A New Poem!

Aug. 3rd, 2013 05:05 pm
citrakayah: (Default)
Inspired by seeing a prose poem for the first time. Thoughts?



What are we?

Really I think we are as the sand. Washing away in the wind and the wave and the current and slowly, so slowly, turning into stone with our memories and dreams and hopes buried as fossils.
In the future, creatures dance on our bodies and mindstuff, filaments of light and plasma engaging in a tango. Reality streaks past them, but we are a rock. Not that it matters to us at all. A planet, if you will, albeit a rogue one that travels from star to star, flitting to and fro like butterflies travel between flowers.

Then again.

Perhaps we are the waves.

Do we not beat against reality?

Do we not struggle against a foe that will never yield?

Do we not struggle in vain?

The Sun will boil away the ocean and leave the land and the universe shall grow cold and dark far before the crunch.

Perhaps not.

Perhaps we’ll win.

Or perhaps we’re both.

Wave and sand, sand and wave, waves made of sand and sand made of waves, particle and wave the same, all the same, all together in a bizarre tapestry of reality woven from the loom of physics and made of the fabric of spacetime—no wait, ripples in the fabric, ripples that are mere echoes from when the dance of the eons, the True Dance, had two dancers hit and order begat chaos which begat order which begat chaos which will ultimately beget the order of the void.

Poetry Dump

Jan. 7th, 2013 06:51 pm
citrakayah: (Default)
Dirge of the Silvanshee:

For those of you who don’t remember, the silvanshee, who are normally happy-go-lucky cat agathions in Pathfinder, are in the Southern Basin a race of agathion who fought a genocidal war with a species called the Ashmanti in an attempt to stop them from destroying the world accidentally.

While some survived with minds intact, many did not. Those that did not went into the Gloom, the Elemental Plane of Mist, and became… warped. This is how they view those who recoil at what they are. Note that pretty much all of them are unpredictably violent and probably count as bipolar.



You dare?
You dare judge us?
You, who have lived a simple life,
An easy life.
Pathetic.
Oh yes, I say—
Pathetic!
Have you ever held the fate,
The fate of worlds,
In your paws?
Hmm?
What about the lives
Of billions of sophonts?
No?
I thought not.
You,
You little planar traveler,
Thinking he’s all experienced.

You haven’t experienced pain.
You haven’t experienced war.
You haven’t experienced hatred.
You haven’t experienced longing.

Damn you!
You’re so damn lucky
And you can’t even see it!
I have walked the planes.
I have walked the planes between the planes.
I have even gone Outside, to that land of madness.
I have gone mad,
Been swallowed in the fire of insanity,
And I was reborn.
I see stars, dammit!
But I can’t touch them!
They’re so beautiful,
Beckoning to me.
Mocking me.

the planes cast me out.
cast all of us out.
nothing…
nothing blatant.
it was just…
everything
too much to bear
our crimes,
our sin.
the death of thousands.
all our fault,
yet we had no choice.
damn us.
damn us all.
maybe we already are.
nobody wants us.


But that is my burden to bear!
Not yours!
And not something you may judge me for!

you haven’t experienced pain.
you haven’t experienced war.
you haven’t experienced hatred.
you haven’t experienced longing.
you haven’t experienced death.
you haven’t experienced suffering.

you haven’t experienced life.
or loss.

lucky you, I guess.






I walk alone.
A figure in the baking desert,
Distorted by heat.
Staring straight ahead,
I am on a solitary trek.
Sun beats down from overhead,
Making cracks in the landscape of my mind.
And making my eyes water
Despite my tearmarks.

I know not how long I have walked,
Nor my destination,
Or even my origin.
Only the journey can be known.
Pawprints stretch back for miles,
Distinct despite the hard ground.
But still, they seem to waver,
And even if I wanted to,
I could not retrace my steps.

Where am I?
Where have I been?
What am I?
What was I?
What am I becoming?
Do I even move?
Or does the world itself shift around me?
Am I going in circles?
Am I even going anywhere?

