Christ

Apr. 15th, 2016 03:19 pm
tinhuviel: (Angry Writer)

CHRIST

 

The faithful condemn, they condone persecution,

as the suicides plummet with nowhere to turn.

For, if Christ cannot love them, then why should they live?

And, if God won't accept them, then they'll just have to burn.

 

There is only one faith and one road to be traveled,

which leads to that mountain where Man may find love.

But there's only a handful of rich men and preacher men

Able to lie and reach Heaven above.

 

So the suicides have to be burning in Hell now

and those of us left are just souls lost in sin.

And we're told by the faithful how evil we are

and that we must give them money to be born again.

 

But I can't help but think that, if Christ came to Earth now,

a pauper, hippie, a heretic man,

the faithful who worship him would crown him with thorns again,

call him a sinner and drive nails in his hands.

 

And we who have wandered a world without meaning

would find there a martyr who, for us, his life lost,

then our children will reign in some bigoted future

and impale the same outcast on the hypocrites' cross.

 

©Tracy A. Evans / 31 August, 1990

tinhuviel: (Luthien Tinuviel)
Son of the high ones, child of the Light
Elf friend and man lord, jewel of night
The writer of truths deep hidden in tales
The prophet of beauty and the doom it entails
The speaker of old tongues and poetry great
The singer of ballads, the weaver of fate
John, the myth maker
Ronald the sage
Reuel of Valinor
Tolkien the mage.

Happy Birthday, good sir. We are lesser since you set sail into the West.

Silmarillion__Moon_and_Sun_by_LadyElleth

Darkness

Jan. 1st, 2015 11:02 am
tinhuviel: (Augury)

as seen on Disinformation


DARKNESS

I had a dream, which was not all a dream.
The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars
Did wander darkling in the eternal space,
Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth
Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air;
Morn came and went--and came, and brought no day,
And men forgot their passions in the dread
Of this their desolation; and all hearts
Were chill'd into a selfish prayer for light:
And they did live by watchfires--and the thrones,
The palaces of crowned kings--the huts,
The habitations of all things which dwell,
Were burnt for beacons; cities were consum'd,
And men were gather'd round their blazing homes
To look once more into each other's face;
Happy were those who dwelt within the eye
Of the volcanos, and their mountain-torch:
A fearful hope was all the world contain'd;
Forests were set on fire--but hour by hour
They fell and faded--and the crackling trunks
Extinguish'd with a crash--and all was black.
The brows of men by the despairing light
Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits
The flashes fell upon them; some lay down
And hid their eyes and wept; and some did rest
Their chins upon their clenched hands, and smil'd;
And others hurried to and fro, and fed
Their funeral piles with fuel, and look'd up
With mad disquietude on the dull sky,
The pall of a past world; and then again
With curses cast them down upon the dust,
And gnash'd their teeth and howl'd: the wild birds shriek'd
And, terrified, did flutter on the ground,
And flap their useless wings; the wildest brutes
Came tame and tremulous; and vipers crawl'd
And twin'd themselves among the multitude,
Hissing, but stingless--they were slain for food.
And War, which for a moment was no more,
Did glut himself again: a meal was bought
With blood, and each sate sullenly apart
Gorging himself in gloom: no love was left;
All earth was but one thought--and that was death
Immediate and inglorious; and the pang
Of famine fed upon all entrails--men
Died, and their bones were tombless as their flesh;
The meagre by the meagre were devour'd,
Even dogs assail'd their masters, all save one,
And he was faithful to a corse, and kept
The birds and beasts and famish'd men at bay,
Till hunger clung them, or the dropping dead
Lur'd their lank jaws; himself sought out no food,
But with a piteous and perpetual moan,
And a quick desolate cry, licking the hand
Which answer'd not with a caress--he died.
The crowd was famish'd by degrees; but two
Of an enormous city did survive,
And they were enemies: they met beside
The dying embers of an altar-place
Where had been heap'd a mass of holy things
For an unholy usage; they rak'd up,
And shivering scrap'd with their cold skeleton hands
The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath
Blew for a little life, and made a flame
Which was a mockery; then they lifted up
Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld
Each other's aspects--saw, and shriek'd, and died--
Even of their mutual hideousness they died,
Unknowing who he was upon whose brow
Famine had written Fiend. The world was void,
The populous and the powerful was a lump,
Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless--
A lump of death--a chaos of hard clay.
The rivers, lakes and ocean all stood still,
And nothing stirr'd within their silent depths;
Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea,
And their masts fell down piecemeal: as they dropp'd
They slept on the abyss without a surge--
The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave,
The moon, their mistress, had expir'd before;
The winds were wither'd in the stagnant air,
And the clouds perish'd; Darkness had no need
Of aid from them--She was the Universe.

