death & the maiden | a bittersweet song

death & the maiden dum loquimur, fugerit invida aetas: carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero. as we speak, envious time has passed: pluck the day, disbelieving of tomorrow. quintus horatius flaccus — ode i-xi

dear reader: in the wake of that strange moon, plenty of ruin.

I am not the best at handling change — are you? of late, I have been thinking a lot about death and other such transformations.

I do not know whether this is a good or a fearsome thing; however.

I do know that sometimes we must take our heart between the teeth and leap. here, grab my hand — reckless abandon, and all that.

INDEX one.........an ode to august’s flowers two......first quarter : wednesday 1–8 three...second quarter : thursday 9–15 four....third quarter : thursday 16–22 five.....last quarter : thursday 23-31 six..................letter to imperia seven.....odds & ends & ill-fit things

an ode to august’s flowers

out of a grove there flowers eternity of goldenrod and calendula, whispering stems secretive, twined loose in playful conspiracy. nearby, fauns sleep easy beneath the bowed crowns of elder sycamore and camphor, wrapped up in soft-cheeked mums of sorrow yet untainted. move closer, dear — and perhaps you'll hear lilies gossip about the peerless red of amaranth, its' dark aseasonal. even camellias may show some pale-eyed envy — a lust for that wondrous permanence, as their own peerless beauty is in apogee only as they've fallen, wilted. or perhaps you would prefer the simpler sights; look then no farther than the sway of poppies, uncaring for this cruel, jag-toothed sun.

first quarter one : I write this on the windowsill — it is somehow a place most inaugural, fit for beginning something new. today was a good day, albeit a little hectic; I slept eighteen hours uninterrupted, exhaustion having caught up to me. (on that note, forgive the errors with the last letter: I promise to do better. firsts are always awkward.) I arose to a time crunch, so I had to do quite a lot of things in a short amount of time. † two : I am neither well nor unwell; I cannot quite say what I am. putting a name to this feeling seems a peak insurmountable — perhaps desolate is the word I am looking for. I think I need a sabbath. † three : metaphor — I sang my throat raw. truth: after two weeks of struggle, I tore through and finally wrote a particularly stubborn poem; though before I may be proud of it, I first must let it fester. † four : I nurse some gut rot as I write this; let’s call today a time for weeding. my grandmother visited, early in the morning. she looked better than I thought she would, and I was half-surprised to find myself relieved. perhaps some old hurts have burned out beyond what I thought feasible. † five : I shan’t go into detail, but today was awful. salt it and leave it to the corvidae, or dunk it in the sea. † six : a very productive day. I am warring with myself, but for once it is a beneficial, constructive battle. if I manage to keep this wind under my sails, I might be able to finish my current project early. † seven : tuesdays are always so very hard for me; I wonder why. it might not translate too well through pure text, but I am feeling quite...clipped, right now. writing has gone back to being a struggle. † eight : I have arrived at a place of frailty, emotionally speaking, and it has given me pause. I am filled with fear. the future, now more than ever, absolutely terrifies me.

I do not know what to do with my hands.

second quarter nine : I am erratic. I cannot even write — rather, I daren’t. † ten : this is a day of trying to suppress all which whirls and toils within me; a day of trying to hold myself together in the face of this deluge which a cold, iron-wrought Mars has deigned to bring about and make the end of summer into a bloodied, vainglorious battlefield. I am coming apart. † eleven : the dam broke today. I could not keep from crying. the tears fell, and fell, and fell, all in mockery of bridal pearls. I might as well choke on them and be done with it all. † twelve : today was a little better — I have been forcing myself to write these past three days, today among them, but it has not proven to be as cataclysmic an endeavor as I had thought it would be. I can content with these words; and in time, I may even learn to love them. † thirteen : another project finished; now, to let it fester. † fourteen : revisions and more revisions. what would I do without Luce and her nurturing presence? I say this quite often, but I am so incredibly lucky to have the friends I have. without this much encouragement, I could never overcome the rather frequent rough patches in my life. fourteen, again : on another note, I feel a reemergent surge of creativity. albeit at this stage not fully formed, there are so many ideas budding within me — the future is littered with possibilities. † fifteen : my mother’s birthday and with it, family visitations. not an enjoyable morning. the rest of the day shaped up to be quite pleasant, but on the all uneventful. † sixteen : I think I have healed from whatever was warring inside of me, at least partway.

