#Sweet summer spring death child Mary | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

castielchitaqua · 3 years

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kaddish, allen ginsberg

I Strange now to think of you, gone without corsets & eyes, while I walk on the sunny pavement of Greenwich Village. downtown Manhattan, clear winter noon, and I’ve been up all night, talking, talking, reading the Kaddish aloud, listening to Ray Charles blues shout blind on the phonograph the rhythm the rhythm—and your memory in my head three years after—And read Adonais’ last triumphant stanzas aloud—wept, realizing how we suffer— And how Death is that remedy all singers dream of, sing, remember, prophesy as in the Hebrew Anthem, or the Buddhist Book of Answers—and my own imagination of a withered leaf—at dawn— Dreaming back thru life, Your time—and mine accelerating toward Apocalypse, the final moment—the flower burning in the Day—and what comes after, looking back on the mind itself that saw an American city a flash away, and the great dream of Me or China, or you and a phantom Russia, or a crumpled bed that never existed— like a poem in the dark—escaped back to Oblivion— No more to say, and nothing to weep for but the Beings in the Dream, trapped in its disappearance, sighing, screaming with it, buying and selling pieces of phantom, worshipping each other, worshipping the God included in it all—longing or inevitability?—while it lasts, a Vision—anything more? It leaps about me, as I go out and walk the street, look back over my shoulder, Seventh Avenue, the battlements of window office buildings shouldering each other high, under a cloud, tall as the sky an instant—and the sky above—an old blue place. or down the Avenue to the south, to—as I walk toward the Lower East Side—where you walked 50 years ago, little girl—from Russia, eating the first poisonous tomatoes of America—frightened on the dock— then struggling in the crowds of Orchard Street toward what?—toward Newark— toward candy store, first home-made sodas of the century, hand-churned ice cream in backroom on musty brownfloor boards— Toward education marriage nervous breakdown, operation, teaching school, and learning to be mad, in a dream—what is this life? Toward the Key in the window—and the great Key lays its head of light on top of Manhattan, and over the floor, and lays down on the sidewalk—in a single vast beam, moving, as I walk down First toward the Yiddish Theater—and the place of poverty you knew, and I know, but without caring now—Strange to have moved thru Paterson, and the West, and Europe and here again, with the cries of Spaniards now in the doorstoops doors and dark boys on the street, fire escapes old as you -Tho you’re not old now, that’s left here with me— Myself, anyhow, maybe as old as the universe—and I guess that dies with us—enough to cancel all that comes—What came is gone forever every time— That’s good! That leaves it open for no regret—no fear radiators, lacklove, torture even toothache in the end— Though while it comes it is a lion that eats the soul—and the lamb, the soul, in us, alas, offering itself in sacrifice to change’s fierce hunger—hair and teeth—and the roar of bonepain, skull bare, break rib, rot-skin, braintricked Implacability. Ai! ai! we do worse! We are in a fix! And you’re out, Death let you out, Death had the Mercy, you’re done with your century, done with God, done with the path thru it—Done with yourself at last—Pure—Back to the Babe dark before your Father, before us all—before the world— There, rest. No more suffering for you. I know where you’ve gone, it’s good. No more flowers in the summer fields of New York, no joy now, no more fear of Louis, and no more of his sweetness and glasses, his high school decades, debts, loves, frightened telephone calls, conception beds, relatives, hands— No more of sister Elanor,.—she gone before you—we kept it secret—you killed her—or she killed herself to bear with you—an arthritic heart—But Death’s killed you both—No matter— Nor your memory of your mother, 1915 tears in silent movies weeks and weeks—forgetting, aggrieve watching Marie Dressler address humanity, Chaplin dance in youth, or Boris Godunov, Chaliapin’s at the Met, hailing his voice of a weeping Czar—by standing

room with Elanor & Max—watching also the Capitalists take seats in Orchestra, white furs, diamonds, with the YPSL’s hitch-hiking thru Pennsylvania, in black baggy gym skirts pants, photograph of 4 girls holding each other round the waste, and laughing eye, too coy, virginal solitude of 1920 all girls grown old, or dead, now, and that long hair in the grave—lucky to have husbands later— You made it—I came too—Eugene my brother before (still grieving now and will gream on to his last stiff hand, as he goes thru his cancer—or kill—later perhaps—soon he will think—) And it’s the last moment I remember, which I see them all, thru myself, now—tho not you I didn’t foresee what you felt—what more hideous gape of bad mouth came first—to you—and were you prepared? To go where? In that Dark—that—in that God? a radiance? A Lord in the Void? Like an eye in the black cloud in a dream? Adonoi at last, with you? Beyond my remembrance! Incapable to guess! Not merely the yellow skull in the grave, or a box of worm dust, and a stained ribbon—Deathshead with Halo? can you believe it? Is it only the sun that shines once for the mind, only the flash of existence, than none ever was? Nothing beyond what we have—what you had—that so pitiful—yet Triumph, to have been here, and changed, like a tree, broken, or flower—fed to the ground—but mad, with its petals, colored, thinking Great Universe, shaken, cut in the head, leaf stript, hid in an egg crate hospital, cloth wrapped, sore—freaked in the moon brain, Naughtless. No flower like that flower, which knew itself in the garden, and fought the knife—lost Cut down by an idiot Snowman’s icy—even in the Spring—strange ghost thought—some Death—Sharp icicle in his hand—crowned with old roses—a dog for his eyes—cock of a sweatshop—heart of electric irons. All the accumulations of life, that wear us out—clocks, bodies, consciousness, shoes, breasts—begotten sons—your Communism—‘Paranoia’ into hospitals. You once kicked Elanor in the leg, she died of heart failure later. You of stroke. Asleep? within a year, the two of you, sisters in death. Is Elanor happy? Max grieves alive in an office on Lower Broadway, lone large mustache over midnight Accountings, not sure. l His life passes—as he sees—and what does he doubt now? Still dream of making money, or that might have made money, hired nurse, had children, found even your Immortality, Naomi? I’ll see him soon. Now I’ve got to cut through—to talk to you—as I didn’t when you had a mouth. Forever. And we’re bound for that, Forever—like Emily Dickinson’s horses—headed to the End. They know the way—These Steeds—run faster than we think—it’s our own life they cross—and take with them. Magnificent, mourned no more, marred of heart, mind behind, married dreamed, mortal changed—Ass and face done with murder. In the world, given, flower maddened, made no Utopia, shut under pine, almed in Earth, balmed in Lone, Jehovah, accept. Nameless, One Faced, Forever beyond me, beginningless, endless, Father in death. Tho I am not there for this Prophecy, I am unmarried, I’m hymnless, I’m Heavenless, headless in blisshood I would still adore Thee, Heaven, after Death, only One blessed in Nothingness, not light or darkness, Dayless Eternity— Take this, this Psalm, from me, burst from my hand in a day, some of my Time, now given to Nothing—to praise Thee—But Death This is the end, the redemption from Wilderness, way for the Wonderer, House sought for All, black handkerchief washed clean by weeping—page beyond Psalm—Last change of mine and Naomi—to God’s perfect Darkness—Death, stay thy phantoms! II Over and over—refrain—of the Hospitals—still haven’t written your history—leave it abstract—a few images run thru the mind—like the saxophone chorus of houses and years—remembrance of electrical shocks. By long nites as a child in Paterson apartment, watching over your nervousness—you were fat—your next move— By that afternoon I stayed home from school to take care of you—once and for all—when I vowed forever that once man disagreed with my opinion of the cosmos, I was lost— By my

later burden—vow to illuminate mankind—this is release of particulars—(mad as you)—(sanity a trick of agreement)— But you stared out the window on the Broadway Church corner, and spied a mystical assassin from Newark, So phoned the Doctor—‘OK go way for a rest’—so I put on my coat and walked you downstreet—On the way a grammarschool boy screamed, unaccountably—‘Where you goin Lady to Death’? I shuddered— and you covered your nose with motheaten fur collar, gas mask against poison sneaked into downtown atmosphere, sprayed by Grandma— And was the driver of the cheesebox Public Service bus a member of the gang? You shuddered at his face, I could hardly get you on—to New York, very Times Square, to grab another Greyhound— where we hung around 2 hours fighting invisible bugs and jewish sickness—breeze poisoned by Roosevelt— out to get you—and me tagging along, hoping it would end in a quiet room in a Victorian house by a lake. Ride 3 hours thru tunnels past all American industry, Bayonne preparing for World War II, tanks, gas fields, soda factories, diners, loco-motive roundhouse fortress—into piney woods New Jersey Indians—calm towns—long roads thru sandy tree fields— Bridges by deerless creeks, old wampum loading the streambeddown there a tomahawk or Pocahontas bone—and a million old ladies voting for Roosevelt in brown small houses, roads off the Madness highway— perhaps a hawk in a tree, or a hermit looking for an owl-filled branch— All the time arguing—afraid of strangers in the forward double seat, snoring regardless—what busride they snore on now? ‘Allen, you don’t understand—it’s—ever since those 3 big sticks up my back—they did something to me in Hospital, they poisoned me, they want to see me dead—3 big sticks, 3 big sticks— ‘The Bitch! Old Grandma! Last week I saw her, dressed in pants like an old man, with a sack on her back, climbing up the brick side of the apartment ‘On the fire escape, with poison germs, to throw on me—at night—maybe Louis is helping her—he’s under her power— ‘I’m your mother, take me to Lakewood’ (near where Graf Zeppelin had crashed before, all Hitler in Explosion) ‘where I can hide.’ We got there—Dr. Whatzis rest home—she hid behind a closet—demanded a blood transfusion. We were kicked out—tramping with Valise to unknown shady lawn houses—dusk, pine trees after dark—long dead street filled with crickets and poison ivy— I shut her up by now—big house REST HOME ROOMS—gave the landlady her money for the week—carried up the iron valise—sat on bed waiting to escape— Neat room in attic with friendly bedcover—lace curtains—spinning wheel rug—Stained wallpaper old as Naomi. We were home. I left on the next bus to New York—laid my head back in the last seat, depressed—the worst yet to come?—abandoning her, rode in torpor—I was only 12. Would she hide in her room and come out cheerful for breakfast? Or lock her door and stare thru the window for sidestreet spies? Listen at keyholes for Hitlerian invisible gas? Dream in a chair—or mock me, by—in front of a mirror, alone? 12 riding the bus at nite thru New Jersey, have left Naomi to Parcae in Lakewood’s haunted house—left to my own fate bus—sunk in a seat—all violins broken—my heart sore in my ribs—mind was empty—Would she were safe in her coffin— Or back at Normal School in Newark, studying up on America in a black skirt—winter on the street without lunch—a penny a pickle—home at night to take care of Elanor in the bedroom— First nervous breakdown was 1919—she stayed home from school and lay in a dark room for three weeks—something bad—never said what—every noise hurt—dreams of the creaks of Wall Street— Before the gray Depression—went upstate New York—recovered—Lou took photo of her sitting crossleg on the grass—her long hair wound with flowers—smiling—playing lullabies on mandolin—poison ivy smoke in left-wing summer camps and me in infancy saw trees— or back teaching school, laughing with idiots, the backward classes—her Russian specialty—morons with dreamy lips, great eyes, thin feet & sicky fingers, swaybacked, rachitic— great heads pendulous

over Alice in Wonderland, a blackboard full of C A T. Naomi reading patiently, story out of a Communist fairy book—Tale of the Sudden Sweetness of the Dictator—Forgiveness of Warlocks—Armies Kissing— Deathsheads Around the Green Table—The King & the Workers—Paterson Press printed them up in the ’30s till she went mad, or they folded, both. O Paterson! I got home late that nite. Louis was worried. How could I be so—didn’t I think? I shouldn’t have left her. Mad in Lakewood. Call the Doctor. Phone the home in the pines. Too late. Went to bed exhausted, wanting to leave the world (probably that year newly in love with R my high school mind hero, jewish boy who came a doctor later—then silent neat kid— I later laying down life for him, moved to Manhattan—followed him to college—Prayed on ferry to help mankind if admitted—vowed, the day I journeyed to Entrance Exam— by being honest revolutionary labor lawyer—would train for that—inspired by Sacco Vanzetti, Norman Thomas, Debs, Altgeld, Sand-burg, Poe—Little Blue Books. I wanted to be President, or Senator. ignorant woe—later dreams of kneeling by R’s shocked knees declaring my love of 1941—What sweetness he’d have shown me, tho, that I’d wished him & despaired—first love—a crush— Later a mortal avalanche, whole mountains of homosexuality, Matterhorns of cock, Grand Canyons of asshole—weight on my melancholy head— meanwhile I walked on Broadway imagining Infinity like a rubber ball without space beyond—what’s outside?—coming home to Graham Avenue still melancholy passing the lone green hedges across the street, dreaming after the movies—) The telephone rang at 2 A.M.—Emergency—she’d gone mad—Naomi hiding under the bed screaming bugs of Mussolini—Help! Louis! Buba! Fascists! Death!—the landlady frightened—old fag attendant screaming back at her— Terror, that woke the neighbors—old ladies on the second floor recovering from menopause—all those rags between thighs, clean sheets, sorry over lost babies—husbands ashen—children sneering at Yale, or putting oil in hair at CCNY—or trembling in Montclair State Teachers College like Eugene— Her big leg crouched to her breast, hand outstretched Keep Away, wool dress on her thighs, fur coat dragged under the bed—she barricaded herself under bedspring with suitcases. Louis in pajamas listening to phone, frightened—do now?—Who could know?—my fault, delivering her to solitude?—sitting in the dark room on the sofa, trembling, to figure out— He took the morning train to Lakewood, Naomi still under bed—thought he brought poison Cops—Naomi screaming—Louis what happened to your heart then? Have you been killed by Naomi’s ecstasy? Dragged her out, around the corner, a cab, forced her in with valise, but the driver left them off at drugstore. Bus stop, two hours’ wait. I lay in bed nervous in the 4-room apartment, the big bed in living room, next to Louis’ desk—shaking—he came home that nite, late, told me what happened. Naomi at the prescription counter defending herself from the enemy—racks of children’s books, douche bags, aspirins, pots, blood—‘Don’t come near me—murderers! Keep away! Promise not to kill me!’ Louis in horror at the soda fountain—with Lakewood girlscouts—Coke addicts—nurses—busmen hung on schedule—Police from country precinct, dumbed—and a priest dreaming of pigs on an ancient cliff? Smelling the air—Louis pointing to emptiness?—Customers vomiting their Cokes—or staring—Louis humiliated—Naomi triumphant—The Announcement of the Plot. Bus arrives, the drivers won’t have them on trip to New York. Phonecalls to Dr. Whatzis, ‘She needs a rest,’ The mental hospital—State Greystone Doctors—‘Bring her here, Mr. Ginsberg.’ Naomi, Naomi—sweating, bulge-eyed, fat, the dress unbuttoned at one side—hair over brow, her stocking hanging evilly on her legs—screaming for a blood transfusion—one righteous hand upraised—a shoe in it—barefoot in the Pharmacy— The enemies approach—what poisons? Tape recorders? FBI? Zhdanov hiding behind the counter? Trotsky mixing rat bacteria in the back of the store? Uncle Sam in Newark, plotting deathly

perfumes in the Negro district? Uncle Ephraim, drunk with murder in the politician’s bar, scheming of Hague? Aunt Rose passing water thru the needles of the Spanish Civil War? till the hired $35 ambulance came from Red Bank——Grabbed her arms—strapped her on the stretcher—moaning, poisoned by imaginaries, vomiting chemicals thru Jersey, begging mercy from Essex County to Morristown— And back to Greystone where she lay three years—that was the last breakthrough, delivered her to Madhouse again— On what wards—I walked there later, oft—old catatonic ladies, gray as cloud or ash or walls—sit crooning over floorspace—Chairs—and the wrinkled hags acreep, accusing—begging my 13-year-old mercy— ‘Take me home’—I went alone sometimes looking for the lost Naomi, taking Shock—and I’d say, ‘No, you’re crazy Mama,—Trust the Drs.’— And Eugene, my brother, her elder son, away studying Law in a furnished room in Newark— came Paterson-ward next day—and he sat on the broken-down couch in the living room—‘We had to send her back to Greystone’— —his face perplexed, so young, then eyes with tears—then crept weeping all over his face—‘What for?’ wail vibrating in his cheekbones, eyes closed up, high voice—Eugene’s face of pain. Him faraway, escaped to an Elevator in the Newark Library, his bottle daily milk on windowsill of $5 week furn room downtown at trolley tracks— He worked 8 hrs. a day for $20/wk—thru Law School years—stayed by himself innocent near negro whorehouses. Unlaid, poor virgin—writing poems about Ideals and politics letters to the editor Pat Eve News—(we both wrote, denouncing Senator Borah and Isolationists—and felt mysterious toward Paterson City Hall— I sneaked inside it once—local Moloch tower with phallus spire & cap o’ ornament, strange gothic Poetry that stood on Market Street—replica Lyons’ Hotel de Ville— wings, balcony & scrollwork portals, gateway to the giant city clock, secret map room full of Hawthorne—dark Debs in the Board of Tax—Rembrandt smoking in the gloom— Silent polished desks in the great committee room—Aldermen? Bd of Finance? Mosca the hairdresser aplot—Crapp the gangster issuing orders from the john—The madmen struggling over Zone, Fire, Cops & Backroom Metaphysics—we’re all dead—outside by the bus stop Eugene stared thru childhood— where the Evangelist preached madly for 3 decades, hard-haired, cracked & true to his mean Bible—chalked Prepare to Meet Thy God on civic pave— or God is Love on the railroad overpass concrete—he raved like I would rave, the lone Evangelist—Death on City Hall—) But Gene, young,—been Montclair Teachers College 4 years—taught half year & quit to go ahead in life—afraid of Discipline Problems—dark sex Italian students, raw girls getting laid, no English, sonnets disregarded—and he did not know much—just that he lost— so broke his life in two and paid for Law—read huge blue books and rode the ancient elevator 13 miles away in Newark & studied up hard for the future just found the Scream of Naomi on his failure doorstep, for the final time, Naomi gone, us lonely—home—him sitting there— Then have some chicken soup, Eugene. The Man of Evangel wails in front of City Hall. And this year Lou has poetic loves of suburb middle age—in secret—music from his 1937 book—Sincere—he longs for beauty— No love since Naomi screamed—since 1923?—now lost in Greystone ward—new shock for her—Electricity, following the 40 Insulin. And Metrazol had made her fat. So that a few years later she came home again—we’d much advanced and planned—I waited for that day—my Mother again to cook & —play the piano—sing at mandolin—Lung Stew, & Stenka Razin, & the communist line on the war with Finland—and Louis in debt—,uspected to he poisoned money—mysterious capitalisms —& walked down the long front hall & looked at the furniture. She never remembered it all. Some amnesia. Examined the doilies—and the dining room set was sold— the Mahogany table—20 years love—gone to the junk man—we still had the piano—and the book of Poe—and the Mandolin, tho needed some string, dusty— She went to the backroom to lie down in

bed and ruminate, or nap, hide—I went in with her, not leave her by herself—lay in bed next to her—shades pulled, dusky, late afternoon—Louis in front room at desk, waiting—perhaps boiling chicken for supper— ‘Don’t be afraid of me because I’m just coming back home from the mental hospital—I’m your mother—’ Poor love, lost—a fear—I lay there—Said, ‘I love you Naomi,’—stiff, next to her arm. I would have cried, was this the comfortless lone union?—Nervous, and she got up soon. Was she ever satisfied? And—by herself sat on the new couch by the front windows, uneasy—cheek leaning on her hand—narrowing eye—at what fate that day— Picking her tooth with her nail, lips formed an O, suspicion—thought’s old worn vagina—absent sideglance of eye—some evil debt written in the wall, unpaid—& the aged breasts of Newark come near— May have heard radio gossip thru the wires in her head, controlled by 3 big sticks left in her back by gangsters in amnesia, thru the hospital—caused pain between her shoulders— Into her head—Roosevelt should know her case, she told me—Afraid to kill her, now, that the government knew their names—traced back to Hitler—wanted to leave Louis’ house forever. One night, sudden attack—her noise in the bathroom—like croaking up her soul—convulsions and red vomit coming out of her mouth—diarrhea water exploding from her behind—on all fours in front of the toilet—urine running between her legs—left retching on the tile floor smeared with her black feces—unfainted— At forty, varicosed, nude, fat, doomed, hiding outside the apartment door near the elevator calling Police, yelling for her girlfriend Rose to help— Once locked herself in with razor or iodine—could hear her cough in tears at sink—Lou broke through glass green-painted door, we pulled her out to the bedroom. Then quiet for months that winter—walks, alone, nearby on Broadway, read Daily Worker—Broke her arm, fell on icy street— Began to scheme escape from cosmic financial murder-plots—later she ran away to the Bronx to her sister Elanor. And there’s another saga of late Naomi in New York. Or thru Elanor or the Workmen’s Circle, where she worked, ad-dressing envelopes, she made out—went shopping for Campbell’s tomato soup—saved money Louis mailed her— Later she found a boyfriend, and he was a doctor—Dr. Isaac worked for National Maritime Union—now Italian bald and pudgy old doll—who was himself an orphan—but they kicked him out—Old cruelties— Sloppier, sat around on bed or chair, in corset dreaming to herself—‘I’m hot—I’m getting fat—I used to have such a beautiful figure before I went to the hospital—You should have seen me in Woodbine—’ This in a furnished room around the NMU hall, 1943. Looking at naked baby pictures in the magazine—baby powder advertisements, strained lamb carrots—‘I will think nothing but beautiful thoughts.’ Revolving her head round and round on her neck at window light in summertime, in hypnotize, in doven-dream recall— ‘I touch his cheek, I touch his cheek, he touches my lips with his hand, I think beautiful thoughts, the baby has a beautiful hand.’— Or a No-shake of her body, disgust—some thought of Buchenwald—some insulin passes thru her head—a grimace nerve shudder at Involuntary (as shudder when I piss)—bad chemical in her cortex—‘No don’t think of that. He’s a rat.’ Naomi: ‘And when we die we become an onion, a cabbage, a carrot, or a squash, a vegetable.’ I come downtown from Columbia and agree. She reads the Bible, thinks beautiful thoughts all day. ‘Yesterday I saw God. What did he look like? Well, in the afternoon I climbed up a ladder—he has a cheap cabin in the country, like Monroe, N.Y. the chicken farms in the wood. He was a lonely old man with a white beard. ‘I cooked supper for him. I made him a nice supper—lentil soup, vegetables, bread & butter—miltz—he sat down at the table and ate, he was sad. ‘I told him, Look at all those fightings and killings down there, What’s the matter? Why don’t you put a stop to it? ‘I try, he said—That’s all he could do, he looked tired. He’s a bachelor so long, and he likes lentil