~George Gordon, Lord Byron

tinhuviel: (Augury)

Even though the full poem did not make it into The Vampire Relics, the prophecy implied was certainly a driving force in Gideon's massive collection of prophecies. It was also one of the guidelines that defined Magnificat and many of the band's songs that shared its arcane mood.



If you find 'The Sanctity of Shame' intriguing, you would probably enjoy the Vampire Relics trilogy. All three books are available on Amazon in both paperback and Kindle format. Just click the picture below to be taken to the Amazon page.


tinhuviel: (Nemesis)

Barry Andrews has made a new blog post to the Shriekback Tumblr. If you like the bit I'm posting here, just click the picture to be taken to the full post. It's pretty damned fascinating, and I'm sure you'll enjoy it.

I find it interesting that these two art moments documenting a terrible existential awakening both happen at the seaside and that it was the Victorians who invented the old school English seaside holiday (with all it’s hearty stoicism insisting on fun in the face of the elements ('brrr -nice out of the wind though'). This, alongside grim philosophical introspection. How does that work? What I unfailingly get from my own marine meditations is a sense of perspective ('too much fucking perspective' as the Spinal Tap boys say). The primal, merciless sea right up against humanity at it’s most lovable, ridiculous and vulnerable (those goosepimpled bodies in summer; off-season, the garish lights and fragile, tinny music from the pier timorously jutting out into the sombre ocean). Who are we kidding that we’re important or serious?

Barry has also uploaded a version of the song on his Soundcloud account. Click the cormorant to access the song, and click Barry if you want to go to his Soundcloud bungalow.

tinhuviel: (Augury)
An evening of poetry and musical improvisation, featuring Don Share and Barry Andrews.

Redwing

Sep. 24th, 2014 07:23 pm
tinhuviel: (Augury)
Redwing
tinhuviel: (Shriekback - Nemesis)
I had forgotten about this poem. It's from 2001. I rather like it. I hope whoever reads this likes it. as well.

sanctity

Redwing

Mar. 23rd, 2014 11:27 am
tinhuviel: (Triskele)
I wrote a poem week before last, my first in ages. It's obvious I'm rusty. Grievously rusty...

REDWING

It was not the melody.
In those times, the birdsong was secondary.
The plumage of the urgent warbler,
Black upon black upon black,
Splashed with Atlantic hues and the promise of scarlet devotion.

It was not the melody at that time,
Marked molten in place,
In that delightful delirium.
It was primal essence woven in
Undiscovered Celtic paths.

The knots that bound my destiny,
The silent eyes screaming an undeniable command,
“Love me, only me.
“Adore all that I am
“And sing my song, like lullabies in dreams.” (3-13-2014)
tinhuviel: (Cadmus - Long Hair)
There was a consensus, especially when I was growing up, that a Vampire was essentially this ugly creature of the night. Sure he was charming and could appear lovely but, when he was in full Vampire mode, he was this hideous creature. I personally never saw the Vampire in this way; rather, I thought of the Vampire as this beautiful being with the ability to prey on humans because of our obsession with all things of beauty. I didn't see the Vampire and think of Count Orlock, I saw the Vampire and thought of George Gordon Lord Byron. There have been instances in my life where I would say so-and-so was a Vampire and they'd take exception to it, or those around me would disagree, thinking that I was insulting this person. That couldn't be further from the truth.

In The Vampire Relics there's the ability that most Vampires have called Glamour. When I write about this, I'm not speaking of jewels and Hollywood high fashion. I'm referring to the following definition:

1720, "magic, enchantment" (especially in phrase to cast the glamour ), a variant of Scot. gramarye "magic, enchantment, spell," alt. of Eng. grammar (q.v.) with a medieval sense of "any sort of scholarship, especially occult learning." Popularized by the writings of Sir Walter Scott (1771-1832). Sense of "magical beauty, alluring charm" first recorded 1840.


