Lost Tales (or, Linda Mercury takes on Tolkien)

Argonath Bookends

The Argonath

protect my desk.

They mark the boundaries of 

Gondor. 

"Go back," 

They tell the Numinorians. 

"You have reached the limits of your land."

Maybe I should face

them the other say. I have not

yet the 

limits

of my 

land.

Poetry Break.

 I found a long-lost poem while I was doing some KonMari organization on my file cabinet. It's obviously pretty old.

I call this one, "Bullshit."

A self-indulgent, condescending woman once told me,

"The greatest art is borne of sorrow."

(bullshit)

She then told me,

"When you finally experience sorrow, you

will understand what I mean."

(Because pain never visits those under thirty).

    I didn't say that my mother had died a year ago.

    I'd put my dog down two months ago.

    I had left my husband a month ago.

             She was a liar.

 

The best art comes from joy.

Linda Mercury's Naughty Notes

My book, Linda Mercury's Naughty Notes, is live, too! You can buy it at these following retailers!

Amazon

Barnes & Noble

Rakuten Kobo

Apple Books

24 Symbols

Vivlio

What do you get when you combine years of erotic writing? Linda Mercury's Naughty Notes, Volume One. 

 

In this collection of mostly heterosexual short fiction, the stories range from the cold lakes of Minnesota, to young lust, to the obligatory visit to the principal's office. Sit back and enjoy the best in one-handed reading.

A portion of my proceeds from this book will be donated to Black Lives Matter. Because the real world needs to be sexy and joyous, too.

Poetry break.

I have been feeling despair over the currently political environment. Who better to describe despair than Russian poet Anna Akhmatova.

Last Toast by Anna Akhmatova

Translated from the Russian by Katie Farris and Ilya Kaminsky

---

I drink to our ruined house
To the evil of my life
To our loneliness together
And I drink to you—
To the lying lips that have betrayed us,
To the dead-cold eyes,
To the fact that the world is brutal and coarse
To the fact that God did not save us.

Hafiz Break!

During the winter, keeping a sense of perspective is all important. As such, here is Hafiz, the beloved fourteenth century Persian poet!

This poem was translated and interpreted by Daniel Ladinsky.

***

How does it feel to be a heart?

Once a young woman asked me,
 "How does it feel to be a man?"
And I replied,

"My dear,
I am not so sure."

Then she said,
"Well, aren't you a man?"

And this time I replied,


"I view gender
as a beautiful animal
That people often take for a walk on a leash
And might enter in some odd contest
To try to win strange prizes.

My dear,
A better question for Hafiz
Would have been,

"How does it feel to be a heart?"

For all I know is Love,
And I find my heart Infinite
And Everywhere."

Hafiz break!

I'm a big fan of Hafiz (or Hafez), a Persian poet who lived 1325-1389 CE.

Sometimes, when I am completely stressed out, I open a book of his poems and read. I always come away refreshed and enlightened.

Here is one for you today, translated and re-imagined by Daniel Ladinsky, called I Know the Way You Can Get.

I know the way you can get
When you have not had a drink of love:

Your face hardens,
Your sweet muscles cramp.
Children become concerned
About a strange look that appears in your eyes
Which even begins to worry your own mirror
And nose.

Squirrels and birds sense your sadness
And call an important conference in a tall tree.
They decide which secret code to cahng
To help your mind and soul.

Even angels fear that brand of madness
That arrays itself against the world

Tomb of Hafiz in Shiraz.

And throws sharp stones and spears into
That innocent
And into one's self.

O I know the way you can get
If you have not been out drinking Love:

You might rip apart
Every sentence your friends and teachers say,
Looking for hidden clauses.

You might weigh every word on a scale
Like a dead fish.
You might pull out a ruler to measure
From every angle in your darkness
The beautiful dimensions of a heart you once
Trusted.

I know the way you can get
If you have not had a drink from Love's
Hands.


That is why all the Great Ones speak of
The vital need
To keep Remembering God,
So you will come to know and see Him
As being so playful
and Wanting.
Just Wanting to help.

That is why Hafiz says:
Bring your cup near me,
For I am a Sweet Old Vagabond
With an Infinite Leaking Barral
Of Light and Laughter and Truth
That the Beloved has tied to my back.

Dear one,
Indeed, please bring your heart near me.
For all I care about is quenching your thirst for freedom!

All a Sane man can ever care about
Is giving Love!

For my Charming Man

Feeling the love today. :)

Sun and Moon
by Gina Zeitlin

It's all about sex,
we both know that.