soup.’ Serving me meanwhile, a plate of cold fish—chopped raw cabbage dript with tapwater—smelly tomatoes—week-old health food—grated beets & carrots with leaky juice, warm—more and more disconsolate food—I can’t eat it for nausea sometimes—the Charity of her hands stinking with Manhattan, madness, desire to please me, cold undercooked fish—pale red near the bones. Her smells—and oft naked in the room, so that I stare ahead, or turn a book ignoring her. One time I thought she was trying to make me come lay her—flirting to herself at sink—lay back on huge bed that filled most of the room, dress up round her hips, big slash of hair, scars of operations, pancreas, belly wounds, abortions, appendix, stitching of incisions pulling down in the fat like hideous thick zippers—ragged long lips between her legs—What, even, smell of asshole? I was cold—later revolted a little, not much—seemed perhaps a good idea to try—know the Monster of the Beginning Womb—Perhaps—that way. Would she care? She needs a lover. Yisborach, v’yistabach, v’yispoar, v’yisroman, v’yisnaseh, v’yishador, v’yishalleh, v’yishallol, sh’meh d’kudsho, b’rich hu. And Louis reestablishing himself in Paterson grimy apartment in negro district—living in dark rooms—but found himself a girl he later married, falling in love again—tho sere & shy—hurt with 20 years Naomi’s mad idealism. Once I came home, after longtime in N.Y., he’s lonely—sitting in the bedroom, he at desk chair turned round to face me—weeps, tears in red eyes under his glasses— That we’d left him—Gene gone strangely into army—she out on her own in N.Y., almost childish in her furnished room. So Louis walked downtown to postoffice to get mail, taught in highschool—stayed at poetry desk, forlorn—ate grief at Bickford’s all these years—are gone. Eugene got out of the Army, came home changed and lone—cut off his nose in jewish operation—for years stopped girls on Broadway for cups of coffee to get laid—Went to NYU, serious there, to finish Law.— And Gene lived with her, ate naked fishcakes, cheap, while she got crazier—He got thin, or felt helpless, Naomi striking 1920 poses at the moon, half-naked in the next bed. bit his nails and studied—was the weird nurse-son—Next year he moved to a room near Columbia—though she wanted to live with her children— ‘Listen to your mother’s plea, I beg you’—Louis still sending her checks—I was in bughouse that year 8 months—my own visions unmentioned in this here Lament— But then went half mad—Hitler in her room, she saw his mustache in the sink—afraid of Dr. Isaac now, suspecting that he was in on the Newark plot—went up to Bronx to live near Elanor’s Rheumatic Heart— And Uncle Max never got up before noon, tho Naomi at 6 A.M. was listening to the radio for spies—or searching the windowsill, for in the empty lot downstairs, an old man creeps with his bag stuffing packages of garbage in his hanging black overcoat. Max’s sister Edie works—17 years bookkeeper at Gimbels—lived downstairs in apartment house, divorced—so Edie took in Naomi on Rochambeau Ave— Woodlawn Cemetery across the street, vast dale of graves where Poe once—Last stop on Bronx subway—lots of communists in that area. Who enrolled for painting classes at night in Bronx Adult High School—walked alone under Van Cortlandt Elevated line to class—paints Naomiisms— Humans sitting on the grass in some Camp No-Worry summers yore—saints with droopy faces and long-ill-fitting pants, from hospital— Brides in front of Lower East Side with short grooms—lost El trains running over the Babylonian apartment rooftops in the Bronx— Sad paintings—but she expressed herself. Her mandolin gone, all strings broke in her head, she tried. Toward Beauty? or some old life Message? But started kicking Elanor, and Elanor had heart trouble—came upstairs and asked her about Spydom for hours,—Elanor frazzled. Max away at office, accounting for cigar stores till at night. ‘I am a great woman—am truly a beautiful soul—and because of that they (Hitler, Grandma, Hearst, the Capitalists, Franco, Daily News, the ’20s, Mussolini, the living

dead) want to shut me up—Buba’s the head of a spider network—’ Kicking the girls, Edie & Elanor—Woke Edie at midnite to tell her she was a spy and Elanor a rat. Edie worked all day and couldn’t take it—She was organizing the union.—And Elanor began dying, upstairs in bed. The relatives call me up, she’s getting worse—I was the only one left—Went on the subway with Eugene to see her, ate stale fish— ‘My sister whispers in the radio—Louis must be in the apartment—his mother tells him what to say—LIARS!—I cooked for my two children—I played the mandolin—’ Last night the nightingale woke me / Last night when all was still / it sang in the golden moonlight / from on the wintry hill. She did. I pushed her against the door and shouted ‘DON’T KICK ELANOR!’—she stared at me—Contempt—die—disbelief her sons are so naive, so dumb—‘Elanor is the worst spy! She’s taking orders!’ ‘—No wires in the room!’—I’m yelling at her—last ditch, Eugene listening on the bed—what can he do to escape that fatal Mama—‘You’ve been away from Louis years already—Grandma’s too old to walk—’ We’re all alive at once then—even me & Gene & Naomi in one mythological Cousinesque room—screaming at each other in the Forever—I in Columbia jacket, she half undressed. I banging against her head which saw Radios, Sticks, Hitlers—the gamut of Hallucinations—for real—her own universe—no road that goes elsewhere—to my own—No America, not even a world— That you go as all men, as Van Gogh, as mad Hannah, all the same—to the last doom—Thunder, Spirits, lightning! I’ve seen your grave! O strange Naomi! My own—cracked grave! Shema Y’Israel—I am Svul Avrum—you—in death? Your last night in the darkness of the Bronx—I phonecalled—thru hospital to secret police that came, when you and I were alone, shrieking at Elanor in my ear—who breathed hard in her own bed, got thin— Nor will forget, the doorknock, at your fright of spies,—Law advancing, on my honor—Eternity entering the room—you running to the bathroom undressed, hiding in protest from the last heroic fate— staring at my eyes, betrayed—the final cops of madness rescuing me—from your foot against the broken heart of Elanor, your voice at Edie weary of Gimbels coming home to broken radio—and Louis needing a poor divorce, he wants to get married soon—Eugene dreaming, hiding at 125 St., suing negroes for money on crud furniture, defending black girls— Protests from the bathroom—Said you were sane—dressing in a cotton robe, your shoes, then new, your purse and newspaper clippingsno—your honesty— as you vainly made your lips more real with lipstick, looking in the mirror to see if the Insanity was Me or a earful of police. or Grandma spying at 78—Your vision—Her climbing over the walls of the cemetery with political kidnapper’s bag—or what you saw on the walls of the Bronx, in pink nightgown at midnight, staring out the window on the empty lot— Ah Rochambeau Ave.—Playground of Phantoms—last apartment in the Bronx for spies—last home for Elanor or Naomi, here these communist sisters lost their revolution— ‘All right—put on your coat Mrs.—let’s go—We have the wagon downstairs—you want to come with her to the station?’ The ride then—held Naomi’s hand, and held her head to my breast, I’m taller—kissed her and said I did it for the best—Elanor sick—and Max with heart condition—Needs— To me—‘Why did you do this?’—‘Yes Mrs., your son will have to leave you in an hour’—The Ambulance came in a few hours—drove off at 4 A.M. to some Bellevue in the night downtown—gone to the hospital forever. I saw her led away—she waved, tears in her eyes. Two years, after a trip to Mexico—bleak in the flat plain near Brentwood, scrub brush and grass around the unused RR train track to the crazyhouse— new brick 20 story central building—lost on the vast lawns of madtown on Long Island—huge cities of the moon. Asylum spreads out giant wings above the path to a minute black hole—the door—entrance thru crotch— I went in—smelt funny—the halls again—up elevator—to a glass door on a Women’s Ward—to Naomi—Two nurses buxom white—They led her out, Naomi

stared—and I gaspt—She’d had a stroke— Too thin, shrunk on her bones—age come to Naomi—now broken into white hair—loose dress on her skeleton—face sunk, old! withered—cheek of crone— One hand stiff—heaviness of forties & menopause reduced by one heart stroke, lame now—wrinkles—a scar on her head, the lobotomy—ruin, the hand dipping downwards to death— O Russian faced, woman on the grass, your long black hair is crowned with flowers, the mandolin is on your knees— Communist beauty, sit here married in the summer among daisies, promised happiness at hand— holy mother, now you smile on your love, your world is born anew, children run naked in the field spotted with dandelions, they eat in the plum tree grove at the end of the meadow and find a cabin where a white-haired negro teaches the mystery of his rainbarrel— blessed daughter come to America, I long to hear your voice again, remembering your mother’s music, in the Song of the Natural Front— O glorious muse that bore me from the womb, gave suck first mystic life & taught me talk and music, from whose pained head I first took Vision— Tortured and beaten in the skull—What mad hallucinations of the damned that drive me out of my own skull to seek Eternity till I find Peace for Thee, O Poetry—and for all humankind call on the Origin Death which is the mother of the universe!—Now wear your nakedness forever, white flowers in your hair, your marriage sealed behind the sky—no revolution might destroy that maidenhood— O beautiful Garbo of my Karma—all photographs from 1920 in Camp Nicht-Gedeiget here unchanged—with all the teachers from Vewark—Nor Elanor be gone, nor Max await his specter—nor Louis retire from this High School— Back! You! Naomi! Skull on you! Gaunt immortality and revolution come—small broken woman—the ashen indoor eyes of hospitals, ward grayness on skin— ‘Are you a spy?’ I sat at the sour table, eyes filling with tears—‘Who are you? Did Louis send you?—The wires—’ in her hair, as she beat on her head—‘I’m not a bad girl—don’t murder me!—I hear the ceiling—I raised two children—’ Two years since I’d been there—I started to cry—She stared—nurse broke up the meeting a moment—I went into the bathroom to hide, against the toilet white walls ‘The Horror’ I weeping—to see her again—‘The Horror’—as if she were dead thru funeral rot in—‘The Horror!’ I came back she yelled more—they led her away—‘You’re not Allen—’ I watched her face—but she passed by me, not looking— Opened the door to the ward,—she went thru without a glance back, quiet suddenly—I stared out—she looked old—the verge of the grave—‘All the Horror!’ Another year, I left N.Y.—on West Coast in Berkeley cottage dreamed of her soul—that, thru life, in what form it stood in that body, ashen or manic, gone beyond joy— near its death—with eyes—was my own love in its form, the Naomi, my mother on earth still—sent her long letter—& wrote hymns to the mad—Work of the merciful Lord of Poetry. that causes the broken grass to be green, or the rock to break in grass—or the Sun to be constant to earth—Sun of all sunflowers and days on bright iron bridges—what shines on old hospitals—as on my yard— Returning from San Francisco one night, Orlovsky in my room—Whalen in his peaceful chair—a telegram from Gene, Naomi dead— Outside I bent my head to the ground under the bushes near the garage—knew she was better— at last—not left to look on Earth alone—2 years of solitude—no one, at age nearing 60—old woman of skulls—once long-tressed Naomi of Bible— or Ruth who wept in America—Rebecca aged in Newark—David remembering his Harp, now lawyer at Yale or Srul Avrum—Israel Abraham—myself—to sing in the wilderness toward God—O Elohim!—so to the end—2 days after her death I got her letter— Strange Prophecies anew! She wrote—‘The key is in the window, the key is in the sunlight at the window—I have the key—Get married Allen don’t take drugs—the key is in the bars, in the sunlight in the window. Love, your mother’ which is Naomi— Hymmnn In the world which He has created according to his will Blessed Praised Magnified Lauded

Exalted the Name of the Holy One Blessed is He! In the house in Newark Blessed is He! In the madhouse Blessed is He! In the house of Death Blessed is He! Blessed be He in homosexuality! Blessed be He in Paranoia! Blessed be He in the city! Blessed be He in the Book! Blessed be He who dwells in the shadow! Blessed be He! Blessed be He! Blessed be you Naomi in tears! Blessed be you Naomi in fears! Blessed Blessed Blessed in sickness! Blessed be you Naomi in Hospitals! Blessed be you Naomi in solitude! Blest be your triumph! Blest be your bars! Blest be your last years’ loneliness! Blest be your failure! Best be your stroke! Blest be the close of your eye! Blest be the gaunt of your cheek! Blest be your withered thighs! Blessed be Thee Naomi in Death! Blessed be Death! Blessed be Death! Blessed be He Who leads all sorrow to Heaven! Blessed be He in the end! Blessed be He who builds Heaven in Darkness! Blessed Blessed Blessed be He! Blessed be He! Blessed be Death on us All! III Only to have not forgotten the beginning in which she drank cheap sodas in the morgues of Newark, only to have seen her weeping on gray tables in long wards of her universe only to have known the weird ideas of Hitler at the door, the wires in her head, the three big sticks rammed down her back, the voices in the ceiling shrieking out her ugly early lays for 30 years, only to have seen the time-jumps, memory lapse, the crash of wars, the roar and silence of a vast electric shock, only to have seen her painting crude pictures of Elevateds running over the rooftops of the Bronx her brothers dead in Riverside or Russia, her lone in Long Island writing a last letter—and her image in the sunlight at the window ‘The key is in the sunlight at the window in the bars the key is in the sunlight,’ only to have come to that dark night on iron bed by stroke when the sun gone down on Long Island and the vast Atlantic roars outside the great call of Being to its own to come back out of the Nightmare—divided creation—with her head lain on a pillow of the hospital to die —in one last glimpse—all Earth one everlasting Light in the familiar black-out—no tears for this vision— But that the key should be left behind—at the window—the key in the sunlight—to the living—that can take that slice of light in hand—and turn the door—and look back see Creation glistening backwards to the same grave, size of universe, size of the tick of the hospital's clock on the archway over the white door— IV O mother what have I left out O mother what have I forgotten O mother farewell with a long black shoe farewell with Communist Party and a broken stocking farewell with six dark hairs on the wen of your breast farewell with your old dress and a long black beard around the vagina farewell with your sagging belly with your fear of Hitler with your mouth of bad short stories with your fingers of rotten mandolins with your arms of fat Paterson porches with your belly of strikes and smokestacks with your chin of Trotsky and the Spanish War with your voice singing for the decaying overbroken workers with your nose of bad lay with your nose of the smell of the pickles of Newark with your eyes with your eyes of Russia with your eyes of no money with your eyes of false China with your eyes of Aunt Elanor with your eyes of starving India with your eyes pissing in the park with your eyes of America taking a fall with your eyes of your failure at the piano with your eyes of your relatives in California with your eyes of Ma Rainey dying in an aumbulance with your eyes of Czechoslovakia attacked by robots with your eyes going to painting class at night in the Bronx with your eyes of the killer Grandma you see on the horizon from the Fire-Escape with your eyes running naked out of the apartment screaming into the hall with your eyes being led away by policemen to an aumbulance with your eyes strapped down on the operating table with your eyes with the pancreas removed with your eyes of appendix operation with your eyes of abortion with your eyes of ovaries removed with your eyes of shock with your

eyes of lobotomy with your eyes of divorce with your eyes of stroke with your eyes alone with your eyes with your eyes with your Death full of Flowers V Caw caw caw crows shriek in the white sun over grave stones in Long Island Lord Lord Lord Naomi underneath this grass my halflife and my own as hers caw caw my eye be buried in the same Ground where I stand in Angel Lord Lord great Eye that stares on All and moves in a black cloud caw caw strange cry of Beings flung up into sky over the waving trees Lord Lord O Grinder of giant Beyonds my voice in a boundless field in Sheol Caw caw the call of Time rent out of foot and wing an instant in the universe Lord Lord an echo in the sky the wind through ragged leaves the roar of memory caw caw all years my birth a dream caw caw New York the bus the broken shoe the vast highschool caw caw all Visions of the Lord Lord Lord Lord caw caw caw Lord Lord Lord caw caw caw Lord Paris, December 1957—New York, 1959

#im a collector im a maniac #poetry #not mine

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smarchit · 3 years

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Poetry for an Heiress, chapter 10

Word count: 3k

Summary: When a duchess and her children are abandoned far from home, they must rely on the kindness of one stranger to guide them home.