Vampires could, as I put it in the books, "throw a Glamour" on their intended victim, not to make that victim think the Vampire was attractive when he was not, but to irreversibly seal that person's doom. The victim would be so lost to the beauty of the Vampire, he or she may not even realise the pain of death. Some Vampires, like Cadmus Pariah, have a natural Glamour that pulls the hapless throng of humanity to him without any effort on his part. He need only throw this power out but a little to have the same effect on Vampires. When it comes to the power of Glamour, Cadmus is the most powerful in history, even more so than the Original Ten Vampires.

In real life, I gauge the people around me by this idea of Glamour, and how much of this power a person has over me. If I'm deeply influenced by another's beauty or charm, then that person is, for me, a Vampire. By the same token if, say, an actor is playing a Vampire, that actor may become attractive to me when s/he may not have been before. For example, I've never found Colin Farrell to be exceptionally attractive. Now that he's playing Jerry Dandridge in the remake of Fright Night, I'm all about me some Colin. It's strange how that works, but I'm smart enough to realise that Vampires were the primary influence on me as I entered puberty and I have since spent my years of sexual awareness attempting to capture my animus as defined by the Vampire archetype. (that sounds like something Cadmus would say)

So, if I refer to you as a Vampire, I'm giving you the utmost highest compliment that I can manage. It doesn't mean that I find you merely attractive. It means that I find you unequivocally enthralling, that I would pretty much do anything simply to be in your presence because it makes me feel delicious and sublimely prostrate to your lure. I am enraptured by your very existence, as you define my own. If I have called anyone reading this a Vampire, I hope that this definition makes some sort of sense to you and that you are not offended by my candour. None of this means that I am in love or even in lust with the Vampires in my life; it simply means that my Vampires are the pinnacle of attractiveness for me. There is absolutely nothing ugly about them, and there never can be.

If I have called you a Vampire, I have bestowed on you the greatest compliment I know. Accept it with honour and the satisfaction that someone holds you in such high regard. If anyone is curious as to whom I think is a Vampire, just comment and ask and I'll tell you. I have no shame ha ha!

**EDIT**
Speaking of the animus, I wrote a poem about that about twenty years ago. I just found it, so here 'tis.

ANIMUS

She beheld the shining beauty of the mystery in his eyes
and she danced in flames of majesty no horror dare disguise
just to summon forth the passion ling’ring underneath his skin
and to share with him the pleasure of dark secrecy and sin.

Swirling like a double helix in her sanctity and grace
she invoked the terrible beauty of that mask upon his face
and he placed her soul among his treasures deep within a dream
and held it hostage by the nightmare of a Darkness yet unseen.

”O! Cleave unto him, pirouetting childe of fragile light!”
Sang the spirits gone before her into neverending Night.
”All joys pale to his dread touch, the threads of his desire.
Dance into the flames ~ submit your soul to his dark fire!”

So, yeah, the Vampire as animus. Welcome to my world.

tinhuviel: (Ace Ventura)
Spring has sprung
The grass has riz
I wonder where
The flowers is

Taught to me by a big honkin' Redneck friend. I loved her dearly. My paternal grandmother's version was a tad different. I loved her dearly, too.

Spring has sprung
Fall has fell
Summer's here and
It's hotter than Hell.
tinhuviel: (Triskele)
The House of Spiders

In the House of Spiders
I am dreaming of his breath
How he takes me ever closer
To the precipice of death
How his fingers brush me lightly
How his lips move at my ear
In this silent House of Spiders
I am lost within my fear
He has blessed me with his presence
In the dark and deadly night
And he has touched my living spirit
Like a raven taking flight
I’m a slave to his entreaties
I’m in awe of his dread stare
I’m a dancer to his melody
That fills the sacred air
And all of this is dreaming
Both the dreamer and the dreamed
Whilst in the House of Spiders
Dream and dreamer are redeemed.

© Tracy Angelina Evans ~ 14 July, 2010
tinhuviel: (Funky Bald Molina)
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"Inama Nushif" by Brian Tyler and Azam Ali
"And Now We Are Free" by Hans Zimmer and Lisa Gerrard
"Almeria" by Oio
tinhuviel: (CadmusOrphaeus)
So I have Orphaeus and Cadmus improvising a song on stage at one point in The Blood Crown. And, being the Method Writer that I am, I was improvising right along with them, writing out what they decided to sing as they sang it. This is what came out. I wrote this during NaNoWriMo, so I really don't remember writing it. That's how it is for me during NaNo. It's like Trance Writing or something. It's trippy, like an LSD experience or something. I dunno. But whatever, this sounds like something Mike Myers would read in a coffee house after marrying an ax murderer.

