thing.”

“Are you actually reading my mind?” I looked at you a bit shocked and stopped walking.

“Do you think so as well? Interesting.” you let out a wonderful smile, followed by a giggle. I think I fell in love. And I barely knew you.

“So, your books, are they in English? We kind of walked away from that topic with more important talk.”

“Yes, they’re translated, I think, they sound better in French though.”

“Everything sounds better in original, doesn’t it?”

“Of course, Harry. Everything is the best when it’s not edited when it just sort of comes out of your mouth, you know. It doesn’t take away the substance from the original art, the mood I was when I was writing the piece. Some poetry is just meant to be written in the original language. But of course, it’s a business to some.”

“You seem pretty upset, about the additional translate.” I noticed you were frowning your brows a bit, and after I mentioned you being upset, you took a deep breath, maybe even counted to ten.

“Oh not at all. Just a bit disappointed.”

I nodded, because you were already lost in your thoughts, and we just walked in silence. You, Celine, you were an incredible woman, worth thousands of songs written about you. You deserved any artist this world had to offer, to get inspired by you. Your mind was a magical place, and I was glad, I was the one privileged to take a walk with you. Even without talking, I felt our connection.

“Sing me something,” you said all of sudden, interrupting me from my thoughts about you.

“You want me to sing?” I laughed a little and cleared my throat.

“Of course, it’d be a pity if you couldn’t serenade me.”

“You want me to serenade you? But I don’t have my guitar with me.” I laughed nervously. I never serenaded anyone. I just didn’t have the chance. And oh Celine, I'd sing all your favorite songs just to make you happy. And I felt a bit like a fool, to fall for a woman like you. So easily. So deeply.

“We could go to your place, you could play your guitar and we could order some food. In exchange, I could read you some of my poetry?” you were certain about the activities, your cheeks a bit red. But you were sure you want to get to know me, your body language showed it clearly.

“Is that a date?”

“Rendez-vous,” you said with your beautiful French accent, and I nearly fell to my knees for you.

Rendez-vous it was.

#harry styles fluff #harry styles blurb #harry styles imagines #harry styles fan fiction #poem for her #writing #writer #poetry #french girl #harry styles

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vickittyy · 6 years

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Tag Game

Tagged by : @sunhumbird thank youuu so much <3

Name: Viktoria

Middle name: Stanislavova

Zodiac sign: Aries

Height: 5′4 (164-165cm)

Language: Bulgarian, English, French (and a little bit of Italian)

Favorite fruit: WATERMELON <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3

Favorite scent: mmm...

Favorite color: black and lilac purple and green but the darker shades of the green.

Favourite fictional character: too many... - Arima Kishou( TG), Griffith (Berserk), Kamishiro Rize (tg), Furuta Nimura (tg), Amon Kotaro (tg), Eto (tg), All of the The Lord of the Ring and Harry Potter, also Hobbit and many from Bleach - Ukitake, Ichimaru Gin, Rangiku Matsumoto AND AIZEN-SAMA, AIZEN- SAMA <3 <3 <3 <3

Favourite candy: idk honestly, i really like chocolate bonbons

Favourite holiday: Christmas

Songs on repeat: right now PLEDIS Girlz(플레디스 걸즈) - 아낀다 (Adore U) and Sanctify - Years and Years

Average hours of sleep: a lot... like 10-11 even 12

How many blankets sleep with: 1

Dream Trip: Japan, Korea, France and England

Dream job: ughh...it should be something artish like organization of events or working in a creative media team

Grab the nearest book, page 23, line 17:

(records of guinness XD) there isn’t line 17 but line 7 is : ‘‘On the picture you can see the Northern Lights (Aurora Borealis) in the region of the Grand Slave Lake in the northwest part of Canada.

Have you ever had a song or poem written about you?

Yes, it was in 6-7th grade when I liked one boy and one of my bff-s wrote a mini poem about me and him. It’s really funny and I still keep it.

What’s a sound you hate and a sound you love?:

Hate: some awfully annoying motorbikes and yeh, my alarm

Love: Rain and thunders, birds, fire

Do you believe in aliens?: Of course I do! I am one! ;) ok no joking, it’s not possible to be alone in the Universe.

