the climate between us could change.
it might become unsustainable
for one or both of us
to keep up this oasis.
But you are virtuous,
not just a drifter.
Should worse come to worst,
you will not leave me alone with it
or allow everything that was
disappear into the thirsty sand
without a glance of recognition.
I am perfectly self-sufficient.
I can plan and execute what's planned
and feel content with what I do.
I can enjoy myself
and give myself what I learned to receive from you.
When you go into eclipse,
these options rust away, the buttons become useless,
it crumbles as it keeps going, like Howle’s moving castle.
Does this mean you can or should never leave me?
But can I learn not to die multiple deaths
In advance of that
In spite of what everyone believes,
Is quite a sophisticated place.
Consider the way that it is built:
Designed by Bran the Builder himself,
A man-made oasis against cold.
Hot water piping inside the walls,
A considerable library,
Blue roses growing in glassed gardens.
No direwolves except in bedtime tales.
Candles sufficient to read by night,
Steaming baths, the art of the lord’s kiss.
It has a sense that rule means service;
That a commander must know his men;
That better not fight in tournaments.
Yet what everyone believes is right:
Great as its store of knowledge may be,
It is quite straightforward in one sense.
It has no skill to disentangle
Wheels within wheels of mean, selfish wiles
or pitch-black wormholes of a cruel mind.
And even by its great daughter saved,
Bandaged with banners of direwolf,
The citadel stands bereft and numb.
In its simple heart it will not believe
That Rickon could be used in this way,
That such a thing could be done to Jon.
When she explained to me
That it is my own best parts that I see in him,
The sweet fuel started flowing into my heart
In such an overwhelming flood
That I just sat there staring in front of myself
Breathing fast and heavy.
Then I remembered the less
good parts - and the bitter fuel
flowed into the same tank.
It is still me.
I don't have to become
somebody else, devoid of beauty,
to recognize my failings.
must be of a certain duration,
to have a beginning, a middle and an end.
The action has to be of a certain magnitude,
nor overwhelming in scale.
It has to be like a funnel:
much time and floating scarlet clouds
of mind and body
a few lines come out
that make the reader’s corporal imagination
to veer off from secure to dangerously exposed.
The hero – oh, there have to be two.
They have to be
What does that mean?
Only the writer’s
conjuring gland can determine,
but the reader’s capacity
to suffer their want
is the ultimate measure.
The best kind of action develops
according to the laws of probability and necessity
of what can’t realistically happen.
What is achieved in the end
and who it is that achieves it
is the biggest unknown of this equation.
that prevents me from writing
what I have to say.
Like a thin coat of ice,
an invisible frozen layer,
even around my head.
And you stand
on the other side of the ice
these four years,
Tapping at it,
melting a hole in it
with your breath.
I want to know what I can do
to meet your gentle insistence
from the inside.
Perhaps take a warm shower?
If it helps Hilary Mantel,
Surely it can help me?
I want to emerge
into the world’s air,
whatever it might be.
When silence falls between us,
first it is just casual.
A day or two that each one needs
to do her own stuff, be in her own world.
Then it becomes like slippery ice,
thinning by the hour;
you have to go on, step after step,
and know it will break, and you slip under,
into the dark chilling stream.
A longer silence breeds
enormous invisible insects
by virtue of genuine absence of light.
In the counter-current
the dreams' increasing sweetness
is beginning to stretch some chord inside
closer to what might be the breaking point.
I know the dreams are animated by love
looking to find its way around.
In the morning sky
clouds are racing against each other,
exquisite grey painted on grey.
The dreams evaporate like desert rain.
This winter is blowing itself out.
Если кто хочет прочитать стихотворение на английском со спойлерами по седьмому сезону, тогда под кат.
( Cardiotoxic Pharmakon )
I don't appreciate your sound good advice
to lock the entrance door
or call and get an answer
or witness to the rightness of your ways.
I am going.
And if you want to taunt me with it further,
you will simply have no opportunity.
I am a slippery dweller of the deep
who disappears into her green darkness
sparking you goodbye
with phosphorescent dots.
For sure, I carry the burden of the world with you
but it will only be as always
in my own way.
Since I had touched your shoulders
Under a fresh checkered shirt,
Stroked your knee.
Two years later I sat down close by your side
And took your hand between my palms.
The body of this love is
Made of week-long silences
Its substance as rarefied
as that within atoms
by nothing else but ever-renewed desire.
And this desire of mine
is like grass
shining innumerable in the sun
rising in silky, whispering waves
after no matter what winter
fire, flood or devastation.
I need not be sad.