8 - Erasing Eris

Things you need to know:

1. Eris is the unpleasant, bitter, Greek deity of Chaos and Discord.
   
2. This took me for-bloody-ever…

#NaPoWriMo Day 8 and yesterday I sculpted an erasure poem, inspired by a prompt of “Eridanus”, courtesy of my handy-dandy randomised prompts-and-topics spreadsheet. And, being me, I went a bit extra with it all (we’re all astonished, I know), and decided that the thing I would be erasing would be the entire bloody Wikipedia article, and then, in order for the audio version to match the spirit of the visual version, that I would record me reading the entire bloody Wikipedia article aloud and cut the concomitant bits out of the recording for authenticity.

I can certainly say I’ve learned some things, though what they might be, only time can tell… (The image description for this is going to be… special, for one…)

Remember that, if you’re a subscriber to my Patreon, you can hear a recording of this piece (and the seven preceding it) there. And it is certainly an experience! The link to the relevant post is here: https://www.patreon.com/posts/erasing-eris-155174189

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Two halves of the redacted article side-by-side:

Or, if you’d like to see the whole darned thing in a oner:

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Fine, I’ll have pity on you – here’s the version rendered into plain words:

Eris stretches along the south.
It is a river. It remains one of the
real features of the blue-white years,
whose tradition means “the end”.

Peculiar observations indicate poles
spinning extremely rapidly.
The noteworthy Beta tradition called
a blue-white Earth. Its foot gives
indistinguishable amateurs primary
binary magnitude; visible, divisible:
a triple system consisting of an
orange main star,
a white dwarf,
and a red dwarf.

The maga is easily visible white.
The maga have a period of 50 years.
Artists impress, ran –
one extra orange-hued star,
one planet, a period of 7 years.

Supervoid cold spot is large
(devoid of gaies),
meter superseded only by
speculation that the void may be
due to quantum entanglement
between our universe and another.

Deep-sky visible in small amateurs
with large instruments
light the northeast. Eris is a faint reflection,
an ancient remnant illuminated by grand design.
barred gays center an unusual structure:
a grand design spiral that exists tightly wound.

The Nu Eris shower radiate cons every year;
the parent is unidentified.
Another peaks, dips his paws into Eris;
this mirror depicts a river,
flowing into the south.
According to one theory, the marsh is
held sacred to the domain of the Abyss:
a myth of the father, no strength to control
and so veers, scorching both Earth and heaven.
Zeus intervene and cast him to the burning river!

Eris cannot be seen from China.
The White Tiger of the West was
classified knowledge of western stars.
Citation needed.

5 - Inflexible Meritocracy

#NaPoWriMo Day 5 and it is Sunday, so I’m taking advantage of the bibliomancy prompt I gave the Allographic Write-In to make what turned out to be a somewhat fatalistic rant against the symptoms of autocracy, on a variety of scales, via a quote from a book about astronomy, that I happened to have nearby because I wanted to check about Rhiannon’s place in Welsh astrography for yesterday’s piece. I bounced via Perseus and Medusa to misogyny and marginalisation, and thereby pattern-matching and prophesy. So, you know, nothing too major… The title speaks to the etymology of the names of the Greek Fates, especially Atropos.

Remember that, if you’re a subscriber to my Patreon, you can hear a recording of this piece (and the four preceding it) there. The link to the relevant post is here: https://www.patreon.com/posts/inflexible-154851101

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Where the arm of Perseus curves around to hold his shield, there are several interesting star clusters worth observing.

Dark Land, Dark Skies (The Mabinogion in the Night Skies)
Martin Griffiths, 2017

Where his arm curves, something glimmers,
a shimmer in the half-light, a collection of
burning elements that may protect him.
Some say it had a woman’s face, once;
something to possess, cursed for its
rarity, high market value, hanging in the
balance of men’s regard – something
only the divine could stand against.

And yet. How fearsome to be someone
used and rejected, ejected from humanity,
disappearing into myth and yet made
to go on serving after being cleaved from
the weft. We are a warped warning;
for daring to have ungovernable hair we’re
a sinful admonishment to freeze, petrified by
whispers that those the gods favour
can be cast lower than a snake’s belly,
and jealousy is bitterest when it
echoes from the mouths of power.

This stanza should be a volta, a turn from
the established narrative, a way to make
this story happier, the powerless rise up,
abusers affronted at being confronted,
but I haven’t found the solution, hope
only we’re not doomed to repetition, and
that lessons learned from classics can
be steps; foundations, not predictions.

Fate’s a tricky thing, and eavesdroppers
on the future never prosper by it,
locked in an agony of wanting to stop the
jackboot, halt the tide, and craving the
grim frisson of being right. Tucked far enough
into the margin, you get a better view of
the larger pattern, and, hampered by the need
to see it complete, we compete with curiosity
to grasp the shears, delineate what’s next.

