#pweek

[haevenssent]

Support Silas(Cheruv-ii)

Support Silas(Cheruv-ii)

Now that I'm finally able to move out I thought I'd try out this ko-fi thing again since I unfortunately have no clue how long I'll be without a job 😭 as said in the goal post, everyone who donates can make a sketch request (however I do also have commissions open). With me packing they may take a day or two for me to pump them out but I promise if you leave a req they WILL get to you. Some examples of my art for those who haven't seen:

(Sketch would be similar to that last one)

[panic-at-fazbears]

nobody on this planet knows the extent of how badly i need joe santagato.

[tikkisaram]

Something Shamrocking — My Top Seven Irish Poems

These poems are 'Irish' for having been written by poets from Ireland, but also in that they capture something central to Irish identity. The selection is wide due to the sheer diversity of Irish culture, as well as the nation's rich history! ;^)

1. Moyra Donaldson - Nest

While the masses will often refer to actors born in the Northern Ireland who identify as Irish as such, the same luxury is not given to poets. Poor Donaldson is often misidentified as British, so I had to include her in my Irish pweek! This poem discusses both the beauty of horses and their unmatched loyalty. The horse in this poem is abandoned by its owner and waits in the same spot until their death — a haunting image indeed. This image is a clever metaphor for British people not being interested in the Irish who suffered terribly under their rule. Let this poem be a warning that we all need to take care of that which we are responsible for!

My horse is waiting, Bright and patient, His skin sunlight And his breath air Amongst the moss His bones are white and dry

2. Eva Gore Booth - The Eternal Rebel

Gore Booth is the sister of one of Ireland’s most famous women in history — Countess Constance Markievicz. While Markievicz took to the streets to fight for what she believed in, Gore Booth performed her activism through poetry. This is a deeply sad poem about soldiers being haunted by past demons and their injuries; Gore Booth ensures that these people are not forgotten and reminds us that their cause of eventual peace was more than worthy.

Free soul of fire, break down their chains and bars, Drive out those unclean phantoms of the brain, Till every living thing be friends again, And our lost earth true comrade to the stars.

3. Brendan Kennelly - Begin

I consider this beautifully uplifting poem especially suited for the list because I wanted to include an entry featuring swans, the importance of which in Irish mythology and culture cannot be overstated. While I thought about including a poem about the classic Irish myth of The Children of Lír for this slot, I realized that it would not be fair to ignore this already-great poem with swans in it. Kennelly describes the birds perfectly, realising that they are graceful from a distance but that up close they can be quite rude animals. They often do not travel in groups and they do not seem able to communicate with other species. Swans are rarely included in poems about everyday Irish life so it is nice to see Kennelly break from normativity! ;^)

Begin to the pageant of queuing girls the arrogant loneliness of swans in the canal

4. Gofraidh Fionn Ó Dálaigh - A chláirsioch Chnuic Í Chosgair

I simply had to include a poem in ancient Gaelic on this list; it is one of the most beautiful languages that I know, which is really saying something. This poem is equally beautiful and discuses how harps are superior to other instruments. This poet from the 14th century takes their time in detailing all that the national instrument of Ireland has managed to accomplish — including keeping them from committing sins!

A bháthadh gacha croinn chiúil, a chrann taitneamhach taidhiúir, a chomhnaidhi eidir chloinn gCoinn, a chroinn donnbhuidhi dhíoghainn

5. Uinsionn Ó Domhaill - An deoch is fearr

Modern Irish is as under appreciated as the ancient Gaelic, so I wanted to include both. Luckily I speak both language fluently so had a wide range of options to chose from. I found this cute poem about tea by the skilled modern writer Ó Domhaill to be perfect for our pweek; I chose tea over whiskey as both are national drinks of Ireland and one is clearly superior to the other. ;^)

Cupa tae, Is maith liom é, Am ar bith, I rith an lae.

6. Seamus Heaney - The Early Purges

Loyal Tikki Troops will understand that I simply had to include Heaney this week. This poem describes the brutal relationship between life and death in rural life; of course — as is the case with most of Heaney’s poetry — there is an underlying queer aspect here. Heaney laments the fact that in cities and places of large populations one would find it extremely difficult to get away with murdering a homosexual or beating them until they claim their sexuality has changed; in more isolated areas, however, it is much easier for such behaviour to go unchallenged. I admire how Heaney chooses such an interesting way of putting his suffering into words! :^(

'Prevention of cruelty' talk cuts ice in town Where they consider death unnatural But on well-run farms pests have to be kept down.