Do you drive?: i don’t really want to drive

What’s the last book you read?: The third part of a Bulgarian historical novel by Dimitar Talev - ‘‘The Iron Candlestick’‘ - Ilinden ( like the day of Ilin, idk how to translate it)

Any current obsessions?: playing world of warcraft, yeh, i am so obsessed with that game...since like 6th grade ;;;

Do you hold grudges against those who wronged you?: Everyone makes mistakes, i am a really good person so I forgive to most of my friends but I also remember what bad they have done to me.

Reason for url: it’s from one anime I watched 2-3 years ago - Dantalian no Shoka OVA - Ibarahime (literal meaning Sleeping Beauty; Thorn Princess; Briar Rose ) tho in the anime it was something like ‘‘ The Black Princess)

I tag: I’d be curious to see what i don’t tag anyone because idk anyone else who would do this ;;;

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nickscorza · 7 years

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This is a story of mine I’ve been unable to find a home for. I don’t normally do this, but I’ve decided to post it here, because it seems kind of scarily relevant in a way it wasn’t when I first wrote it:

To the Backers of the New Tongues Anthology of Poetry in Translation

This morning I received a package—a jumbled scree of handwritten notes, in no discernable order, stuffed into a Manila envelope that looked like it had passed through three layers of hell. The handwriting is Allison’s. It is the last word I have received from her, and I am afraid it is the last I ever will…

Forgive me, let me start again.

I owe you an explanation, or at the very least an apology. You have generously shared your support for literature that as I’m sure you know receives far too little attention in the English language, and now it’s my unfortunate duty to inform you that there will be no New Tongues anthology.

As to why that is, well, I will share with you the same information I shared with the police. Perhaps you will be able to make sense of it where they or I could not.

The anthology was to consist of poetry from twelve languages little-read in English, translated by Allison, myself and ten other poets of note, each paired with a native speaker and scholar of her or his nation’s literature. It is a reflection of the high esteem I hold Allison’s abilities as a poet that I chose [redacted] for her. I understand it is somewhat notorious among linguists. It certainly had nothing to do with our history. As for the country itself, I hear it is one of those tiny European principalities whose main industry is serving as a tax shelter.

The thing is, I know I did research when planning New Tongues, but I can hardly recall anything about [redacted]. I can’t even seem to find it on a map.

For weeks, my messages went unreturned. When I came to her apartment, no one would answer the door. Then I received the notes.

I have tried my best to put them into readable order, and to take other precautions I hesitate to believe are necessary, yet which I cannot also bring myself to do without:

--M

…just my luck this ‘Mr. Note’ lives miles from the nearest subway, in a part of Brooklyn that’s all dingy old townhouses like rows of molars. It’s the kind of place you can’t tell is safe or not from first glance because it’s so quiet, like a De Chirico painting with uglier buildings – a blank street that could be anywhere in the world.

What kind of a name is ‘Mr. Note,’ anyway? Is he English? I thought I was supposed to be working with a native [redacted] speaker. Then again, I wouldn’t put it past Malcolm to beg me to participate in his little project, then give me an assignment designed to make him look good by comparison. Good one, Mal.

I feel compelled to point out the falsity of this. I chose [redacted] for Allison because she is the greatest poet I know. The past is dead, and I harbor no more hard feelings. -M

Mr. Note’s building looks just like all the others – four units each, with buzzers by the door. His just says ‘NOTE,’ an imperative sandwiched between three other names whose ethnicity I can’t determine. Maybe we’ll hit it off and he’ll let me call him by his first name. Maybe it’s ‘PostIt.’

“Who are you?” his voice crackles in the speaker, old and gruff. What kind of accent is that? I can’t place it.

“Allison Mandel, the poet, from the anthology.”

“The what?”

“New Tongues, the poetry anthology.”

“New tongues adorn the palace gates. They blacken in the sun.”

The speaker dies in a burst of static.

A few moments later, the door unlocks with a buzz like angry wasps…

“You are a poet?” His first words are a brusque question, as if he cannot believe what he sees.

I grimace, bracing myself for a fresh pile of old world macho bullshit. I’ve heard it all before; all the bitter, fungal professors that see your mere existence as a desecration of their favorite literary corpse-host. Every university seems to sprout at least one.

