death & the maiden | a bouquet of wilt lilies

death & the maiden as the lily among the thorns, so is my love among the maidens. my beloved is mine, and I am his: he feedeth among the lilies. song of solomon 2:2 / 2:16

dear reader: know that you are not alone. and if you shall have me, then I walk with you — always, always, just as you walk with me. if you are experiencing hardship, know this: trees that bloom in perpetual summer oft’ forget how to fruit. this rain will bring about a bountiful harvest.

I know it in my heart.

INDEX one.........an ode to july’s flowers two.......first quarter : sunday 1–8 three...second quarter : sunday 9–15 four....third quarter : monday 16–23 five....last quarter : tuesday 24-31 six.............letter to alexandros seven...odds & ends & ill-fit things

an ode to july’s flowers

from within wet, dark clay unmoored stems give rise to perfect, pristine blossoms. here, the lilies: trumpets of calla an annunciation held in a holt of loving amaryllis — here, the blues: larkspur and cornflower celestial, ribbons of sky ribbing the fields — here, the flesh: shaded poppies opening beneath the deathless arms of amaranth. is it not beautiful? this paradise of petals, perfuming summer’s silken skin. breathe it in: the mellifluous wind, whispering as it combs through the long hair of willows; the scent of sorrow, slow and adrift as rootless reeds down lakewater — dispassionate, the passage of time, painting stars out of burnt wilt across the land. such melancholy it instills, this tableau tracing the ephemerality of flowering.

first quarter one : I thought about conversing with the void, so I set up a newsletter. other than that — verses upon verses, all swirling in my head like waves crashing ashore to safety. † two : for the first time, I cooked stew with rosemary from our own sill-side garden. I cried at the second bite; it made me think of S, and how’d she say that one day no man will be worthy of my hands.

I added sour cream and cried harder. † three : I spend most of my time writing, a sort of summer romance with myself. it is torrid, the passion; more torrid than the cruel, moody sun on days where it chooses to show its’ face. that, and I keep looking at my hands — I’d like to find them a good home, but a chest has yet to be proffered. † four : desolation and a minor wrist injury; the frustration with my work fleetingly returned, only to be swiftly subdued. I am so lucky to be surrounded by such good friends. their encouragement is water to the parched mouth, oasis in a desert. † five : a milk and honey kind of day — soft-lipped, tentative, the contours of everything diffused, as if the world is parsed through a bokeh lens effect. there is a sort of despair-fringed laughter that I cannot seem to escape, though I suspect this is chiefly because of our very precarious finances. † six : a day of mending. I shrivel up into myself, allowing time to hold me in its’ arms of molten copper. I try to work, but it is slow; no less frenetic, however. dizzy though the destination is, I am almost there. † seven : hyperbole — I fear I’ve run out of verses. † eight : I wish I could bury myself in something kinder, something that hasn’t yet learned how to ache. alas; I have wed my lily-bodied muses, and I shall burn with them ‘til death will part our breath.

second quarter nine : this monday is october-heavy — half with tears, half with rain. I am desolate; for every reason, for no reason at all. even taking depression out of the equation, there is something inexplicably lonely about crying yourself to the absence of sleep, knowing that you are fundamentally ab-understood. there is no lifeline in sight, and, leaden, I am sinking. † ten : a calmer day, or about as calm as it could be, given the circumstances. I am still heavily unstable. ten, again : I finished writing Athanatos. the strangest thing? I already have another project to work on. † eleven : this was a lowdown day: I slept in, deeper than I have in months. rest was the general keyword of the day — I took time off to just be and breathe, to rearrange my bones into a more relaxed fit. † twelve : a day of even deeper calm. I slept in again, and then we – mother and I – went for a walk on the hill. we wound up stopping at Lidl’s for groceries, and I wrote the poem of the day on my knee in the parking lot when we got out. I think I fell in love again, but I am not too sure with whom. † thirteen : today, I thought a lot about monsters and men and friendships, and something strange and beautiful is taking root inside me. I name this feeling contentment. I name this feeling self-acceptance.

I name this feeling we’re gonna be just fine, kid. † fourteen : mes amis, I must confess. I have a weakness — perfume. today I cut a very good deal to satisfy this addiction, and may I just say, Cool Water by Davidoff is one of the nicest scents I have ever purchased. otherwise: an uneventful day, if one discounts the copious amounts of proofreading. † fifteen : hyperbole — today is marked by tragedy. (and yes, I do mean that absolutely horrific World Cup final.) truth — Athanatos was released today. I am euphoric, but in an oddly muted way, sort of like hearing the faint hum of bass-heavy music playing from another room.