But     what I wonder is
why
after every molecule of desire
in my body has been satisfied
after
the sudden moistening, the deep
fierce aching and raising heat
after
the throbbing glory of release and the cries
of need and pleasure have dissolved
into the air,

Something like my soul slips from me
and goes to you,
without choice or question,
and wraps itself around you
all night, like the breath
of the moon.

And why
I carry the thought of you
as constant as any sun
in my heart.

Getting Sweaty

Straight-laced
c. Linda Mercury

Soon, we’ll dress,
order
our outer selves again. We’ll
wipe off the sweat and come and
button and
zip and
knot. We will
search for
food and drink and outside
companionship.

We will look
tidy and neat and polite and civilized.
We will
smile and
act nice.

We endure those lies for our insides are
hot, wild, crazed,
feral-
just a little

disorderly.

We know who we are.
We can survive
just a little

civilization.

Inspirational Quotes.

Every one has quotes they pin up on their wall by their desks. As we close in on American Thanksgiving, I want to highlight the most important gratitude of all - that of love.


For one human being to love another:
that is perhaps the most difficult of our tasks;
the ultimate, the last test and proof,
the work for which all other work is but preparation.
-Rainer Maria Rilke

"Some day after we have mastered the winds, the waves and gravity, we will harness for God the energies of love; and then for a second time in the history of the world, humans will have discovered fire."
-Teilhard de Chardin

The subject tonight is Love
And for tomorrow night as well.
As a matter of fact I know of no better topic
For us to discuss
Until we all
Die!
-Hafiz, translated by Daniel Ladinsky

"Love is life. All, everything that I understand, I understand only because I love. Everything is, everything exists, only because I love."
-Leo Tolstoy

"Any thought that is not filled with love seems unholy."
-André Gide

"Love your enemies; do good to those who hate you; bless those who curse you; pray for those who treat you spitefully."
-Jesus Christ

"Right now, we are appearing as the very light of consciousness, alive as love, although we may require some training, like an artist would, to fully offer our self as love's gift."
-David Deida from "Waiting to Love"

"There is no remedy for love but to love more."
-Thoreau

"When I love, I love so much, it's dangerous."
-Nicole Kidman

"To love is to tilt with the lightning, two bodies routed by a single honey's
sweet."
-Pablo Neruda

When I think of you,
fireflies in the marsh rise
like the soul's jewels,
lost to eternal longing,
abandoning my body
-Izumi Shikibu

Pillowed on your thighs in a dream garden,
little flower with its perfumed stamen,
singing, sipping from the stream of you --
sunset, moonlight -- our song continues.

-Ikkyu Sojun

Celebrate what you have, every day.

A dream gave me the idea for this poem. I wrote the first draft as soon as I woke up. :)

Making Cookies

c. Linda Smith

I wrap my hand around yours and kiss your neck as we
cream butter and sugar together.

Your sari is bright and soft under my mouth as
we dance in time to your limp
to the refrigerator for eggs.

Vanilla haunts the walls
as the oven works magic.

You always
forget melted chocolate burns.
I lick your tongue all better.
Your sweetness surpasses all others.

Someday, I will lose you to the rot in
your bones.

But not today.

Today, these cookies are perfection.

Occasional poetry.

A little something by me.

The Ten-Minute Warning


Lilac put the final touches on her
black eyeliner,
and pulled on her
black fishnet stockings.
She adjusted her
black corset and her
black tulle skirt and retied her
black Doc Marten's.
She walked out the door when her
black cell phone beeped twice.
She checked the text message.
She twirled on the sidewalk, smirked, and said,
"Everyone will be so jealous."

Rosemary Kerk was feeding her baby,
rejoicing in the splatters when her
cell phone beeped twice.
She checked the text message.
She stared at it,
openmouthed.
"No! I won't!"
and she threw the phone against the wall.
She picked the spoon back up and continued to feed her child.
She forgot some things are not negotiable.

Josephine was sitting at her desk when her
cell phone beeped twice.
She checked the text message.
She didn't even save her work; she just walked out of her cubicle.
She shed her scarf
in the aisle,
her shoes
by the windows.
She left a trail of clothes
on her way to the elevator until
she stood naked in the rain, her mouth open to drink.