Watching Allie lay into a pompous Pound scholar at a faculty luncheon is among my most cherished memories of our time together. -M

Cable news is on a constant drone in the background. Oh lord, Mr. Note is some kind of political nutjob.

Then something in his pinched little face softens, and I think, it’s not that, it’s something else. He’s small, no taller than my shoulder, and stooped. His skin is etched everywhere by age, creased and blotched. Only his hair could be called beautiful, fine and almost pure white – so delicate it is like the ghost of hair.

“Forgive me,” he says. “It is only that poetry means something different in our language.”

Well, I have my work cut out for me.

Most good translations are the work of a poet and a scholar – and both will tell you good translations are impossible. Classical Chinese poems, for example, gain significance by their characters’ lateral as well as vertical arrangement – a web of meaning we can’t echo in English. Languages have different tenses and thus different views of time. Vestigial lumps in one tongue are the beating hearts of others. If you keep at it long enough, you start to think we’re not all living in the same world.

I brought a copy of Bridal Flats with me in case Mr. Note wanted to read my work. He stares at it, confused, through little half-spectacles, as if I have handed him a pinned insect. At his shirt cuff I can see the blue-black lines of a tattoo that must creep further up his arm. I wouldn’t have picked him as the tattoo type.

He smiles as he reads my collection, real delight showing in his face, and I feel bad for my early appraisals of him. Then he seems to remember something troubling – I can almost see the other shoe dropping in his brain. His face sags into a frown.

“This will not work. It is a terrible idea,” he says.

I swallow all the things I want to say to him. Instead I point to the table.

“Show me. Teach me about your poetry.”

He laughs, short and bitter, but he obliges me.

We open a musty old book in his language. The alphabet is Latin, but the words are flecked with accents and strange marks I can’t guess the significance of. Neither my fluent French nor my smattering of German is of any use. Not a single word evokes anything familiar. I cannot even imagine the pronunciation.

“What do you know of [redacted]?” he asks.

“Nothing.”

“I am not surprised. We are so small, and ours is an orphan tongue, with less family than even Finnish, Hungarian or Basque.”

He hands me a battered spiral notebook.

“These are some transliterations I began. In [redacted] the originals have a rhyme and meter which is quite complex.”

I am surprised he has done even this much—he seems so opposed to the project, but I think I can see a glimmer of desire as he watches me read over his rough, literal translations. Some secret part of him has wanted this very much.

“The apple has a radius of

1.9 inches. It is light red,

The variety known as Gala….”

Here I picture the perfect, questioning arch of Allison’s eyebrow, the subtle narrowing of the opposite emerald eye. A look I knew well... -M

“What’s the significance of this?” I ask him. “Are they big fans of William Carlos Williams in [redacted]?”

“The apple is something real. Something on which to hold in troubled times. It is… safe. Read another.”

“There are precisely 740 steps

In the National Stadium, provided

Of course you do not neglect to

Count the two emergency stairs,

Which many often do.”

He nods at this, though he winces slightly at the words ‘National Stadium.’ What kind of government does [redacted] have, anyway? I remember Malcolm saying it was one of those little countries that never bothered to abolish the monarchy.

Something on the TV sets Mr. Note off, and we turn away from the book. On the screen one of those dictators the West pretends is not a dictator because of favorable trade agreements is addressing the UN. Nothing to do with [redacted], as far as I can tell, but Mr. Note is engrossed, shifting as he watches between anger and an acid, hopeless humor.

“Kim Jong Un spends millions to bring basketball stars to his birthday parties while his people starve. They say his father forced them to listen to him sing rock and roll songs, dressed as Elvis Presley. Saparmurat Niyazov of Turkmenistan erected a golden statue of himself that rotated so as to always face the sun. Moammar Qadafi, before he was deposed, was guarded always by a harem of warrior women. There are stranger things, worse things. You do not understand, here, what it is like. An absolute ruler styles himself a father to his people, when in fact the opposite is true. He is a child, and nothing is so terrifying as to be ruled by the cruel whim of a child. You want to laugh, but heaven help you if you do.”

He speaks these words in anger. Then, after they have escaped his lips, he grows pale and looks around the room nervously. When he sees nothing out of the ordinary, he smiles.

