She talks to wolves...

From erzebet (lovely editrix of Cabinet des Fées*):

Speaking of sentences**, the mythic/fairy tale anthology In The Telling (in which we find a title by an author whose work I happen to love) might not see the light of day due to low pre-sales. Times are hard and selling poetry is always hard, but I know that the people who read this blog are huge supporters of poetry and mythic fiction in general.

From the website:
"In the Telling celebrates the art of storytelling—whether the making of myth or the stories we tell ourselves to bring narrative and shape to the lives we leave. These fine narrative pieces in lyric form showcase the poetic talents of some of the most interesting emerging poets from Wales, the UK and the world. Woven together by skilled editors, both experienced poets, this array of stories become a poetic journey of meaning found in the telling."

Please visit Cinnamon Press (scroll down until you read the blurb for In The Telling) and, if it moves you, support this wonderful cause.

* Cabinet des Fées lately got an amazing make-over thanks to the designing prowess of erzebet! Check it out-- these are new clothes I guarantee you'll see the grandeur of! ;)

** erzebet also recently made a fascinating post about the power of stories, the essence of which can be distilled into one hard-hitting sentence. Join in the discussion!

Speaking of giving work away for free, cadhla has been doing it for years, both in the form of Iron Poet and her awesome poetry tutorials. Because I am mad like a mad thing and also enjoy learning shiny new skills, I have also been known to engage in a round of Iron Poet or two and also to use cadhla's tutorials to practice new poetry styles. (I even composed a Lover's Chain. No, you don't get to see it. Unless you're the person it was meant for, in which case you already have.)

For the third annual International Pixel-Stained Technopeasant Day, I have decided to share some of my apprentice labors with you all! (Don't laugh too hard. Constructive criticism's okay. ;))

First, a triolet inspired by Desire from Neil Gaiman's Sandman:

"Eyes of Desire"

Your eyes amber, the color of dunes,
burn me like the sun sears the sky.
What is this desire that within me blooms?
Your eyes amber, the color of dunes,
cut me deep, leave me bereft as the sea croons,
lapping against the shore, a desirous cry.
Your eyes amber, the color of dunes,
burn me like the sun sears the sky.



Second, a tilay:

"A Nap Beside the Quiet Sea"

When She hums an elegant tune,
my heart is put at ease once more.

The elegance is of sussuration:
a sea rising and falling in gentle breathing
and blue tones in my mind set to softly seething.
She invokes movement of imagination.

Whole worlds spiral; I fall to sleeping curled:
a double helix of stars slowly revolve here
in my heart, in my eyes as I lie sleeping there
and I recall when I first walked this world.

This, the meaning of dreaming's core:
my weave revealed in Mother's croon.



And, lastly, a Variant Italian sonnet:

"Gather No Hyacinths"

The past echoes,
sinking through dreams, deep into blood and bone:
a body-map of what was
drifting from you like smoke from fire.
How do we set this down, a book read,
consumed, left to seep into
the background of life unfettered?
Why stand still in startled rue?

The past echoes,
stirring a memory of eyes: grey stone,
and a cheek slapped because
your wings spread and took you higher.
Can we not set this down, a book read,
some pages torn out, held true,
on your heart stenciled and lettered?
Why still stand in startled rue?

When can we set this down, a book read,
cast off for its foolish view?
Will we live a life undeterred,
leave this life of startled rue?

I will scatter past ashes
with no sense of startled rue.

As of September 1st, 2008, a lovely new issue of Cabinet des Fées' online journal has gone live!

My poem "My Small Army of Souls" appears in this issue of Scheherezade's Bequest (the online treasure trove of Cabinet des Fées), along with a host of other quite intriguing and wonderful fairy tale poems and flash fiction.

(Note: My poem was inspired by Elise Mattheson's bracelet of the same name.)

In addition, there's an excellent essay by Mia Nutick on her brilliant chimera_fancies pendants. (By the way, fair readers, there is going to be a chimera_fancies sale next Monday at 6 PM PST. Be ready!)

This update also included the addition of Folkpunk 101 and Book Review* sections and an interesting interview with tithenai and mer_moon, the fascinating editrices of Goblin Fruit.


Check it out!



* I'll be contributing book reviews to Cabinet des Fées in future updates.