When all is dreaming out amongst the night, my dearest darlings
You and I, we're wont to fly, like wraiths and dreams,
delighted Darklings
When moon is bright with howl of wolf
And Piper's Gate at Dawn is locked
'Gainst all but the mad and lost
You and I, we're wont to dream, like flights of fancy
dark in the delights of our reverie
As ripples drawn against the reflection
Cast upon a secret sacred pool
We'll see the promise of all the delights
What the Earth has to offer
And those ripples go ever outward
Growing larger and taking in the whole of Creation
The ever-hungering Hermit who winds the clock
With utmost concern to be had.
tinhuviel: (2D and 3C)

Ode to the Pot Belly

As you can see now my girth is real big
My appetite is huge and I eat like a pig
Food is my pleasure, my joy and my fun
I’d kill an old lady for just one sticky bun!

I dream at night of what I’ll eat the next day
And no one dares to get in my way
I can’t stop eating, I’m like an eating machine,
A vacuum cleaner with teeth, if you know what I mean

The IHOP is my favourite place to chow down
I eat so much there I’m the talk of the town
Food is my life down to the last crust

It’s been such a blast until I finally did bust

One day I’ll be thin and achieve this great feat
Because I’ll be dead and unable to eat.

©Deloris M. Evans

14 December, 2009

tinhuviel: (Angry Writer)
Oh, nice! I found this whilst waiting on a major file transfer to finish up (still waiting). This poem is from 1997, or 1 BSE (Before the Sith Era). I was in love. No, I wasn't just in love. I was hopelessly in love at first sight even! Of course, we're dealing with Humanity, so things turned out badly. Ah well.

I'll Sing His Song

When I looked into his eyes and saw his spirit there
Dancing in tranquility like down in Summer's air
I fell like leaves from maple trees and plunged into his heart
To rest in fragile symmetry no grief could tear apart.

I'll sing his song unto the moon, the Lady silver bright
And cherish every melody he heralds in the night
No light is keener 'mongst the stars that shimmer in the sky
Heaven's gentle symphony shines sweetly in his eyes.
©Tracy A. Evans
21 October, 1997


I can't believe I was ever that big of a ninny. But I was, and here's the proof. I'd rather shove a spork in my eye as to ever have gone through any of that.
tinhuviel: (Kelat and Dmitri)
Hey, it's poetry time! For the newbies, I like lyric poetry, reading it and writing it. I'm fond of Beat poetry too. All the rest leaves me cold. I mainly write lyric poetry. If you don't dig such, you way want to stop reading now.

THE IVY GARDEN

I walked in the Ivy Garden with my eldritch lover pale
And, strolling with me 'neath the moon, he told me this sad tale:
"I once loved on sunny days and worshiped life and light,
"But I was stricken by a lust for blood one black and bitter night.
"And I have wandered shadowed paths for many lonely years
"And everywhere I seem to roam, I inspire hate and fear."

We walked in silence for a while. The ivy curled around
The willows and the trellises and snaked along the ground.
"But I love you," I finally said and I gazed into his eyes,
Finding there the monster that the living world despised.
Yet that I loved more than aught else, for the spirit knows its kin
And I was bound as much as he in the prison of my sin.

My lover took me in his arms and embraced me as he sang.
Throughout the Ivy Garden, his ethereal voice rang,
And his music took me back in time to ancient alien days
When mythic people ruled the land with gentle Elfin ways.
And sorrow's tears fell from my eyes for all that we have lost,
And I begged to be taken far away no matter what the cost.

But he cried when I asked for his sanguine gift as he dried my pensive face,
"I cannot curse you with my Blood, you'd fall from Holy Grace."
"But haven't I already?" I asked, my voice low.
"I'm not alive, been dead for years, I only want to know
"That what we have, you and I, will never fade with time.
"Take me to your shadowed haunts and make Forever mine."

The wind blew soft and sweetly and the stars turned crimson red
As my lover drank my pain until I lay in the ivy, dead.
The living world is dying from its self-inflicted wounds
As the Ivy Garden flourishes beneath the waning moon,
And I go walking with my lover, eldritch, pale, and sad,
For death in life or life in death is all we've ever had.