“Let us read another.”

He leans over the notebook. I can see the lines of the tattoo peeking out of his collar, creeping up his neck. It’s strange, but they almost seem to be moving—little drops of blue-black blood flowing in reverse.

He lets me take his notebook home with me to read. I confess I’m surprised by the trust. He was happy when I left; smiling like a little boy who’s just founded the world’s greatest and most secret club. I’m glad at least one girl was allowed.

It’s raining outside, and the streetlights make the drops of water on my windows into little flecks of light. Inside my apartment is small and empty. I remind myself I can get a pet of some sort anytime I want to. I can leave all my clothes in a big pile in the middle of the room. I can paint the walls whatever stomach-churning color I desire. Malcolm is gone. Why, after two and a half years, does it still feel like he’s looking over my shoulder?

I’m sure I was hard to live with. I don’t pretend otherwise, but if only-

No, I have run out of words on this subject. Perhaps if I had listened and kept my mouth shut more often, the past would have been different. -M

I stare at Mr. Note’s precise, blocky handwriting, trying to imagine what the poems of [redacted] sound like in their native rhythm. On the page they seem constructed to be as flat and dead as possible – a poetry of the mundane. According to his notes these go back hundreds of years, unchanged. When everyone else was writing dense, metaphorical sonnets, the poets of [redacted] were talking about the ideal type of wood for barrel construction. They were either modern way before it was cool or else the world’s most boring culture.

The square of [redacted] contains

34,000 bricks, and a fountain…

And that sort of thing.

In the town of [redacted] they grow

Barley, and their little lives rise and

Are cut down like stalks of grain

Beneath their master’s scythe…

That’s odd… I was trying to copy a poem in Mr. Note’s manuscript that was all about agriculture in [redacted]—I don’t know what made me write those creepy lines. Looking back at the original, they’re not there. It’s all about the yearly size of barley crops.

Reading too many of these poems must be numbing my brain. I’m spending more time staring at my desk than reading. Stupid Malcolm, I bet he did this on purpose. Anything to look good in his own anthology.

Then, as I stare at the wood of the old desk, I see something… a face. Funny I never noticed it before, it’s uncanny—not just jumbles of lines that look kind of like eyes and a mouth, it’s an unmistakable face. It’s simple, abstract, but every time I look at it I see something more. The mouth and nose are an impassive mask, but the eyes… I can’t believe what I’m looking at is just the grain of cheap wood. I have never seen eyes so hard or so cruel… I quickly look away, back to the book—only all the poems have changed. I can barely bring myself to scan the words. Everything is blood and death. The square is lined with crow cages, the palace walls with severed heads. New tongues adorn the palace gates.,,

I have to leave the room after that.

The next morning, yup, nothing but the plain old wooden desktop, with two knots in the wood grain that might have been those eyes that freaked me out so much. The poems are all as boring as I remember them. Am I becoming one of those people who sees the risen Christ on a piece of toast? Way to go, Allie. Malcolm would swoop in here with the word pareidolia, then explain that it means the human tendency to see patterns and images in random nature, even after I tell him yes, I know what it means.

Of this I am certainly guilty. -M

But I can’t forget seeing those eyes… It’s crazy, I know, but some part of me thinks they saw me too.

I try to start planning for the fall semester, maybe even start on a new poem, but I can’t. Whenever I sit down to write I see those eyes. The only words that come to me are the ones I saw in the changed notebook, all blood and power and madness. What’s going on here? What was Malcolm thinking, giving me this?

This afternoon I ring Mr. Note’s buzzer until he opens the gate and keep it ringing a few seconds longer for good measure. I’m furious and still shaking from last night. This is too damn weird. He looks happy to see me at first. His smile crumbles when he sees the look on my face.

“What is going on here?”

He stays silent; his face drained of color. At least he doesn’t pretend not to know.

“What is the big secret with these poems? What’s your real name, anyway?”

“Names are not given lightly where I’m from.”

“Are you a refugee or something?”

“To be that, I would have to believe in refuge.”

“Ok, this isn’t going to work unless you tell me some things. Who or what is the prince of-“

“Do not say it!”