As many have, ever since I saw the Wordle application on nineweaving's journal, I have been playing with various texts. Below, you can see one representing my short story, "The Trees of Trellan":


"The Trees of Trellan"
(click for larger version)

Sadly, this short story of piratical and alien lovers has been rejected once again. I have a couple more venues in mind before it goes down for a rewrite, however.

In much better news, I have had a poem accepted for publication in the September issue of Scheherezade's Bequest on Cabinet des Fées! The poem is entitled "My Small Army of Souls" and both the title and text of the poem were inspired by elisem's lovely bracelet, "My Small Army of Souls."

I'll also be reviewing Oscar Wilde's fairy tales for that edition, so look forward to it.

Finally, I've been promoted to the status of Master Reviewer at Green Man Review and also started writing blurbs (only for the book reviews) for their biweekly issues.

Mostly good news there, I should say!

There are some exciting things afoot! If only they weren't so behind-the-scenes right now. Still, I will shortly be able to share on some of them.

Last year, for National Poetry Month, I hosted intermittent poetry attacks on my journal. I haven't had the opportunity to do that so far this month (too tied up with school, etc.), but I hope I'll at least be able to throw some original poetry at you guys each week for the rest of the month.

So, in that spirit: have a poem!

Exhalation
by Deborah J. Brannon

I walked down the path
though I was frightened
--a thousand smoke-colored birds
flew up
startled (a sudden exhalation)
and I thought that must be
what terror looked like
in the hearts of the great.
The soft creature of me paused
a great tension stirring in my thighs:
I could feel the furious blood
in those desperate bodies
winging across the still bloodless
sky.
My eyes fell to a red sun rising
--but the blue of the sky could not leave
my eyes.
I kept walking.

Poetry from last year: Elegy for a Fallen Angel
(which, incidentally, was also my offering for International Pixel-Stained Technopeasant Day)

I chose this poem by Catherynne M. Valente (yuki_onna around these parts) because of how closely I can identify with it. Anyone, I imagine, who's lived in another country, turned their tongue to learning another language, and listened with an unschooled ear can feel the depth of connection and shame illuminated through her words:

The Emperor of Tsukuyama Park
by
Catherynne M. Valente

When first the word was spoken, I heard:
Tsuki-yama -- Lord Moon.
And for me, the moon settled onto a dais, with
sixteen-pointed chrysanthemums in his phosphor-hands,
topknot oiled with seaweed and orange,
his hakama fringed in silver worms
which wove on and on,
flooding the nightingale-floor with silk.

The folds of his sleeves creased blue and black
in signet-shadows, descending like stairs to me,
in a poor, threadbare yukata,
my sallow Western skin protruding,
forehead pressed to his white tatami.
For me, the moon extended a branch of heavy plums
and with well-water eyes forgave my ignorance of protocol,
my botched obi, my hair unpinned and ragged.

When winter came to Tsukayama Park,
it seemed to me that the strange-limbed tigers
of his wall-hangings
rumbled like clouds, and I was permitted to watch
the sparrows spiral up to his ashen ear. Under his cratered arms,
I knelt, and whispered tears into the hiragana of my palm-lines,
obscuring the text with salt and snow.

For him, I was always penitent.
I did not question his rule over the cherry trees, the green tide,
the steam of tea in a glazed cup. I allowed him to stifle
my breath in twelve layers of white silk, to paint me a new mouth,
to fold back my hair in beryl combs
that cut my scalp with piscine teeth. For him, I pressed out my pride,
flat as a river, and bowed my face to the floor.

When summer came to Tsukayama Park
it seemed to me that his voice was the thrust-cry of cicadas,
that the wind beat drums of star-hide, that I had
learnt the angle of the closed mouth
well enough to pass for one of his own.

But in the midst of my prostrations, my rain-hymns,
the steeping of my braids in inkwells,
I heard a woman laugh at me.
She said that the word was
Tsukayama -- top of the hill -- nothing more.
And for me, the moon was excised from the sky.

I had no grace left but my face flattened into sun-cracked dirt,
no patron but the feet of a false moon,
evaporated into plain grass and a stone stair.

My kimono dissolved to water,
and the sparrows turned in shame
from my nakedness.

© 2005-2006 Catherynne M. Valente

You can find this poem in her Apocrypha collection.

I'd also like to show you the way to another poem of hers, published at the Pedestal Magazine: Suzuri. This poetic vignette captures one of my favorite Japanese holidays: Tanabata (or Hoshi-Matsuri, the Star-Festival).