©Tracy Angelina Evans
25 May, 1994
tinhuviel: (Syd Barrett)
And they're talking about Syd Barrett, my love, my heartbreak, my mad mad genius. I wrote him a poem 21 years ago. Actually, I wrote him many poems, but this one pretty much says it all for me. May my tortured boy rest in peace. And, yeah, for me he'll always be my sad young man who didn't just stare into the Abyss, he leapt in. What on Earth did he see on his Acid-fueled Shamanic journeys? What terrible, beautiful, incomprehensible things did he see? I know that 'Wish You Were Here' and 'Shine on You Crazy Diamond' were written for him, but 'On the Turning away' will always be my Syd song because I was listening that when I read about Syd for the very first time. It breaks my heart to hear that song. In my state of insomnia, I feel closer to him now than ever before.

Photobucket

The Only Thing Left

Your eyes, they look troubled, such beauty in pain.
Your heart aches with sorrow, your tears fall like rain.
You can't seem to capture the torrent of thoughts
Your mind is producing from all you've been taught.
Your art went beyond you, your fears drove you mad.
For one with such talent, you now seem so sad.
You sit in your room with your head in your hand.
You stare at the people who don't understand.
And, gazing inside you to see what is there,
You find the truth is that you don't really care.
The songs were mere whimsy, your art was a lie
And the only thing left is your desire to die.

©Tracy Angelina Evans
18 June, 1988


Remember when you were young, You shone like the sun. Shine on you crazy diamond. Now there's a look in your eyes, Like black holes in the sky. Shine on you crazy diamond.
tinhuviel: (Nathor)
HYMN TO ASET

Your holy Eye rests upon me in the velvet of night.
You have taken me in your eagle's wings.
Your lions have devoured me.
You are the promise of life.
You are the Throne of the World..
The winds are Your song, the evening is Your stronghold.
Rubies and sapphires rest upon Your starry brow.

You smile at me, gently embracing my spirit,
Binding my magicks to Yours, and in You shall I repose
Peaceful as pyramids.

© Tracy Angelina Evans
Tinhuviel Artanis
21 February 1995

The Bank

Apr. 12th, 2009 12:47 pm
tinhuviel: (2D and 3C)
Here's another poem from Aunt Tudi. It's inspired by the current economic situation, go figger!

THE BANK

I  run down the street looking from side to side
Trying my best to find a place to hide.
The Bank is after me and that’s no lie.
Just thinking about it, I start to cry.

The call me, harass me, and send me foul letters
They’re not just after me, but all of their debtors!
You hear from their goon squad all night and all day.
All you want is for them to go far away.

The Bank wants their money.  They don’t care at all
How much it might hurt you, they continue to call.
You try to explain if you had the money you’d pay
But nothing is good enough, whatever you say.

They want all their cars and their houses too.
They don’t give a damn what might happen to you.
You and your family will be begging for crumbs
On the street, looking, acting, and smelling like bums.

The Fat Cat above has to have his big bonus
Because of the money he claims to have loaned us.
But the real truth is, he’s nothing but a thief
And he thoroughly relishes spreading the grief.

©Deloris M. Evans
10 April, 2009

 

tinhuviel: (2D and 3C)
Here's a poem Aunt Tudi wrote. I rather like it.

Long in the Tooth

When you turn forty, you feel it’s a crime.

Your teeth start falling out one at a time.

 

Your flesh begins sagging.  Your hair, it turns grey

Poor eyesight comes visiting and then tends to stay.

 

You end up with flatulence, incontinence, too.

You even find it difficult to take a poo!

 

When you sometimes stand up, the world spins around,

And the next thing you know, you’re flat on the ground.

 

It hurts just to breathe, and it pains you to walk.

You sometimes have difficulty trying to talk.

 

Your memory is history. You know it is shot

When your best recollections come from when you a tot.

 

But it’s not all that bad.  It could surely be worse:

Your butt could be riding in the back of a hearse!

 

©Deloris M. Evans

15 March, 2009

The Ides of March



She'll be 65 month after next and I'll be 42 later on in the year. I'm wondering if she's trying to give me a message or if she's just expressing fond memories of her own deterioration.
tinhuviel: (Llama!)
For my own archives more than anything else because, dammit, I love Herbert Lom. I have since the mid-80s and I guess I always will.

Herbert Lom: The Odd Fellow

Herbert Lom Loses His Head

The first link is really striking because it focuses more on his early life than any other article I've come across to date.

I even wrote a poem for Herbert Lom in March of 1986, a sort of pallid response to one of my favourite poems, Sailing to Byzantium by William Butler Yeats.