Trish O'Darby was looking at a pair of
absolutely delicious
Jimmy Choo's through the sparkling store window when her
cell phone beeped twice.
She checked the text message.
In less than 2 minutes, she was wearing those shoes.
She minced into the next storefront that read,
"Wills! Five Minutes or Less, Guaranteed!"
She walked out with three minutes to go,
and began dialing.
"Hello, Helen? Trish. I'm sorry."
"Hello, Mom? Trish. I'm sorry."
"Hello, Lana? I'm sorry."
She was apologizing to her father when everything went dark.

Nix Ricard looked both ways before he stepped off the curb.
He was mentally reviewing the presentation he was giving this afternoon when his
cell phone beeped twice.
He checked his text message.
He stepped back onto the curb and dialed.
His wife's crisp voice crackled in his ear when she said, "Hello?"
And Nix told his wife the words she’d never heard enough.
"I love you.
I have loved you since the day you stepped on my foot in fifth grade.
You have been the greatest joy of my life," he said.
She laughed. "Nix, did you have a liquid lunch?”
He took a deep breath.
"I couldn't tell you this before, but darling, you have to believe me,
I thought it every single day.
You are the jewel in the crown of night.
Kiss the children for me.
Kiss them for me every day and every night.
Tell them their Daddy loved them.
Do you understand, my sweet? It's time.”
She understood. Nix could hear her sobs.
"I have to go now.”
He hung up on her tears,
then looked to the sky, and closed his eyes.

Inspiration

This is why people write and dance and sing and create.

The importance of friends.

Once upon a time, I wrote this poem:

Hit and Run Lover
I always thought Self Esteem
and I would meet
in a meadow full of
wild flowers,
run
into each other’s arms
(with, of course, the “Ode to Joy” in the background)
and then walk hand in hand
together for all time,
exchanging blissful, soulful looks.

Alas!

Self Esteem is that
inconstant lover who
throws me against an alley wall,
snakes a hand down my pants and
ravishes me until I’m senseless
with delight.
Then runs away, giggling,
while I lean against the wall,
gasping and limp, damp and
wailing
Wait!
Can’t I have just a little more of that?

I sent it to non-writing girlfriend who gave me very wise advise:

Maybe you should go a different route with the “bad lover”.  Perhaps that LOW self esteem is something like this: he’s a big bastard that you occasionally fall for, you know it’s wrong but it’s habitual.  Then suddenly he’s out of your life and you like AHHHH!!  I feel like ME again.  Hello HIGH self esteem.

It was a revelation, not just writing wise, but personally. Could I imagine that feeling good was the default state, instead of constantly doubting myself?

So I tried another poem.

The Seduction of Self-Denigration

Like a lover who sneers behind your back, it sneaks into
your life
wearing the mantle of virtue –
productivity
modesty
simplicity
humility.

It promises people will
like
admire
pet
praise
love
you.

It’s got all the right words, and all the right moves. This is everything
you ever wanted.

This one is smooth. Fine. And oh, so sweet.

Beware.

It’s sick sweet like cotton candy, like heroin, like a bitter
addiction with honey on its tongue.

As with every bad lover, you
discover it
lied
about itself and you.

All the things it promised
(love and delight and all the joy you can devour)
haven’t shown up.
They never will.

You feel sordid and dirty and
dissatisfied with the
arrangement.

Kick it out.
Promise yourself never to let it back in.
Bad lovers always knock again.

Almost, but not quite there.

Here's a poem I've always liked and I think it's pretty good. It's just not...right yet.

Any thoughts?


My grief breaks me, I will not bend.

Really, what’s wrong with breaking?
Maybe the mighty oak was destined to break,
instead of bending like that stupid willow
(or reeds or whatever it was)
in the irritating fable we get
nagged with when sorrow strikes.

Breaking, the oak is transformed
to warm and cheer a dark night,
provide rest for the weary or
a place to meet and nourish the lonely and hungry.
The willow (or reeds or whatever) just wavers
unchanged, unusable, useless.


The oak and I will break and we both will be created anew.

Hope.

Emily Dickinson said
hope is a thing with feathers,
delicate, light, and small.

I think hope is giant beast with
fangs, claws, and fur.
It crashes into your life,
mauls and
remakes you in a form
unrecognizable, never before seen.
Then, with a final brutal, ravenous bite to your
mangled face,
sends you out stronger than you were.


c. Linda Mercury

Oh, yeah - just to explain.

Mostly, I'm posting my old poetry because I'm too busy revising Dracula's Secret to come up with anything new for this blog.

Emergency Surgery's first line came to me about three years ago when I had to end nearly thirty-year (fairly loose) friendship. I didn't realize how much of me this person had become until it was over. I felt empty and hollow, and it surprised me how much I missed our interactions.