third quarter seventeen : exhaustion has caught up to me: I spent most of the day in bed, sleeping off a migraine. I feel listless, and still rather unsure of what to do with my hands; however I figure that it will all sort itself out, if only given time. after all, I’ve always dealt with problems by letting them devour me. † eighteen : I throw myself into writing with renewed vigor. there is a novella that has been swimming in my head for quite a while now, and I’ve begun working on that during the night. it is refreshing, placing a story on my “home turf” for a change, so to speak. on top of that, I have plans for a new chapbook. † nineteen : I took the day off from most things to sort of just...be. Mike and I rewatched Dracula: Dead and Loving It and I’d forgotten just how funny that movie is (and how gay I am for young Amy Yasbeck); many people dislike the comedy style of both Mel Brooks and Leslie Nielsen, but I for one am here for it. nineteen, again : if you have a Lidl nearby, go buy a tin of salmon in tomato paste from Nixe. trust me. † twenty : at last, rain. I vegetate most of the day, having a grand time between my bed and some verses

by Keats – every now and again I have to have my fill of his poetry – before rolling out to eat and resume working. I intend to get a chapbook manuscript done by Sunday, hours 0000, so I must show discipline. † twenty-one : have you ever been hit with a creative block exactly as you were beginning a project? by sundown I was luckily able to overcome it, somehow — but still, what a scare. † twenty-two : a day of productivity, beginning as early as midnight. we are currently under a heatwave, and I have thus far been successful in fighting off the migraines. I hope that holds. I need a clear head. † twenty-three : update — I lost the fight with the migraines. my head is birthing its' very own Pallas.

last quarter twenty-four : on account of my aching temples, I am trying to take it slow today. Luce and I have a movie night planned, and while I am hoping to get some writing out, I will try to keep from overdoing it. † twenty-five : during the night, I may or may not have given myself over to literary passions with reckless abandon, and whilst not fully satisfied with what I have written, there is plenty time and even plentier room to amend and remake it. I did get a few good pieces out, though. the chapbook is filling in nicely; and as my mother decided to entreat the both of us to a feast this evening, so am I. † twenty-six: as of 02:22pm local time, the chapbook is actually complete — or at least, the first draft of it is. I shall now go and sleep for an eternity or two; I feel like I’ve earned it. † twenty-seven : this is a “phone off” kind of day. whosoever does seek me is invited to stop. † twenty-eight : heatwave equals migraines which equals me being rather limited in terms of ability to function; ergo, I’m going back to bed. † twenty-nine : you know what, this relentless sun can [ redacted ] twenty-nine, again : I have had some cantaloupe; I feel closer to “human”. the sun is still awful, though. † thirty : tonight, another one of my mangled children has been let out into the world — and whereas publishing Athanatos came with so much confusion and fear, releasing Lingua Flora has filled my soul with nothing but light. I think I shall name this feeling pride and bask in it. † thirty-one : and this is how the book of August closes, with my hands full of roses and a misting of notquite-rain. allow me to indulge and bid this month adieu accompanied by violin and some words from Keats: “whomever seeks […] may find / thee sitting careless on a granary floor / […] or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep, / drows’d with the fume of poppies.” (To Autumn)

signora———

this letter is less an invitation to dialogue and more of a private elegy, as contradictory as that may seem. I pen this in a gazebo, surrounded by a blush of peony and eastern rose. you would have loved my country, I dare think; it would have matched your own unrivaled beauty, and rather than attempt compete, it would have complemented the splendour of your fair, Elysian face and figure. though I must say life as I live it is quite lacking where glamour and gusto are concerned. poverty forces one into hermitage, as I am sure you know. on that note — she married well, your Lucrezia. a virtuous girl, by all accounts, who grew into an equally virtuous woman. she was well-loved; a gift of Vesta more than one of Venus, as you had been to Rome.

I dreamed you, once: holding a carafe filled halfway with portwine, smile plied easy into the corners of your mouth. I did not see who you were with, but they must have made you happy. a part of me envied that — another part was simply glad to see your visage, admire the way dusk settled deep into the gold of your hair, beating the fall of it into a careful shade of copper.

I wonder still what it would have looked like unbound under the fullness of an ivory moon; but then, I favour silver. I may have truly fallen, had I seen it. as it is, my infatuation with you remains safe within the realm of esteem. a self-made woman. it is something I aspire to be. had I been born six centuries earlier and under different stars, perhaps I would have demanded to be made your protegée — you make for a divine muse, all the same.

with a sincere heart, LS.

odds & ends

for this month’s trivia: eggplants, one of my most favorite fruits/veggies. I will be introducing Solanum ovigerum, the one member of the family that is, in fact, egg-colored as well as egg-shaped and thus warrants the common name. compared to their aubergine cousins, Solanum melongena, ovigerum lean (on average) toward a smaller size; there are differences depending on the cultivar, of course. they also tend to taste sweeter, though it does not make them feel bland by any means — and as their texture is somewhat lighter, they are a better fit for deep-frying. give them a try, if you happen upon them at your local market!

for this month’s album release, I have selected something old: Aretha Franklin's Aretha's Jazz., a compilation from 1984 that perfectly showcases her prowess and range; RIP.

a closing fragment

as a lone lark / calls dawn into being twining its’ song with / that of a nightingale rest then your brow / on my shoulder and tell me about all / the dreams that you still dare to hold / within your open chest.