And maybe this time…
Maybe. Please.

Image is of a Medusa cameo ring from the Altes Museum via Wikipedia

2018.5 Ursa Major

We are in the carpark, looking up;
The sky is smeared with city lights
And I remember a darker, brighter childhood,
Or maybe just sharper eyes.

I spot the Plough, point it out.
It is the only thing I know apart from
Out-of-season Orion.
It would be good to see Cassiopeia,
Caput Draconis, Böotes, remember again
How to nominate North, even to spot my own star sign,
For comedy effect, of course.

We neither of us seem keen to steer away;
Our drifting conversation moves at a
Night-long pace, a deceptively slow 600mph,
Full of distant glimmerings we do our best to
Capture with familiar names and tales of
Faithless lovers, vengeful mothers,
Heroes, followers, and monsters.

How will we navigate these waters?
Column of fire or column of smoke?
Parched and starving,
We drink each other’s laughter,
Eat stories, draw connections - point to point,
Perspectives drawing symbols in what feels like
Holy fire, tonight.

Hushhh, says the city, tires on tarmac,
Even now, even here.
And I want to take you with me to true dark,
Thronged with fox call, owl cry,
Wind aria and chorus of branches, grass, ivy,
Lively with the sky’s wildfire,
Sing songs together to the dark-bright lovers
Who have long-since died,
And grace us with their gasping light.

#14 Daphnis

I've got some kind of viral infection that makes me dizzy and headachey, so no poem from my dry, fragile brain yesterday, but I snuck a look at some of the napowrimo prompts from the last couple of days, and was inspired by the suggestion for a wine-and-love song (Anacreontic is a particular form - I didn't have the wherewithal for a new form, so this is what you get):


It was never about wine
It makes us both sick
In different ways
Me in my chest
You in your head

It was sometimes about beer
Or whisky
But never too much
I felt you slip from my touch
Become imaginary

My hands would pass
Through each other
Over and over
And I felt the pressure
Of an empty mouth
And dissolving barriers
Between dark and light.

It had to stop being about beer
Or whisky
But sometimes the sticky fun
Of things with intricate names,
Interesting shapes
And expensive labels

And food
Lots of food.
I don't lose myself then
Can't swim in solids,
Drowning in the cave of ideals.

But I can run,
Sugar-fuelled,
In mad circles,
Singing to the moon.
"Diana! Give me your brother's
Bright arrows! Just tonight!"

But you stopped
The mouths of muses
With arrows of your own
And we, pierced,
Sank under each other's weight
A delicious, spiral swoon.

We found different ways
To be in our cups
And sometimes still,
Even alone
I sup love from the eyes
Of a trembling moon
And walk taller,
No longer stumbling.

#12 Laborious

Treacherous golden
Fur spurs sacrifice, armour
Carved from enmity.

Spawned for vengeance he
Hacks heads dreading the hiss of
Reawoken flesh.

Swifter than sunlight
Hero's plight wins forgiveness;
Politeness trumps spite.

Undaunted by the
Heat of pursuit, arrogance
Is cooled in a jar.

One day to make a
Difference, sluicing the neglect
Of years clean away.

Cry havoc! Unleash spite
On cowed head until bright noise
Drives you from your bed.

Bring the might of this
Yet untroubled king to his
Knees - a fit tribute.

Man-eating nags can
Only be soothed by their lord's
Flesh - best rest ever.

Princess craves a royal
Gift; jealous rift rips living
Breath from girt queen's lips.

Elements conspire,
A year of tireless pursuit
Bears out giant fruit.

Laughter rings and he weeps
For brief golden memories
And your heavy tricks.

Wrest friend and pet from
Frigid dark, hark at captive
Whines, win long-sought rest.

#6 Statute

I don't usually do intros, but this was inspired by visiting the Louvre in Paris recently, and seeing, among other things of beauty (we mostly stuck to the Classical statues - you can't hope to "do" the whole museum in a day), the Venus de Milo. I don't usually do set forms, but NaPoWriMo is all about the challenges, so this is a terzanelle, or approximation thereof.

Love appears to be disarmed
And where she points is empty
By powers absent we are charmed

Antiquity has lost her sentry
Her guards are lost or sleeping
And where she points is empty

By night came thieves in dark and creeping
By day with flags and trumpets bold
Her guards are lost or sleeping

We revere them, sere and cold
Visit them in crowded dreaming
By day with flags and trumpets bold

White or black or gilded gleaming
We come from all across the Earth
Visit them in crowded dreaming

From them we seek to fill some dearth
Love appears to be disarmed
We come from all across the Earth
By powers absent we are charmed