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Whether in sea or fire, in earth or air
My poem "Heaven and Sea, Horatio," otherwise known as the drowned Hamlet poem, has been accepted by ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
tithenai and mer_moon for their guest-edited issue of Mythic Delirium.
tithenai and mer_moon for their guest-edited issue of Mythic Delirium.
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I loved that poem!
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Thank you!
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It makes me very happy.
Those Goblins have a Good Eye
It's a really excellent poem and I had no doubt it would find a good home. I'm glad it was MD. though.
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Thank you!
(Have you transferred off Livejournal completely except for this account? If so, I'll add it to my friendlist etc.)
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So noted!
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If only I could hate you!
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I am more or less sorry depending on whether I get to read the results or not.
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More difficult than the funeral was opening up the house in Church End; Susan moved blindly, tracing the few weeks’ dust and then forgetting to brush her fingertips, or taking an apple from the bowl on the worktop and biting down into mold. To Mary the house was cold and damp and overfilled with photographs; empty, happy, flaxen faces, and occasionally a younger Su’s bold eyebrows like punctuation. She tried to make Susan sit down and take a glass of water, or swallow one of the half limp, half petrified sandwiches from the rector’s wife, or even take off the sodden black wool coat. Everything was met with the same maddeningly gentle no, thank you, Mary, even the one sidelong kiss she dared under the dead watch of Peter-the-cornet, Ed-the-rugby-forward, and Lu-the-good-daughter.
As the sun set that first evening, as she had just managed to overboil a saucepan of canned beans on the kitchen hob, she heard a catch and a crash from upstairs. In one of the bedrooms’ watery lamplight, sitting on her legs like a small child, Susan had tucked herself against the back of a wardrobe. Siren suits and tweedy oddments littered the floor, leaving the cupboard’s rear panels bare.
“It’s no good, don’t you see,” said Susan, earnest. “it’s not the right one.”
“What are you looking for?” Mary tried again, to sound less unsteady. “There’s another one in—in your parents’ room, it’s full of stuff. Whatever it is, whatever you want, we’ll find it.”
“As if Mum and Dad--!” Susan wailed. “But then, they’ve gone too, haven’t they? Who’s to say they haven’t got there as well?”
“Susan,” Mary knelt, half inside the wardrobe, and held tight to Su’s thin shoulders. “You’re not making sense, it’s been a terrible day, you need sleep. Whatever it is, we’ll look in the morning.”
“I’ve tried.” Susan crumpled forward into Mary’s arms, and for the first time, her eyes were full of tears.
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Prrrrr.
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Thank you!
Really looking forward to reading this one; I've brooded off and on for years about Hamlet's interstices.
(It was posted friendlocked here; Innokenty Smoktunovsky's Hamlet (1964) was the inspiration. You'll note the title was indeed not the right one.
What if it tempt you toward the flood, my lord,
Or to the dreadful summit of the cliff
That beetles o'er his base into the sea . . .
The very place puts toys of desperation,
Without more motive, into every brain
That looks so many fathoms to the sea
And hears it roar beneath.
And then it sparked an entire sequence of poems. Feel free to add to the discourse!
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Thank you!
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Thank you!
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Thank you! Rock.
And I am still pondering an Ophelia-centric variation on that theme.
Please do: I would love to read it. Also, see reply to