To Angelo )

I had it bad. I guess I still do.

I'm still gonna name my pet llama Herbert.
tinhuviel: (Suck_ass Day)
I'm home from work. It was my first night at Dollar General. I went in at 3 PM and, by 4 PM, I was working by myself as a cashier. After 5 PM, it was just me and the assistant manager, Steve, who was stocking shelves after the truck delivered three trillion products. So, yeah, I was truly by myself. I occasionally had to page Steve to the front but, for the most part, I let him be and I think he was happy about that, considering he was so busy. I've never been a cashier before, so this was a fun new experience. The number one lesson I've learnt so far: when you're a cashier, you can no longer run away from people you've successfully avoided in public in the past.

But I'm so tired. I've been wide open since 5:30 this morning, and working since 6, with only an hour break from 2 to 3 PM. I can barely blink my eyes. In fact, I'm having Aunt Tudi help me blink them, or just blink hers in my place.

While I perish of exhaustion, please enjoy this picture of me with my "big tricked out name tag."

just like Progressive.com's Flo's tag! )

Just for good measure, here's the latest picture of Riley-dog, doing a fine impersonation of Peter Lorre.

mercy! mercy! )

And one of a pretty green spider that Aunt Tudi killed with prejudice as soon as she got home from the hospital, murderous byotch that she is.

pretty green spider )

I first spotted the lovely creature in the shower and this poem sprung to mind:

Spider, spider, green as grass
Please don't bite my naked ass


Thank you, I'll be here all night, what there is left of it.

Aeon

Jul. 3rd, 2008 08:25 pm
tinhuviel: (Cadmus Ink)
Even though it's really bad, Aleister might like this one, since he inspired it after all.

Aeon

How many days have the ravens flown across the slated sky,
In search of the messages about the Child Most High,
The Aeon who will come at dawn and bring the New Age forth
Where enlightened ones will live in peace all around the Earth?
How many days has it been, my love. How many more will pass?
The ravens' wings grow tired, my love. How long can they last?

©Tracy Angelina Evans
11 November, 1996


The reason why I post poems occasionally is because I find them and feel I can always access them here when I lose them again. And I do mean when, not if, because I'm about as organised as a catatonic maniac on amphetamines.
tinhuviel: (Syd Barrett)
When I was younger, I used to pump out tons of bad lyrical poetry. Some poems were worthy but, looking back at them, most of them were crap. When the 21st Century hit, it seemed that my capacity for writing bad poetry disappeared. Today, I found the last poem I wrote. It was written for my Kung Fu teacher and for Llew. Even though it's probably crap, I'm still rather fond of it. I'm posting it here so, if I lose the poem again, I can always access it on the Cliffs of Insanity.

MOUNTAIN TIGER ~ DESERT LION

Mountain tiger - claws of steel
Seduce me in your silken reel
Swirling 'round my shivering skin
Pulling out and pushing in
O violent cat with primal purr
My fingers stroke your painted fur
To bring your need and passion higher
In channeled Ch'i and raging fire.

Desert lion with flowing main
Sun drops coursing through your veins
Devour me with teeth and tongue
As roars of passion grace your song
O wingéd with feral eyes
Immerse yourself in the Southern sky
And float along in darkest night
To bathe the wasteland in your light.

© Tracy Angelina Evans
12 August 2001
tinhuviel: (Kelat)
I wrote this at work today. It took about thirty minutes or so, and I've transcribed it here unedited. Honestly, I'm not certain there's anything I need to do to change it. It's not the best poem in the world, but it pretty much sums up what I hope will eventually be a trilogy of Vampire books, the first already finished, polished, and begging to be published by some hapless agency chomping at the proverbial bit at the to see Cadmus, Kelat, and their crazy mixed-up blood-sucking buds from the depths of Gehenna.

So, maybe over the next few days, as I study it further, some changes will be made here and there. We shall see.

THE RELICS THREE

Relics three sway history
In destined hands they rest
Immortal clutches hold no more
These ancient trials to test.

The Relic First of blood was wrought
Its thorns wreath'd 'bout in pain
This day still aches in Holy See
Enshrouded by its stain.

The Relic Twain by Goddess blessed,
Yet cursed in magick's stead
Avails no Wight nor Man to wield
the Elf-Chylde's grail of dread.

The Triune Relic, Crimson Heart,
Bears mystery at its core
Its tales of ancient sorrow
Share both Elf and Human lore.