Oh, Please, Aeneas was a response to the most irritating section of the Aeneid. Can you believe that some old white guy scholars call the scene where he sails away from Carthage to be Aeneas' most heroic moment? Disgusting. I think that part ruins an otherwise fantastic read. I think Virgil must have had some bad dormice in honey that day.

(The Romans had a strange view of yummy food)

So, more poetry to come!

More poetry

I was reading the Aeneid and I got to my least favorite part - Dido's death. So I wrote this as a retort to the unnecessary death of a brilliant female character.



Oh, Please, Aeneas

Dido, Queen of Carthage
Threw herself off a wall
For you?

Yeah, right, Son of Venus.
You and I know the truth.

You’re dick-sizing with Odysseus about the
women you both left behind.
He claims Calypso, the unflagging nymph, begged him to stay, but he tired of her, even after she promised him immortality.

I hear your juvenile response across the centuries.
Oh, yeah? Well, a QUEEN killed herself for love of ME and our lands became mortal enemies until my descendents destroyed her city and sowed it with salt.

Nauseating.
A queen is strong.
She keeps her wits.
Go ahead. Dump her, sail away like the
skulking coward you are.
She will rise, triumphant,
send her elephants trumpeting through your
backyard.
And not until Quintus Fabius will she be defeated,
only after
years of struggle and a waste of power.
You had nothing to do with that victory.

You are so not worthy of a queen’s pain.

You lied, Aeneas.
There was no funeral pyre. You know she
put on her jeweled sandals,
strode through the city she owned.
She wouldn’t let a panderer ruin her proud name.

Occasional poetry.

Here's an original poem I call Emergency Surgery.

I miss you like a tumor I didn’t know I had.

I never noticed the weight of you, suppressing delicate nerves,
until you were gone.

I took you out, a surgery to save my life,
now an enormous aching hole in my skin where once there was a familiar mass.
I miss the pain I had grown to know and even,
to love just a little.
I destroyed something that made me beautiful.

There’s room now for something healthy to grow there,
room for vitality to breathe and stretch.
Whatever is planted in that deep abyss will bloom, thanks to you being gone, no longer taking
nutrients and energy away from my beauty.

Until then, though,
I miss your poison, simply because
I was used to it.

Poetry and its relationship with fiction.

Just like listening to live music or observing paintings, poetry fuels my writing in a potent but indirect way.

I like poetry that explores an emotion or situation with very little meandering. Fiction lets you ramble a little bit, get in-depth thinking.

Poetry helps me keep on track and not be afraid of uncomfortable topics.

Some of my favorite poetry books are:

Beautiful Signor by Cyrus Cassells (a lush and gorgeous romance between two men in Italy)

100 Love Sonnets
and
Full Woman, Fleshly Apple, Hot Moon by Pablo Neruda(anything by Neruda, really. I think I'd read the man's grocery list)

Hafiz and Rumi, naturally.

And the best book about poetry is

How to read a poem and fall in love with poetry by Edward Hirsch. Chapter Eight, Poetry and History: Polish Poetry after the End of the World, is some of the greatest writing ever done on literature.

Russian poet Anna Akhmatova wrote this snippet before her epic poem "Requiem".

In the terrible years of the Yezhov terror I spent seventeen months waiting in line outside the prison in Leningrad. One day, somebody in the crowd identified me. Standing behind me was a woman, with lips blue from the cold, who had, of course, never heard me called by name before. Now she started out of the torpor common to us all and asked me in a whisper (everyone whispered there):
"Can you describe this?"
And I said: "I can."
Then something like a smile passed fleetingly over what has once been her face.

This is what poetry does for us.

The joys of slacking.

I'm not really slacking, actually. My family of birth continues to have health problems and all sorts of scary excitement.

Some writers can ignore the stress and keep to their regular schedules. Much to my shame, I'm not one of them.

Instead, I'm working as it fits my energy level. I'm doing lots of brainstorming, reworking of my plots, and synopsis revisions. I manage actual composition by hand now, instead of on my computer. For some reason, that feels more playful, less serious. I get to make a big mess with my horrid handwriting and scratch outs and marginalia. :)

I've bought poetry from the Spanish Renaissance to feed my head. Reading poetry, especially from your non-native culture, keeps a writer juicy and creative. If you don't read poetry, why not?

Next week, I'll post some of my favorite poets and poetry books. :)