His face is white, his body trembling. He is feeble, a dry old leaf, but his hand reaches out to grip my arm, and his fingers close with a desperate, shocking strength. The blue-black lines of his tattoo stand out like fresh wounds.

He starts to talk.

“Once, perhaps we were like other places. We knew history. We knew the freedom of our own language. His poets changed past and present, meaning slipped away from the words we used, replaced with things we did not feel in our hearts. Now he has always been there, and always will be. He leaves nothing pure, seeping into every corner of our lives. With a few strokes of the pen, so much is gone. People are gone. You never see them again. He has eyes everywhere, hounds trained for the hunting of men, and traitors hang from his palace wall. You have already seen too much.”

“Don’t worry. Take your notebook back,” I said. “I’m done.”

I practically throw it at him. I don’t need this in my life. He lets it drop to the floor.

“It was foolish to want this,” he says. “Forgive me.”

As I turn away he stoops to pick it up. The ink from his tattoo has crept down his hand and on to the page, its blue-black tracery spreading across the papers he is holding. Something is putting down roots… I do not stay to watch. I cannot.

My walk home is silent, and I fight to keep from breaking into a run. The first chill of fall is in the air, and the sky looks like it could rain on a whim and stop a moment later. Everything is gray and waiting. I met a Czech poet once, one of the samizdat guys, who said there were always two types of secret police – the ones everyone knew were secret police, there to remind you, and the ones no one knew were secret police, there to deal with you.

Oldřich—I always hated the way he looked at you. -M

I keep my eyes on the street on the way back, try not to meet anyone’s gaze, and when I get home, I lock and bolt the door and collapse against it, breathing heavy.

For a moment, I almost consider calling Malcolm. Luckily, that foolishness passes quickly.

I wish you had. Oh Allie, what happened to us? What happened to you? -M

In my dream, I am in a dark place. I have forgotten the light. I know myself by feel, but the face I touch does not feel like mine, nor do the hands that touch it. My body is no longer related to itself, its parts are discrete, unknowing. Mr. Note’s voice is in my ear:

“The worst thing is how easily it happens. The people are willing to believe, to do whatever is asked of them. You must merely present it as normal, as the logical choice, and it has always been thus.”

Then there is light—ghastly, painful, and white corridors, and hands on me, washing me, a mirror. Is that really my face? So thin, so lost. There is a humming by my arm, and a burn as I feel the first bite of the electric needle, see the blossom of blue-black ink on my flesh, the lines that are taking shape… words, volumes I dare not read are scrawled on my skin.

[redacted]

[redacted] [redacted] [redacted] [redacted] [redacted] [redacted] [redacted] [redacted] [redacted] [redacted] [redacted] [redacted] [redacted] [redacted] [redacted] [redacted] [redacted] [redacted] [redacted] [redacted] [redacted] [redacted] [redacted] [redacted]

I will not leave the apartment. When my phone rings, it is all clicks and whispers, the whirr of listening machines. I have unplugged it from the wall. When I creep out to get my mail I find it has been opened.

I will not leave the apartment, but I can’t stop thinking of Mr. Note, the last look of sadness giving way to terror on his face as the blue-black lines spread from his hand to the pages he held. One day I cannot stand it anymore, and I take the subway, then the bus, then walk to where he lives. I know I am followed every step, though I see no one. When I get there, I find another name on the entrance to the building. I ring the buzzer, and a woman answers, speaking a language I cannot recognize. I speak into the box, asking about Mr. Note, but there is no response.

The new semester will be starting soon. I have already missed two faculty meetings. I don’t know what I will do once classes start. It’s been days since I’ve written, and I’m too afraid to read even the newspaper. I know what words I’ll find there.

My chair is heavy wood, old, scarred and pitted and stained-over many times. It was purchased at a yard sale. My desk- no, don’t look at the desk. The eyes. The face. My apartment is about 600 square feet, pre-war, with off-white plaster walls. My walls are lined with bookshelves, some dark wood, some that cheap wood-composite stuff you get at IKEA, a mix of plastic and organic. My books are the only thing I really keep organized, alphabetical by author, poetry and fiction and theory and general nonfiction. The titles are all familiar and dear to me. The Complete Works of Emily Dickinson, Millay, the Rossetti’s, Elizabeth Bishop, Lyrical Ballads, Self Portrait in a Convex Mirror, Four Quartets, Les Fleurs du Mal, The Glory of the Ruler, The Exalted Prince of [redacted], the baying of the hounds, the heads of traitors hung from his walls, wreathed in flies. New verses are writ each day in his honor. New tongues adorn the palace gates, they blacken in the sun.