The Relics Three in history
The Chalice and Crown of Blood
Keep true within the Augury
The veins of Time's great flood

No sip from cup
No prick 'pon scalp
Can prophecy be fulfilled
Without the Song of Gideon
Be finally sung by Blood revealed.

©Tracy Angelina Evans
3 April, 2008
tinhuviel: (Herne_Moon)
The vague coolness in the air captures my sensibilities, whispering the promise of the coming chill, the kind that permeates the bones and will not leave without the potion of hot, sweet tea and cream to chase it away. It's on mornings like this that I think of him, the manifestation of my patron god, and I wonder if he's preparing to roam the forests and connect to that primal spirit that stirs so restlessly within him. That ancient entity that is so strongly manifested in his heart that anyone who knows can see it shining from his velvet eyes.

One of my favourite personal invocations to my patron god, Herne/Cernunnos, was also a love song written for my soul mate. I've posted this before in my journal, usually around this time of year. Who am I to fight tradition?



SONG TO HERNE

I went a-walkin’ through the woods

one misty Summer morn

to hear the sounds of rustling leaves

that Autumn’s trees had shorn.

I went a-searchin’ down a path

concealed by moss and fern

for Him who will my lover be ~

the gentle hunter Herne.

I looked beyond the shady grove,

beyond the thicket green,

across the dewy meadow bright,

the crystal river clean.

I trod in silence by the willow,

standing sad and stern,

to find the Stag King’s castle

and the gentle hunter Herne.

I chanced upon a village

in the forest I did roam,

and I found a happy people

keeping happy little homes.

And in the eye of every man

I saw His spirit burn,

and I knew within their hearts

there dwelt the gentle hunter Herne.

At length I found His castle

in a ring of standing stones,

and I heard His voice calling forth

in mystic primal tones.

Within the halls I followed deer

who led me to His door

and, when I looked upon the God,

I’d seen His face before!

‘Twas the visage of my one true love

my spirit had discerned.

Forever had I loved this man,

this gentle hunter Herne.
                                      ~Lady Tinhuviel Artanis



tinhuviel: (Syd Barrett)

Like a bubble in Champagne.


The feel of his lips invading my aura
Touching me, gentle and wet
I’m washed out to sea on a raft made of horror
At a desire I won't soon forget

I haven't had a "poetic moment" in an unbelievably long time. To be honest, I'm fairly distressed.
tinhuviel: (Pentagram)

I wrote this quite a few years ago. It's my love song to Herne and my soulmate, who profoundly embodies Herne.

Song to Herne
I went a-walkin’ through the woods
one misty Summer morn
to hear the sounds of rustling leaves
that Autumn’s trees had shorn.
I went a-searchin’ down a path
concealed by moss and fern
for Him who would my lover be ~
the gentle hunter Herne.

I looked beyond the shady grove,
beyond the thicket green,
across the dewy meadow bright,
the crystal river clean.
I trod in silence by the willow,
standing sad and stern,
to find the Stag King’s castle
and the gentle hunter Herne.

I chanced upon a village
in the forest I did roam,
and I found a happy people
keeping happy little homes.
And in the eye of every man
I saw His spirit burn,
and I knew within their hearts
there dwelt the gentle hunter Herne.

At length I found His castle
in a ring of standing stones,
and I heard His voice calling forth
in mystic primal tones.
Within the halls I followed deer
who led me to His door
and, when I looked upon the God,
I’d seen His face before!
‘Twas the visage of my one true love
my spirit had discerned.
Forever had I loved this man,
this gentle hunter Herne.

Musings

Nov. 27th, 2005 06:51 pm
tinhuviel: (Cadmus Pariah)
I haven't much to write about, yet I'm keen on writing something. Actually, I should turn my attention to finishing The Chalice but, to be honest, I really need at least one day's break from it. I'm getting to the portion of the book where all the main characters are together. My head isn't large enough to fit them all in at once, but it must be done. Yes, I know this is all I've been writing about for the past month, but there's not much else going on. One thing I want to include in the book is poem I wrote that eventually came to be the lyrics for one of Magnificat's songs. The lilt and tempo might be very familiar to peeps in tune to certain things.

