iceinyourmusic (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
iceinyourmusic) wrote2006-04-18 12:07 am
iceinyourmusic) wrote2006-04-18 12:07 am
(no subject)
Deadwood - the only other show I was following - went on hiatus last week. Was nun, Pinneberg?
Meanwhile, BSG:
1. Callum Keith Rennie = God -> I think this is a wagon we can all get aboard. um. That was not what I set out to say, though.
2. The mytharc = I'm still undecided. It could be cool, but it could also be that you don't necessarily need to get quite that heavy-handed with throwing around weight you haven't accumulated yet. Work harder, my dancing monkeys!
3. Things I'm into: The Baltar Plus Six Makes Two show. This is completely undermining everything I thought I knew about my preferences. so. boo-hiss, moral ambiguity is so 2002? Moral-free self-preservation is the new moral ambiguity? (Relatedly, see Deadwood.) - The Adama-Thrace surrogate-parental show. - Tigh. (Tigh shd cum ovr nd we cd giv each other make-ovrz & be BFF.) - The word "toaster". It's such a crunchy little insult. - Callum Keith Rennie.
4. Things I'm less into: Hum-ho, most of the rest? Also the bit where it's on so late on Friday nights I always have trouble staying awake all the way through.
5. That being said, please tell me that someone out there writes epic comrades-in-arms Adama/Tigh stories with Tori Amos lyrics as section headers. I don't really need to read it, I just need to know.
-
Also, a poem - not because you haven't read it before (everyone has) or because you couldn't find it on the internets otherwise (you can), but because it's that month and every now and then I feel like typing this one up:
Sylvia Plath: Love Letter
Not easy to state the change you made.
If I'm alive now, then I was dead,
Though, like a stone, unbothered by it,
Staying put according to habit.
You didn't just toe me an inch, no -
Nor leave me to set my small bald eye
Skyward again, without hope, of course,
Of apprehending blueness, or stars.
That wasn't it. I slept, say: a snake
Masked among black rocks as a black rock
In the white hiatus of winter -
Like my neighbors, taking no pleasure
In the million perfectly-chiseled
Cheeks alighting each moment to melt
My cheek of basalt. They turned to tears,
Angels weeping over dull natures,
But didn't convince me. Those tears froze.
Each dead head had a visor of ice.
And I slept on bent like a finger.
The first thing I saw was sheer air
And the locked drops rising in a dew
Limpid as spirits. Many stones lay
Dense and expressionless round about.
I didn't know what to make of it.
I shone, mica-scaled, and unfolded
To pour myself out like a fluid
Among bird feet and the stems of plants.
I wasn't fooled. I knew you at once.
Tree and stone glittered, without shadows.
My finger-length grew lucent as glass.
I started to bud like a March twig:
An arm and a leg, an arm, a leg.
From stone to cloud, so I ascended.
Now I resemble a sort of god
Floating through the air in my soul-shift
Pure as a pane of ice. It's a gift.
(And because it's MY GOD SO BEAUTIFUL.
um.
All serious students of poetry should punch me on the nose over my terrible choice of words here (though I honestly don't mean the period term), but - Plath can be so baroque in her sound patterns, in the rhyme and the half-rhyme and the eye-rhyme and the alliteration, and how they all tumble over each other, but in such perfect, freakish, order and control - I just cannot get tired of reading this poem out loud. In some ways it's like a baby poetry student let loose in a vast field of sound, and yet it's perfect. - Which, I think, says quite a lot about my taste in poetry, but, I also think, it's not an exaggeration to say Plath has been a (or is that the?) defining influence on my aesthetic ideals, SO THERE YOU GO. - I don't know what's wrong with me. - You should also go post your Defining Poem on the internets now, thank you.)
Meanwhile, BSG:
1. Callum Keith Rennie = God -> I think this is a wagon we can all get aboard. um. That was not what I set out to say, though.
2. The mytharc = I'm still undecided. It could be cool, but it could also be that you don't necessarily need to get quite that heavy-handed with throwing around weight you haven't accumulated yet. Work harder, my dancing monkeys!
3. Things I'm into: The Baltar Plus Six Makes Two show. This is completely undermining everything I thought I knew about my preferences. so. boo-hiss, moral ambiguity is so 2002? Moral-free self-preservation is the new moral ambiguity? (Relatedly, see Deadwood.) - The Adama-Thrace surrogate-parental show. - Tigh. (Tigh shd cum ovr nd we cd giv each other make-ovrz & be BFF.) - The word "toaster". It's such a crunchy little insult. - Callum Keith Rennie.
4. Things I'm less into: Hum-ho, most of the rest? Also the bit where it's on so late on Friday nights I always have trouble staying awake all the way through.
5. That being said, please tell me that someone out there writes epic comrades-in-arms Adama/Tigh stories with Tori Amos lyrics as section headers. I don't really need to read it, I just need to know.
-
Also, a poem - not because you haven't read it before (everyone has) or because you couldn't find it on the internets otherwise (you can), but because it's that month and every now and then I feel like typing this one up:
Sylvia Plath: Love Letter
Not easy to state the change you made.
If I'm alive now, then I was dead,
Though, like a stone, unbothered by it,
Staying put according to habit.
You didn't just toe me an inch, no -
Nor leave me to set my small bald eye
Skyward again, without hope, of course,
Of apprehending blueness, or stars.
That wasn't it. I slept, say: a snake
Masked among black rocks as a black rock
In the white hiatus of winter -
Like my neighbors, taking no pleasure
In the million perfectly-chiseled
Cheeks alighting each moment to melt
My cheek of basalt. They turned to tears,
Angels weeping over dull natures,
But didn't convince me. Those tears froze.
Each dead head had a visor of ice.
And I slept on bent like a finger.
The first thing I saw was sheer air
And the locked drops rising in a dew
Limpid as spirits. Many stones lay
Dense and expressionless round about.
I didn't know what to make of it.
I shone, mica-scaled, and unfolded
To pour myself out like a fluid
Among bird feet and the stems of plants.
I wasn't fooled. I knew you at once.
Tree and stone glittered, without shadows.
My finger-length grew lucent as glass.
I started to bud like a March twig:
An arm and a leg, an arm, a leg.
From stone to cloud, so I ascended.
Now I resemble a sort of god
Floating through the air in my soul-shift
Pure as a pane of ice. It's a gift.
(And because it's MY GOD SO BEAUTIFUL.
um.
All serious students of poetry should punch me on the nose over my terrible choice of words here (though I honestly don't mean the period term), but - Plath can be so baroque in her sound patterns, in the rhyme and the half-rhyme and the eye-rhyme and the alliteration, and how they all tumble over each other, but in such perfect, freakish, order and control - I just cannot get tired of reading this poem out loud. In some ways it's like a baby poetry student let loose in a vast field of sound, and yet it's perfect. - Which, I think, says quite a lot about my taste in poetry, but, I also think, it's not an exaggeration to say Plath has been a (or is that the?) defining influence on my aesthetic ideals, SO THERE YOU GO. - I don't know what's wrong with me. - You should also go post your Defining Poem on the internets now, thank you.)