That’s the end. But there is more, or there was. When I read these notes the first time, there was a poem in ink on the back of the last page, a true translation. I confess it chilled my blood. It is gone now, and I would not reproduce it here even if I could. Allison is gone with it. Not even a trace remains.

It is seventy-five steps from my office to my car. The sun is setting. The parking lot is empty, but I know I am followed all the same.

#fiction #horror #fantasy #politics #poetry

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flourishedandsunkissed · 7 years

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In Addition...

Part of the Gatsby project was writing our own poem and explicating our work.

And so…

“The Pru-phobic Epidemic” by Gabriella Nicole

Why is it written the way that it’s written?

I find that quite important.

Why am I me,

Why am I so observant?

I’ll tell you what I am,

Cowardly.

I’ve never met anyone more afraid of the truth

Than me.

I stay behind so I don’t bother anyone.

But maybe I’m just overthinking

And missing all the fun.

And if anyone cares for it, the explication paper:

I chose the epigraph from one of Juliet’s many monologues in Romeo and Juliet (Act 3, Scene 2) because Juliet is speaking to two characters: the black of the night and her love, Romeo. In my poem, Myrtle is also speaking to two characters: Tom and Wilson. The modern English translation of this epigraph is:

Hide the wild blood fluttering in my cheeks

With your black robe until unfamiliar love grows bold

And believes that enjoying true love is really a modest act.

Come, night! Come, Romeo! You’re my light in the night.

You will lie on the wings of night

Even whiter than freshly fallen snow on a raven’s back.

Wilson could be compared to the black of the night because black is a negatively associated color and Wilson does not make Myrtle happy. Tom could be compared to Romeo because he is the one Myrtle truly loves, and he is her “light in the night”; he brightens up her life even though she is stuck with Wilson. Myrtle similar to Juliet in the way her love is forbidden and she dies.

Myrtle, as Juliet, could be saying, “I must hide my blushing cheeks until my relationship with Tom grows stronger and since true love is modest and Tom is the one I truly love, my actions are modest.” The line saying “you will lie on the wings of night” would mean that all of Tom’s actions would done close to Wilson; it’s actually ironic because white represents purity and there is nothing pure about his actions.

In the first stanza, Myrtle is speaking to Tom. She is telling him to come to the Valley of Ashes and take her away. “Like an addict and his drug” pertains Tom’s addiction to cheating, and Myrtle, his mistress, is his drug. The leather seats of his coupe “tell” Myrtle that she’ll have a good night, meaning that as long as she’s with Tom she’ll have a good night. Myrtle doesn’t want to return to Valley of Ashes though she has no choice; she sees it as a “penniless hell.” Boisterous means loud, unscrupulous means showing no morals, and revile means to criticize in an angry manner. These are characteristics of an untamed child; also, alcohol can cause the drinker to display these characteristics. Alcohol can also bring someone to an unfaithful feeling, causing them to cheat on their spouse. Myrtle tells Tom not to ask, “Who do you think we’ll see?” because in chapter two of The Great Gatsby, Tom and Myrtle sit in different train cars due to the “East Eggers” who ride the train.

The refrain of this poem is meant to be sexist. Because cars were a relatively new invention in the 20’s and racism and sexism were prevalent, it is a stereotype that women shouldn’t know anything about cars and that they are a virile subject.

The black fog that slithers through the road represents a melanistic (all-black) Ratsnake, and vice versa. I chose the color black because that would be the color of the smog that floats through the Valley of Ashes. It “coils its body atop the black of the moon” meaning that it rests above the moon at its new stage. The black fog delights in the struggle of its prey, the poor people who work the Valley of Ashes. It “condones the destruction in the construction” meaning that it accepts and supports the destruction of not only the earth that new buildings causes, but of the humans that construct it. Due to lack of safety regulations, many men died during the construction of cities. It slides by Michaelis’ place and bares its teeth because though he meets no demise, he is still a victim; it only bares its teeth, it doesn’t bite. The fog is made aware of the warm July night and settles upon the post of a porch.