Warnings: None

Notes: This is the final chapter of Poetry, originally intended to be an epilogue. To those who have stuck to this story since the beginning, thank you. I am so appreciative of the support this story has gotten. I'm sorry I made you guys wait a month for this last chapter, but I promise I have smut coming soon to make up for it. Enjoy!

~~~~~~~~

The leaves on the trees had just started to turn when you and Ezra were married. It turned out to be the last nice day of the year, with a clear blue sky and the last embrace of a warm breeze that blew through the garden.

Your mother and grandmother had wanted a spring wedding for you, as was traditional, but both you and Ezra decided on early autumn. It felt better for you two, closer, more personal.

The day of your wedding was perfect, not one single thing went wrong. It was as if Kevva themselves were smiling down upon you.

Your children were so excited to find that they were going to be in your wedding. They could barely contain their excitement throughout the summer. Even the little trip you all took back to Muir for a few weeks to help Ezra pack his belongings and auction the farm couldn't distract them long enough from asking a million questions about the wedding. The only thing that seemed to pull them away long enough for you and Ezra to get a moment to yourselves was the promise of bringing the barn cat, Charlotte, and her six kittens back to the palace when you left. They wouldn't have to hunt for their food or sleep in the shed any longer, and the children were delighted at your allowing the cats to sleep with them.

The morning of the wedding, you woke to Marie crawling into bed with you and snuggling under your arm.

"Mama," she whispered, "Are you awake?"

You chuckled and looked over at her, her curls messy and falling out of the braids she slept in.

"Yes, my little bug, I am awake," you replied, brushing your knuckle along her cheek.

"I'm too excited to sleep, mama," she said, cuddling up to your chest.

"There's still time to sleep for a bit," you told her, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "It's going to be a busy day. Try to close your eyes."

"I know," she said with a yawn. "Grandmother said there was going to be sweets and dancing!"

"And we don't want to miss out on that, do we?" you teased, giving her a gentle shake.

She shook her head. "Never! Though Mr. Ezra said he would save me extra sweets if I fell asleep."

You chuckled and gave her a hug. "You won't need to call him that anymore if you don't want to. You'll be able to just call him Ezra after today."

Marie grew quiet and you looked down, wondering if she fell back asleep in your arms. Instead, she peered up at you with wide eyes.

"Can I call him papa?" she asked softly.

You brushed some of her hair away from her eyes and smiled in response. "You can if you want, little bug. That is a question for him to answer, yes? Ask him tonight if he would be alright with that."

Marie's smile grew impossibly wider and she squeezed her little arms tighter around you. "Okay, mama!"

"Now get some rest, bug," you urged her. "I'll wake you when it's time to get ready."

A few hours later, you stood in front of the large doors of the ballroom, dressed in a pale pink and blue gown, hair swept off your neck in a delicate updo. You took a deep breath as the doors opened and you walked out into the garden, the familiar path lit by several colorful blown glass luminaries, winding through the stone walkway, leading you towards Ezra.

His hand was already outstretched as you approached and he smiled broadly when you stepped onto the altar to join him at his side.

"You look beautiful," he whispered as he turned towards you. His eyes crinkled at the corners and you swore you saw tears in his eyes as he looked at you. "I am truly a lucky man, Princess."

Together, you turned to face the officiant as she read the ceremony to you both and to the small crowd behind you in the garden. She bowed low in front of you and Ezra before throwing the marriage veil over the two of you.

Ezra chuckled once the translucent shroud was draped over your heads, partially obscuring you both from the others. "Hi," he beamed, your hands still clasped in his between the two of you.

"Hi," you replied breathlessly, gazing up at Ezra. After a moment of silence,, you giggled and looked down at your joined hands. "We need to read the vows."

"Right, right," he said with a small nod. He cleared his throat and looked down at you. You both sucked in a breath and in unison, spoke your vows.

"I promise to stay by your side, through hardship and pleasure alike, to protect and praise you always, and keep the flames lit. To love the life we have, and the life we may create together now and forever more. For our lasting legacy, until the end of time."

As the final word was spoken, the officiant lifted the veil from your heads, revealing you both as one to the waiting crowd.

Ezra cupped your face in his hand and kissed you deeply, not caring one bit that your family was watching. He knew he loved you from the moment he saw you in the cantina, scared and shaken, trying to feed your children. He wanted to be with you, even if you didn't care for him the same way he did for you.

You threw your arms around him and returned his kiss with as much enthusiasm as he kissed you. You had never been more sure of anything in your whole life. This was what you had been waiting for. From the night you had been told of Rion's death, you had been waiting. Nothing had ever felt more right to you than in this moment.

Music started up around you as the party began. Your children ran towards you, wanting to be a part of the festivities as well. Marie bounced on her heels and tugged on Ezra's sweater.

"Mr. Ezra," she said softly, looking almost shy. "I have something to ask you."

"Of course, birdie," he replied, bowing at the waist to talk to her. "How about you go and get us some cake and a drink? You can ask me anything you want." He brushed her cheek with his thumb and offered her a smile.

She grinned and jumped up and down before running off towards one of the many tables laden with treats.

"Should I be worried?" Ezra asked as he watched her grab a massive piece of pink cake and duck through the crowd towards a high top table.

You chuckled and put your hands on Ezra's arm. "No more than usual, my love."

"I doubt there's anything that could ruin this day regardless," he hummed as he kissed you again.

"Mama!" Aiden cried as he shut his eyes. "Gross!"

"Mr. Ezra," Henry said, "My bow tie came undone, will you help me?"

Ezra chuckled and pulled away from your embrace. "While I can't tie much of anything these days, what I am able to do is show you how to do it yourself. Come on."

You smiled and ruffled Aiden's hair as Ezra led Henry towards the tent where the light was better. "Mama, you're not gonna do a bunch of that kissing stuff now, are you?"

"As much as possible," you teased. Aiden made a sour face and took off running towards the party. You shook your head and bounded after him, lightly threatening him with a dance should you catch him.

***

It was a few months after your wedding that you began to feel nauseous and lightheaded during your afternoon strolls through the garden with Ezra and the children. You chalked it up to the little bug that Henry and Aiden had come down with, but after it hung around for a week or so, Ezra insisted you talk to the doctor in the physician's wing. You had an idea as to the cause of your mysterious illness, but didn't voice your suspicions to your husband just yet.

After a quick test, the physician confirmed what you had been thinking. You were pregnant. By his calculations, you were about two months along, maybe nine weeks or so. Still far too early to feel anything, but it didn't matter to you. You loved your child so much already and couldn't wait to tell Ezra and the children. With the children, you figured that you could wait to tell them for a while longer, just in case something were to happen, but Ezra would want to know immediately.

You found Ezra reading in the bedroom, sitting in bed with a book in his lap. He looked up and grinned when he saw you enter.

"That was a quick visit," he said, holding his arm out, beckoning you to join him.

You crawled onto the bed and smiled as you cuddled up to him. "Put the book down. I have some good news to share with you, my love."

Ezra slipped the bookmark between the pages and slid the book onto the bedside table. He rearranged himself on the bed beside you and turned to face you expectantly.

You took his hand and rested it against your belly, looking at him hopefully, excitement bubbling inside you, ready to burst. "I'm pregnant, Ez," you whispered. You bit your lip, nervously awaiting his reaction. It didn't occur to you that he might be anything but elated, or that perhaps you should have told him in a different way.

Ezra blinked a few times, processing what you had just told him. It was one of the few times you'd left him completely speechless. He barked out an excited laugh and surged forward to kiss you. "Pregnant! Princess, are you telling me I--- we are going to have a baby!"

You nodded and laughed as he kissed your cheeks, your mouth, your forehead, any spare inch of your skin that he could reach. "Yes, yes! The doctor confirmed it, but no one else knows. We mustn't tell anyone just yet!"

"Of course," he said quickly, "I can't hardly believe it!" He kissed you again and rolled over, dragging you on top of him. "Another bird to add to our flock, Princess! Imagine!"

***

Your daughter made her entrance into the world one late summer night, red and wailing and perfect, only a few hours after you went into labor while on a walk with Ezra and the children in the garden. The physician had warned you months ago that it was normal if your labor was so short, given that it was your fourth child, after all.

Ezra was by your side the entire time, encouraging you and coaching your breathing as you sat in between his legs. He let you squeeze his hand during contractions, right up until the midwife kicked him out when they were mere minutes apart.

It wasn't long at all after the nurses shoved Ezra into the hallway that they opened the door again to proclaim the good news. A healthy baby girl.

As Ezra was let back in the room, he brought his hand to his mouth when he spotted you holding your child to your breast. He sat down beside you in the bed and stared at you both in awe.

Your daughter turned in your arms, her bright eyes blinking sleepily in the dim light from the fireplace beside your bed. Her eyes were yours no doubt about that, but she had Ezra's beautiful, perfect mouth. Perhaps one day she would have his silver tongue to match.

Most notably, and what had first taken your own breath away, was the shock of dark hair that lay against her head. However, on her hairline was a downy tuft of fine white hairs, exactly like her father's. It had brought you to tears when you first spotted it as the midwife lifted her from between your legs.

"She's perfect, Princess," he whispered, putting his arm over your shoulder. He rested his head against your temple and stared down at the tiny baby asleep in your arms. "What should we name her?"

"Eudora," you whispered after a moment of silence, glancing up at him, waiting for his reaction.

Ezra was quiet, and for a second, you worried you had upset him. But he slowly moved his arm from around your shoulders to grip the baby's tiny hand in two of his fingers.

"Eudora," he said quietly, his voice breaking slightly. "That is a fine name, isn't it?"

"I never stopped thinking about what you'd told me the day you pulled me out of the water," you murmured, kissing the top of your daughter's head. "About your sister."

"Poor thing," he said softly. "I wish I'd gotten to meet her."

"I wanted to honor her," you said. "And your mother, if you'd like. For a middle name?"

"My mother," Ezra replied, brushing his thumb over the back of Eudora's tiny hand. "My mother's name was Rachel."

"Eudora Rachel," you said softly as you pressed your lips to her forehead. "Welcome to the world, my sweet girl."

Ezra wiped the tears from his eyes as he watched the two of you. He hadn't stopped grinning since the midwife came out and announced her birth. He couldn't believe that this tiny bundle sleeping in your arms was a part of him. It felt as though it could all disappear if he blinked. He feared he would wake up, back on the Green, that perhaps this was a dream brought on by the toxic dust that had seeped into his blood. But it was real.

"Do you want to hold her?" you asked, nudging him with your shoulder. You smiled at his awestruck expression as he regarded your question, nodding slowly when you passed her over to him.

"Hello, little birdie," he said softly, shifting himself onto the bed so he could rest her carefully in the crook of his arm. "Hi, sweet girl. I-- I'm your dad. Happy birthday, angel."

You leaned against Ezra's shoulder and yawned, exhausted from bringing your daughter into the world. You let Ezra's gentle voice be a lullaby as you drifted off to sleep. Tomorrow, your children and your mother and grandmother would meet Eudora. Her birth would finally be announced to the world, introducing her as the newest princess. But for now, it was just the three of you, your husband by your side, your daughter sleeping in a bassinet by the fire. And it was absolutely perfect.

The next morning, you woke with Eudora's short, wailing cries for milk, which you provided happily. You were already untying the laces on your nightgown to bare your breast to her as you moved to her little crib to carry her back to bed.

Ezra had awoken with you, or perhaps maybe he had not slept at all. He watched you feed her and then change her with rapt attention, afraid to miss even a moment of his daughter's first hours of life.

It was still very early in the morning, the moon had not yet gone down, the sun still far from reaching the horizon. It had only been a few hours since you had fallen asleep, the clock on the mantel let you know as much. But both you and Ezra stayed awake after that until the sun rose, leaning against one another as you watched your daughter sleep soundly between your bodies.

"She's perfect," he whispered, leaning over to kiss you. "She is such a tiny little thing, I'm afraid I would crush her."

"It always feels that way," you murmured. "But you won't."

"I can't stop looking at her," he said. "She has only just seen her first sunrise and I would already shoot a man dead for even looking at her."

"That feeling will never go away either," you chuckled, glancing back down at Eudora. You trailed your fingers over the fine white patch in her hair and smiled at the thought that she would carry her father with her always.

Ezra ran his fingers over the back of your hand and leaned over to press a kiss to your forehead.

"And you, Princess, how do you feel?" he asked, settling back to look at you.

"Wonderful," you replied, with a small smile. You heard the rapid pounding of feet in the hallway outside as your children raced to meet their new baby sister. Your mother opened the door and the children poured inside, already squealing with delight.

Ezra gently scooped Eudora into his arm so the children could get a closer, careful look at her.

You looked at the five of them and smiled fondly at the new life you now had. It felt like a dream, perfect in every way imaginable.

After a moment, Ezra set the baby down in her bassinet and rejoined you on the bed to watch the children as they peered into her little cradle.

"Remember that night in the garden on Muir?" he asked, lacing his fingers in yours. "When I promised you I would always be there to read you poetry?"

You smiled and leaned against him. "I believe the phrasing was something about whispering poetry between my thighs," you said, your voice hushed.

Ezra chuckled and nodded. "That was indeed the phrase, yes. And I will keep that promise until the end of my days, Princess. I will write poems for you, for the children. For this little one." He looked over at the bassinet and smiled widely before turning to you again and kissing you sweetly. "All my love, Princess. And in a hundred years, they can tell stories of us, be inspired by us, and by our poetry."

~~~~~~

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@the-feckless-wonder @gallowsjoker @phoenixhalliwell @waatermelon-sugaar @huliabitch @miscellaneous-mando @lestrange2703 @seasonschange-butpeopledont @auandromedus

#my writing #poetry for an heiress #ezra prospect #ezra x reader #ezra x you #prospect #pedro pascal

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yespoetry · 5 years

Text

Caitlin Scarano: There Is No Ending

I know we’re all sick of poems with deer but let me explain

Last night: a forest of hospital beds

I want to ask all these strangers: do you ever think every day you’re getting closer to your death or do you wake in the morning with hope crusted in the corner of your eyes, your teeth already grinning at the air?

Grief is a very complex machine, it told me so itself, a matrix

that takes years

A. to navigate

B. from you like teeth

Dear J, I have a few acres all to myself now, you should see them

I’m sorry you had to turn so many stones

while I looked on at a careful distance

The male human heart at age 36

Who knew, I guess

It’s true that I didn’t mind the horses starving outside my window, as long as they

came when called, as long as they were gentle with their teeth

I mean, I had many apples going to rot, what else could I have done

I read about how the water in Lake Superior is replaced every 191 years

Remember the spot where I dove under and was rolled by a wave and for a moment I did not know what was up or down, what was past or present, you or⁠—

That winter, the lake froze, trace lines of cracks in the ice colliding, the fractures in my body all met

In another dream, you’re in front of me⁠—solid, tangible, with a dark beard and corduroy pants

I ask you about dying and he you say, Let’s go to this city I know

Then you disappear into a tangled forest and I follow, stumbling, ripped by thorns

You’re always just out of reach, always just turning the next corner

Remember those children we watched while we ate ice cream on that green bench in Sault Saint Marie? Silly

that isn’t my favorite memory of you, not by far but it’s the one I keep

coming back to

I took it so I should have wanted it

But the sugar made my teeth ache

Every memory is two-sided, like that day we lay in the grass watching ships pass through the lochs

Distance is deceptive

It was sunny, the photos you took prove it

But the wind⁠—

Or the wind and the rain that day we met at the lighthouse, you wore a black sweater, I hadn’t seen you

in years, you looked younger, time doing its mirror trick

The scene draws us

We weren’t ghosts but we were

both adrift, though only one of us knew it

When I reach the city you spoke of, it’s been abandoned for decades

Every memory is two-sided, like the time you were driving and the Jeep hit

black ice and spun out

Like the time I was driving and my car died as we coasted down hill

In a human dream, electric blue hydrozoan creatures blossom in the Superior’s deepest water

Every memory is two-sided, and nothing is mine to claim

I run these dirt trails near my house, I think of you, I touch my chest, count my breaths

One day I came upon this mother dear and two fawns, they were tiny, spotted, legs so ready to give out but they did not give out

J, you should have seen them

Generational, Domestic

I drink from the cup that made me

before blood congeals across the top.

Touch the muscles of your back

while you sleep. What does cruelty express?

A fear so deep it creates its own

gravity, the world pours in around

the rim. Despite how light clawed, it could not

get out⁠—not after, not from within. I live by a river

and dream of living by another river. Throw my baby

teeth into it like coins in a well. Wish and watch

water pass, think of how it bows and braids,

think of the circulatory system, nervous

birds on loop. My niece appears in a dirt-stained

dress holding yellow zinnias as they blossom

and rot, blossom and⁠—Does movement remind you

of death or escape? When you bite the inside

of my thigh, what memory of violence

unfurls like a seed? Generational, domestic. Your mother

tells you she prays for us and I swallow

it whole like a duck egg. A blue mud wasp

taps against my window, where its always

been. While we sleep, bindweed inches up

the walls and ceiling. Coils around the lamps.

Tomorrow, we’ll eat the heads of morning.

A Litany of Dreams You May Borrow

The one where I pick sunlight off my skin like scales or sequins

Or I have a boy’s torso and a jaw

that doesn’t lock when I start to laugh

Any of the dreams with snakes or my mother trapped in a radiator vent

because they spring from the same well

My little sister and I are teenagers again, still speaking to each other, and she climbs a sugar maple and never comes back

The ones where rain comes through the roof but not the ones where it is snowing in my room

S. and I still live together but a gray horse circles the house, starving

No one names it

My father is in a hospice bed, holding up his rot-dappled organs one by one

as offerings to me

The cow pasture

where I’m in a wedding dress carrying a pitcher of his blood

B. and I are back on the beach at night and she kisses me except this time ocean is made of milk and sweet

No one invents sin so we sun ourselves on the rooftop

Any dream of my grandfather⁠—that skull for a face, the parrot watching on, the white sheet and long fingernails

In fact, you may keep them, convince yourself there is a lesson

The dream where the brakes gave out

His head is in my lap and the window is open even though it is January outside

A war between nations of men takes place in my mother’s dining room

My sisters and I watch from beneath a table

Those you can leave: any dream where he says my name

aloud or his mouth is against my hair, any dream

where the dead forgive

The first girl I loved asking Are you sure you don’t know me? until she disappears

The whole room slants and I fall from the bed to the wall as if the house is trying to shake me from itself like a parasite

The dream I had after S. found the knife I hid beneath the nightstand

The one where I saw our sons using sticks as swords, their mouths yellow

and chose not to have them

The first gentle boy from my childhood is back and we are in love

When the church burns down and my sisters and I are blamed

The one where what I love is not unwell, not in need at all, so I shrink to the size of a kitchen ant and crawl away

My mother is my daughter and when she speaks, hummingbirds fill her mouth like arrows

The one where I actually forgive him and he leans back then, rests his eyes, says

There is no ending

Alessandra sends me two pictures of her son eating his first strawberry

while I’m home alone reading about central sleep apnea because this morning Calvin woke me up at 5AM by rubbing my back because (he said) I kept holding my breath and he is afraid (but doesn’t say) that I might stop breathing all together. On our jog today Cara told me that she’s going to try dating again and there isn’t much out there so she’s meeting a corporate lawyer all the way in Seattle for lunch on Thursday. Part of me is jealous—to get to meet strangers that you might have sex with or raise a puppy with is to feel very specifically alive right? The internet says I cannot suffocate in my sleep. I have this one memory of when I’m four or five and my father is sitting in the tub and I just let myself in to the bathroom and ask him how often he clipped his toenails and he laughs like kids are so fucking werid and says and said Maybe once a week? When we can’t stop worrying about each others deaths this is how I know we need each other. I can’t remember Alessandra’s baby’s name even though I met him once when we were in Portland. I don’t want children but one time on a long drive I imagined a three or four year old kid in the backseat of my Subaru asking me smart and weird kid questions and me giving honest answers and developing this whole lifelong relationship with a human like there is a way to never be lonely. I was startled by a sound but it wasn’t really a sound just a door closing in my body. I didn’t tell Calvin about it. Instead we talked about our little sisters and how we’re scared for them. The internet says my brain will panic and wake me up. I tell him I want him to confide in me but what do you say to I have a very real fear that the next time I hear about her it could be that she’s dead. I get it at least somewhat—what it means to see a boat drifting away from you. The last time I saw M she was more angry than any person I can remember it was like being beside a live wire I wasn’t sure if I could speak if I could even ask her if she was okay without making her not okay like the whole world is made of string and it can unravel if you say or even think the wrong thing. I don’t think there is a way to never be lonely. In the pictures the baby’s fingers are red and his laughing and sitting on a checkered picnic blanket and it looks like real summer in Wisconsin. I don’t really want to date strangers again. Everyone good I’ve found I still don’t know how I kept them. Some days I don’t want him to leave the house for fear of what might happen next. I remember when M and I were little she was hardly ever mad just withdrawn and we were there like two islands beside each other never really able to say what we meant or needed and now my mother calls me and she’s just painted the trim in the living room mountain air white and she starts to cry thinking about thirty years in the house where she raised us that she wants to sell and I say You haven't left yet and she says I’m already gone. Calvin just texts his sister now even though he knows he won’t get a response and I imagine those messages floating in a black void with stars because it all goes somewhere. I write back Don't you wish you could remember your first strawberry? The interest promises me I’ll take another breath.

The mountain has no childhood to speak of

and no child to soothe. Thought it might tell you something

of its formation, even though it does not remember.

Or that there is no universally agreed upon definition

of a mountain. It would speak less about light

and ascension and more about its insides. I have veins,

the mountain would say, a circulatory system of sorts

but no organs. The mountain would predict your disappointment.

It would refuse your offer for a brain and a heart. Knowledge

and loneliness, the mountain would explain, pass from sky

to water to stone. Mountain embodies strangeness, thus has no notion

of strangeness. Mountain understands destination.

It has been desired. It knows you

think it’s trapped; that it has never left and will never leave.

But, if we let it speak, it would tell you: I have touched

every corner and crevice of this carved valley. Has seen so much

come and go⁠—loon, kingfisher, lynx. The people that

tried to erase people. Mountain has hounded

wander. But will have nothing to say about hunger.

If you sit with it long enough, mountain might admit, I am afraid

of dying. Of the slow wearing, the slow away. Wind and water.

Mountain will teach you a word that means both companion

and destroyer. Though it does not sleep, mountain dreams,

of being ripped out by the roots. Mountain wonders

if mountains bleed.

Caitlin Scarano is a poet based in northwest Washington. She holds a PhD in English (creative writing) from the University of Wisconsin-Milwaukee and an MFA in Poetry from the University of Alaska Fairbanks. She was selected as a participant in the National Science Foundation’s Antarctic Artists & Writers Program. Her debut collection of poems, Do Not Bring Him Water, was released in Fall 2017. Her work has appeared in Granta, Best New Poets, Best Small Fictions, Carve, and Colorado Review. You can find her at caitlinscarano.com

#Caitlin Scarano #poetry #special feature

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queerwelsh · 5 years

Text

“Memory” by E. Prosser Rhys

E. Prosser Rhys won the Crown in the National Eisteddfod of Wales, Pontypool, in 1924, with “Atgof.” “Memory” is a translation by Hywel Davies.

MEMORY

THE STORY OF A SENSIBLE LAD

“The imagination of a boy is healthy, and the mature imagination of a man is healthy; but there is a space of life between, in which the soul is in a ferment, the character undecided, the way of life uncertain, the ambition thick-sighted … …” John Keats. In his second introduction to “Endymion.”

When hot with youth I fled down weary ways The suing voice and its insistencies; I would not listen to its warning lays Of hell encoiled within the heart of bliss. A coward thing, I said, were I to dim My ardent ways and take secure root, When I would yield myself to every whim, And taste delight of the forbidden fruit. But the pursuer followed after still, Nor ever did his divination fail; He witnessed all my torturings of will, He followed and he followed on my trail, Like some God given envoy during strife To ward me from the knowledge that is life. * * * The smell of burning peats! Swift as light, It strides along the highways of my brain, Till I am filled with memories of delight, My own white house and the hedged fields again. Once more the little rooms, the glint of sun On ancient chairs, familiar ways and ease, And they who gave me life, the day being done, Dwelling in love’s divine consolaries. And I remember storms that whipped the door, Whilst I all swinkéd lay before the fire, Till beckoning sleep would show her magic store, And mother’s song waft me to my desire. And I would sleep, my weariness unfurled, Between the two most happy in the world.

Most happy in the world! . . . I lived to see Beyond the unruffled days of laughing youth, Their amorous contentment piteously Entangled, snared, grow pale and die in ruth. For here, and I growing, I saw one Who wept and raged in bitter unavail, And he, the father of her child, undone By whispers that were flame about the vale. The mother’s heart--though heavy be the road That winds between the Church bells and the grave,– It not oppressed by a more heavy load, Than dead desire and beauty that she gave To him whose blood is still unspent and lewd, Bound to her only by cold habitude.