As I walk, I change.
Protrusions form, dark vast spiky things,
Then vanish into dust blown by a phantom wind.
Metal and gears shimmer across my body,
Finally disappearing into heat mirage.
My very self fades,
Then blazes like a supernova.
And then it fades again.
My essence warps.
citrakayah: (Default)
Definition of therianthropy fixed… I hope.

Q: What’s therianthropy?
A: Therianthropy is the condition (not in a medical or psychological sense, in the ‘constant state of being’ sense) of identifying on some level as a non-human animal. The reasons for the identification vary wildly. In my case, it’s because the behaviors and urges of a cheetah feel utterly natural and right to me, even though I’m not yanked around on a psychological chain to fulfill them—but I know others who are yanked around like that.

Aside from that, you really aren’t going to get a universally agreed on definition of therianthropy. Hell, not everybody agrees on that definition, though most therians I know agree that it’s at least a fairly accurate descriptor. Since there’s no official dictionary definition of the word ‘therian’, and no medical consensus either, arguing the definition is rather pointless. While it’s safe to assume that that definition holds true for most, it won’t for all. When in doubt, ask.

Because a lot of therians will go on at length about what therianthropy is to them. Or have pages written about it already.

Q: What are otherkin?
A: Otherkin are similar to therians (and, depending to who you ask, are basically a larger group—from a mental and philosophical perspective, not a historical one—to whom therians belong to), but they identify as a non-existent species, usually one with sapience comparable to humans. Their experiences seem to focus more on remembered cultures (whether the cultures are actually remembered is, of course, a matter of opinion), as well as relatively alien thought processes. And when I say ‘alien’ I mean ‘right there in the uncanny valley of thought processes’. Of course, I don’t have much of an uncanny valley for thought processes, I’m trying to put my perspective more in line with that of an average human.

Not all otherkin have biological kintypes. Some have mechanical ones, and some have ones that are spirits or somehow not of any type of material origin we have here on Earth.


Allati, I need your input on this.

Q: Do any fictionkin identify as specific characters from fiction?
A: I know for sure of only one who does; they’ll remain anonymous unless they specifically say I can mention them by name. They’re also a member of a multiple system and find the fact that they’re so like this character from fiction incredibly disturbing; I’ve heard other fictionkin who didn’t identify as a specific character echo this thought. Nor are they a carbon-copy of the character; they just find the similarities too obvious—and unnerving—to ignore.


Naturally, if anyone has any suggestions for topics I should bring up in the Q&A, or wants to contribute something, I’m open. This shouldn’t just be my view of everything.


I wrote some new poetry.

I walk alone.
A figure in the baking desert,
Distorted by heat.
Staring straight ahead,
I am on a solitary trek.
Sun beats down from overhead,
Making cracks in the landscape of my mind.
And making my eyes water
Despite my tearmarks.

I know not how long I have walked,
Nor my destination,
Or even my origin.
Only the journey can be known.
Pawprints stretch back for miles,
Distinct despite the hard ground.
But still, they seem to waver,
And even if I wanted to,
I could not retrace my steps.

Where am I?
Where have I been?
What am I?
What was I?
What am I becoming?
Do I even move?
Or does the world itself shift around me?
Am I going in circles?
Am I even going anywhere?

As I walk, I change.
Protrusions form, dark vast spiky things,
Then vanish into dust blown by a phantom wind.
Metal and gears shimmer across my body,
Finally disappearing into heat mirage.
My very self fades,
Then blazes like a supernova.
And then it fades again.
My essence warps.



Currently working on an art trade with Kisota. She does a reference sheet of Plant Cheetah, and I do a story featuring SOLAR KISOOOO. Aside from that, I’m working on Dunes of the Variforms (my science fiction book), several stories for the Wanderer’s Library (one involving Robert Griffon, the Man With A Tertiary Neuron Cluster In His Armpit; one involving the Albania Incident; and a few files involving Legacy, the anomalous wildlife sanctuary)—for those who don’t know, that’s a spin-off of the SCP Foundation.

Poem

Sep. 30th, 2012 09:08 pm
citrakayah: (Default)
For those of you who don’t remember, the silvanshee, who are normally happy-go-lucky cat agathions in Pathfinder, are in the Southern Basin a race of agathion who fought a genocidal war with a species called the Ashmanti in an attempt to stop them from destroying the world accidentally.