7. Samuel Lover - The Four-Leaved Shamrock

Lover is more famous for his songs than for his poetry; this is a shame, because he has written some truly beautiful verse. This is my favourite of his poems, and it is about one of Ireland’s most important symbols to boot. It is believed that finding a four-leaved shamrock will bring you luck and good fortune; Lover doesn’t want to use this luck on himself, however, but on those less fortunate than he is. What a selfless soul — surely worthy of his last name! ;^)

I'll seek a four-leaved shamrock in all the fairy dells, And if I find the charmed leaves, oh, how I'll weave my spells! I would not waste my magic might on diamond, pearl, or gold, For treasure tires the weary sense,—such triumph is but cold; But I would play th' enchanter's part, in casting bliss around,— Oh! not a tear, nor aching heart, should in the world be found

[jellybeanbois]

So, admidst all this turmoil and hate and such, i created an aesthetic for myself, Craig, and Pete, featuring things we all enjoy and our how our relationship was kinda :) - Tweek

[top-dawg27]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

Late Submission for Pepperony Week, Day 6, “High School/College AU”

Summary:

Tony and Pepper meet as teens in Spring Break. College AU.

[tikkisaram]

Digging

[Seamus Heaney - Digging]

Original:

Between my finger and my thumb The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.

Under my window, a clean rasping sound When the spade sinks into gravelly ground: My father, digging. I look down

Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds Bends low, comes up twenty years away Stooping in rhythm through potato drills Where he was digging.

The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft Against the inside knee was levered firmly. He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep To scatter new potatoes that we picked, Loving their cool hardness in our hands.

By God, the old man could handle a spade. Just like his old man.

My grandfather cut more turf in a day Than any other man on Toner’s bog. Once I carried him milk in a bottle Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up To drink it, then fell to right away Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods Over his shoulder, going down and down For the good turf. Digging.

The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge Through living roots awaken in my head. But I’ve no spade to follow men like them.

Between my finger and my thumb The squat pen rests. I’ll dig with it.

Lipolation:

Between my index and my thumb The squat pen sits, snug as a gun.

Beneath my window, a choppy, gasping sound Of the swung spade sinking down: My dad, digging. I peek out

And his back and backside in the bushes bend down, come up two decades away Stooping, swooping to the beat of potatoes As he was digging.

The dense boot weighed down the spade, the shaft Against the inside knee was focus and moment. He yanked out the tops, sunk the shine of the edge Deep, to put in potatoes we picked, Hands touching, enjoying the stone skin.

By God, my dad could do with a spade. Just as his own dad,

Who could cut twice as much peat in a day As any young man out on the bog. Once I went out to him with beet juice: When he saw me, he stood up, Downed it, then bent back at once, Nicking neat gashes, heaving sods Out, off, away, going down and down To the veins of good peat. Digging.

The dank stench of potatoes, the squish and mush Of soggy peat, the catch, cut of an edge Past tufts and stalks awakens in my head. But I've no spade to dig as those men.

Between my index and my thumb The squat pen sits. I can dig with it.

Heaney has a knack for imbuing seemingly repulsive images with a sense of wonder. The lines "The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap/Of soggy peat" are hardly pleasant, but vivid and strangely alluring. I can only hope that such sensory treasures have survived their lipolatory metamorphosis. ;^)

[tikkisaram]

Brodsky, Brodsky Everywhere

It may seem strange that Seamus Heaney addressed but one poem to his lover, Joseph Brodsky — and even then, he did so only after the latter's death. Some people might even leap to the conclusion that this is proof of the insignificance of their relationship. But the more observant reader will realise that Brodsky permeates the entirety of Heaney's poetic work from their first meeting in 1972 onwards, superficially hidden in a wealth of allegory, symbolism and thinly veiled figurative language. Let us explore, then, the tip of that iceberg.

We have already noted the prevalence of birds in Heaney's poems, as well as their significance as a representation of sexual freedom, constantly longed for and occasionally attained. Not infrequently, they are also imbued with a more direct allegorical meaning; an example of this would be The Blackbird of Glanmore, in which the titular blackbird stands in for Brodsky. Heaney's love of the blackbird is contrasted with his neighbour — representing society at large — stating: "I never liked yon bird." The bird is linked with death, especially with that of Heaney's younger brother, who was killed in an accident at the age of four — this is because the poem was written several years after Brodsky passed away, and in Heaney's mind the two deaths that affected him the most are merged as one. The unusual description of the blackbird's personality — "your ready talkback,/Your each stand-offish comeback" — is perfectly consistent with that of Brodsky, who was sent to a Soviet prison camp after a cheeky remark to a judge.1

With this allegorical insertion of Brodsky as a blackbird, it is difficult not to make the connection between this poem and the earlier St Kevin and the Blackbird, in which a blackbird nests in St. Kevin's palm, forcing him to remain still for weeks until the eggs hatch. If we reasonably assume that the blackbird represents Brodsky once again, then it is logical to observe that Heaney is St. Kevin. Brodsky's appearance into his life links Heaney "Into the network of eternal life," which also justifies the presence of "love's deep river". Until their love fledges, Heaney is filled with a mixture of self-forgetfulness and pain; while the beginnings of any love can be fraught with uncertainty and difficulty, it is clear that the queer nature of the relationship in question left Heaney agonising over its implications to an exceptional extent. As we will see again, Heaney's acceptance of his own sexual identity came slowly and hesitantly, and the first stages of his journey of self-discovery were full of fear and suffering.