Cold custom! Was it not a fault, allow, To moss her ever in her tiny bower, With passion’s tide so fickle in its flow, And fallacy our universal dower? Is it not vain the vowing unto God, And we blindfolded of our own desire, Rebelling vainly till death’s wink and nod, Rebelling vainly in our children’s fire? And I believed, there in the smell of peat, That love was but the lusting of the flesh, A swift, mysterious gladness it was meet That youth should lie with ere it slipped the mesh,– A wild, shy thing of the woods, no willing thrall To run this way or that at beck and call.

Our love at back and call! Did ever love, of yore, Concern itself with aught but its own needs? So tell me why should men strive evermore To bind her running feet with their small creeds? For her of old was courtesy a cloak; Her bright eyes shone above the tournament; T’was in her name the poets and sages spoke, And for her sake the plans of Kings were shent. Though stronger than the buttressed mountains are, More fickle is she than the playing breeze; Who holds her prisoned now shall find afar His truant fancy sailing the high seas. Stale custom shall not rust my spirit’s knife: To tread the caprice of Love’s dance in life.

To live! What then of him, the priest who saith That love o’ercometh passion and its evil? What of my home that was the home of death? Shall God created bliss be blamed the Devil? I shall take love even as it is, I said, With eyes afire and feet aflame to snare All women to the silver net I spread, And drown my senses in their tresséd hair. Great rock recesses shadowed from the sun Shall be the pantheon of my desire; Let all the birds sing out their praise as one, And all the winds touch now upon the lyre; May the white moon turn to Orion and the Wain, And laugh at twinéd love and its sweet pain. * * * So ran my vow. And eager in pursuit The suing voice came riding down the wind: Think well before you taste forbidden fruit, And to thyself irrevocably sinned. Was it not wedlock that awoke from sleep, Suckled and fed and housed the infant mind? Released from its travailings in the deep Great Nature’s measures to preserve our kind? The pangs of birth are no vain chance of pleasure, The mother’s pain hath its appointed place, For this is Life’s glad offering of treasure Upon Love’s altar to redeem the race. Beware. The altar is too consecrate For love unruled and lust insatiate. * * * The smell of earth! When Spring comes through the rain Out into shining days of clear delight, With deathless memories rustling in her train Of Love’s adventurings, and that dread flight, From out the shadow of fear and of reason, To where Love lies in glowing mightiness. And drinking deep of my own father’s treason I shamed away the whispers of distress. . . . The smell of earth! The smell of that clean sod Where I would soothe my weariness to rest; And now the thorn where was the rose. Dear God, That I should so have stained the white, the blest, Unversed in this: whatso the day has bred, Dreams in my bones, lives in my flesh, till dead.

But my desire was for the subtle wine Distilled in woman’s soul by gift of Jove. I live again the night I walked with mine To prove the perils of adulterous love. Loud were the shouts of labourers at the ploughs; Even and red lay the long furrow rills; Life was a song among the green leaved boughs; Life was a dance about the eternal hills. And joy was one with everything I saw, Joy to my ear all the sounds I head, And happy I--joy without end or flaw, And Life within my grasp, a fluttering bird, Her bright plumed wonder, as it were, tip-toe Upon expectancy, lest I should go.

Lest I should go! The vengeful night had chased Day from the hills; close to a lake we lay; We moved together and we there embraced; She hung her head abashed, but with my play Her sloe back eyes were filled with tender tears; I kissed her with my eager, full ringed mouth, Caressed her gently till she knew no fears, And she was passionate as the sun warmed South. And in upon our tranced selves there came The tide of our desire . . . and we swoon . . . Is there another sweetness like to flame That turns to bitter memories so soon? We go our way. No word of love is said, And loathéd pleasure in my heart lies dead.

Mair, if we were nine and bound in love, Instead of twice that sum of sorrowing years, We would not know these wild desires that move Our tempest souls to ecstasy and to tears. We’d play at keeping house for our delight, Or row prodigious Queens across the ferries; We’d deck ourselves with flowers blue and white, And dine like faery folk upon the berries. If we could have our wish and live again The babbling days of happy innocence, Divest ourselves of knowledge and pain, And walk once more in our magnificence, Treading illusion’s way, our brains untaught In this poor truth of which the world is wrought!

In there be harmony in life, I said, It is to yield to passion’s every gust, But I its pilgrim now am surfeited, I forswear woman, turn away from lust. Woe unto man, great God’s unclean endowing Of wily woman’s soft, persuasive ways; To my intemperate and accursed avowing I sing a glad farwell for all my days. Frustrate is all desire, though we have clothed Its meagre loins with garments fir for Kings. To friendship do I vow myself betrothed, For comradeship is clean. Upon its wings Will I surmount desire. This is our tryst: Friend, I will go with thee wheree’er thou list.

So ran my vow, and eager in pursuit The suing voice came riding down the wind: Think well before you spurn the Master’s fruit, And to thyself irrevocably sinned. The comradeship of men shines out like gold Through all the chronicles of the star crossed earth; I give thee leave to travel with the bold, To grasp their steady hands and prove thy worth. But give not all thy faith to friendship’s rule From surfeiting of woman and desire; Thy glowing body shall not thus grow cool,– Two of one sex may know a hidden fire That may of comradeship make such a rue Shall thy far fleeing steps all time pursue. * * * On Summer eves, the smell of new mown hay Borne faintly on a breath of dying wind, Brings back to me the many twisting way Of our companioning. There comes to mind The busy questing, and my winnowed choice Of friendship that would bless my eyes with truth, And grant respite from that incessant Voice, Nor leave my heart a temple unto ruth: And as I came upon the charméd stream Of Menai silvering from sea to sea, I met my mind’s own image, he, the dream, And greeted him my comrade happily, Sweet from the swathes of new mown hay these rose Incense to bind our lovely friendship close.

Oh golden haired and generous of heart, There is no secret hid away from thee, Of close communings from the world apart, Of dreaming towers raised against the sea. We said the world was evil to the core; We would have earth an earthly paradise,– Reshape its way to beauty evermore, So men might walk the world more kindly-wise. We vowed to trample nature to the dust, Make flesh a casket only for the mind; Though youth is swift to snare his feet with lust, To love’s enchantments were we now not blind? For we could hear, faintly from afar, Some singer singing of a fairer star.

A fairer star! The musing night was deep Between the high-pent hedgerows of the lane; The world lay quiet in a windless sleep; The scent of hay rose freshly after rain. Our hearts were of a sudden filled with ease, In some high Wisdom awfully arrayed . . . From a grey convent shadowed in the trees There rose a chant of praise to Mary Maid. We stopped. And there made chaste our hearts from greed, Anger and lust and strife, till strong within The holy words of that Latinian creed Singing of cloistered continence from sin, We chased down secret arches of the brain The world’s enchanteries and the world’s great pain.

The secret arches of the brain! . . . We kept No vigil on our thoughts, walled in from wrong That grave, fantastic night. And as we slept Our ears were tolling with the holy song, We slept, half drowsily aware, unwilling, Yet glad that each was in the other’s arm. And so desire . . . the flame of our fulfilling And sudden lapse of love’s ecstatic charms . . . And then awake, remembering what had been My brain became a pool of burning wroth: My comradeship and love, alike unclean, For all our sacring and our plighted troth. Wilt thou not leave me now alone, Desire, For I am sick to death of Life entire.

Life, in laughter and in loveliness! But Flesh is like a shadow over all; My richest dreams are dust and emptiness, And striving Soul is bound a slave in thrall. What art thou, Flesh, that shivers to the cold, Melts to the noonday heat, yields blood to steel, That walks, and sleeps, is lorded o’er by gold, That sees, and hears, is swift to know and feel? What art thou, Flesh? Thou art the unsought crown, That fickle chance of bodies trapped in lust; And that same lust, waking or lying down, Is pent again in thy sharp blood. Oh dust! And why, in this poor pot of earthenware Should’st Thou have poured a wine beyond compare? * * * Another way I chose from out the mire, And still the swing voice came down the wind: Think well before you banish all desire, And to thyself irrevocably sinned. I bade the keep within the holy way Of Nature’s law, nor spurn her great design; I bade the not, in Friendship’s hour, bewray Thy hidden passion, no, nor drink that wine. Unheeding, thou hast sinned and surfeited On woman’s love, the comradeship of men; And now, oh fool, in thy fool’s heart hast said That death is in the touch of lips. What then? A love afar, unhoped for … Oh vain word! For life is soul and sense in sweet accord.

The smell of sea-weed! When the noonday sun Is bright upon the levels of the deep, To watch the children windblown to a run Of shrill delight across the sands . . . and weep! The smell of sea-weed! Festal life debates In the swift strains of music from the band, And maidens robed in white, sure Love’s oblates, Laughing at sunset in a green leaved land. The smell of sea-weed! . . . Wandering amazed, My senses dead from my adventurings, One from the throng of white clad maidens gazed With calm and level eyes… My pain took wings Before her slow smile dawning unafraid, I vowed swift hearted I should love the maid.

Her will I love, I said. Though carnal Lust And Love’s sweet self are in one body meshed, There is from God divinity will thrust The twain apart; beyond desire, unfleshed, Our ways shall move to splendour. Love has ended The mind’s submission to its yoked zest. . . . We held no converse, went out way unfriended; Looked not for kisses, knew nor lip nor breast. Walking the sea’s wide marge along the bight, Our glances met,–revealed our deep set bliss A cold, still flame of radiance burning white In eyes were swift to read and swift to kiss. Before our silent love there was unfurled Rich gifts that mute the poets of the world.

Mute is the tongue, for how should tongue make known The eternal saturnalia of the house? Where by the roadside many seeds were sown One spears the sod, makes glad the way with flowers. Her soul had windows where from deeps of blue A child’s white thoughts came peeping in and out; Her walk, her dress, her ways alike were true,– A vestal maiden armouréd about. And grudging Life, who had denied a crumb, With glowing hands poured treasure at the last Bound the wise world’s knowing … I stood dumb, Spell bound in awe, divinely chained, held fast, Wise fools awhile scraping that ancient lay That two and two is foolish children’s play.

Oh that smell of sea-weed holds in trave The hour we stained love risen from the sea. Perchance the bathers tumbled by a wave Troubled the secret waters heaped in me. There came a dream upon the wings of night, And I had pleasure of the mute, sad maid. . . Dawn in the East had set the world alight When I awoke . . . remembered the betrayed. . . God knows how agonised in bitter pain I wrought upon the death of my design; I walked the sun lit sands from hell’s lifted Sign, Away beyond the hills, for I had read Guilt in her eyes of what the night had bred. * * * Deep in a wood I lay, and by me sate Pain for a friend. I cried: How vain Is all my girded armour against fate; Sure Lust has found a flaw, and Love lies slain. Wilt Thou from whom I fled by night and day Speak unto me, for I am stripped of fear? Strange Guide and my sure Prophet, say Where wisdom lies; speak, and I shall hear . . . My head is cradled on a tuft of grass. . . The trees are shadowed from the burning sky. . . Heart of the world that beats, and beats. . . Pass, Little bird, fly on, away. . . A great wind’s sigh… The leaves are listening, tense … no breath, no sound . . . The Voice’s accents sweet, above, around.

You too have bowed your lusty head at last, Though long eluding down the evasive ways; There is no heart so secret, feet so fast, Can find a chamber privy from my gaze. A puny thing is Man! You named me here Your kindly Prophet and your own strange Guide. The suing voice that tracked you through the dread Vain trespassings, Thyself, and none beside! As though the life that teems about the fields– The ribbed oak or failest blade of green, Were to renounce the sap the good root yields Drawn from the earth that bore it, shaped it clean, And so renouncing, fail of leaves and flowers To pine in helplessness through death’s slow hours.

Lush from the roots that probe ancestral earth I am the sap that moves along your veins; Deep in the secret dark you hid my worth– Unblest of me, frustrate, thou hast known pains. I am nor good no evil,–but the taste Of earth, thy earth, is sharp upon my mouth. Perchance an unwise word may slip in haste; Perchance I make my law some out worn truth: But wise or foolish, thou thyself demeaning Both Soul and Body to my unseen end, In me thy Life shall find a richer meaning, A shriller laughter, agonises that rend, And peace in serving, chastened of His rod, Inerrably the purposes of God.

You yielded, yes, but not before long erring, And never sin was sinned but drew its wage. No shelter is there in the world’s wayfaring From retribution on the scoréd page. You will not know the smell of burning peat But memory shall come and clasp you hand; Nor joy of earth, but Spring with shining feet Shall lead you to the lake, and wave her wand. You will not know the scent of fresh cut hay, But Comradeship will come and sit with you; Nor smell the sea-weed drifting, but you pay Your desecrating love with bitter rue. * So must the price of sin be pain with hell, Till Memory’s sting is dulled, and all is well.

#e. prosser rhys #atgof #memory #lgbt history #queer history #lgbt history month #e prosser rhys died on this day in 1945 aged 43 #welsh history #welsh queer history #lgbt poetry #by m

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thisislakewood · 5 years

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→ IN CHARACTER INFORMATION

Character Name: Logan Legend

Characters Age: 39

Faceclaim Choice: Chris Evans

Gender and Pronouns: Male, He/him.

Birthplace: Lakewood, Texas.

Birthday: May 20th, 1979.

Occupation: Bar owner of Bullseye.

Family: The Bodyguard for the Reyes Family.

→ BIOGRAPHY

Triggers: spousal death, child death, parental death.

Legends were never created. They were born, bred from fire and metal and raised to be above mere humans. They were destined to a higher power, a greater recognition than what a mere human life. They were gods among men. Legends were meant to be idolized, and if you think back to the ones that had crossed us—it made all the sense. Mythical mentions of Hercules and Achilles were some that would bring brawn over brain. Albert Einstein and Marie Curie, vice versa. They were meant to leave a mark, meant to make you remember them. It was meant to make you think back and go ‘oh. THEM. Let’s talk about them.’ These were the legends that everyone talked about. But no one ever cracked a discussion about Logan Legend, for he was the exact opposite of the definition. Born upon the cusp of a rising power, in the newly dubbed Lakewood, Texas, sat a small family in middle of the boons. Men of soldiers and valiantly, women of honor and pride. This is where the newly dubbed Logan Jordan (something he curses his mother for giving him a ridiculous middle name) Legend was born, on the eve of a crisp summer’s night. The family was ideally set off with their two boys, both proud, popular and confident.. Logan was a good natured child, bit of a trouble maker in school, and an all-around class clown. He thrived off the spotlight, lived for the ideals that everyone’s eyes could—and at some points, in his opinion, should—be on him. His parents fed into the idealism as well, keeping their boy prepped and primed for life, providing the home envied by others, and the all-American dream of a good natured family. Hell, he was sure some kids were jealous of him. And if not—he’d make it so.

Now, while in this state, there wasn’t much in the way of what could and could not be done. He grew into a staggering six-foot-four man, proud and in his prime. Instead of going off to college as his parents may’ve wanted—but at the time of his mother’s illness, could not afford—Logan made the decision of a lifetime. Move to Boston, join the US Army, make a name for yourself, and go home—only home was far too out of reach for a man like himself. This was a game plan he could’ve stuck too, one that would’ve helped him in the long run. The war of worlds wasn’t something he was interested in, but it provided the sustainability to give back when he pleased, and that was ideal to Logan. For that, a man fresh into his twenties, he went off. Initially, it’d been fairly easy. Something that surprised him, how quickly he’d come to learn the ins and outs of it all. It’d taken him three years, but he’d finally found himself in the midst of something greater than himself. With the skills of a sniper, Logan found himself within the Green Berets. Wading and wandering, it created a gentleman out of him, one with respect. He took his earnings and returned them to the man and woman who gave their lives for him. But the money did not last long. Sickness was easy, and unavoidable and after his mother’s swift passing, his father sunk into a depressive state, too weak to fight the flu-like symptoms on a cold night, too small to appreciate the will to live. Logan couldn’t dump the responsibilities of them onto his little brother, who by far, was the opposite of himself. For that, he’d pack. When he’d sold his family’s land, belongings, and any namesakes packed into a small box to bring back to the army base in the Northern end of Texas, he knew—Lakewood would be empty. It was home, but it was a distant memory. It’d become a place to recollect, but never linger.

By the time he’d finally lived out his youth, his carefree nature, Logan knew he would need to settle down. He would need to find a woman who could support, live on the Legend—though the namesake never came with the definition, as he’d been used too, and move on in life. He should’ve had a wife by now, but his focus had been his job, the Army in which he served, and nothing would change that, regardless. For that, he met Jane. Bright eyed, paled woman, blonde hair. The fiercest blue eyes he’d ever seen. She was docile, sweet, timid. He enjoyed that, more so an alpha male than he would’ve liked to admit he was, and somehow, she sunk into a second nature. Perhaps that’s why he settled for her. No questions, no ruffling of feathers. Her parents old and sickly, but she was young, and a nurse to boot, at the base in which he was stationed. In his time, that’s what mattered, to grow a line of family. Given his nature, given his sense of pride, it made sense, regardless of her own emotions that she give into his proposal. It was a forging of lines, and it didn’t seem either were too keen on. Logan wanted excitement in a partner, someone with life. Someone to put him in his place when he’d become nothing more than a jackass at times. Someone vocal. Not someone scared of him, simply for all the work he’d put in as a soldier,. On a sweet summered June day, Logan married Jane, with family and friends all around.

Not that any of it helped. Now, nor then. Logan’s life, while painted well beyond the woes of a man who might’ve been stricken down by his country’s battle—was still reflected within the pools of Lakewood. Charlotte. She was this enigma, this motion of light that seemed to draw him in like a poor man’s moth, circling and entranced. He was envious of her lovers, and enthralled when she looked upon him. This was the image of the woman for he saw within his mind. This was the image of the woman to bear his name, take his hand—the ring he should’ve put on her finger. This was where his woes with Jane stemmed. His nature to recollect in a dream-like state had him calling out for her name, and while he hadn’t seen her since his youth—since he left her to join the army—it was still there. It was there like the drift of a spring’s wind as it tumbled though long grass. It was where his memory settled, and where he found himself drawn to her. Of course, no amount of therapy could console his wife within the first few months of their marriage, forced to sit on a couch and recant the tale of a girl so far gone from his reach, he had been grasping for air. That’s all it was, extending his hand into the dark, and expecting one, but there was another. Had he settled for Jane? Surely. Should he try? Well, that was the conclusion they’d both come too.

Their marriage was lively, for what it was in public. In their home, once Jane moved in with him, was almost dismal. It was tedious. Same routine. Kiss on the cheek when he woke, and the same when he returned from work. Into their marriage, did Logan find it hard to lay with his wife. In a drunken stupor, sure. There was almost never an issue there, should he not have fallen asleep beforehand on her and she left him there in a pile of his own piss. But to consummate—to make the marriage real, in the eyes of religion, constituted a child. After two years of becoming one with another, it happened. Jane was pregnant. Her pregnancy, however celebrated, and brought them closer to create another, came with complications. Having already suffered through her second trimester with painful contractions, bed rest before she was into her third—the pregnancy stopped looking positive. It was not a positive thing, for his wife could barely care for herself, never mind the child. When it came time to give birth, Logan knew—something was wrong. His gut screamed nothing could end well for him, for his child and his wife. This was not meant to happen as it was. If there was fate, this was it extending its power. Logan watched his life desecrated, going from being a solider and husband, to a sympathized widower. Jane did not survive the birth, nor did his son. Burying them was sentimental, and even though they struggled, he chose to put them with his parents, a sign of loyalty, allegiance. He carried Jane’s wedding ring with him on a necklace bound with his own. Never sentimental, never emotional. He’d learned growing that it was best to swallow them—be a man, his father would encourage. Men never showed true emotions in his family, and Logan never revealed his personal life with Jane to anyone. Not even if they saw the rings to this day hanging loosely around his neck. That was his burden, guilt, to bear until the end of his time.

When he returned to base with the woes of the truth shattered inside of his mind, Logan found himself at an odds. As though the world didn’t want to work for him. As though it couldn’t. Almost nineteen years since he joined the forces, rising through the ranks. A celebrated marksman, fifteen years of servitude and he found himself discharged. Off to be replaced by a younger, able-bodied person to perform half as well as he ever would. He’d seen the woes of man on the battlefield. He ranked higher than some would in their dreams for having such sharp aim. He could do it—he did it all. And when he found himself without the one thing he held onto—he was lost. Returning to Lakewood was the only thing Logan had left for him. Abundance of money, of glory from a battlefield now just out of his reach for the rest of his days, the once bright and sprightly man became jaded. Liquor became a good friend, and his mind seemed to only go back to the one thing that worked: aim. Firing the end of a gun off at a target made out of wood calmed the quell in a heart that didn’t have any bounds. The further he sunk into his depressive, maniac state—the more Logan found himself into the troubles of shadows long gone. When he’d been born within the mayhem of Lakewood, his own father a former Bodyguard for the Stone Cartel (another secret that alluded the elder Legend child)—the army was the only thing escaping him from himself, and a life on the edge. But hadn’t that been what he wanted? Service had provided him the thrill, but when it was gone, all he had left was the daring soul of a man confined.