third quarter sixteen : this day was about as ambivalent as the person writing about it; which is to say, very. overall productive, but I have fallen ill — probably PMS. the nausea is killing me. † seventeen : my ovaries are currently trying to assassinate me, the goddamn brutes. (do you see the pun? please say you see the pun.) I shan’t, however, let them interfere with my work. † eighteen : I prayed for rain and rain delivered me; the slant of water as it sinks into the earth is a blessing, bringing relief to both body and soul. I am still in pain, but with the right prescription it is manageable. Patria is taking shape; and I think by tonight I will start working on the new chapbook. † nineteen : this was a strange day; I felt my spine becoming a whip, lashing between exalt and desolation in mere moments. I haven’t feared heights in years, but the thought of falling permeates every motion. † twenty : I took today off and tried not to feel guilty about it. I wasn’t as successful as intended. † twenty-one : day off again, this time with more success in regards to shucking guilt off from my shoulders; it’s like silk off the cob, the damned thing. entraps your throat. † twenty-two : Mike and I philosophized about the human condition way past the devil’s hour and into midmorning. although having my fears laid out almost clinically – memory loss, in particular, as this to me equals loss of the self (soul) – I had quite a grand time. † twenty-three : I am putting both projects (Patria and the new chapbook, Materfamilias) on hold in favor of tackling a stranger thing: a manuscript to be considered for proper publication. I am at once anxious and jovial — may God and the dark earth both keep my vigil, selah.

last quarter twenty-four : albeit slow, this was a productive day. I haven’t finished anything but the quotidie; that being said, I have written quite a lot. the first step toward anything is always the hardest. † twenty-five : I started early – one in the morning early – but as of today, I have officially been writing (at least) a poem a day for 200 days, unbroken. I am incredibly proud of myself for working through immense anxieties; this process has definitely made me a more consistent writer. † twenty-six : a curious thing — although perfectly capable of writing, what I write fits nowhere in my current plans and I cannot, for the life of me, seem to get either my brain or my muses to cooperate on that front. time is not an issue, though, at least for now; so I am trying to offer myself plenty. † twenty-seven : it’s gotten bad again, that floating numbness. I tried to catch the selenar eclipse, but the weather didn’t hold. the cards keep repeating themselves. I feel stranded. † twenty-eight : I slept the whole day away and although it ought to have felt rejuvenating, it did not; not fully. I think I might be undergoing some sort of metamorphosis. that, or a depressive episode. † twenty-nine : storms again — just as anticipated. my veins were twitching throughout the night, almost as if afire with the electrical currents mapping out the atmosphere. as my shoulders are still tense, I expect more rain to come. the morose weather suits me just fine, truth be told; I find it cathartic. † thirty : earlier I sat on the windowsill, surrounded by the fragrant scent of rain on the breeze and oils aromatic, and I found that I was thinking of nothing. how freeing it was, that sense of empty, that sunyata. I think that, at the end of the day, that is what I lack: a sense of permeating, meditative peace. † thirty-one : if it were possible to bury a concept, I would be lavishing July with all the pomp afforded to viking funerals in popular culture — alas, the most I may is toast: for all the teeth, you treated me kindly.

to my beloved Alexandros;

I wish I could write you sea-side — it’s so beautiful, this time of year, cerulean waves crashing into the stained sand with a sort of quiet, loving fury. then again, you know far more of beauty. your Roxana was a vision, an incarnation of Aphrodite Anadiomene, rising out of the waters with the doves about her...something half-myth, half-flesh. I wish I could’ve seen the two of you, in those days spent at Susa; what a sight you must’ve been, two crowned gods. alas — nothing of that world remains. the lands of Persia are almost all a ruin: new wars tear through them, and sometimes I think I can hear the earth gurgle, choking on the blood. there’s no glory left to man; just delusions of grandeur, priced far too steep. ...but enough about that. let us talk of different things, kinder things.

I prickled my finger trying to take home some cuttings of rose; the blood bunched in the shape of a gladiolus and it had me thinking of you. it’s a soldier’s flower — honor forged into a greenblade, but they also stand for sorrow. once upon a time, a boy chased the ocean at the end of the world, and the rest was history. I wish I had half of your courage; there are so many oceans of my own that I must chase. do you think you could teach me how to be brave?

yours, forevermore— LS.

odds & ends

for this month’s trivia — nerine, a flower which crops up quite often in my verses. this little sister of the Amaryllidaceae family blossoms in a variety of warm tones, particularly the striking, signature blood red. it is often called spider lily, and it is with this sobriquet that my fascination begins: the related genus Lycoris, which shares the epithet, carries deep-rooted connotations associating it in equal parts with death and sex.

I tend to view nerine as a softer version of it, one with less sorrow. a symbol of soft-bodied melancholy, if you will; the kind that contents in the inevitability of fate.

for this month’s album release, a last-minute arrival: Daughtry's Cage to Rattle. I honestly cannot pick a favorite song off of it, though I am partial to As You Are.

a closing fragment

i'll cast a love spell on mysefl, until i've learned to glorify every hollow, every last sunken cliff, until i am home in the drowned tectonic splinter of sternocostal rift.