#hannahwritesnarnia

[humanbornstar-blog]

Waiting here Forevermore ~Alambil & Lilliandil~

Sighing as she touched down on the beach, the Star looked around and lifted her skirt before stepping forward. With a smile she walked up to the other blonde. 

“Lilliandil, darling. What is it?” Alambil questioned with a sisterly concern. “I heard your prayers and came straight away. What is it that burdens you so? Tell me, so that I may seek to remedy it.”

@hannahwritesnarnia

[personnages]

The somonka is a Japanese poetic form, composed of two tonkas by two different voices, usually written as love letters to one another. So what better way to try this form out than to write some Malasaladheen poetry for @hannahwritesnarnia...

In your gardens there are

roses, lavender, lilies.

yesterday, you asked

why there were no jasmine blooms

and I – did not answer you.

The scent is enough

to make you flinch. I know that,

and yet, that feels like

not a sword, but a gift, one

I know not how to return.

[personnages]

“Ghazal for a Tarkheena” | a poem for @hannahwritesnarnia

So the ghazal is an ancient poetic form that originated in Arabic poetry even before the birth of Islam. I was having Maladh/Lasaraleen feels, but after getting stuck trying to write a reply, I thought I’d give this a try in the interim. As this is my first crack at the (complicated!) form, this isn’t the greatest, but I hope you enjoy. (An example of a beautiful, beautiful ghazal written in English can be found here.)

The grey-dark clouds above are between all wreathed with light,

but there is no oasis in the sand, to mirror those faint lights.

The ride to Tashbaan is always lonely. Blue sky above and gold

sand below are nothing against your eyes, the sun, the light.

“I'm sorry ” – again, we flung those words as if they were nothing,

as we pretended the air was clear enough through which to see the light.

Once, a pear burst upon the floor, fallen from its platter.

Once, you did not appear until the edge of morning light.

“My dear?” “My wife,” are never interchangeable. Do not let me forget.

Do not remind me the line is sheer enough that we could shine a light.

The scent of jasmine always makes me break, but you, it makes

you smile. What discord is there here, between death and light?

“Do you not” (no, I want to say, but do not tell me.) “know

in what manner your wife appeared at last light?”

You've heard the stories they tell, about the glory of battle.

They don't know the difference between honor, fear, and light.

Poppies and roses are the strongest scents in your garden,

and beauty – and I – rest here, underneath the sun's white light.

Where do the poets discover all their maxims?

How do they peer into the darkness of the light?

Love?  Am I allowed to use that word? Will you allow the son

of Rajesh to grasp the edges of your cold light?

[personnages]

MALADH | starter for @hannahwritesnarnia for Lasaraleen because I have missed them

When the Tarkaan swung down from his horse, his boots loud against the tiled walkway, a slave silently approached, head down, and took the horse from him. Maladh’s hands tightened on the reins before releasing them, for the horse was more valuable than the slave that led it away, and he did not wish to have to replace it, but he relented, though not without a poisonious look, one that portented punishment if the animal was treated badly. Another slave brought a basin for him to wipe the grime and dust of long travel from his hands and face, for he had just returned from the deserts of Tehishbaan, and the way back home to Tashbaan had been protracted. The rebellion that had festered there, however, had been quelled, at least, for the moment. He knew it was only time before the army of the Tisroc -- may he live forever -- would be sent to stamp out the rabbling infection, but for now, he could rest.

When he set foot inside the high-ceilinged walls of his house, step echoing on the marble floor, Maladh’s disciplined stride paused as he caught a glimpse of his wife inside one of the sitting rooms, the walls and windows all draped with dream-like gauze, Lasaraleen lounging on of the couches. For a moment, Maladh considered saying something to her, but, knowing how little it mattered to her whether he was home or not, decided he might not as well waste the breath. Yet still. His step lingered in front of the doorway.