When his father opened Bullseye almost forty-or-so years ago, it was the only thing he knew he might still be good at—something he could possibly succeed if not be it the murder and fatigue that followed him. Attesting it to the only thing he had left that he could call his own, his signature style for weaponry, prestige skill—and love of bikes, caught the eye of the Reyes Cartel. An elite crime family within the walls of his own home, shifting and bending the rules to their own. It was what he enjoyed the most. His bike had become something of a staple, one of the first thing to come back to life in his return. When the months spurn into dedication in years, Logan found himself knee deep within the Cartel business. The way it defined his outlook. He grew from the boy proud to bear arms, to the man, jaded, who knew it all. There was the inkling of a man underneath of what he used to be, subdued with the man he had become in his departure from the front lines. Logan had spent time on the outside once more—before heading right back in. Five years since being discharged, and he earned his moment, his place within the Reyes family. Now, as the Bodyguard within the Reyes Cartel, he uses his tactic of command and skill to keep those beneath him in line, all while upholding the values of a club who had, without ever knowing it, given him purpose once more.

→ PERSONALITY SUMMARY

+ Witty, Sarcastic, Loyal - Flirtatious, Guarded, Impulsive

#chris evans #cartel rpg #murder rpg #town rp #oc rpg #taken #reyes cartel

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hmhteen · 6 years

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HMH TEEN TEASER: EMPRESS OF ALL SEASONS by Emiko Jean!

We’ve got another taste of HMH Teen for you, and this time, it’s a gorgeous fantasy inspired by Japanese mythology! Every generation, a competition is held where girls across the kingdom compete to marry the Emperor...and become the next Empress. To do so, they must conquer magical rooms with powers infused by the seasons—Winter, Spring, Summer, and Fall. Mari is one of those girls, with big dreams to win the contest, and the Emperor’s heart. But not because she loves him...because she has to steal his fortune. In order to do so, she’ll need to keep her forbidden magic a secret and survive—without falling in love along the way.

Scroll down to read an excerpt of EMPRESS OF ALL SEASONS.

***

CHAPTER ONE- Mari

BREATHING IN THE DARK, and not her own.

Mari tilted her head. She couldn’t see in the pitch-black, but she closed her eyes. It helped her focus. She knew this space well, this room with no windows and an almost airtight door. Sometimes the musty smell invaded her dreams, morphed them into nightmares. The Killing Room, and Mari was executioner.

She inhaled, holding the stale air in her lungs. There, in the right corner, two feet away, someone waited. Afraid.

Mari stepped forward, the floorboards creaking under her weight.

“P-p-please,” a high-pitched male voice wailed.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” she said, letting a note of reassurance enter her voice. Not yet, anyway. She probed the wall. Her fingers brushed against a wooden ledge, then paper pulled tight over a bamboo frame. Matches rested next to the lamp. She struck one and lit the cotton wick, illuminating the room in a soft glow. The scent of rapeseed oil crept through the air. When her eyes refocused, she saw that the man was dressed in hakama pants and a surcoat. Samurai garb. The uniform of the military elite.

“Gods and goddesses,” he said, mouth lifting into a sneer, “I thought you were one of them. Why, you’re no taller than a sapling! What happened, little girl, did you lose your mommy?”

Mari regretted her paltry effort to comfort him. That’s what you get for being nice. Men. They always underestimated her.

Opposite the man, a variety of weapons leaned in the corner: a sickle and chain, a bow and arrow, a nunchaku . . . Mari gestured toward them. “Choose.” She liked to give the men a fighting chance. I’m sporting that way.

The samurai huffed. “You don’t know what you ask, little girl. I trained at the Palace of Illusions with the shōgun himself.”

Mari clenched her teeth. This was growing tedious. “I said, choose your weapon.”

The samurai strolled to the corner. He rifled through the weapons and selected a katana and a wakizashi.

Predictable. The long and short swords were samurai weapons. Her opponent brandished them, sharp-edged steel blades glittering in the lamplight.

Mari sauntered to the corner and quickly chose her own instru- ment. Always the same. The naginata. The reaping sword was a long bamboo pole culminating in a wicked curved blade. Thought to be a woman’s weapon, none of her opponents ever selected it. It was the only weapon Mari knew how to wield. “If you train on all weapons, you will master none,” her mother always said.

Mari stamped the naginata on the ground. Dust billowed around the hem of her navy kimono. “I’m very sorry, but from this moment, you’re dead,” she said, unsheathing the blade.

The samurai laughed, the sound robust and biting.

Mari cut his chortle short. She dipped into a crouch, letting the pole end of the naginata swing out in an arc, clipping the back of the samurai’s knees.

He collapsed with a loud thud. Mari winced. The big ones always fall the hardest.

“That was a mistake,” he said, clambering to his feet. He crossed the swords in front of him, a dangerous glint in his eye.

At least he’s taking me seriously now. “No,” Mari corrected. “That was intentional.”

The samurai rushed her, and she followed suit. The blade end of her naginata clashed against his big sword. Sparks flew.

The samurai jabbed with the smaller sword, and Mari dodged. A hairsbreadth from being impaled. That was too close. Her pulse quickened with fear and excitement. This samurai is well-trained. Before the samurai could pull back, Mari began twisting the naginata, catching both of his weapons in the windmill. Forced to let go, the samurai dropped his swords, which scattered to the ground, a few feet away. Well-trained, but not as well-trained as I.

She couldn’t allow him time to take a breath, to reach for his weapons. End this. She snap-kicked, her right foot connecting with his abdomen. The samurai grunted and doubled over. He clutched his stomach as he tipped to the ground.

She stood over him, breath ragged, victory sealed. Warmth radiated through her body. She felt the beast rise within her, felt her brown eyes dissolve into twin black abysses. Her hands flexed as muscles spasmed and bones popped. Her fingernails grew into black pointed talons. The skin on the back of her hands bloomed with leathery, charcoal-colored scales as tough and thick as a rhinoceros hide. She ignored the agony of transformation. She had trained her- self to shut it out.

The samurai stared, horror-struck.

She knew she looked hideous — still part human, but with the eyes and hands of a monster. She brought her face close to the samurai’s, and when she spoke, her voice came out as a rasp. “You were right after all. I am one of them.”

CHAPTER TWO- Taro

TARO RUBBED THE MARK between his eyebrows, where pain blossomed. For someone chosen by gods and goddesses, he’d certainly suffered his fair share of ailments during his seventeen years of life.

The ache between his eyebrows pulsed, beating in time with the hive of activity surrounding him. In the Main Hall, servants bustled, scrubbing the zelkova floor on hands and knees, dusting the rafters with peacock feathers, polishing the four sets of statuesque doors, one for each season. Preparations for the competition had begun weeks ago.

Most days, the commotion was enough to grate on Taro’s nerves, a reminder that his hard-won solitude would soon end. But today, that was not what annoyed him. Today it was a disturbance so great that he’d heard it from inside his workroom, clear on the other side of the palace.

His features darkened at the spectacle before him. Two imperial samurai, clad in black lacquered armor, dragged a screaming kappa into the Hall. A muscle ticked in Taro’s jaw at the sound of nails scraping across metal. The kappa’s green webbed feet left a trail of slimy, muddy water on the high-glossed floor. A servant girl who had just finished cleaning it gasped and skittered off, vacating the space with the rest of the workers.

Behind the kappa trailed a retinue of priests. Their dove-gray robes brushed the ground, their steps careful and measured. Their voices were synced as they chanted curses in a song so beautiful, it made humans weep.

Unfortunately for the prisoner, the words were earsplitting to kappa, indeed to all yōkai. Chains, shackles, and wooden cages were unnecessary. The priests’ chants kept the kappa locked tight in an in- visible torture chamber.

Smaller than a human child, with a turtle-like shell on his back and an orange beak protruding playfully from his feathered face, the kappa didn’t appear to be a threat. He was sweet-looking. Cute. Seemingly benign.

Things are rarely as they appear. Taro knew this to be true. He lived in the Palace of Illusions, after all. He also knew that kappa were notorious for their strength, possessing five times that of a human man, and for their love of entrails, usually harvested from live victims. Taro placed a hand over his stomach. No wonder the servants fled the Hall.

The kappa’s screams ceased, quieting to a coo. The language he spoke was unintelligible to humans, but Taro recognized the plaintive tone of his voice. The kappa pleads for his life. As they passed, the samurai and priests bowed to the emperor’s son. Taro inclined his head, the barest hint of recognition.

The entourage slowed at a set of mahogany and cypress doors. A bar, made from the trunk of a thousand-year-old oak tree, rested across, blocking what was inside from getting out. A relief of a mountain covered in gleaming snow was carved into the wood.

The Winter Room. As with each of the Seasonal Rooms, it could be used for pleasure, or for pain.

Today, it is pain.

A sick feeling took root in Taro’s gut, but his countenance remained stoic. He was good at wearing masks. His favorite was a formidable expression. He used it often. So often that sometimes he forgot who lay beneath.

The samurai dumped the kappa just outside the Winter Room doors. The creature whimpered, its spindly limbs curling in like a dried leaf. Unwilling to watch, Taro flicked his gaze to the tattooed priests. Cobalt ink covered their bodies. Even their faces were permanently branded with swirling, calligraphed curses. If a yōkai touched a priest’s skin, it would burn.

Grunting, the samurai lifted the oak bar, then stepped back, the heavy wood weighing down their shoulders. The doors sprang open. Snow flurries escaped, melting in the warmth of the Main Hall. Icy air brushed Taro’s cheeks, and his lips twitched. From the depths of the room, he thought he heard the echo of his long-gone laughter. As a child, he’d played in the snowfields and hidden in the Ice Forest. Now only death walked there.

Footsteps echoed behind him. The priests and samurai sank to the ground. Stillness descended, punctuated by the low hum of the priests’ chants. Only one man commanded such a reception. Taro’s father, the emperor, divine ruler of humans and yōkai, Heavenly Sovereign, paused beside him. Heat rose on Taro’s neck as his father’s shoulder brushed his.

They were the same height now, almost mirror images of each other, except for the fine lines of aging that had settled around the emperor’s mouth and eyes. Their broad shoulders swathed in purple robes cut imposing figures. Their hair was shaved on both sides but left long on top and pulled into knots. On their left hips, they wore the long and short swords, a nod to their samurai training. It was not enough to be chosen by gods. Ruling an empire required strength and force, the fierceness of a dragon. Traits Taro had always lacked. Until now.

Born prematurely, Taro had been a sickly child, small and given to coughing fits. In the last two years, he’d undergone a semi-metamorphosis, shedding his frailty. His lungs had cleared, and his muscles had thickened, his build now as massive as a bear’s. Sometimes when he gazed at his hands, he didn’t recognize them, the blunt strength in his fingertips, the power of his grip.

Taro kept his eyes forward as the emperor cast him a searching glance. If his spine straightened any more, it might snap. His father studied Taro often, now that he’d grown.

“Father,” Taro said in a monotone.

“Son,” the emperor replied. The emperor’s voice always made Taro think of rusted iron — cold, hard, crusted, useless. “I thought you would be off playing in your workroom.” Taro swallowed against the bite of his father’s tone. The emperor had very definitive views on what made a man. Men did not cry. Men were not small. Men sought power and dominion. Taro spent most days avoiding his father.

The emperor’s driving purpose was to rid the East Lands of yōkai. Taro craved privacy, quiet spaces where he could invent things. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were made up entirely of gears and springs, his childhood nurse had often commented. The emperor certainly never understood his son’s passion for engineering. Rumors swirled that there was a time when the emperor had been softer, that he had loved deeply and without judgment. If this was once the case, Taro had never witnessed it. And as for Taro, he knew what the servants and courtiers whispered about him. The Cold Prince. More metal than human. A man without a heart. Perhaps this was true.

“I heard the commotion.” Taro didn’t bother to hide his annoyance. A muscle rippled along his jaw.

“We caught a kappa in the moat,” said the emperor.

Taro expelled a breath. The kappa must have been starving to risk coming so close to the palace.

His father arched a single silver brow.“Unbelievable, isn’t it?” The emperor waved an impatient hand and spoke loudly.“Enough.”

The chanting ceased.

The kappa stilled. His eyes — black, wounded, beseech- ing — rested on the emperor.

“His odor is offensive,” the emperor intoned. The Main Hall did smell like fish and pond water. The emperor jerked his chin. “Throw him in the Winter Room.”

Kappa may not understand human words, but this one clearly comprehended a death sentence. The kappa’s eyes sharpened into res- olute points. The creature opened its beak, screamed, and shoved the samurai.

For one glorious moment, the imperial guards were airborne, their bodies graceful arcs, hyperextended in space, and Taro marveled at the small yōkai’s strength. The samurai crashed into the wall with a dull clunk, slumped and dazed.

A gust of snow from the Winter Room swirled into the Hall, obscuring Taro’s vision. Out of the white, the kappa barreled toward Taro and his father, webbed hands outstretched, beak open in a shriek.

Taro squared his shoulders, counted his breaths. One. Two. Three. His mask did not slip. Nor did the emperor’s. For all their differences, they shared a few traits. A cold air. Pride. No one would dare defy the emperor or the prince. To do so would be to court the wrath of the gods and goddesses. Religion was the emperor’s greatest weapon.

The priests quickly resumed their chanting, climbing to their feet and beginning to sway. The kappa paused, clasping his webbed hands over his ears. A futile effort. The air thickened and crackled with the priests’ incantations. The Hall grew colder. The kappa toppled to his knees, doubled over. Paralyzed.

The emperor barked at the dazed samurai.“Get up.”

Slowly, the samurai regained their wits and dragged the kappa’s limp body to the threshold of the Winter Room. Taro turned a cheek as they threw him in.

If the kappa was lucky, the frigid temperatures would kill him before the predators did. The Seasonal Rooms created their own weather, aided by Master Ushiba, the revered Seasonist. A blizzard could come. In the Winter Room, that might be the quickest way to die.

A final wave of cold air blasted Taro as the doors swung shut. At least it isn’t the Summer Room. His features tightened at the thought.

The blazing heat pressed down like a hot iron, blistering the skin of its victims.

The oak bar thudded back into place. The kappa screamed, beat- ing tiny fists, rattling the doors. Another futility. The doors would hold against the kappa; they held against oni, the strongest yōkai. Taro turned and began to stride away.

“You won’t stay?” his father called after him.

Something inside Taro clenched. A sound of disgust emanated from low in his throat, and he allowed his mask to slip, just this once. “I’m afraid not everyone has such a taste for death as you,” he replied.

The emperor laughed. “Go hide in your workroom. But I will expect you at dinner tomorrow night. We need to discuss the competition.”

Taro bit his tongue. The competition. His heavy footsteps matched the dull thud of his heartbeat. In a matter of days, hundreds of young women would descend upon the palace, armed and hopeful. The rules were simple: Survive the Rooms. Conquer the Seasons. Win the prince.

Taro seethed at the threat to his hard-won solitude and the ri- diculousness of his being reduced to a prize to be won, a thing to be auctioned off. He shook his head. No. He would not stand idly by while his entire life was taken from him. Girls may come. They may conquer the Rooms. One may even win. But Taro would not marry her. He had a plan.

CHAPTER THREE- Mari

THE SUN WAS just an orange flicker on the horizon, and the green trees appeared black against the encroaching twilight. Slushy snow dotted Mari’s path, winter’s last stand against the spring. She hastened her steps toward home, hunching her shoulders against the crisp wind. Best not to be caught in the forest after dark.

Just as the final ray of light sank beneath the horizon, Mari ex- ited the woods. A clean scent hung in the thin air. She inhaled deeply. Home.

A few steps, and Mari arrived at the gates of Tsuma, her village. Paper tied to the iron bars flapped in the wind. Below were gifts, trib- utes left for her people, their packaging absurdly bright against the black gates and gray stone wall surrounding Tsuma. Travelers rarely ventured up the mountain. Those not acclimated to the altitude often suffered headaches, insomnia, and dizziness — Mountain Madness.

But some — human and yōkai — would risk it.

They came to leave offerings for her clan — fish, flowered hairpins, silk embroidered obi, even copper coins. Affixed to each tribute was a mon, a familial crest in the shape of a mandarin orange, a three- leaf hollyhock, or intersecting loops. A fool’s errand. Mari’s top lip curled as she bent to collect the bribes. Her clan would enjoy the gifts, but they would not spare those families. Everyone was fair game. Prey.

Mari navigated Tsuma’s barren roads by memory. Though the village was small, it was built like a puzzle. The streets had no names, and the houses no numbers. The homes were all similar — wooden and unadorned. The steep thatched roofs always made Mari think of hands clasped in prayer. Many feared Mari’s clan, and just as many would like to see them destroyed. Only Tsuma’s inhabitants knew who resided in each home, how each piece of the puzzle fit together.

Two left turns, fourteen steps, and Mari was home. Light glowed behind the shuttered windows of her cottage. Hand on the door, she paused, taking a breath to steady herself. Facing imperial samurai in the shed was one thing. A more formidable opponent awaited her inside. Mari shook her head and laughed at her childish fear. It’s only your mother.

Inside, she slipped off her sandals, dumped the tributes, and padded into the tatami room. Under her feet, the floor squeaked. Another small measure of protection: boards that sang so that no one could sneak up behind you. Warmth prickled her hands and cheeks as the wooden interior of her home came into focus. Save for a low table, the tatami room was intentionally bare. To any who entered, the home appeared simple. Poor. But beneath the singing floorboards was hidden untold wealth.

“You’re late.” Her mother’s quiet, even voice drifted from the kitchen.

Usually, a screen partitioned the rooms, but tonight it was folded aside. Framed in the archway, her mother made a pretty picture as she bent over the irori. In the small hearth, an orange flame licked the bottom of a cast-iron teakettle. Steam charged from the spout, unleashing a low whistle. Mari’s mother, Tami, poured the boiling liquid into a ceramic teapot on a plain wooden tray. Flowery notes scented the air. Jasmine tea. Mari’s favorite. With practiced grace, her mother shuffled into the tatami room and placed the tray at the center of the low table. “How did it go?” Her mother knelt and began to pour.“Mari?”

Shaken from her cold trance, Mari stepped forward.“People will look for an imperial samurai.”

Her mother delicately shrugged a shoulder, taking a sip of tea.“A disgraced imperial samurai. He liked the hostess houses too much, frequented ones with young girls.” Mari shuddered. “No one will come for him. Sit,” her mother commanded. Mari obliged, settling across from her.“Now, how did everything go?”

Mari sighed, folding her hands together atop the table. “Every- thing went fine. He didn’t even take my weapon.” Her chin jutted up smugly.

Her mother’s dark eyes flickered.“It is the last one.”

Mari’s heart tripped in her chest. Her smugness slipped away, unease taking its place. Soon a far more perilous journey would be- gin.

Her mother ran a manicured finger over the lip of the ceramic cup.“It’s a shame you didn’t inherit my looks.”

At her mother’s words, Mari felt the tiniest pinch, as if a needle pricked her side. If only your hair had the same shine as mine; yours is so dull and lifeless. It’s too bad your teeth overlap in such an unfortunate way. Perhaps if you stood straighter, you wouldn’t look so . . . substantial. As always, Mari couldn’t help staring at her mother, at everything she should have been and wasn’t — long hair the color of the midnight sky, golden skin that never needed powder, a graceful, lithe bod

These days, Mari rarely looked in mirrors. She had abandoned hope that her reflection would change a long time ago. She’d stopped growing at five feet. She wasn’t fat, but she was thickly muscled, sturdy. Her face was round, the shape of an apple. She wasn’t ugly. She was plain. And in a village of preternaturally beautiful women, average meant unattractive.

The only trait Mari shared with her mother, shared with all Animal Wife yōkai, was the beast hidden inside her human form. Animal Wives were born for a singular purpose: to trick men into marriage and then steal their fortunes. Men are conditioned to take. Women are conditioned to give, Mari’s mother once told her. Long ago, our clan decided to stop giving and start taking.

Mari ignored her mother’s comment. She refused to apologize for her many deficits.

Wind beat against the shuttered windows, and a cry drifted through the slats. Not wolf, bear, or owl. Animal Wife. Mari startled to attention, her mother’s words forgotten. She knew the origin of the wail.“Hissa is still in labor?”

“You are pale. I’ve saved you some dinner,” her mother said, pushing a covered tray toward Mari.

Mari lifted the cloth from the tray, revealing a bowl of sticky rice topped with strips of dried seaweed. Her stomach roared. Hissa can wait a few seconds more. She dug her fingers in and shoved a scoop of rice into her mouth.

“Mari,” her mother chided. “Have you forgotten how to use hashi?”

Mari shrugged. It was a small victory, offending her mother’s delicate sensibilities. “It tastes better this way.” She licked her fingers with a smack.“Hissa?” she prodded.

Her mother’s lips pressed together. She shot a pointed look to the unused chopsticks. Mari’s fingers curled on her lap. A standoff. Her mother would not dole out information until Mari complied. With a sigh, Mari picked up the two sticks and proceeded to eat with them. She should have known better than to spar with her mother. She is the one opponent you’ll never beat. One look, and you shrivel like a slug doused with raw salt.

Her mother was slow to answer. “Still in labor. But her time approaches.”