The blackbird as a symbol for Brodsky crops up in several other poems. The "perfect eye of the nesting blackbird" in Field Work represents the ability to see the hidden truth about Heaney's sexuality. The "dart and dab" of blackbirds around the scribe in Alphabets symbolises Brodsky's role in Heaney's attainment of wisdom and self-understanding. The "young priest, glossy as a blackbird" of Station Island shows Heaney's reconciliation of his sexual identity and his religious beliefs. We also see the bird in the poem Drifting Off, in which many different species of the avian family are described and personified. I speculated before that each bird is meant to represent a different person, which I consider still plausible — it makes sense that Heaney "overrated the composure of blackbirds," since he managed to connect with Brodsky at a deeper lever than the latter's typical outward harshness — but I now suspect that each bird sybolises a different element of Brodsky's personality. Analysing the poem in the view of this idea would be productive, but this blessay is not the place for such an in-depth piece of work. A quick read of the poem, however, should make it apparent that each of the traits describes adds up to a cohesive whole, accounting for the various facets of character — both the good and the bad.

After interpreting all these birds as representing Brodsky, a wider interpretation of Heaney's figurative approach leads us to consider other animals as allegorical characters. The sexualisation of the badger in Badgers — "The unquestionable houseboy’s shoulders/that could have been my own" — and the similar treatment of The Otter — "I loved your wet head and smashing crawl,/Your fine swimmer’s back and shoulders" — are both clear expressions of queer love. The voyeuristic observation in The Skunk leaves no doubts to Heaney's true intentions. The communion-as-gay-sexual-union of the titillating Oysters is about as subtle as an elephant with an airhorn:

My tongue was a filling estuary, My palate hung with starlight: As I tasted the salty Pleiades Orion dipped his foot into the water. Alive and violated They lay on their beds of ice

If we decide to include one of the most common queer symbols — flowers, which may not be animals, but are nonetheless alive — we can add Heaney's "erotic mayflowers" in Bone Dreams; his soul weeping as he touches the violets in His Dawn Vision; the "pined-for" orchid in After a Killing; the "Lupin spires, erotics of the future" of Lupins; the plainly sexual "high stream-roof that moved in silence over/Rhododendrons in full bloom" in The Walk; the phallic "comet’s pulsing rose" of Exposure... I could keep going, but anyone who finds the mountain of evidence presented here insufficient is clearly blinded by prejudice and will categorically refuse to see reason, so it is futile to continue.

It is impossible to fail to notice that Brodsky became the focal point of Heaney's poetic output after their love-at-first-sight meeting, and that he is present — more or less conspicuously — in almost every one of his poems. I have presented here but a small selection of examples, and I have no doubt missed some important symbols in my research, yet what we have already is overwhelming — and I still have to apologise for the insufficient time and effort put into this exposé, because in truth, every poem mentioned here in passing warrants at the very least its own paragraph, and most should be accorded their own blessay. This relentless torrent of Brodskian allegory is a testament to the fact that Heaney's œuvre is, in essence, one massive — elaborate — intricate — mammoth monument of queer love.

For more information about the incident, see here. ↩︎

[tikkisaram]

St. Paddy’s Day Pageant

[Scott O’Corbett - St. Patrick’s Day Parade]

Original:

‘Tis a day to which I’m partial, Is old St. Patrick’s Day When O’Ginsberg and Garcia’s Join O’Malley and O’Shea In seein’ proper deference paid, And in wearin’ o’ the green, And in marchin’ in a grand parade, Cheered on by each Colleen.

From Mademoiselle O’De La Tour, To Fráulein von O’Hess, With a lilt of Irish laughter, sure, And a shamrock on her dress; With tall silk hats upon their conks, It matters not if they Are from County Down or County Bronx On old St. Patrick’s Day!

Lipolation:

'Tis a day I quite enjoy, Is fun St. Paddy's Day When Kennedy and Smith and Foy Join McSweeney and O'Shea In joyous dance and happy singing In hues of mint ant pea; Now comes the pageant's noisy zinging — And what a joy to see!

They dye the bayous shades so awing Down in New Mexico; And Connaght folk who dance guffawing Sip sage shakes on the go; In pointy hats and tight-fit jeans, Each shouts and whoops as they Come out of Down, Meath, even Queens On fun St. Paddy's Day!

80 years and a day ago was this poem published! It is another one showed to me by my grandmother’s friend, Edith; it comes from an old edition of The New York Post Scripts of The Saturday Evening Post. It is a shame that this Irish poet who emigrated to America has been forgotten by the majority of people, because this is truly a beautiful piece of verse. While I do consider it unfortunate that St. Patrick himself is often overlooked on his holiday, this day of joyful celebration is a welcome break from the all-too-common bleakness of life in the Age of Trump. Everyone comes together — no matter what background they are from and what their identity may be — celebrate a country that was once strongly oppressed and widely overlooked. This poem perfectly captures that uplifting, 'melting pot' feeling that characterises the occasion. I hope that the Tikki Troops enjoyed the poem, and that you all had a good Saint Patrick's Day despite the circumstances! If you are looking for more poems about Irish saints, take a look at my blessay on poems celebrating Ireland’s (sadly) lesser-known female patron saint; I am certain that you will love it! ;^)