seen from China
seen from Netherlands
seen from United States
seen from China
seen from China
seen from United States
seen from Germany
seen from Australia
seen from China
seen from Türkiye
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Türkiye
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from Vietnam
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from United States
"But words are things, and a small drop of ink,
Falling, like dew, upon a thought produces
That which makes thousands, perhaps millions think."
Happy 202nd death day Lord Byron, I know you'd be delighted you were still the object of affection of thousands of weird queers.
I feel like no one ever talks about how incredibly well-written and well-crafted the poems in DDLC are. Like read this:
Amy Likes Spiders You know what I heard about Amy? Amy likes spiders. Icky, wriggly, hairy, ugly spiders! That's why I'm not friends with her. Amy has a cute singing voice. I heard her singing my favorite love song. Every time she sang the chorus, my heart would pound to the rhythm of the words. But she likes spiders. That's why I'm not friends with her. One time, I hurt my leg really bad. Amy helped me up and took me to the nurse. I tried not to let her touch me. She likes spiders, so her hands are probably gross. That's why I'm not friends with her. Amy has a lot of friends. I always see her talking to people. She probably talks about spiders. What if her friends start to like spiders too? That's why I'm not friends with her. It doesn't matter if she has other hobbies. It doesn't matter if she keeps it private. It doesn't matter if it doesn't hurt anyone. It's gross. She's gross. The world is better off without spider lovers. And I'm gonna tell everyone.
^ This is a Natsuki poem. Isn't it fucking genius?? How many people do you know that hate others for nothing but a single harmless quality, even if they do plenty of other unrelated things? "Oh they're a furry." "They're a weeb." "They're gay." (Although of course the difference with that last one is you can't choose your sexuality, but the point still stands.) Natsuki has perfectly and even tastefully captured the childish mindset of a person such as this, only using simple clauses, with the exception of "Every time she sang the chorus, my heart would pound to the rhythm of the words", which is the most introspective thing the narrator says. Everything else the narrator says and does is informed by this one singular mantra: "Amy likes spiders". And that's all Amy is to them.
Or this one, by Sayori:
Dear Sunshine The way you glow through my blinds in the morning It makes me feel like you missed me. Kissing my forehead to help me out of bed. Making me rub the sleepy from my eyes. Are you asking me to come out and play? Are you trusting me to wish away a rainy day? I look above. The sky is blue. It's a secret, but I trust you too. If it wasn't for you, I could sleep forever. But I'm not mad. I want breakfast.
^ Isn't this such a brilliant, unique way to describe something so simple and trivial that you don't think about, such as waking up in the morning? It's a perfect description, that shows the real emotional experience behind waking up from bed. Not all poems need a deeper meaning, they can just express the beauty in something, no matter how common or mundane. (Although I do think this actually does have something behind it, I just can't figure it out)
Look at this one by Yuri:
The Raccoon It happened in the dead of night while I was slicing bread for a guilty snack. My attention was caught by the scuttering of a raccoon outside my window. That was, I believe, the first time I noticed my strange tendencies as an unordinary human. I gave the raccoon a piece of bread, my subconscious well aware of the consequences. Well aware that a raccoon that is fed will always come back for more. The enticing beauty of my cutting knife was the symptom. The bread, my hungry curiosity. The raccoon, an urge. The moon increments its phase and reflects that much more light off of my cutting knife. The very same light that glistens in the eyes of my raccoon friend. I slice the bread, fresh and soft. The raccoon becomes excited. or perhaps I'm merely projecting my emotions onto the newly-satisfied animal. The raccoon has taken to following me. You could say that we've gotten quite used to each other. The raccoon becomes hungry more and more frequently, so my bread is always handy. Every time I brandish my cutting knife the raccoon shows me its excitement. A rush of blood. Classic Pavlovian conditioning. I slice the bread. And I feed myself again.
^ This one is deeply relatable to me as someone who used to be like Yuri. Obviously if you've played DDLC you know the unfortunate action this is referring to... But even beyond that, this could be used as a metaphor for any addiction with tragic consequences. The raccoon is a brilliant analogy for consistent returning urges.
