Arianna 6h
"... to lay thee down
upon a bed of lilacs,

or fling thee against walls of thorns
among the bones of wolves,

or shear the golden locks of grain
from thy wild, bloom-crownéd mane?"
Kawir - "To Demeter":


Macabre Omen - "Man of 300 Voices", "Hellas", and "In Memory..."
Arianna 7h
"... the threads I have rent,
and like precious jewels
they lay in shining heaps
of crimson, green, and gold
about my feet..."
Loreena McKennitt - "The Lady of Shalott":


Loreena McKennitt - "Penelope's Song"
Arianna 8h
Afternoon shadows
weave spiderwebs over your cheeks,
and though I have never seen cherry blossoms,
I sense their aroma on your skin,
the bashful fireflies beneath your lashes
zigzagging here and there
among butterflies
and bluebirds.

I cradle them on my palm,
reading between their wings
in the language of dark eyes


back into the depths,
though of the one or the other
I cannot tell.

Thoughts race through
childhood blizzards
and brightly-colored still-lives,
vivid tapestries in the mind

of Little Things:

a trail of breadcrumbs
tracing back through the years

to the fairy tale my mother wrote for me,
and the pages of favorite storybooks;
to the recurring dream of an ogre
and something about my bookshelf,
the smell of my father's cologne in the hall
on Sunday mornings,
and the intoxicating freshness
of outdoor air,
now stale.

Even the garden droops more grey
than green,
and I don't remember if the roses bloomed last year.

Autumn hangs over my parent's house,
and I see the age grow stronger in their faces
each day.

How strange they seem,
though in truth it is I
who probably seems stranger to them.

Can't even say our worlds collided,
for the realization often strikes,
looking at their child faces
smiling shyly from photographs.
that these are foreign images,
reflections of past forms,
of change.

Looking in
at the translucent spectre
of my own self
as a girl,
I often wonder
if somewhere along
the neuron trails
of memory,
our child-selves might meet
outside of Time,
skipping stones through our waters,
a re-metamorphosis
with neither cause nor effect,
only the pureness
of being.
Arianna 10h
07:30, and I'm the first to arrive,
Staking out the best table,
Positioned strategically
So the entire room is visible.

I curl up by the window,
Admiring the sun rising through the trees,
Watching the city awaken in waves
Of yawning pedestrians.

Chopin's waltzes
Pirouette in my ears,
And Serge Gainsbourg
Stares out the window next to me
Puff-puffing away
Sur un petit café.

I see everyone
Who walks through the door.

I know what time to expect them.

Of course,
They have no idea:

          No idea at all
          That I have code names for each one of them,

          That I keep a list in my notebook,
          Marking them Here when they walk in;

          That I wait for them
          Just to observe them;

          That I notice when they arrive late, early,
          Or not at all;

          That I wonder
          What's keeping them;

          That the volume in my headphones is purposely low
          To hear the conversations around me...

          ... Or that the reason
          I've walked to the counter for water
          Ten times
          In as many minutes
          Is because I wanted
          To look closer at you,
          However briefly...
******* people watching every morning at a coffee shop where I used to spend WAY too much time. :-)

Serge Gainsbourg - "L'Hôtel Particulier":


Frédéric Chopin - "Waltz, Op. 64 No. 2 in C-Sharp Minor"
Arianna 21h
Salt and lavender petals
Stick along my throat,
Scorching it raw with
The pungent
Sweetness of
A healing
In my mind, I can smell lavender mixed with sea salt, and for some reason I keep thinking about the sharpness of the scent seeping through the nose onto the tastebuds... Blech. D:
Arianna 1d
I first met Yeats
Browsing along the shelves in the poetry section.

Alpha by Author
The sign read, as I wandered along
Towards the letter Y.

And suddenly, there he was!
I tapped him on the shoulder,
Asked, "Why, indeed?"

He shrugged, and invited me
For a drink at the pub,
Over Scotch and wine
Detailing the wond'rous holy city

Of Byzantium

Isle in the water,
Where sages and oracles wise
An answer
To our question
Could surmise.

"The boats don't travel there anymore", he said,
To this compass-defying kingdom
Southwest of the East
And perpendicular to the North Star.

"We must travel with dolphins.
They alone can show us the way."

Thus, we ventured thither
On the backs of gilded dolphins
Branded with gold of Thrace and Scythia,
With the incantations
Of long-forgotten mysteries.

There is no feeling like that
Of being engulfed by seafoam,
Fizzling like silk around the body,
So soft you don't realize how it wraps around,
Until the mass of Ocean hits
And you sink...

Lying face-up
Along the backs of our guides
We darted
Beneath the shadows
Of continents and great empires...

          They all look the same from below.

"Where are we?"

"Who knows..."

Letting my fingers trail the ocean floor,
Flurries of sand spiraling in gusts
Before resettling...

We journey farther and farther...

I touch the crystal around my neck,
Where you reside in a streak of amethyst-gold,
And a strange melancholy wells up
In my eyes
(Though flooded with water,
They cannot cry).

When we arrive,
I shall ask about you.

For throughout this pilgrimage,
It seems your reflection materializes
In every shard of amber I find
Glimmering in the wintry gloom
Of the ocean floor.

How have we met here, again,
On this terrain of happenstance,
These fragments of your smile,
These fractured rays of the light in your eyes,
So far
Beyond the borders of earthly seas,

Like Osiris:
A spirit dismembered

          "Why, why indeed..."

And so, I have collected each one,
Caressing the rough and abstract edges
Moulded savagely by the elements
To perfection;

Admiring every shade
Of sunlight-on-water
Through these prisms
Cut from your soul,
Growing warmer against my breast
As we draw nearer to Byzantium.

O Shy One,
We have flown
To that isle in the water
Following the trail of golden petals
Plucked from your mane
And strewn across worlds,

Through underworlds,

Like violets and grape leaves
Tossed in garlands
Before the city gates.

Alas, your body is far from me,
And I too must abandon mine to enter here!

My companion smiles up
At the turrets of his Great City,
Thanking our dolphins with a blessing
Before they swim away.

We enter the pearled gates
Into winding avenues
Of a world lit only by moon flames.

Up hills, past twisting domes
Of shell and seastone,
We at last behold the Temple of Fire.

Strange, to come here underwater,
Though it shines over all
With the wisdom of ages.


Kneeling, face turned away
Before the pyre of holy fire,
Pressing the wholeness of your soul to my heart
As the Oracle reads the flames...

... And I wonder
Whether Why?
Is the wrong question, for
"Fate has a way of her own".  [1]

And yet, how far we have come
On this strange journey, Sweetest Love,
And how far —
How beautiful! —
We have yet to go!

Oracles and unknowns:
"What matter, so there is but fire
In you, in me?"  [2]
A ramble. Random thoughts about some poems by Yeats, a dear soul, and yeah... Just ran with it.

[1] = Quote excerpted from "The Satyricon" by Petronius.

[2] = The last two lines of Yeats' poem "The Mask".

Loreena McKennitt - "The Old Ways":
Arianna 1d
"A jack-o'-lantern
Fell in your coffee, ma'am. Just
Watch out: he might bite!"
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