Enigma (the Masque of Cadmus)

As you drift dangerous past my eyes
I see the mask that once you wore
And you are hunting down my spies
That watch you, wanting ever more
The illusions far beneath your skin
Surfeit with great uncertainty
And I'm in earnest to dig in
And reach your soul for me to see

Your mask may scare me out of sleep
Your dreams are nightmares for the weak
Your passion drives my heart to weep
It's your enigma that I seek
And what I found was always mine
And what I say I've said before
Your kisses taste like blood and wine
And leave me spent upon the floor

Yes, we shall see what dreams can share
And we shall touch that holy place
And when we sleep we'll travel there
To find ourselves in sacred space
We'll go to where the fountains sing
To listen to the night's refrain
We'll hear the Bells of Silence ring
Then dance the nightmare trip again

© T.A. Evans 10 November 1992



It's not even 7PM yet, but it feels like it should at least be 10PM. After dealing with the 24-hour Belly Splooge, I'm feeling kinda of weak and tired. Here's hoping I'm not in the same boat tomorrow. I have to go to The Pit and have Jan fill out her portion of my credit card insurance papers. Once I get that done, I can mail the necessary paperwork to the appropriate souls, sit back and let the insurance pay against my debt for at least 6 months. These companies also pay like 3 to 4 times the minimum amount due, so I'm looking at very small credit card statements once my insurance runs out and my 401k money is in my hot trembling paws.


I have to get up early tomorrow to take Motley over to Dr. Patch's. Hopefully, he can treat her and give her back to us tomorrow afternoon. Aunt Tudi is quite keen on adopting Motley because she looks so much like our Paisley, may she rest in peace. The only difference is, Motley has no tail. Like her brother Lynx, Motley is a button-butt.


Tonight, I think I shall watch a DVD until I pass out. This is no different than any other night. My life is so exciting.
tinhuviel: (Luthien Tinuviel)
A Grain of Sand

Like a deep and violent wave
my passion crashes upon your shore
and swells with the tides of my blood.

You are unmoved, the impenetrable rock,
yet my fury softens you
and my storms pound you still with
ravenous and unquenchable love!

The sea cannot possess the land
but my water may cherish a grain of your sand.

© T.A. Evans 8 May, 1992
tinhuviel: (Alpaca Lips)
William Butler Yeats is more prophet than some of the so-called prophets cherished by Bible-thumpers.

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all convictions, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?


It's happening. Can't everyone see it?

Animus

Aug. 23rd, 2005 11:00 am
tinhuviel: (Cads)
ANIMUS
She beheld the shining beauty of the mystery in his eyes
and she danced in flames of majesty no horror dare disguise
just to summon forth the passion lingering underneath his skin
and to share with him the pleasure of dark secrecy and sin.
Swirling like a double helix in her sanctity and grace
she invoked the terrible beauty of that mask upon his face
and he placed her soul among his treasures deep within a dream
and held it hostage by the nightmare of a Darkness yet unseen.
”O! Cleave unto him, pirouetting childe of fragile light!”
Sang the spirits gone before her into neverending Night.
”All joys pale to his dread touch, the threads of his desire.
Dance into the flames ~ submit your soul to his dark fire!”











TAE 2003

Gumption

Aug. 10th, 2005 03:29 pm
tinhuviel: (Elf Barry)
I got enough to send B The Bed of Mysteries. I'm not sure whether to be terrified or embarrassed by my presumption. The moment I clicked send, I regretted doing it, but I knew that would happen. Really, I think I'm going to be sick now.
tinhuviel: (Cads)
I found a poem. I believe that [livejournal.com profile] falkenna will understand it more than anyone else besides myself. Well...perhaps Me'Shel'le and [livejournal.com profile] sri3m...but particularly [livejournal.com profile] falkenna

A Perfect Beast )
tinhuviel: (Default)
I was going through my files here at work, trying to clean out some rubbish, and I found this ~ something I wrote last year...and obviously inspired by Barry Andrews' style and mystery.

The Sanctity of Shame

A thousand years the Whisper drifted, singling out its souls
Those who heard its message threw their bodies on the coals
A thousand more it breathed its ineluctable refrain
Into the ears of hopelessness
The Sanctity of Shame.

Abomination spake its tongue, this Whisper of an Age
Forgotten by the Idiot, the Maiden, and the Mage
Its power is Unknowing for, unknown, there's no defence
Derision breeds destruction breeds the child and its offence

And so begat the Whisper, twining silent in the dark
To bring the babe a nightmare and a tremour of the heart
The stain of blood on urgent lips from whence the Whisper came
The sacred song of sacrifice
The Sanctity of Shame.

26 March, 2001

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