ladyofleithian: (Default)
[personal profile] ladyofleithian posting in [community profile] whole_new_world
Title: Ren-Children

Author: ladyofleithian

Fandom: Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens

Character/Pairing: Ben Solo, Poe Dameron, Snoke

Table-Prompt: Alternate Reality/Changing Canon -- Altered Past

Warnings: Children in peril, mentions of abuse, food issues on Ben's part, graphic depictions of violence.

(no subject)

Monday, 25 September 2017 22:04
aralias: (eight's shoes fit perfectly)
[personal profile] aralias
so - we started watching 'due south' as it's the sort of fandom that people who like the things i like tend to like, and guess what?

I LOVE IT.

omg, if you haven't watched this show, you should consider it. everything about it is amazing. we're on episode five (pizza and promises, in which our heroes disguise themselves as used car salesman to expose bad guys).

more on this top story as it unfolds.

Dragons

Monday, 25 September 2017 12:44
alexcat: (Default)
[personal profile] alexcat
Dragons
Adopt one today!*Adopt one today!
Adopt one today!*Adopt one today!*Adopt one today!*Adopt one today!
And finally, the last of the Zyumorphs: Adopt one today!
My Scroll

Poem #24: The Dinosaur Bones

Monday, 25 September 2017 11:29
alexcat: (Default)
[personal profile] alexcat
Anyone who knows me knows that I love dinosaurs. I have loved them since I was 6 years old. When I was small, I checked out all the books in the library about them and drew pictures of them all the time. One of my classmates loved to draw them, too, and he gave me drawings. Oddly enough, we're still friends aft6er all these years.
So here is a poem about dinosaur bones.

~~

The Dinosaur Bones

The dinosaur bones are dusted every day.
The cards tell how old we guess the dinosaur bones are.
Here a head was seven feet long, horns with a hell of a ram,
Humping the humps of the Montana mountains.

The respectable school children
Chatter at the heels of their teacher who explains.
The tourists and wonder hunters come with their parasols
And catalogues and arrangements to do the museum
In an hour or two hours.

The dinosaur bones
are dusted
every day.


~~ Carl Sandburg

This would be a little like my dino drawings.
radiantfracture: (alan bates)
[personal profile] radiantfracture
The St. Mary the Virgin Anglican Church not only has a beautiful interior, very like the hull of an overturned ship; it has the best bookshop in town, Churchmouse Books. The shop is a side room filled with gently used volumes released (certainly not discarded) by a congregation of serious readers. All books are obtainable by donation. The other weekend they had an open house and larger book sale, with books laid out all along each pew -- it felt sacred and profane all at once -- whence I fished out this small remarkable creature.

Cover )
Title Page (bit blurry, sorry, it tried to escape) )

It appears to be a teleplay by novelist Elizabeth Bowen about Anthony Trollope: Anthony Trollope: A New Judgement (OUP, 1946). As you can see, it's a beautiful little booklet, maybe A6 size, with a marbled cover, presented more like a monograph than a script.

AbeBooks adds this: "A play broadcast by the BBC in 1945." Hmm, BBC.

Adding "BBC" to the search produces The Wireless Past: Anglo-Irish Writers and the BBC, 1931-1968 via Google Books:

This warning against nostalgia and advocacy of the 'now' appears most clearly in Bowen’s final radio feature, "Anthony Trollope: A New Judgement", which was broadcast two days before VE day in May 1945. In this broadcast, Bowen continues the ghost-novelist conceit of her other radio features while also communicating more explicit messages about the relationship between print culture and nostalgia. The later broadcast was evidently popular—Oxford University Press published the script as a pamphlet in 1946. (100)

It strikes me that while this book may have been of the "now" in 1946, it has become an object of almost irresistible print culture nostalgia. Someone surely was thinking of that, even at the time. The deckle edge. The marbling. And printed right after the war, too, when paper might still have been scarce.

...actually, Wireless goes on to discuss the shortage -- apparently these broadcasts were "oriented towards publics that could not access books" (103). I'm not, via skimming, entirely clear why Bowen is anti-nostalgia, but then, she seems like someone who would be.

Any readers of Bowen? I've only read The Death of the Heart for a graduate course on the modernist novel.

There's no indication on the pamphlet itself that it is a screenplay or was ever broadcast or has anything to do with the BBC -- at first thumb-through, I thought it was a monograph in avant-garde format. Which I guess it is, or rather the record thereof.

{rf}

Poem #24: Ode to Autumn

Sunday, 24 September 2017 08:28
alexcat: (Default)
[personal profile] alexcat
You can see, smell and even feel the season in this poem.

~~

Ode To Autumn

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the mossed cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimmed their clammy cell.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reaped furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers;
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cider-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,---
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir, the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft,
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.


by John Keats

Poem #23: September

Saturday, 23 September 2017 10:35
alexcat: (Default)
[personal profile] alexcat
This one is, unfortunately, still pertinent.

~~

September, 1918

This afternoon was the colour of water falling through sunlight;
The trees glittered with the tumbling of leaves;
The sidewalks shone like alleys of dropped maple leaves,
And the houses ran along them laughing out of square, open windows.
Under a tree in the park,
Two little boys, lying flat on their faces,
Were carefully gathering red berries
To put in a pasteboard box.
Some day there will be no war,
Then I shall take out this afternoon
And turn it in my fingers,
And remark the sweet taste of it upon my palate,
And note the crisp variety of its flights of leaves.
To-day I can only gather it
And put it into my lunch-box,
For I have time for nothing
But the endeavour to balance myself
Upon a broken world.


~~Amy Lowell
ladyofleithian: (Default)
[personal profile] ladyofleithian posting in [community profile] whole_new_world
Title: Second Mother

Author: ladyofleithian

Fandom: Star Wars, Episode VII: The Force Awakens

Characters: Shara Bey, Poe Dameron/Ben Solo, Kes Dameron, Leia Organa, Han Solo, Snoke

Table-Prompt: Alternate Reality/Changing Canon -- Dead Character(s) Alive

Warnings: Aftermath of torture, graphic violence

Poem #22: Septmeber 1815

Friday, 22 September 2017 11:20
alexcat: (Default)
[personal profile] alexcat
September 1815

WHILE not a leaf seems faded; while the fields,
With ripening harvest prodigally fair,
In brightest sunshine bask; this nipping air,
Sent from some distant clime where Winter wields
His icy scimitar, a foretaste yields
Of bitter change, and bids the flowers beware;
And whispers to the silent birds, 'Prepare
Against the threatening foe your trustiest shields.'
For me, who under kindlier laws belong
To Nature's tuneful quire, this rustling dry
Through leaves yet green, and yon crystalline sky,
Announce a season potent to renew,
'Mid frost and snow, the instinctive joys of song,
And nobler cares than listless summer knew.


~~ William Wordsworth

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