Look at this one by Monika:
The Lady who Knows Everything An old tale tells of a lady who wanders Earth. The Lady who Knows Everything. A beautiful lady who has found every answer, All meaning, All purpose, And all that was ever sought. And here I am, a feather Lost adrift the sky, victim of the currents of the wind. Day after day, I search. I search with little hope, knowing legends don't exist. But when all else has failed me, When all others have turned away, The legend is all that remains-the last dim star glimmering in the twilit sky. Until one day, the wind ceases to blow. I fall. And I fall and fall, and fall even more. Gentle as a feather. A dry quill, expressionless. But a hand catches me, between the thumb and forefinger. The hand of a beautiful lady. I look at her eyes and find no end to her gaze. The Lady who Knows Everything knows what I am thinking. Before I can speak, she responds in a hollow voice. "I have found every answer, all of which amount to nothing. There is no meaning. There is no purpose. And we seek only the impossible. I am not your legend. Your legend does not exist." And with a breath, she blows me back afloat, and I pick up a gust of wind.
Of course, like with Yuri's poem, there is a glaring obvious thing that must be addressed, which is of course her unfortunate situation; but there's so much beyond that. Monika talks about how she likes to play with the space on the paper with her poems, and this one is a perfect showcase of how effectively she uses this tactic. Plus, the language and imagery of the poem is such an amazing way to convey the confusion and constant yearning for answers that don't exist in a world such as ours. Why do things happen the way they do without my control? Why must I be slave to the impulses of the breeze? And yet there's a real sense of powerlessness throughout, which drove the Lady to nihilism after she learned everything. Or, in her words, nothing. (Fortunately, my take on this is more existentialist. You see, if there is no meaning, then I will create my own to give my life a purpose I decide for myself. That last part is just a personal take, though. Monika is certainly not trying to convey that, since she genuinely believes at this point that everything in her world is meaningless.)
My favorite style is Natsuki's, but they're all incredible in their own ways. I would like to leave off this pseudo-analysis post with one last poem, by Sayori, which I will not do an analysis of. It tells of an even more deeply relatable experience than any other poem I have shown to you, reader, thus far; but there are so many ways you can interpret it, and therein lies the brilliance. (Really, all these girls are geniuses.)
Here it is:
Bottles I pop off my scalp like the lid of a cookie jar. It's the secret place where I keep all my dreams. Little balls of sunshine, all rubbing together like a bundle of kittens. I reach inside with my thumb and forefinger and pluck one out. It's warm and tingly. But there's no time to waste! I put it in a bottle to keep it safe. And I put the bottle on the shelf with all of the other bottles. Happy thoughts, happy thoughts, happy thoughts in bottles, all in a row. My collection makes me lots of friends. Each bottle a starlight to make amends. Sometimes my friend feels a certain way. Down comes a bottle to save the day. Night after night, more dreams. Friend after friend, more bottles. Deeper and deeper my fingers go. Like exploring a dark cave, discovering the secrets hiding in the nooks and crannies. Digging and digging. Scraping and scraping. I blow dust off my bottle caps. It doesn't feel like time elapsed. My empty shelf could use some more. My friends look through my locked front door. Finally, all done. I open up, and in come my friends. In they come, in such a hurry. Do they want my bottles that much? I frantically pull them from the shelf, one after the other. Holding them out to each and every friend. Each and every bottle. But every time I let one go, it shatters against the tile between my feet. Happy thoughts, happy thoughts, happy thoughts in shards, all over the floor. They were supposed to be for my friends, my friends who aren't smiling. They're all shouting, pleading. Something. But all I hear is echo, echo, echo, echo, echo Inside my head.
The ending of the Art Ending is a love poem for Stanley.
Okay, hear me out on this one.
What if Stanley is the essence of divine art? Like not physically but referred to as it by the Narrator in the ending. I know I sound insane, but hear me out:
There is a loooot of gay yearning in the game (part of the whole appeal). The Narrator isn't really the type to openly say "I love you" (yet?), so him basically hiding this in an ending makes sense, doesn't it? He even goes further and calls Stanley a work of art with(in) the ending.
We don't see the essence of divine art, we don't even hear it. Now this is also the case with the settings person/Timekeeper, considering that it technically speaks to us.
But what if it doesn't speak to us? What if it speaks to his creation - Stanley?
Its words are very cryptic while speaking to 'us', the settings person's/timekeeper's words aren't.