Mari chewed a bite of rice and swallowed.“I hope she has a girl.” “That would be nice.” Tami smiled, an odd combination of bitter

and biting. At this, Mari tensed. She was an only child, but not the only child her mother had given birth to. Two boys had come before Mari. Two half brothers she would never know. Because Tsuma kept her daughters and discarded her sons. Animal Wives’ traits passed only to females, making them full-blooded yōkai. Boys were halflings — abominations.

Mari focused on filling the pit in her stomach. A knock sounded at the door. Mari’s chewing slowed. Who can it be? Visitors past dark were uncommon.

The door slid open, bells tinkling. Ayumi entered, her sandals still on, a sure sign of bad news. “Forgive me, Tami-sama,” she addressed Mari’s mother.

“Hissa?” Mari asked, her heartbeat quickening under her ribcage. “Yes. She’s had her baby.” Ayumi scowled furiously. “A boy. She

refuses to let him go.”

Mari’s mother sighed and stood.“I will come.”

Mari rose to her feet as well. Tami regarded her daughter, indeci- sion etched in her expression. She is going to order me to stay home. A little ball of rebellion loosened in Mari’s veins. She inhaled through her nose, ready to argue, to insist she be included. I won’t be left be- hind. She’d never attended a delivery. But this was Hissa. Her best friend.

A year ago, Mari had kissed Hissa’s fair cheeks, bidding her good- bye before she departed Tsuma. Two months later, Hissa returned, her hands spilling over with riches, a triumphant smile lighting her face. Hissa had tricked a wealthy merchant into love and marriage, and on their wedding night, she stole away with his most valuable wares — heavy silk kimonos, washi paper, umbrellas wrought from the finest bamboo . . .

Everything would have been perfect. If only Hissa hadn’t been pregnant.

As her pregnancy bloomed, Hissa grew zealous in her belief that the child would be female. “It will be wonderful,” she told Mari, stroking her abdomen where the baby kicked. Mari remembered how lovely Hissa looked then, beaming and radiant. Glowing. “I’ll have a little girl. You will be her auntie. Auntie Mari! We’ll dress her in silks and play puppets.”

Mari’s heart lodged in her throat. Her friend had been so high on hope. How far she’d fallen. But Mari would be there to catch her.

Tami’s mouth opened and then shut with an audible click. She jerked her head toward the door. “Come on, then.” A flush of relief spread through Mari’s limbs, and she stowed the little ball of rebel- lion away for another time.

She followed her mother and Ayumi out the door. I’m coming, Hissa. Through thick or thin, the friends once had promised each other. Through boy or girl, Mari amended. A new life had come into their village, and just as quickly, it would be snuffed out.

CHAPTER FOUR- Taro

FIVE MINUTES PAST MIDNIGHT, and Taro wasn’t sleeping. Exhaustion chased him like a dog, but he would not succumb. While he waited for the rest of the palace to slumber, Taro worked. Deep in the palace, in an all-but-forgotten room, the prince built . . . things.

His eyes grew bloodshot, and his limbs ached as he hammered copper into thin sheets. Grease coated his hands and gummed up under his nails. With every bang of the hammer, he sought to drive out the kappa’s cries, his begging in his native tongue.

It’s no use. Taro’s throat constricted with emotions he refused to feel. The kappa’s screams haunted him, a battering ram bashing at his self-control, daring him to react. A fitting punishment for standing by and watching as the tiny creature was executed — and for what? For swimming in the imperial moat? For being born yōkai?

What if he had spoken up, opposed his father? It was unfathom- able. The emperor considered any expression of sympathy for yōkai a weakness. Taro had learned his lesson long ago.

Only once had he asked for the life of a yōkai to be spared. Taro was ten and didn’t understand the depths of his father’s hatred.

The yōkai was a tanuki, a small gray-and-black-furred animal with the head of a raccoon and the body of a dog. Taro had found the starving cub in the tea garden. He cuddled the emaciated creature to his chest, repeating the comforting words his nursemaid would whisper to him. There, now. It will be all right. The tanuki pressed its small wet nose into Taro’s neck and purred, a deep rumble that stirred Taro’s lonely soul. He carried the creature’s limp body to the emperor, presenting it like a sacred offering. And in the way of a small boy who yearns for something with acute desperation, he said,“I want to keep it as a pet.”

The emperor’s smile was thin and cold. To this day, whenever Taro remembered it, a chill settled around his shoulders.“Men do not keep pets. Especially yōkai pets,” he said, his voice thick with scorn.

“Oh,” said young Taro. “What should I do with it, then?” He wheezed, for he was small and sickly then.

“Put it back where you found it.” Taro listened to his father and released the tanuki into the tea garden, but not before feeding it an apple and letting it lap at a bowl of rice wine. Tanuki were fond of alcohol. Perhaps the little fellow would find a home elsewhere.

But the next day, Taro found the tanuki in a cage in the garden. His father had had it imprisoned for the entertainment of the courtiers, who were mocking the creature mercilessly. A couple of days later, it died.

From then on, Taro found solace in his metal workroom. He did not need his father’s love. He would never again find room in his heart for a creature that could be taken from him. His metal creations kept him company. They did not talk back, they did not demand, and they could not die.

Lost in his memories, Taro failed to notice the hammer in his hand drift from the copper sheet. The hammer smashed his thumb, and Taro grunted in pain. Tossing the tool aside, he palmed his head. On his workbench, a wingless mechanical bird jumped on tin feet — Taro’s latest companion. Just last week he had placed a tiny heart made of gears in the bird’s chest. His miniature creation was nearly ready. All it needed was wings. He’d been working on making the copper malleable enough to carve metal feathers. A rare smile touched Taro’s lips. Perhaps the bird would soar high enough to over- take the palace walls. Wouldn’t that be something?

The hands of the clock ticked. Early morning had arrived. It was time. Taro’s smile dissolved. He unwound the bird, and it shuttered its steel eyelids. With a single breath, he extinguished the candle and slipped from the workroom.

Taro regarded the pelts lining the hallway: boar, lion, great bear, even a kirin, a rare chimerical yōkai beast that resembled a deer, only with dragon-like scales and a golden fiery mane. Torches blazed in metal sconces, the light reflecting the gilded walls and creating dancing shadows on the high ceilings.

At inception, the Palace of Illusions was built plainly and with- out nails, the interior nothing more than an open room. There had been no grand Main Hall or painted rice-paper panels. Since then, the dwelling had evolved, shedding its humble origins. To best his predecessors, each emperor had added new features: sprawling gar- dens with exotic plants, an imposing gate with snarling stone komainu, fierce lion dogs that acted as guardians and represented the beginning and the end of all things. The palace became a monument, a building of legends, where emperors would be immortalized.

Each emperor knew that all the gold and varnish couldn’t protect them. If given the chance, there were always those who would try to take it for themselves. Thus, the palace was safeguarded with priests’ curses. Illusions. A bottomless moat. Underground tunnels as intricate as lacework. Someday it would all be Taro’s: the riches, the command of the land, the power. I don’t want it. I don’t want any of it. I especially do not wish to be a prize in some stupid competition.

His lip curled in disgust as he pushed aside a tiger pelt. The decorative furs concealed trapdoors. In this hallway alone, there were ten. And in the Main Hall, the entry point to the Seasonal Rooms, there were more than one hundred. Dozens of samurai patrolled the tunnels below, ready to spring from the floorboards, surprise- phantoms of death hungry to mow down marauders.

As a boy, Taro had been forced to memorize the lacework tunnels, an easy task, given his nimble mind. His brain stored millions of memories, each like a painting chronicling the seconds of his life.

The hidden door opened and closed with noiseless ease. The hinges were kept well-oiled. Taro descended the stone stairs. He didn’t need a light. Sixteen steps, and he’d reach the bottom. Even if Taro hadn’t had such a fine memory, the tunnels had a simple key. Steps were measured in multiples of eight. Always sixteen steps down. One hundred twenty-eight steps to the Main Hall, with eight lefts and eight rights and eight steps in between.

Taro inhaled. The air was cool and musty. His broad shoulders brushed the walls. The tunnels were narrow in this part of the palace, widening as they drew closer to the Main Hall. A rodent scampered across his path, followed by a cat chasing its prey.

A hazy light flickered. He’d come to the section of tunnel where samurai patrolled. He let his feet fall heavily, announcing his en- trance. Two spears crossed and blocked his path. Taro arched a brow. “Your Majesty.” They bowed, lowering the spears. It wasn’t unusual for Taro to walk through the tunnels. As a boy, it had been a game to him, playing to see if he could sneak up on the samurai. He passed the samurai without acknowledging them. Taro’s nightly walks served a purpose. The guards were used to his presence. Un- suspecting. Soon these lacework tunnels would be his way out. Every day Taro walked these tunnels and dreamed of all the directions he could go. He longed for only one: the one that led to freedom from the castle walls. He’d vowed to be liberated from this fancy prison before the start of the competition.

Eight steps and a left turn, and Taro came to another set of guards. These two slept at their posts. Taro flattened against a wall and waited for another two guards to vacate a section of the tunnel. Their patrols left certain parts unguarded, but only for a few seconds. He’d memorized every guard’s movements, the sound of their individual breathing, even what times they took breaks to relieve them- selves. He knew their habits, their distinct quirks. If he were planning to be Emperor, he’d warn them not to be so predictable. But their flaws were his gain.

Taro slipped from his hiding spot and up the stone stairs. Again, this trapdoor lifted and closed effortlessly. Taro was in the Main Hall. While pelts hid the trapdoors near Taro’s workroom, they were unnecessary here. The doors camouflaged seamlessly with the high- glossed zelkova floor.

Taro cracked his knuckles, the sound echoing through the cavernous space. He didn’t need to worry about guards here. The samurai in the tunnels were trained to keep their ears open for the slightest sound. Intruders would be detected before they made it to the Hall. Another chink in the palace armor.

The Winter Room doors rose above him as he faced them, dark and ominous. Moonlight danced through skylights. He pressed an ear to the door. No sound.

Placing a shoulder under the oak, he pushed up. Even with his newfound strength, the weight was nearly unbearable, and Taro swore foully as he removed it. The doors creaked open. Against a rush of cold air, Taro slipped inside. His feet immediately sank into inches of crusted-over snow, his toes curling at the freezing temperature. The night was clear in the vast Winter Room. The moon was thin, but the stars shone bright, making the snow appear like spun glass. Hundreds of thousands of meters of Ice Forest stretched before him. In the middle of all the trees was a river upon which he had skated as a child. In the distance, wolves bayed. Closer, a white owl screeched in the trees, and beneath the owl was the kappa.

As Taro had suspected, the kappa had frozen to death. Its mouth was open, strained in a perpetual scream. Little icicles hung from its orange beak. Something in Taro’s stone heart cracked. The yōkai had spent his last moment of life cold, afraid, alone. This is not how it should be.

Wind swirled, kicking up snow around Taro’s ankles, billowing his purple robe. He stared down at the kappa. Tucked into the belt of his hakama was his hammer. Usually, he used it to create. Today, he would destroy. He brought the hammer above his head and slammed it down upon the kappa. The resounding crack was inordinately loud in the silence. Startled owls and crows flew from their trees. Snow loosened from branches, falling in clumps to the ground.

The kappa shattered into icy crystals. One by one he gathered the kappa shards to his chest and strode through the forest until he came to the frozen river. He hammered a hole into the ice and cast the shards into the running water beneath. He had returned the creature to its rightful home.

There, he hoped, it would find peace.

***

If you want to conquer the rest of the story, pre-order EMPRESS OF ALL SEASONS at any of the links below!

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aswithasunbeam · 6 years

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Without You, Part IV

[Part I]

Rating: Teen and Up

Summary: When the Alexander and Eliza lose Philip, it feels like the world should stop spinning. But life goes on, and they have to find a way to keep going… (Except from my much longer story, Finding Forgiveness, though these four chapters can stand on their own)

Warning: Major Character Death

August 1802

Eliza felt feather light kisses along her neck as she slowly opened her eyes. The curtains of their bedroom were opened to allow in the early morning breeze from the Hudson, and she had a clear view of the yellow and pink brilliance of the summer sunrise. Hamilton was pressed close behind her with his arm slung across her stomach. Lazily reaching back her arm, she ran her fingers through her husband’s silky hair and smiled. Their first morning in their new country home could hardly be off to a better start.

“Happy birthday, my love,” he whispered, his voice rough. He must have just woken recently himself.

“Thank you,” she muttered sleepily.

“I have a surprise for you,” he said, nudging her ear with his nose. “But you have to get up for it.”

She frowned, one of her eyes closing of its own accord as she turned her face towards him. “Now?”

He gave a husky laugh and pressed an adoring kiss to her lips. “Yes, now. The light is perfect.”

Heaving a put upon sigh, she reluctantly sat up in bed as Hamilton stood, pulled his robe over his nightshirt, and collected her lightweight dressing gown from the hook near the door. “Perfect for what?” she asked, rubbing at her closed eye. “It’s hardly dawn.”

“You’ll see,” he said teasingly as he made his way back over to her and tugged at her gently to coax her from their immensely comfortable bed.

Her feet touched the cool hardwood floor as she pushed herself up and shrugged into her robe. When her gaze fell on the crib by their bed, she asked, “Is it outside, this surprise of yours? Phil will be wanting his breakfast soon.”

“We’ll bring him.” Reaching into the crib, he pulled the sleeping baby out with a practiced ease and laid him against his shoulder. The infant’s fist closed and his little eyelids twitched, but he remained peacefully asleep against his father. After she’d slipped her feet into her slippers, she traced her finger along the baby’s soft, round cheek.

Hamilton nodded towards the door. “Come along now, my darling. Quickly. We’re losing the light.”

She raised her eyes towards heaven, but obeyed, tying the robe shut as she made her way into the hall. The rest of the house was quiet, everyone else still abed. He directed her down both flights of stairs, so they emerged in the hall of the lower floor and made their way past the informal dining room through the kitchen.

Hamilton whistled for Old Peggy, who was snoring loudly on her nest of blankets by the back door. The retriever dog came to her feet with a snort at Hamilton’s call, looking as sleepy and confused as Eliza felt, but she too obeyed the command and padded along beside them as they exited out to the garden.

“Where are we going?” Eliza asked again.

Hamilton grinned at her and surged forward, beckoning her to follow.

“You shouldn’t tease me so on my birthday,” she scolded gently.

He winked rakishly in response. A smile blossomed across her face at the sight of him so light and happy. She drew in a deep breath of the fresh, cool morning air and watched Old Peggy wander towards the trees.

The garden was a riot of color, everything in full bloom and intoxicatingly fragrant. Birds sang merrily in the nearby trees, and the dark blue water of the Hudson was just beginning to sparkle the growing light. Although she’d helped plan them, she hadn’t yet had the chance to enjoy the grounds of their new home. Hamilton had been the one overseeing the house and the garden throughout the spring, preparing for their arrival this summer. And though she’d glimpsed the garden yesterday when they arrived, she had been far too pressed setting up the household and settling in their children to do anything so relaxing as take a stroll. A butterfly fluttered by her face unexpectedly and she grinned as she watched it fly towards the nearby rose bushes.

“This way,” Hamilton called back to her as he turned on the twisting path.

She sped up to keep pace with him. “I’ve never seen a place so beautiful.”

He craned his neck to glace back at her, his face alight with excitement. “Just wait.”

Up ahead, overlooking the valley to the east, she saw a long bower covered in vines of honeysuckle, their white and yellow blooms mixing with the bright orange of a host of butterflies. Hamilton took her hand, his fingers tangling with hers as he guided her into the shady alcove over to a bright white, cushioned bench at the center. The small breakfast table beside the bench held a tea tray with bread and jam.

“I asked Mary to bring the tray down at first light,” Hamilton explained as he sank down on the bench, careful not to wake the baby still slumbering on his shoulder. “Please, sit. You need to see this properly.” Old Peggy wandered past her to lay at Hamilton’s feet with a sigh as Eliza seated herself on the bench beside him.

The alcove opened in front of the bench to allow a clear view of the valley. Looking out at the horizon, she saw the pink and yellow sunrise in all its majesty. Hamilton’s hand landed atop her own once more.

“What do you think of my little hideaway?”

She swallowed, searching for a proper answer. The beauty was astonishing, so much so that she felt tears spring to her eyes as she gazed upon it. She raised her free hand to her lips and turned her head to look at her husband.

He looked pale and tired in the bright morning light. His grief remained heavily stamped upon his features, visible to her even when he smiled and laughed. He seemed distant, almost ephemeral beside her, like a vital life force had been drained out of him. She squeezed his hand tightly to reassure herself of his presence.

They had both endured so much pain in the past months. Pip’s absence felt like a hole inside her, gnawing and festering. Her pregnancy, difficult from its beginning, had seemed unbearable when the grief swept over her. How was she to prepare to bring another child into the world, when her darling Pip was gone forever?

Without Hamilton, she doubted she’d have survived the trial.

When despair and illness had confined her to bed, he stayed by her side, a steady presence in the encroaching darkness. He rubbed her swollen feet and her aching back, laid cool clothes upon her sweaty brow, and held her through her endless tears. He was there with her, always, an anchor in the storm.

She vividly recalled one of those terrible nights, when, holding her close as she sobbed, he began to recite a poem: “For the sweet babe, my doating heart/ Did all a Mother’s fondness feel;/ Carefull to act each tender part/ and guard from every threatning ill. But what alass! availd my care?/ The unrelenting hand of death,/ Regardless of a parent’s prayr/ Has stoped my lovely Infant’s breath—” She’d stilled in his arms, listening intently to his soft, lilting voice. “Thou’st gone, forever gone—yet where,/ Ah! pleasing thought; to endless bliss./ Then, why Indulge the rising tear?/ Canst thou, fond heart, lament for this?/ Let reason silence nature’s strife,/ And weep Maria’s fate no more;/ She’s safe from all the storms of life,/ And Wafted to a peacefull Shore.”1

The poem conjured the image of a lovely seaside, her dear little boy playing in the sand and chasing the waves of a bright blue ocean.

In the ensuing quiet when he’d finished, she’d croaked, voice hoarse with disuse, “I’ve never heard that poem before. Who wrote it?”

“I did.”

Her eyes had fluttered open, and she’d repeated, “You did?”

“Back in my youth,” he’d answered gently. “I boarded with Mr. Boudinot when I was studying with Francis Barber in Elizabethtown. I was present in his home when his little daughter passed away.”

“Maria?” she queried.

He’d tensed, and she understood immediately that the connection hadn’t occurred to him until that moment. “Eliza,” he’d exhaled, “I…I’m so sorry…I didn’t think….”

That name on his lips had once been like a dagger to her heart; now, it had lost all its potency. His betrayal, that heartache and pain, all felt a lifetime ago in the face of their profound grief. She’d ignored the apology; it was entirely unnecessary.

“Tell me it again,” she’d requested, snuggling closer to him. She’d felt like she could never get close enough to him.

He’d obliged her, again and again, until she could mouth the words along with him. The poem was as lovely as it was comforting. She hoped dearly that Philip had found that peaceful shore, that he was safe from this evil world and all its ills, waiting for them in paradise.

She delivered their newest son early in the morning on the first of June. Hamilton had stayed dutifully by her side all through the night; he’d held her hand, blotted the sweat from her brow, and glowered menacingly at both the midwife and the doctor when they’d ordered him away. “I’m here, my angel,” he’d whispered reassuringly throughout her labor. She’d held his hand so tightly that night that she’d left terrible, dark bruises on his pale skin.

Hamilton had been the one to lay their squalling newborn in her arms. As she held the tiny infant, he’d settled beside her to gaze down on their son. “What shall we name him?”

She knew without a moment’s consideration. “Philip.”

He met her eye and nodded. “Little Phil.”

Phil. For Pip would always be the beloved name of their first, departed angel. Little Phil would never replace his eldest brother, but to both of his parents he was a living symbol of love and life, shining bright in the darkness of their despair.

“Little babe,” Hamilton had whispered to the boy, his finger on the baby’s forehead as though he were bestowing a blessing, “Thou enteredst the world weeping while all around you smiled; continue so to live, that you may depart in smiles while [all] around you weep.”2 Tears had leaked from her eyes as she held the infant to her, a heavy mix of joy and sorrow swirling in her chest.

“Betsey?”

Her husband’s voice jolted her from her wandering thoughts back to the present. “Hm?”

“I asked if you like the spot?”

A small smile curled at her lips. “I do,” she assured him. “I adore it. Thank you.”

“I know how busy you’ll be setting up the house and seeing to the children today. I wanted the morning to be special, at least. You deserve nothing less, my dearest angel.”

She wished she could express how very much she appreciated him, and all the strength and beauty he’d brought into her life. Alas, words had never been her gift. In lieu of any pretty speech, she kissed him softly, and repeated sincerely, “Thank you.”

He sat back contentedly in the shadows to watch the sun make its ascent in the deepening blue sky. She tucked her feet up underneath her on the cushioned seat and leaned closer to him, pillowing her head on his shoulder and reaching out her free hand to feel her sleeping infant’s rhythmic breath. Peace and joy warred with grief and sorrow; as much she longed for a moment of simple contentment, for serenity, for an escape from the all-consuming anguish, she was slowly growing to understand that the duality of joy and grief would never truly leave her. As happy as she felt on this beautiful morning with her husband and her baby, a piece of her had been lost forever, gone away with Pip to his eternal rest.

Both she and Hamilton were forever changed.