Two words might stick out the next stanza: “honey” and “space.” In “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock,” does not address anyone, he simply says “there will be time”; however, I wanted Myrtle to use the term of endearment because she is still speaking to Tom. I initially planned on using the word place but changed it to space because space indicates a time and a place. She tells Tom there will be a time and a place for the smog of the Valley of Ashes, to hide all the whiskey he’s not supposed to have in this time of prohibition—though those bottles have probably touched the lips of his colleagues because the rich had alcohol, and to destruct morals and relationships and build new ones, just like city buildings. She tells him there will be space for “all the trophies and flowers of East Egg”; these trophies and flowers not only represent the numerous trophies Tom has won the flowers that decorate the interior and exterior of his mansion, but Daisy, too. Daisy is basically Tom’s trophy wife; he uses her for display because if he truly loved her he would be faithful and, Daisy is named after a flower. Daisy holds and drops Tom’s heart just as he does hers because she is cheating on him, too and his heart has been chilled because he is selfish. “A million pieces of dough” represents Tom’s money. I chose “million” and “dough” because he is a millionaire and dough is a euphemism for money. The “blows” represent Tom’s insults and his abuse of Myrtle. Bordeaux is a French wine and while they might not have drunk this specific type of alcohol, it represents everything they did drink. She tells Tom there will be space for all these things before they leave for the cheap apartment party in the city.

Myrtle tells Tom there will be a time and a place to figure out how to leave Daisy and to untangle the web of lies they’ve both weaved. On page 167 of The Great Gatsby, Wilson tells Myrtle she can fool him but she can’t fool God because God sees everything; at this point he knows about her affair. On page 30, Nick describes Myrtle as wearing a “spotted dress of dark blue crêpe-de-chine” when he first sees her. “How do I leave to caress the face of happiness?” replaces Prufrock’s “Do I dare disturb the universe?” Myrtle is questioning how she leaves Wilson so she can “caress the face of happiness”—Tom. In the end, she does leave, but not by choice. And she ends up leaving both Wilson and Tom for Death. Space will condense blows and Bordeauxs because eventually there will be so much of the two that there will not be enough time or space which means they’ll have to be crowded together to make space for more.

Since Myrtle is the wife of a mechanic, she has seen all the terrible conditions a car can be in. She has measured out her life with gifts from Tom since she gets nothing from Wilson. She knows the “withering” faces—the faces of the poor. And their call for help withers away under the roaring of the machines and tools in the Valley of Ashes. Myrtle feels desolate when she’s at home and wants to know how to feel alive inside.

When Myrtle says she has known “the hands that nail me to a bed,” she means Tom’s, sexually, and Wilson’s when he locks her in the room. “Straggling on a wrench” means that Myrtle is spread out in an untidy way not upon a literal wrench, but a wrench in her heart. She wants to know how to end the dreadful power of stress and how to end her imprisonment in Wilson’s garage, the Valley of Ashes, and unhappiness.

Myrtle says she has known the muscular, peach, and hairy arms—characteristics that describe both Tom and Wilson. She says in the darkness their arms are “relentless and scary” referring to Tom’s breaking her nose and Wilson’s shoving her up against a window. She asks, “Is it oil from an engine that causes all my tension?” meaning is it Wilson’s work that causes her emotional strain. Arms that work a tool are Wilson’s and arms that swing a polo mallet are Tom’s.

In this three line stanza, Myrtle is speaking to Wilson. On page 30, Tom says: “He thinks she goes to see her sister in New York. He’s so dumb he doesn’t know he’s alive.” So Myrtle would have told the lie before that that is the reason for her ventures to the city. On page 166, after Myrtle’s death, Tom shows Michaelis the leather and braided silver dog leash she bought for the Airedale Tom let her have. She says Wilson “blindly trusts” Tom. Even after he figured out Myrtle was cheating on him, he never really found out with who, and still had a good relationship with Tom after Myrtle’s death (before he killed himself). She is also saying Wilson is dumb.