While some survived with minds intact, many did not. Those that did not went into the Gloom, the Elemental Plane of Mist, and became… warped. This is how they view those who recoil at what they are. Note that pretty much all of them are unpredictably violent and probably count as bipolar.



You dare?
You dare judge us?
You, who have lived a simple life,
An easy life.
Pathetic.
Oh yes, I say—
Pathetic!
Have you ever held the fate,
The fate of worlds,
In your paws?
Hmm?
What about the lives
Of billions of sophonts?
No?
I thought not.
You,
You little planar traveler,
Thinking he’s all experienced.

You haven’t experienced pain.
You haven’t experienced war.
You haven’t experienced hatred.
You haven’t experienced longing.

Damn you!
You’re so damn lucky
And you can’t even see it!
I have walked the planes.
I have walked the planes between the planes.
I have even gone Outside, to that land of madness.
I have gone mad,
Been swallowed in the fire of insanity,
And I was reborn.
I see stars, dammit!
But I can’t touch them!
They’re so beautiful,
Beckoning to me.
Mocking me.

the planes cast me out.
cast all of us out.
nothing…
nothing blatant.
it was just…
everything
too much to bear
our crimes,
our sin.
the death of thousands.
all our fault,
yet we had no choice.
damn us.
damn us all.
maybe we already are.
nobody wants us.


But that is my burden to bear!
Not yours!
And not something you may judge me for!

you haven’t experienced pain.
you haven’t experienced war.
you haven’t experienced hatred.
you haven’t experienced longing.
you haven’t experienced death.
you haven’t experienced suffering.

you haven’t experienced life.

lucky you, I guess.
citrakayah: (Default)
Four day break! And, unfortunately, a probably schoolwork-filled four day break. Shouldn't take too much time, though the last time I tried my hand at in-depth literary analysis was a few years ago. So I should get some poetry done, and I've got an idea for a poem-photo-music combo. I'll also work on the idea I talked about earlier in regards to fighting back against hatred against therians/otherkin. Spring break plans are also figured out; we're going to St. Louis which is about three hours away.

It's been extremely warm here recently. Whenever it snows, you of course have the global warming deniers yelp about how snow disproves global warming, but when it's sixty degrees on January 10 you don't hear a peep. Heh. Granted, it snowed a few inches today, or rather last night, but it's been abnormally warm. So by their logic, global warming is both happening and not happening, depending on the temperature.

Poetry

Nov. 25th, 2011 12:31 pm
citrakayah: (determined)
Right. So. Poetry.

I wrote this haiku while rather depressed. Oblivian says that art is in many cases formed by angst, and unfortunately she's certainly right about much of my poetry.

Oceans are leaking
From twin aquamarine orbs
Forming salty brooks.



This was a love poem written on a bet. No one said it had to be to a person or express sexual love.

Yowling kitty cat
Screaming in my ear at night
She has lovely fur.


It's not very good, is it?


This is probably going to be my end of the art trade with Velvela once I'm finished with it. If not... well, I was getting rusty. This poem is called 'The Burning Lands'.

The disc blazes with flame and fire,
Sending rays of brilliance to the ground below.
Both a blessing and a curse,
It gives both life and death.

Heat makes the very air waver
Above the hard, cracked ground.
Creatures hide under rocks,
To avoid the scalding earth.

I have walked the Burning Lands for far too long.
Looking for a way out.


Rough draft, and possibly not complete, but I think it's okay.


This one is really old. It was an attempt at a sestina, which didn't work. I remember some guy saying that these things are easy; I say he was wrong. Certainly it's not easy to write a poem on therianthropy in sestina format, even when using basic endwords that should crop up fairly often in any discussion of the subject.

Wolf or man, man or wolf?
In many ways, it is a reflection of our mind,
locked in battle in the wilderness,
one civilized, one feral.
The mind is a strange beast,
one that we cannot always understand.

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citrakayah: (Default)
Citrakāyaḥ

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