And yet, here in the quiet of their new home, watching the sun rise on a new day and another year of her life, with their infant snuffling softly between them, she felt hope for the future.

#alexander hamilton #eliza hamilton #hamliza #philip hamilton #grief #it's quiet uptown #hamilton fanfic

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the-record-obituaries · 4 years

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Jan. 8, 2020: Obituaries

Ellen Turner, 88

Mrs. Ellen Roten Turner, age 88 of North Wilkesboro passed away Saturday, January 4, 2020 at Wilkes Senior Village.

Graveside services will be held 1:00 PM Wednesday, January 8, at Forest Lawn Cemetery in Lincolnton with Rev. Kenny Roten officiating. Mrs. Turner was born April 29, 1931 in Wilkes County to Joe and Bessie Eller Roten.

In addition to her parents she was preceded in death by six brothers and one sister.

She is survived by one son; Floyd E. Roten and wife Judy N. Roten of Wilkesboro, two grandchildren; Amber Johnson and husband Ken of Wilkesboro, Floyd J. Roten and wife Rebekah of Mebane, nine great grandchildren; Titus, Kaden, Silas, Masyn and Mia Johnson of Wilkes County, Jaxon Floyd Roten of Mebane, Evyn R. Wyatt, Xander C. Wyatt and Max Craft of Millers Creek, one sister; Alice Whitley of Wilkesboro and one brother; Henrey Roten and wife Delores of Kannapolis.

Flowers will be accepted or memorials may be made to Brenner's Children Hospital, Medical Center Blvd., Winston-Salem, NC 27157.

Cynthia Wingler, 78

Cynthia Rector Wingler, our sweet Nana, peacefully went to her eternal home on January 3, 2020 at the, as she said, "older than dirt" age of 78. She was surrounded by her "best buddies" in her home when her gentle spirit was released from her well-worn shell. She said, "If I knew I was gonna live this long I would've taken better care of myself." We're convinced she left before having to face another cold winter, "Oooshie!"

Cynthia was born to Kermit Rector and Louise Davis Rector on July 25, 1941 in Huntersville, NC. The reunion party has now begun with her parents and her humble big brother, Rev. Dean Rector and her best friend and identical twin sister, Sylvia Rector Caudill.

As a devoted and patient caregiver, Cynthia proudly served as an anesthetist for over 30 years at the Wilkes and surrounding area hospitals. She left a lasting legacy of how grueling long hours can successfully be faced with the utmost safety and infectious laughter. She managed to do so while always looking her best with every hair in place. Thanks, Louise Eller!

Her son, David Wingler (the "thorn and her rose"), and daughter-in-law, Anita Wingler (she always liked her best:) as well as her two granddaughters, Caitlin and Kaleigh Wingler (that she loved the absolute most) will miss the daily excuse to eat ice cream, "Yummy, yummy". She also leaves behind: brother-in-law Delmar Caudill, nephew Terry Rector (wife Vickie), and niece Kim Rector as well as her great nieces, nephews, and friends.

A family graveside service will be held and a Celebration of Life event will take place when it's not so cold outside. In lieu of flowers, donations may be made to St. Jude's Children's Research Hospital.

In her memory, make someone laugh today (preferably in the most inappropriate time). Laughter is the closest distance between two people.

JoAnn Blackburn, 76

Mrs. JoAnn Holleman Blackburn, age 76 of Roaring River, died Friday, January 3, 2020 at Woltz Hospice Home in Dobson.

Funeral services will be 2:00 PM Wednesday, January 8, at Roaring River Baptist Church with Rev. Mark Wood officiating. Burial will be in the church cemetery.

Mrs. Blackburn was born April 28, 1943 in Wilkes County to James E. and Hazel Love Holleman. JoAnn was a loving wife, mother, grandmother, sister and mother-in-law. She was a member of Roaring River Baptist Church and a devoted servant of Christ.

She was preceded in death by her parents; one sister, Carol Joy Holleman; and two brothers, James "Pete" Monroe Holleman and Bill Holleman.

She is survived by her husband, Charlie Uelius Blackburn, of the home; one daughter, Mary Ann Blackburn, of the home; one son, Randy Neal Blackburn and wife, Joan, of Greensboro; two grandchildren, Alexandra Nicole Blackburn and Garrett Davis Blackburn; and one sister, Mary Edith Sparks of Roaring River.

Flowers will be accepted or memorials made to Roaring River Baptist Church, 312

White Plains Road, Roaring River NC 28669.

Frances Henderson, 92

Mrs. Frances Virginia Miller Henderson, age 92 of Moravian Falls, passed away Friday, January 3, 2020 at Wake Forest Baptist-Wilkes Medical Center.

Funeral services were January 5, at Reins Sturdivant Chapel with Rev. Karen Roberts and Mr. Chuck Byers officiating. Burial was in Mountlawn Memorial Park.

Mrs. Henderson was born February 19, 1927 in Wilkes County to Mayford Rotan Miller and Evelyn Harless Miller. Along with her husband, L. R. Henderson, Frances was co-owner and operator of Lithia Springs Greenhouses, where the couple made their living for more than 30 years. Mrs. Henderson loved her family, classical music, gardening, bird-watching, and was an avid Jeopardy fan. She was a member of the Wilkesboro United Methodist Church.

She was preceded in death by her parents, husband; Lucius Ruffin Henderson (L.R.), three brothers; Sam Miller, Max Miller and Steve Miller and a grandson; Thomas Blaine Henderson.

Mrs. Henderson is survived by a son; Zach Henderson of Moravian Falls, a grandson; Daniel Henderson and wife Rayetta of Wilmington, two great grandchildren; Cole and Reagan, three sisters; Rebecca Holshouser, Shirley Wayland and Sandra Miller and three brothers; Barry Miller, Mike Miller and Tim Miller. The family will accept flowers.

Georgia Faw, 90

Mrs. Georgia Mae Faw, age 90 passed away surrounded by her loving family after an extended illness on January 1, 2020. Georgia was born on September 26, 1929 in Wilkes County to George Odell and Ella Mae Day Moore. She lived in the Brushy Mountain Community of Wilkes County her entire life with the exception of a short time when she and husband, John Winfred Faw, lived in Blowing Rock, NC when they first married.

Georgia was preceded in death by her parents, George "Odell" and Ella Moore, a brother, Paul Moore, a sister, Altha Lee McNeil, an infant brother, Howard, and her husband, John Winfred Faw. Georgia is survived by her children, Anita Crunk (Sid) of Moravian Falls, NC, Richard Faw and longtime companion, LouAnn Thompson, of Kannapolis, NC. She is also survived by her granddaughters, Sarah Brame (Phillip) of Winston-Salem, NC, Emily Crunk of Concord, NC, Tamara Faw of Wilkesboro, NC, and Tesha Hammonds (Chris) of North Wilkesboro, NC, a brother, Jack Moore, of Yadkinville, NC, and 7 great grandchildren.

A native of Wilkes County, NC she and her husband, John Winfred Faw, married on July 9, 1946 and were married 61 years prior to his death on September 22, 2007. She would often joke that her age was the only lie she ever told since John was her sweetheart throughout his time serving in World War II and they got married as soon as he was discharged from the army, going to York, SC to elope when she was 16 years old. They lived for a time in Blowing Rock shortly after they were married but came back to Wilkes County to build their home in the 1950s. Georgia wanted children more than anything and God blessed her with two, a son and daughter.

Georgia wanted to be a stay-at-home mom when her children were young but, upon her youngest child starting school at Wilkesboro Elementary School, Georgia began employment in the Wilkesboro School Cafeteria and worked there throughout the entire time her children were in school. Since cooking for others was the highlight of her life, she began work at the Northwestern Bank Cafeteria after her youngest child graduated from high school. When the bank cafeteria closed, she then began work at the Cottage House Restaurant and ended her employment years at Lowes Midtown Plaza in the deli. She left public employment to babysit her daughter's two children which Georgia always said was the best job she ever had. Since John and Georgia's home was always the place for her children's friends to "hang out" when they were young, Georgia enjoyed the same with her grandchildren and had some of their friends who stayed with her as well.

Georgia was an active member of New Hope Baptist Church in the Brushy Mountain Community as long as her health allowed. She loved attending church and her church family was important to her. Most importantly, she loved her Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ and served him in many ways over her lifetime from playing the autoharp with her father playing guitar in her younger days to teaching Sunday school, working with Vacation Bible School, working with the Women's Missionary Union, helping to prepare meals and chaperoning youth trips, among other things.

With two heart attacks in the summer of 2016 started the decline of her health and she lived at home with assistance until July 2018 when she went to Villages of Wilkes Traditional Living. There she made friends who will always be dear to the heart of her family.

Funeral Services were January 5, at New Hope Baptist Church in the Brushy Mtn. Community with Rev. Michael Blevins, Rev. Jonah Parker, and Rev. Scott Church officiating.

In lieu of flowers, the family request memorials be made to Wake Forest Baptist Health Hospice. 126 Executive Drive, Suite 110, Wilkesboro, N.C. 28697 or New Hope Baptist Church, 9134 Brushy Mtn. Road, Moravian Falls, N.C. 28654.

Willard Lane, Jr, 73

Mr. Willard Lane, Jr, age 73, of Boomer, passed away Wednesday, January 1, 2020 at

his home.

Memorial services were January 6, at Reins Sturdivant Chapel with Rev. Shane Pardue officiating.

Mr. Lane was born October 9, 1946 in Wilkes County to Willard and Gladys Holder Lane. He was a United States Postal Employee for 42 years.

He was preceded in death by his father.

Mr. Lane is survived by his mother; Gladys Holder Lane of Moravian Falls, a sister; Judy Lane Bell and husband, Brad of Moravian Falls, two brothers; Ron Lane of Denton, NC and Mike Lane and companion, Jennifer Leone of Siler City, NC. a longtime friend and partner; Sandra Howell and a niece; Tracey Bell Repetto.

In lieu of flowers, memorials may be made to Humane Society of Wilkes PO Box 306 North Wilkesboro, NC 28659.

Allen McManus, 67

Mr. Allen Dale McManus, age 67 of Boomer, passed away Tuesday, December 31, 2019 at Wake Forest Baptist Hospital in Winston Salem.

Memorial services were January 4, at Congo Pentecostal Holiness Church with Pastor Luke Pyles officiating.

Mr. McManus was born September 7, 1952 in Wilkes County to Jessie Howard McManus and Gewenith Worley McManus.. Allen received an Associate Degree in Physical Education from Wilkes Community College. He retired from Arlington Cemetery as the Director of Environmental Services. His many achievements included IEHA Director of Middle Atlantic District, Triad Chapter President for eight years, served as an officer for over 30 years in the Environmental Services Profession. Allen enjoyed playing golf, fishing and spending time with his family. Mr. McManus loved going to his church; Congo Pentecostal Holiness Church.

He was preceded in death by his parents and a brother; Vernon McManus.

Mr. McManus is survived by his wife; Princess Darlene Gwyn McManus of the home, three sons; Russ McManus of Woodbury, TN, Rocky McManus of North Wilkesboro and Brannon McManus of North Wilkesboro, a daughter; Kayla McManus Wilson and husband Quincy of Pfafftown, two step children; Megan Cox and Christy Cox both of Mt. Airy and a sister; Debby Nunn and husband Sam of Wilkesboro and eight grandchildren.

The family requests that in lieu of flowers, memorials be made to Congo Pentecostal Holiness Church c/o Linda Huffman 287 Cactus Lane Wilkesboro, NC 28697.

Brenda Hall-Cashion

Brenda Hall-Cashion of Wilkesboro died December 31, 2019.

She was born August 22, 1945 in Elkin, North Carolina to Frances Shumate Hall and Claude M. Hall.

Mrs. Hall-Cashion graduated from Wilkes Central High School and attended Brevard College. She was a member of North Wilkesboro Presbyterian Church. She was Secretary-Treasurer and part owner of Tar Heel Oil, Colonial Distributors, Mountain Oil, and Hall Petroleum until the sale of these companies in 2008. She continued to work with Tar Heel Oil until her retirement in 2016. Brenda (better known as Mimi to her grandchildren) had lots of love for her family and her many dear friends. She was preceded in death by her parents.

Surviving are her husband, Neil G. Cashion, Jr; and children - Maria Elledge Nesselrotte; Brandon Hall Elledge and wife, Amy; and Cathy Cashion St. John and husband, Michael.

She is also survived by six grandchildren: Dylan Hall Nesselrotte, Brenna Elizabeth Nesselrotte, Brooks Hall Elledge, Barrett Claude Elledge, Katie Elizabeth St. John, and Lindsey Olivia St. John.

She is also survived by her brother, Ted M. Hall and wife, Jackie and her twin sister, Linda Hall Lankford and husband Gerald - all of North Wilkesboro.

A memorial service was January 4, at North Wilkesboro Presbyterian Church with Dr. Rob Evans and Rev. R.C. Griffin officiating.

A private entombment was at Scenic Memorial Gardens Mausoleum.

In lieu of flowers, memorials may be made to: FRAXA (Fragile X) Research,10 Prince Place, Suite 203, Newburyport, MA 01950. In honor of Brenda Hall-Cashion

Or to: Child Abuse Prevention Team 203 East Main Street Wilkesboro, NC 28697 In honor of Brenda Hall-Cashion

Howard Triplett, 83

Mr. Howard "Trip" Baker Triplett, age 83, formerly of Wilkes County passed away Monday, December 30, 2019 in Melbourne, FL.

Funeral services will be held 3:00 PM Sunday, January 12, 2020 at Lewis Fork Baptist Church with Rev. Dwayne Andrews and Rev. Sherrill Wellborn officiating. Burial will be in Mt. Pleasant Baptist Church Cemetery. The family will receive friends from 2:00 until 3:00 PM prior to the service at the church.

Howard was born April 10, 1936 in Wilkes County to Grace Baker and James Ruffin Triplett, Jr. He retired from Lowe's Home Improvement and was a graduate of Mount Pleasant High School and studied at Appalachian State University. He was a member of Mount Pleasant Masonic Lodge, Scottish Rite of Freemasonry and was a Shriner for many years. He was also in the North Carolina National Guard. He was instrumental in establishing The Champion Fire Department in 1973 and was the fire chief at Champion from 1976 until 1980. In recent years he served on the Board of Directors.

In addition to his parents, he was preceded in death by his wife of 45 years; Hazel Sue Triplett and a sister; Mary Francis Triplett.

He is survived by his wife of 13 years; Janette New-Triplett of Melbourne, FL, two daughters; Melissa Triplett Berger and husband Bruce of Auburn, AL, Jennifer Triplett Hollar and husband Craig of Wilkesboro, step-son; Charles New and wife Kathleen of Orlando, FL, step-daughter; Elaine New of Melbourne, FL, eleven grandchildren, four great grandchildren and two brothers; Jimmy and Franklin Triplett of Wilkesboro and many nieces and nephews.

Flowers will be accepted or memorials may be made to Lewis Fork Baptist Church, 395 Lewis Fork Baptist Church Road, Purlear, NC 28665 or Champion Fire Department Firemen Fund, 439 Champion-Mt. Pleasant Road, Wilkesboro, NC 28697.

Doris Huggins, 86

Doris Walsh Huggins, 86 of Ferguson, gloriously entered her heavenly home after a long battle with Parkinson's Disease on Monday, December 30, 2019. Doris was born May 18, 1933 in Ferguson, North Carolina. She was a member of Elk Baptist Church and a former member of First Baptist Church of Apopka, Florida. Doris was a life-long learner of the Bible and enjoyed sharing her faith with others. Doris graduated from Appalachian State University in 1956 with a degree in Elementary Education. She taught in North Carolina, California and Florida. She retired from Orange County Public Schools having taught thirty-four years at Dream lake Elementary. Doris instilled character and respect by reading the Bible to her students daily. She loved being an educator and helping children to learn and grow. Doris was a devoted wife to Bill Huggins, a wonderful mother of two sons, and a loving sister to three siblings.

Doris is survived by her two sons; Morris Wayne Huggins of Ferguson, and Marshall Huggins and wife Karen of Orlando, Florida, four grandchildren; Jeremy Huggins, Josh Huggins, Autumn Huggins and Henry Huggins; a great granddaughter, Cloey Huggins, a sister, Phyllis Page; two brothers; George T. (Champ) Walsh and wife Louise, and Floyd E. Walsh and wife Wanda.

Doris was preceded in death by her husband William L. (Bill) Huggins, her father Sidney M. Walsh, and her mother Faye T. Walsh.

A celebration of life was January 4, 2020 at Rock Spring Baptist Church in Darby, NC. The family will receive friends at the church beginning at 2 PM, with the celebration of life to begin at 3 PM. The family is requesting in lieu of flowers, memorials may be made to The Parkinson's Foundation, The MSA Coalition, and Caldwell Hospice and Palliative Care.

The family would like to express their appreciation to Caldwell Hospice and Palliative care and their gratitude to Patty Howell, Eileen Cabrera, and Barbie Paisley for the outstanding care they provided.

David Dancy, Jr. 32

Mr. David Earl Dancy, Jr. age 32 of Hays, passed away Tuesday, December 30, 2019 at Atrium Health Care in Charlotte in the arms of his fiancé; Melanie Boll and his grandmother; Doris Dancy with his best friend; John Johnson by his side.

Funeral services were January 2, at Reins Sturdivant Funeral Home Chapel with Pastor Jason Seth Whitley officiating. Burial will be in Mountlawn Memorial Park.

Mr. Dancy was born March 20, 1987 in Iredell County to David Earl Dancy, Sr. and Marisa Beshears Dancy. He worked for Lowes Consolidated. David attended North Wilkes High School and Wilkes Community College.

He was preceded in death by his father; David Earl Dancy, Sr. and his grandfather; Clyde Dancy.

Mr. Dancy is survived by his fiancé; Melanie Boll, his grandmother; Doris Dancy and his mother; Marisa Beshears Dancy.

In lieu of flowers, memorials may be made to the Donor's Choice. The family requests no food.

Myrna Mishler, 66

Mrs. Myrna Margaret Tidey Mishler, 66, entered her heavenly home on December 18, 2019. Her life longtime faith in Christ gave her peace in her passing after her short battle with cancer. As a devoted wife, mother, grandmother, great grandmother, sister and friend, she will be deeply missed.

Myrna was born on January 8, 1953 in Cadillac, Mi to her parents, Fredrick H and Margaret (Crouse) Tidey. She was the second of the "Tidey girls" and was raised by her loving grandparents, Yale and Sara Tidey. Myrna attended Manton Consolidated Schools and graduated in 1971.

Myrna dedicated her life to Jesus and was a faithful servant. She was a member of Cherry Grove Baptist Church in Moravian Falls. She loved to serve by playing the piano, singing in the choir, working bus ministries, teaching children and most of all making special gifts for all her "grandchildren" and friends. The family would like to thank Pruitt Health Hospice for there care.

Myrna is preceded in death by her parents, grandparents, Yale and Sara Tidey and Kenneth and Evelyn Crouse; brothers, Fredrick S. Tidey, Tim Tidey.

Myrna is survived by her loving husband James "Jim" of 48 years; son, Jim (Erin Lund) of South Haven, MI; daughter, Kimberly (Cecil) Morris of Prospect, NY; sisters, Sara (David) Ward of Boon Mi, Deb (Jim) Englund of Twin Lakes, MI, Laurie (Kirk) Gostlin of Evart, MI; step siblings, Terri Ann Wiltse, Sandy Collings, Paul Davis; grandchildren, Paige (Ryan) Crego, Ben Mishler, Jacob Mishler, Emily Morris, Andrew Morris, Jaxon Morris, Danny Morris, Alayna Morris; great grandson, Caleb Crego and many aunts, uncle, nieces and nephews.

Cancer may have won the battle of her earthly body, but God won the war by securing her eternity.

The family will hold a memorial service will be held at Cherry Grove Baptist Church on January 8, 2020 at 7 pm and at Boon Baptist Church in Boon, MI in February at a later date.

In lieu of flowers, memorial donations may be given to Cherry Grove Baptist Church Building Fund, 859 Cherry Grove Church Road, Moravian Falls, NC 28654

Condolences may be sent to: www.adamsfunerals.com

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topworldhistory · 4 years

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He's America's first president. The icon we all think we know. But in reality, he was a complicated human being.

1. Washington had only a grade-school education.

A young George Washington with his mother, Mary Ball Washington.

The first president’s formal schooling ended when he was 11 years old, after his father died. That event cut young George off from the opportunity to be educated abroad in England, a privilege that had been afforded to his older half-brothers. Washington’s mother never remarried, forcing the adolescent to shoulder weighty burdens at a young age, as the oldest child of six from his father’s second family. She taught him how to run a tobacco farm, and at the age of 16 he took his first job as a land surveyor. For the rest of his life, Washington would be embarrassed by his stunted schooling.

READ MORE: How George Washington’s Iron-Willed Single Mother Taught Him Honor

2. At age 22, Washington led a disastrous military skirmish that sparked a world war.

George Washington receiving a message from chief Half-King at the start of the French and Indian War.

As France and Britain fought for territory at the edges of the North American colonies, Virginia sided with the British. As an officer in the Virginia militia, Washington was sent to the Ohio Valley (now western Pennsylvania) with some 150 troops, to help repel any attacks by the French. Warned by local Native American allies that a small French force has set up camp within several miles of his position, he led an attack with 40 of his soldiers, along with a dozen native warriors.