In the next stanza, Myrtle says that she wasn’t meant to be poor and that she should have been “a clad of gold and diamond jewelry” which represent wealth. So, instead of reducing herself like Prufrock does, she amplifies herself, saying she was meant to live in the Eggs and not in the Valley of Ashes.

The “violent dancing” of the moon parallels the drunken party that happened in Tom and Myrtle’s apartment and the saxophone music played by the Negroes makes it more beautiful. Myrtle asks if she should, after all the drinking, smoking, and gossiping, bring the energy down and tell Tom that he means the world to her even though their relationship might not truly express it. She says that even after she’s lied and cheated, she’s gotten to wear a chiffon afternoon dress (described on page 35) but even despite that, she’s no flower—which again is ambiguous for Daisy. She says, “I’m no flower—I’m the antithesis,” meaning that though she has gotten all these nice things she is still, in truth, the opposite of Daisy. Father Time represents reality because no matter where one’s mind is, time is passing. It cannot be turned back or forward.

Next, Myrtle asks if she had gone to great extents to make Tom love her more, enough to leave Daisy, if any of it would have meant anything if he just ended up saying she’s not what he wants at all. Semele was one of the many lovers of Zeus, she was tricked by Hera into telling Zeus to show her all his splendor after he said he would give her anything she wanted and she died.

Myrtle saying, “God, I feel so filthy!” is ironic because she never felt remorse before, cheating on her husband and helping someone else cheat on his wife; she doesn’t feel filthy until she feels Tom doesn’t love her anymore. “…as if a bar of soap had been my therapy” means physically cleansing herself might make her feel better on the inside.

On line 111, Myrtle finally directly addresses Daisy and uses a play on words—“I will never bloom to be,” nothing she ever does will make her like Daisy or better than Daisy. She says she is not Daisy, she is just an adulteress. Licentious means unprincipled in sexual matters. Myrtle describes herself as urban because she prefers the city. She ends giving herself the title “the Hedonist,” the lover of pleasure.

Myrtle says she grows tired; tired of Wilson, tired of her lifestyle, tired physically.

The angels Myrtle refers to are the rich. They grin because they have all they need, want and more; they show off their teeth because their teeth are worth showing off. She says they’ll never sincerely grin at her, meaning no matter how close she becomes to the wealthy, she will never be one of them. She has smelled their “green and white aroma,” green represents money and white represents purity and pearls, which wealthy women, and Daisy herself, own.

The “gates of heaven” represent the gates that often guard the rich’s homes and heaven is their mansions and all they hold. Destitute means poverty-stricken. The devastatingly poor awake people those who strive for riches.

“The Pru-phobic Epidemic” is a poem I wrote to convey my feelings and relate to the character of J. Alfred Prufrock. “Pru-phobic” to me means not being afraid of Prufrock but sharing his fears. It’s an epidemic because it is not only me who thinks this way. Prufrock himself might wonder why things are written the way they’re written, why he’s written the way that he’s written. I do. I think of all the things that have happened to me so far in this year of high school and wonder how they all affect my future and what they mean. Prufrock might wonder how the women talking of Michelangelo might affect his future or even his fear of eating a peach. We all wonder at some point why we are who we are and why we’re not someone else; we wonder why good things happen to people we know and not us, we wonder why they have the things we want. I’ve realized that I have some things my friends long for, maybe the one thing that’s keeping them from being truly happy. Prufrock might wonder why another man has the privilege of being with the woman he loves and he doesn’t—even if talking to her did make a difference. However Prufrock could see himself as cowardly for not talking to her and telling her how he feels; he’s afraid of being misunderstood and maybe even afraid of the truth. We’re all afraid of the truth sometimes. So instead of risking being misunderstood, he says and does nothing, to keep himself from getting hurt… just as I do.

“The Prohibition” by John Donne relates to Myrtle’s character in the way that Myrtle wants Tom to beware of loving her. She is already married and a bit high strung. “Then, lest thy love, by my death, frustrate be, if thou love me, take heed of loving me”; Myrtle’s death will frustrate Tom’s love for her, so he must beware of loving her. He must also beware of hating her or taking out his anger on her because she could perish by it. However, he must love and hate her, which isn’t necessarily her rule. He must love her enough to keep her as a mistress but hate her enough not to leave Daisy.

#writing #essays #the great gatsby

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