LINKDING

When you have shaped a statue out of clay And then the gods have granted her a voice Your problem then is that she has a choice For she decides what words she wants to say. A statue or a doll is cold and still A frozen beauty who can't move or change The gods are kind, they let her rearrange Her features in whatever way she will. You loved the woman-toy that you have made But didn't really pause to think things through For once the gods had granted you your prayer And she's alive, with all the world to share How could you think that you would make the grade? You love her, sure, but why should she love you?

Excerpt: <blockquote>Two trolls and a princess sat under a hill Hideaway, slideaway, whippoorwill The trolls were big and the princess was clever, Sing me a song and you're caught forever.</blockquote> ➤ feels like a story-song from a folk tradition

excerpt: <blockquote>Art catches up with time catches up with art catches up... And, to be fair, they thought about restoring it in 1844 Napoleon was dead, they said, and Europe calm, But Florence was ruled by Austrians They voted by a narrow margin to keep it hidden. When just a few years later Napoleon III came along They felt thoroughly justified in this decision.</blockquote>

<blockquote>There was a Twitter thread of "depluralize a film", example "Jaw" and a clever person called Gwendolyn Ann Smith thought outside the box and said "Crow on the Orient Express" because of "a murder of crows" and then I had to run with that, and here it is. Crow finds himself on a train Rushing forward through night, Rushing north, rushing north and west, Bright lit train through dark night Tinkling crystal, silver, swishing velvet, silk, And the smell of death.</blockquote>

<blockquote>A flint, a flask, a rocketship, A glint, a glass, a dome, A spark, a signal spiralling A million miles from home.</blockquote>

<blockquote>Shakespeare was good with words, and also wise. Florence is beautiful beyond compare. Fruit tastes delicious, have you tried a pear? Bach's music, wow, the power never dies.</blockquote>

<blockquote>Some weeds are sprouting by the door, This spring, in Elsinore. And Fortinbras could not care less About the whole unseemly mess, Forget the dynasty before, This spring, in Elsinore.</blockquote>

<blockquote>A portrait from five hundred years ago Full of complexity of life, fast caught, As wide and intricate a mind on show As any living now, and one who ought In any equity to be a friend we know.</blockquote>

<blockquote>This is the slow train across Tuscany The one that does not spend its life scuttling through tunnels But instead skims the ridges, revealing Tilled fields, gentle valleys, distant mountains, Like the backdrop to a Renaissance painting</blockquote>

<blockquote>Like Icarus I soared and lost my wings, Like Sisyphus I rolled my daily round Prometheus, I faltered, and was bound, Like Tantalus I longed for unreached things.</blockquote>

<blockquote>I would like an hour To sit in a dim room, with friends, And nothing terrible would be happening, Not anywhere.</blockquote>

<blockquote>On this trip I have spent the night in Nineteen bedrooms In twelve cities, A boat, and a train.</blockquote>

<blockquote>Whatever your own rituals of grieving You cannot have them now, no shared hotdish No ten convened to pray, no flower nor wish At bed or graveside, no songs while they're leaving.</blockquote>

<blockquote>Petrarch's trajectory through the Black Death isn't helping. A sestina.</blockquote> ➤ content warning: covid situation

<blockquote>There's those I love and feel affection There's conversation, joy, and friending, Hope, consolation, true connection Even when #WorldWarThree is trending.</blockquote>

<blockquote>The goddess, the circle, the centaur, and you, As dawn's rosy fingers rose over the strand, The cloud and the shadow, the ocean, the land, Dust rising at hoof-fall, you knew.</blockquote> ➤ occasionally Jo Walton writes poems where I don't follow what they're trying to say but it's said so well that I don't care. This is one of them. (Nemi is the other.)

<blockquote>Fall, leaves, fall, strip the branches bare, Blow, winds, blow, summon icy air Turn, world, turn; every month is fair.</blockquote>

<blockquote>The thing is, it's all true, but also art. And artifice, while crafted from the heart, Brings you both close and distant: here, apart.</blockquote>

<blockquote>Roberta and Wilhelmina Buckley Year 1. They called us the space twins. We died without ever seeing the planet. We lived nineteen years on Earth Studying, training, hoping, dreaming, And three years in space, preparing. Bobby was a plant biologist And Billy was a pilot and engineer. We fell asleep, planning to wake up here But never did. </blockquote> ➤ the story of a space colony as told through the people who die. I loved this!

<blockquote>It's that time of year again When we are done with winter But winter isn't done with us.</blockquote>

<blockquote>The one thing we owe posterity And it is a tiny thing, The very least we can do, (And yet I fear we may fail to reach even this low bar,) The one simple thing, as we shape our time, And the future we will not see, Is that when they read about us, about our time, They will not find it ludicrous on the face of it To imagine that we might have been happy.</blockquote>

<blockquote>Books are the real, the constant love, the friend that's always there For solace, and for real escape, for stories you can share,</blockquote>

<blockquote>Alone at the foot of the crucifix Tears burning in her eyes And sorrow like a ton of bricks Watching while her son dies.</blockquote> ➤ pov of the mother of one of the thieves crucified beside Jesus

<blockquote>This is the way it was in Germany As changes came inexorably worse By increments, and creeping like a curse "God damn those fascists? Where'd I put my key?"</blockquote>

<blockquote>Dis (tance that shatters to splinters of near) In (coming moments divided by fear) Ter (ribble burning of ablative shields) Gra (y as the stormclouds of flickering fields) Tion (ting the power we need to survive)</blockquote> ➤ Author's note: <blockquote>This is a crude translation of an alien form of poetry/song that I made up. The idea is that the first syllable would be sung suspended under the rest of the line by one voice, while another sings the rest. Each stanza consists of one word made up of the first syllables in each line -- I've gone with the spelling of the main word, which is a little odd when it means "shimmering" starts with "ti" but there you go. This poem describes crashlanding a ship made for space on a planet with an atmosphere.</blockquote>

<blockquote>John Argentine, magician, is doctor to dead princes, Trained, like the best, in Padua, his fine Italian hand Kept in a silver box, it writes in delicate italics Copying his magic texts and shaking on the sand.</blockquote> ➤ author's note: <blockquote>(If I say it's all true, you won't believe me. But -- well, I was reading Frank Klaasen's The Transformation of Magic, and John Argentine was discussed, and there was a summary of his career -- Padua, Princes in Tower, Prince Arthur, Provost of King's College Cambridge -- and then in the next paragraph it said he had a fine Italian hand. It's more than anyone could bear not to write a poem about a fine Italian hand!)</blockquote>

<blockquote>Where are the eagles and trumpets? Where are the thighs of Corinna? These Geats(1) are all hairy and warlike And drink while demanding their dinner!</blockquote>

<blockquote>Who could possibly believe in intelligent design While actually living in a body? This miracle of hodge-podge cludges, Amazing it works at all!</blockquote>

<blockquote>Where were we where the twisted trees Arched open, and we were in the light, Suddenly, blinking? It must have been afternoon And it was Italy because the pillars  Led down to an archway, framing a statue.</blockquote>

<blockquote>Patriotism did not survive being gassed in the trenches. It is a shellshocked zombie, Lurching forward, hand on heart, muttering "Dulce est" but can't remember what.</blockquote>