Who fired the first shot remains in dispute, but at the end of the 15-minute skirmish, at least 10 French soldiers and one Virginian were dead—including, most notably, a minor French noble, Joseph Coulon de Villiers, Sieur de Jumonville, who the French later said was on a diplomatic mission. Jumonville’s death enraged the French, who called Washington an assassin. The conflict between the French and the British escalated into the French and Indian War, and soon spread worldwide in what became known as the Seven Years’ War.

READ MORE: How 22-Year-Old George Washington Inadvertently Sparked a World War

3. Washington’s first love was the wife of one of his best friends.

George Washington dancing the minuet with Sally Fairfax at the Carlyle House, 1755.

“The world has no business to know the object of my love, declared in this manner to you when I want to conceal it,” Washington wrote weeks before his wedding. The letter wasn’t sent to his fiancée Martha Custis—but to Sally Fairfax, who was married to one of his best friends and patrons, George Fairfax, son of one of Virginia’s largest landowners. Described as an intelligent, “dark-eyed beauty,” Sally befriended Washington when he was still an awkward teen. Historians credit her with helping to smooth his rough edges socially, teaching him how to behave and converse among the wealthy and powerful, and even how to dance the minuet. It’s unclear whether romance actually blossomed between the two.

READ MORE: 11 Key People Who Shaped George Washington’s Life

Washington, a three-night miniseries event, premieres Feb 16 at 8/7c on HISTORY. Watch a preview now.

4. About those teeth: No, they weren’t wooden.

Dentures worn by George Washington.

Washington ruined his teeth using them to crack walnut shells. The dentures he had were made out of lots of things, but not wood. Instead, they came largely from human teeth, pulled from the mouths of the poor and his enslaved workers. They also came from ivory, cow teeth and lead. He had a little spring inside the dentures that helped them open and close.

The fake teeth caused him great discomfort, and were one of the reasons he rarely smiled. He had to have his morning hoe cakes and syrup (chosen for their softness) cut into tiny pieces to make them easier to eat.

READ MORE: 5 Myths About George Washington, Debunked

5. Washington wasn’t always a great general, but he was an excellent spymaster.

Washington struggled mightily to win the Revolutionary War with an army that was perpetually undermanned, undertrained and undersupplied. So to triumph over one of the world’s most powerful military forces, he relied increasingly on his unseen weapon: a secret intelligence network. Throughout the conflict, Washington’s spies helped him make bold, canny decisions that would turn the tide of the conflict—and in some instances, even save his life.

The story of Washington’s underground spy network, and how it helped Americans win their revolution, is replete with intrigue: There were letters written in invisible ink, a rare female agent who went by the mysterious moniker Agent 355, an African-American double agent, a patriot tailor who collected dirt while making clothes for British officers—and the gruesome execution of the spy Nathan Hale. According to the Central Intelligence Agency, “General Washington was more deeply involved in intelligence operations than any American general-in-chief until Dwight Eisenhower during World War II.”

READ MORE: How George Washington Used Spies to Win the Revolution

6. When he stepped down as commander-in-chief, he didn’t want to run the country.

Hear the future president's powerful words in the animation 'George Washington's Vision for America'

After eight years in the battlefield, Washington was more than ready to return home—to Mount Vernon, to his family, to his animals and his crops. Before he stepped back, though, he had some hard-earned wisdom he felt compelled to share with the fledgling nation. So in the summer of 1783, he drafted his “Circular Letter to the States,” in which he detailed what he believed it would take for the American experiment to succeed. In many ways, it was a precursor to his famed Farewell Address 13 years later, a prescient warning to the country of the most likely political pitfalls. In the letter, Washington establishes four things he felt would help guide America forward.

7. He had no biological children, but was a father figure to many.

George Washington at home with his family.

It’s never been definitively established why the Washingtons couldn’t conceive—theories range from George’s early bouts with smallpox or tuberculosis to Martha’s case of the measles. But when Washington married Martha Custis, a wealthy young widow, he became the legal guardian of her two younger children: four-year-old John Parke Custis (known as Jacky) and two-year-old Martha Parke Custis (known as Patsy). He was extremely fond of them, and was bereft when 17-year-old Patsy died of an epileptic seizure.

As a father figure, he was especially fond of dispensing advice via letters—on everything from education to romance. He nagged his stepson to have more discipline with his studies, and warned his granddaughter against marrying for the wrong reasons: "Love is a mighty pretty thing; but like all other delicious things, it is cloying,” he wrote, adding that it is “too dainty a food to live upon alone.”

READ MORE: George Washington Raised Martha’s Children and Grandchildren as His Own

8. Washington was really into his animals.

George Washington's Dogs (TV-PG; 1:01)

WATCH: George Washington's Dogs

Washington wasn’t just America’s first president, he was also its first mule breeder. (Mules=a mix of horse and donkey.) Recognizing the value of the mule for farmers, Washington is believed responsible for creating the mule stock that powered American agriculture in the South for generations.

And mules weren’t the only animals he bred. In addition to many varieties of birds, Washington kept many canine breeds at Mount Vernon, including Dalmatians, English foxhounds, French hounds, Greyhounds, Italian Greyhounds, mastiffs, Newfoundlands, pointers, spaniels and terriers. A huge dog lover, he selectively bred hunting dogs for speed over the years and gave them endearing names like Sweet Lips, Venus, Trulove, Taster, Tippler, Drunkard and Madame Moose.

READ MORE: George Washington: Founding Father—And Passionate Dog Breeder

9. Washington was pretty cagey when it came to his religious beliefs.

George Washington at Prayer statue in Pennsylvania.

When it comes to his personal religious beliefs, Washington was tough to read. With so few accounts to draw from, historians are mostly limited to analyzing what Washington did, to try to understand what he may have believed.

The trouble is, even his most straightforward actions can, at times, appear contradictory. The first president encouraged his fellow Americans to show up for worship, for instance, but sometimes struggled to attend church himself for weeks at a time. For many years, he served as a dedicated vestryman and church warden, but left services instead of taking communion. And while he peppered his writings with references to Providence, there’s comparatively little mention of God or of Jesus Christ.

READ MORE: Did George Washington Believe in God?

10. He had a complicated relationship with slavery.

Washington and his slaves at Mount Vernon.

Washington’s contradictory attitudes toward slavery are one of the great mysteries of his life and legacy. Like nearly all wealthy Virginia landowners, he owned enslaved people who worked his land. He received the first enslaved workers of his own when his father died in 1743. Washington, just 11 years old at the time, was willed ten enslaved people. By the time he married Martha Custis in 1759 (who came to the marriage with her own enslaved workers), he had purchased at least eight more.

Over the years, Washington’s thinking on slavery evolved. During the Revolutionary War, he became more uncomfortable with the thought of purchasing and owning other human beings. While he supported abolition in theory, he never tried it in practice. His plantation, his wealth and his position in society depended on enslaved laborers. When one of Martha’s enslaved workers fled to freedom in 1796, Washington spent the last three years of his life trying to force her to return. But when it came time to make his will, it contained an order to free his slaves—with the stipulation that they remain with Martha for the rest of her life.

READ MORE: Did Washington Really Free Mount Vernon’s Slaves?

11. Washington was a tough man to kill.

George Washington on his deathbed.

A tall and robust man, Washington survived multiple life-threatening situations. At various points, Washington had diptheria, tuberculosis, smallpox, malaria, dysentery, Quinsy, carbuncle and pneumonia. He survived near drowning in an ice-clogged river. He survived the burning and massacre of Fort Necessity. He survived two horses being shot out from under him and four bullets passing close enough to pierce his clothing—all in one battle.

Ironically, it was a cold that did him in. Technically, it was epiglottitis, an infection of the back of the throat that would be curable with antibiotics today. While he lay dying, his doctors effectively tortured him—burning him to remove the sickness and draining him of a full 40 percent of his blood. Washington was fearful of being buried alive, as he was convinced others in history had been. He directed that his body not be buried for three days after his death, just in case.

READ MORE: George Washington's Final Years—And Sudden, Agonizing Death

from Stories - HISTORY https://ift.tt/3bK9rxO February 17, 2020 at 06:00PM

#Worldhistory

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patheticphallacy · 5 years

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It was a busy bee month for me!

While I took a semi-break from blogging- which means I limited myself to only 1 or 2 posts a week, instead of my usual 3 or 4- I took that time to plan out future blog posts (June, specifically) and read a lot.

#PanelAThon happened, which was the absolute best time. I smashed my TBR, in my opinion. Comic-heavy read-a-thons seem to suit me best, so I know how to sort my TBR for future read-a-thons now!

I also started up a brand new Bookstagram which I’m very proud of, even if my sister is helping me with most of the pictures due to her better camera quality. It’s like a project for us both, really: I provide the books and the good cat content, and she helps me position the shots and take pretty pictures!

Towards the end of the month I went to a gig that my best friend’s boyfriend was doing with his band, which was a great time. I also moved my things out of my Uni house! Next year, I’m living in a flat by myself, which is very expensive but will hopefully be worth it.

In June, I’ll be predominantly reading LGBT+ books, which I talked about more in my Pride Month TBR post! I can’t guarantee I’ll finish everything, though, as my twentieth birthday is on the 18th June and I’ll be spending the last two weeks of the month basically with only friends and family for the entire time, which I’m really looking forward to.

Also, last off: all my posts this month are twenty themed. So it’s all lists of twenty things, catered around my birthday and also my general life. I really hope you’ll check the posts out as they come out, I spent a lot of time making the lists and formatting everything for maximum good content.

READING WRAP UP

This Is Not A Test by Courtney Summers– this was a very human look at the way teenagers would cope in the apocalypse, extremely dark and very upsetting, from the point of view of a suicidal girl. It did let me down in that I wasn’t fully immersed in the story, but it definitely picked up towards the end.

NENENE by Shizuko Totono– while I really wanted to love this, the massive age gap between the two characters really ruined it for me. It tries to make up for the age gap by saying the characters will wait till the main girl is 20, but that honestly makes me quite sick thinking that the only reason they haven’t done anything is because the rest of society are telling them it’s nasty, not because they have any understanding of the massive imbalance of power in that relationship.

The Ones Who Walk Away From Omelas by Ursula K. Le Guin– I’ll be honest, I read this because of BTS’s Spring Day music video, but I’m glad I did. It’s a very dark look into a utopian-esque society that only thrives based on the suffering of a child. I really love the distant narrative voice in this piece.

It Only Happens In the Movies by Holly Bourne– this is one of the most disappointing reads of all time for me. I did a long review of this on my Goodreads breaking down issues I had with the characters and the narrative that really ruined the whole experience. I know I don’t drop star ratings anymore, but this was a definite 1 star.

The Case For Jamie by Brittany Cavallaro– This had probably the weakest beginning in the series, with it not picking up until the 160 or so page mark as it relied a lot on info-dumping about Charlotte’s life and didn’t really have much happen. However, the last 150 made up for the weak start, and I really ended up enjoying this and I cannot wait for the final book!

The Unbreakable Code by Jennifer Chambliss Bertman– I really didn’t enjoy this and I am sad. I’m pretty sure it’s a ‘me’ thing, for the narrative, but I will say that there’s a lot of telling instead of showing, which really does lessen my enjoyment as we don’t see characters have any major realisations bar a few.

By Night #7-#10 by John Allison– this series has flown by! There’s only two issues left now, and I’ll be very sad to see it go, but I definitely think it’s coming to its end.

Labyrinth Coronation #12 by Simon Spurrier– I AM DISTRAUGHT that this series has ended. So so upset. I’m not completely content with this conclusion because a character does something that seems very OOC for them, after their development throughout the series, but I don’t really know how I could have been 100% satisfied with a beloved series coming to a close.

Why Photographers Commit Suicide by Mary McCray– this is a poetry collection I’ve had for literal years, a lot based on space and Mars. I was disappointed with this one and didn’t really connect with it overall or gleam anything valuable from it, although there were a few decent poems in there.

Small Spaces by Katherine Arden– I love this! Very atmospheric and creepy middle grade horror about some kids, terrifying scarecrows, and a long history of mysterious deaths and disappearances.

Nuclear Winter Volume 1 by Caroline Breault– Nuclear Winter is a fun story about a Montreal full of mutants that is in its ninth Winter after a power plant exploded. I love Flavie, the main character, and the art style is perfect for a slice-of-life adventure full of mutants, partying and bagels!

The Silent Companions by Laura Purcell– God, I’m still scared of this book. It’s basically like the terror of the weeping angels, combined with commentary on female hysteria, and is one of the most Gothic settings I’ve ever read. It’s honestly a masterpiece.

Haikyuu!! Volumes 1- by Haruichi Furudate– This is a GOD TIER sports manga, and probably my favourite, volleyball is just great. I absolutely adore these characters and their dynamics, the competitions, the illustrations– it’s all amazing. I have watched the first season of the anime, which means I was already familiar with most of these volumes, but I honestly do prefer the manga over the anime and highly recommend it.

The Walking Dead Volume 2 by Robert Kirkman– OK writing although it’s nothing special, but the art style change was very evident and I highly dislike it. Has a terrible case of ‘tiny font’ that really ruins any reading experience for my short sighted ass, so I don’t know if I’ll carry on. I just don’t think I carry about the characters enough.

The Loneliest Girl in the Universe by Lauren James– this completely blindsided me. It goes from a sci-fi romance to a sci-fi horror survival story, and I think it’s great. Definitely my favourite Lauren James, she truly is the queen of UKYA sci-fi stories. Apparently her next one is a soft-apocalypse novel, which, YES.

The Unexpected Everything by Morgan Matson– really disliked this. I think I’ve grown out of the picture perfect beautiful YA characters. Clark never leaves the house and never exercises but apparently has perfect abs and the most chiselled of jaws. It’s just unrealistic, fellas! It doesn’t appeal to me at all. Also suffers from a case of ‘long-book-itis’ and is at least 200 pages of unneeded scenes too long, and is very predictable.

Lore Olympus by Rachel Smithe– this is a very pretty adaptation of the abduction of Persephone myth. The art gets better the further you get in, and I really do love the personalities of these Gods and other miscellaneous mythological creatures personified (EXCEPT FOR APOLLO APOLLO SUCKS). Content warning for rape and victim blaming, as well as a character being roofied (unrelated to the rape, though).

Uzumaki by Junji Ito– very strong first two thirds, but a very dissatisfying conclusion. However it is suitably creepy and has stunning art, and Kirie and Shuichi have a great relationship that I loved seeing develop throughout the story.

Welcome To Wanderland #1-3 by Jackie Ball– such a lovely series! It’s about fantasy realms and theme parks, magic and rebel princesses, and is very great. Unfortunately #4 won’t be out for a while as the illustrator had to leave for health reasons, but I’m hoping the new illustrator will be able to give this series a good end when it eventually comes out!

Go For It, Nakamura! by Syundei– a very cute manga about gay sixteen year old Nakamura and his pursuit of Hirose, a boy in his class. While this doesn’t end with a romance, it’s still a soft read seeing these characters become friends, and I can only hope another volume will one day be released.

Coady and the Creepies by Liz Prince– not one of my favourites, but it was enjoyable to read. This follows triplets on the road with their punk rock band collecting pins from all the biggest punk venues in the country, and also has ghosts. Probably my favourite part was commentary on punk rock being inclusive and how so many dudebros have lost sight that the movement was built going against a a discriminatory regime, not upholding it!

I Want To Eat Your Pancreas by Yoru Sumino– this manga literally knocked me TF out for absolutely no reason at all other than wanting to purposefully break my heart. The last 100 pages made this one of my favourite manga of all time just for how slyly it managed to make me care about these characters.

When I Arrived At the Castle by Emily Carroll– an erotic, Gothic graphic novel from a literal master of her craft. I love everything Carroll puts out, although I don’t think this ranks above Through the Woods. It’s very unnerving and has wonderful art, although I’m still just a tad confused by it.

Nuclear Winter Volume 2 by Caroline Berault– I’m not putting this with volume 1 just because I didn’t like this one as much. It moved way too quickly and I wasn’t as invested in the storyline. However, I do enjoy seeing older-younger sister dynamics, and Flavie and her younger sister Elsie really reminded me of how I am with my younger sister.

Teen Dog by Jake Lawrence– an incredible, quirky coming-of-age comic with anthropomorphic animals, best friends, chess, prom, and a dope pug called Thug Pug! I really loved this, it’s one of my new favourite all-time reads.

Honey So Sweet Volume 1 by Amu Megura– this was OK; not my favourite shoujo manga, and I’m not a big fan of this kind of art style, but it was fun to read and I like the softness of the main boy!

Junji Ito’s Cat Diary: Yon & Mu by Junji Ito– SO TRUE TO LIVING WITH CATS. Cannot express how much I could relate to this, I giggled so much. Ito and his wife do have a little bit at the back talking about Yon’s passing, however, so prepare yourself for that, I ended up crying.

Fullmetal Alchemist Volume 9 by Hiromu Arakawa– I don’t want to talk about it. I’m heartbroken this series is over. I loved this ending, but I’m heartbroken. I cried so many tears of joy, especially at the ending it gives Hohenheim.

Smooth Criminals Volume 1 by Kiwi Smith– another OK read! It wasn’t really stand out in comparison to a lot of the other comics I picked up this month, but it’s a quick read, and it has sapphic spies and hackers, if that’s your jam!

Turf Wars Volume 2 and 3 by Michael Dante DiMartino– Finally picked these two volumes up after procrastinating for months! It’s a really cheesy and much deserved conclusion to this graphic novel series, and I’m very much looking forward to the next series coming out. I’m keeping my hopes out for Wu to return, I miss him.

Bungo Stray Dogs Volume 1 by Kafka Asagiri– Very funny detective agency manga where all the characters are inspired by famous literary authors, each possessing powers that aids them investigations. It quickly gets into the main arc and villains. My main issue is that it has that creepy manga trope of having that sibling relationship that’s a bit too close, just for laughs, and it’s something I absolutely despise, so it kind of ruined how much I was loving it for an issue.

My Hero Academia Volume 16 by Kohei Horikoshi– it’s the start of the Overhaul arc, properly! Some decent character development in here, especially for Tamaki, Kirishima and Fatgum, who are the ultimate team, to be honest.

The Avant-Guards #1 to #5 by Carly Usdin– Carly Usdin genuinely writes some of the best diverse comic series currently. I love this as a sports comic, although I wish there were more issues to develop the characters and their relationships gradually as it does come across as quite rushed at points!

No.6 Volume 1 and 2 by Atsuko Asano– I really love the anime, so I figured it was about time to read the manga! It’s really fast moving, with great characters and a wonderful breakdown of the Utopia/Dystopia dynamic, and I really enjoy it. Shion is genuinely one of the best characters in manga in my opinion.

Faithless #1 by Brian Azzarello– A very dark new series about a woman who experiments in magic and accidentally summons something very dark. It’s strange and unsettling, and I really loved this first issue!

Slam Volume 1 by Pamela Ribon– This wasn’t that great, to be honest. It’s told in a very third person voice that stopped me from ever connecting with the characters, and although I love the roller derby parts and enjoyed the art, it’s not really a standout comic.

And finally, I read the Save Me Webtoon! Pardon my French, but this was so fucking good, and it’s really reminding me why I love both friendship-focused stories and time loop narratives. I think the art is great and I love the story, but I would not recommend this if you’re unfamiliar with the BTS cinematic universe and basic theories. Not all theories- I only knew basics so I could form an opinion on timelines, conclusions, etc.- but just the basics on the time loop theory. I talk more about all this later on in this post, though!

And my June TBR Jar pick is…. HUNGER MAKES ME A MODERN GIRL by Carrie Brownstein!

ESSAYS/ARTICLES

I read this article analysing BTS’s Spring Day, one of my favourite music videos of all time, and it really hit me hard. BTS in general have stunning music videos, so I highly recommend them for anyone who wants interesting visuals and/or a brand new narrative to invest themselves in with the BTS ‘cinematic’ universe.

TV SHOWS/MOVIES/VIDEOS

BTS’s Spring Day music video. Are any of you surprised?

THIS AMAZING CYPHER PT.3 ANIMATION. There are so many little easter eggs! Fans are amazing.

Another BTS video: their Go Go dance practice video is amazing. They all dress up as Snow White and the Seven Dwarves.

Literally my whole month was spent watching BTS videos. Their whole cinematic universe with their music videos? INCREDIBLE. It starts with the uncut version of I Need U (content warnings for most of the videos discussing suicide, abuse and has a lot of violence), and I realised later on once I’d watched them that the Japanese versions of some of the songs are part of the series! You can find playlists and lists online to help you navigate which videos to watch first. I look at Spring Day as being the conclusion to the cinematic universe with Jin finally saving them all by helping them save themselves, as dramatic as it all sounds.

MUSIC I’VE ENJOYED

I basically spent all month listening to BTS. Particular favourites include Silver Spoon/Baepsae, Answer: Love Myself, Mikrokosmos, Cypher Pt.4, and GoGo!

Nightmare by Halsey is top notch, I got really into Halsey’s hopeless fountain kingdom again this month literally a day before Nightmare came out, so I recommend her! Obviously Boy With Luv is great too, I decided to get into BTS just because the Boy With Luv MV was so great and now look at me!