It's quite literally a (bizarre) love poem after all:
"Know that when you die, I will personally carry your spirit across the river blxwxn, into my garden built within the emotions of a flower There we will live together, we will dance and eat and sin and you will do improv comedy based on suggestions from me for all eternity
This is your reward for your work today Go now. Live your normal human existence and await me in the life that follows this one. I love you.
Under cut further analysis. TW: some religious symbolism
I hate poetry analysis so much. I used to hate it in school, I hate it in literary circles, I hate it everywhere.
You're supposed to feel poetry, not ruin it by picking apart every word to try and solve it like a math equation. But that's just my opinion.
Saw an excerpt of this poem that got me melancholy so I checked out the whole poem!
There’s a lot there that’s sad and relatable but to be so completely honest to me it sounds like she pointed out to the reader the part she wanted the focus to be on:
Yes everything dies and we mourn AND untidy exuberance for life is the move. That’s the sauce. The dark bread as she put it. Walk away from the graves and live mas. Don’t become consumed and defined by the miserable things that happen like your parents did. Look at this cool bird and that sick bug.
Brain worm of the day: Christian symbolism without preaching Christianity.
Literally just that, Berk can write a book, with a Christian story (Lazarus) on the title cover, and carry that story metaphorically through the entire book, while never making me, a person with severe trauma due to Christianity, ever feel triggered.
Because it's just symbolism, it's just metaphors, and to be quite frank, sometimes it's fueling my religious blasphemy:
That's it, that's all you get for the day, they're good at what they do, and what they do is sometimes weaving Christian symbolism with Greek mythology with a fictional angel with a single episode of the fictional angels show with their own personal grieving process until you're not actually sure where one of those starts and one of those ends.
As always, the source is always more interesting than anything I have to say, so if you haven't yet, go read Lazarus Rises(amongst other things) and follow them on their Tumblr @icaruspendragon because they write so many cool things beyond just their published book.
Poetry Analysis: "She walks in beauty, like the night"
She Walks in Beauty by Lord Byron
British poet Lord Byron is recognised as one of the most prominent figures in Romanticism - an artistic movement which swept the poetry and literary sphere during the late 18th and early 19th Century.
‘She Walks in Beauty,’ is one of his shorter but most famous poems that seeks to capture a sense of and celebrate the beauty of an unnamed woman.
The opening line - and perhaps the two most famous poetry lines that Byron has ever written; ‘she walks in beauty, like night’ - sets the scene for the rest of the poem, comparing this unknown woman to the awe and beauty that comes from a clear night sky:
‘She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that’s best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes…’
Using the simile, Byron indicates that her beauty is not purely physical either; instead, it is almost an aura, an innocent unawareness that surrounds her.
It is interesting to note here that the poet is describing his beloved’s beauty as comparable to night, rather than daylight. In fact, later in the poem he describes the daylight as “gaudy.” This is a common aspect of Romantic poetry, where writers would compare people not just to nature, but to ‘bright nature.’ In this line especially, Byron is comparing his lover to the ‘bright’ night sky.
This association can be a nod to the historic Greek ideal, where beauty is so strong that it can almost be catastrophic. For example, Helen of Troy, daughter of Zeus, was one such beauty; a divine being whose enchanting looks were an indirect cause of the Trojan War.
Byron seems to be describing his beloved’s love comparable to the highest of the high - indicating the strength of his feelings and adoration of this unnamed woman’s looks.
If this inspires your writing, do tag me. Or send me a link. I'd love to read your work!
Chiri’s Chagayu
A reflection on Chiri’s final haiku
Source: Japanese Death Poems: Written by Zen Monks and Haiku Poets on the Verge of Death (compiled and with an introduction by Yoel Hoffmann) - This poem is found on page 150.
Chiri died on the eighteenth day of the seventh month, 1716 at the age of sixty-nine. First crops: Shimmai ya my pillow fluffed up high, chagayu kuratte I gulp down rice and tea takamakura
I didn’t know what to think when I read this at first. It didn’t make any sense to me whatsoever. I looked at this haiku and questioned, “at the verge of death - these are the words you wish to leave us with?”
I spent a little more time with this poem, and line by line I could feel the story unraveling in front of me as I pulled at my threads of thought. So I want to walk you through, line by line, how profound this seemingly simple haiku turns out to be.
