After a very long break—which I spent mostly working, and in any case cut off from civilisation, that is the Net—here I am, finally back, and very glad about it.

I am planning to slowly catch up on all the personal journals on my f-list, as well as go through the August nest_of_spiders posts. I won’t, however, even try to browse through the numerous Remus, Sirius, and Remus/Sirius communities—I realise it’s a lost battle. And thus I have a big request: if there are any fics which appeared within these last two months and which you think are really worth recommending, please let me know, I’d be most grateful for the links.


For the new beginning I am posting one of my recent poems, from the 24^th of August. As always, comments of any kind are most appreciated.


HIS LOVE HURTS
                                  to W.

His love hurts like touching
relics with sinful hands
but I bask in this
newfound pain, finally
mine. And perhaps
this is what makes me
worthy.

Can you imagine? Not a drabble. It was supposed to be a drabble, but I soon realised that there was nothing unimportant for me in this text, nothing I was ready to edit out. And who said I can’t write fics between 100 and 300 words? So. I must admit, however, that I kept working until I got a round number …
More positive fics ahead, also some for the rainy collection.


Title: Can You Fix It
Characters: Remus/Sirius
Era: OotP
Rating: PG
Word count: 160 (!)
Disclaimer: I disclaim.
A/N: All feedback will be treasured. Con-crit is received with love and gratefulness.


Can You Fix It

The room is dark and Remus’s eyes need a while to get used to it.

“Sirius?” he calls quietly as he steps in. A slight movement catches his attention: Sirius is sitting on the floor in the corner, squeezed between the wall and his mother’s dressing table. When Remus comes closer, he can see a silver mirror with the Black family crest in Sirius’s hand. The other hand is hiding his face.

“Sirius.” Remus crouches next to him and lightly touches his knee.

Crash! and the mirror is smashed against the wall. Remus starts, but before he can say anything:

“Can you fix it, Moony?” Sirius uncovers his face and stares at him with burning eyes.

When Remus reaches for the wand, Sirius shakes his head.

“Me. Can you fix me, Moony?”

Oh.

“Sirius, you don’t—”

Sirius picks up a shard and squeezes it in his hand, then watches intently as a thin red trickle runs down his wrist.

First of all, as I’ve been thinking about this for the last couple of days, I would like to THANK MY WONDERFUL F-LIST for being a wonderful F-list: for the mind-blowing praise and the thoughtful criticism, for opening my eyes to new interpretations and inspiring me to write new things. For all your amazing support. Thank you ♥

And here goes a drabble:


Title: Touch
Characters: Remus/Sirius
Era: Hogwarts, after The Prank
Rating: PG
Word count: 100
Disclaimer: I disclaim.


Touch

stripped of your hands
I’m naked
I’m cold
and without a trace of pride
I’ll beg you for a touch
be it a kiss or a blow


“Remus.” A plea.

But Remus doesn’t stop, even when Sirius reaches out for him. He wrenches his hand out, without looking up, and walks on.

“Remus, please.” A whisper as Sirius slowly touches his fingers to his lips.


“Lupin.” A snarl through gritted teeth.

But Lupin doesn’t stop, so Sirius punches him on the arm, hard. Remus stumbles and for a moment, yes, he will react now, he must!

No blow falls, though. Nothing. His face studiously blank, Remus turns and disappears around the corner.

“Lupin!” A wild scream. “Lupin, you—” Sirius chokes on the words.

“Moony.” A plea.

For a change (new drabbles are being prepared), here is a poem written three days ago.


--- HOME

‘the’ means this, that, specific:
the home of my first days and second
the home surrounded by birches and pines
the home with a cat on the window sill
looking out curiously at the lake
the home that faded in the third days

‘a’ means some, whichever, any:
a home, just with a little silence
a home where the weary feet will lead
a home to welcome defeated returns
without asking wrong questions
a home for a hopeful ever

between the two, there’s an articleless dream

Here goes another drabble, this time not rainy. It was inspired by a poem by Philip Larkin I quote below and a wonderful review on “Leave-taking” by paulamcg. Comments are most appreciated.


Title: Minutes and Seconds
Characters: Remus(/Sirius)
Era: post-OotP
Rating: G
Word count: 100
Disclaimer: I disclaim.


Minutes and Seconds


What are days for?
Days are where we live.
(…)
They are to be happy in:
Where can we live but days?

Philip Larkin, Days


After Sirius’s fall, Remus left the days and moved to live in minutes and seconds.

He concentrated on little things, like the book in his hands or the dishes to wash, or the question to answer. Voices of friends grew unfamiliar, their tones changing too fast within the limited space he occupied. But he didn’t miss them.

The new dwelling proved safer: the shorter perspective didn’t overwhelm so much, didn’t threaten to drown him in the sight of broad fields and narrow streets which awaited his feet, all equally empty. It didn’t promise anything, either, just the following second, minute.

The notes that follow are not necessary to receive this drabble and can impose certain interpretation, so feel free to skip them if you’d rather avoid this. The fic can of course stand on its own, and is another take on the rain prompt at sirius_remus100.

I wrote this piece for paulamcg (at least in as much as I could ever write anything for anyone), whose particular interpretation of the previous two rainy drabbles inspired me to add another one and let Remus show he has not given up. In paulamcg’s interpretation, “Just a Drizzle” presents the actual outcome of Sirius and Remus’s fight, while “Through the Rain” is Remus’s dream of how it should have been. (If anyone’s interested, our discussion on this extrapolation starts here.)
I suppose it’s the first time I have so consciously decided to write something specific, which is a very new experience. Thank you, paulamcg, for the inspiration and for teaching me about hope!

All comments are most welcome!


Title: Soaked
Characters: Remus/Sirius
Era: post-Hogwarts
Rating: G
Word count: 100
Disclaimer: I disclaim.


Soaked

When Sirius opens the door, it’s Remus. Remus whom he hasn’t seen for two months now. Remus, his light green sweater soaked from the rain, droplets of water dripping from his hair.

“You were wrong,” he says, and Sirius involuntarily ducks his head, only to notice Remus’s shoes which are clearly falling apart. This makes him move aside to let Remus enter.

“Come in.”

“You were wrong.”

Sirius meets the steady bright gaze framed by wet eyelashes. “I know,” he answers simply. “We both were.”

“Yes.”

And this solemnity is enough. Without looking away, Sirius steps out into the rain.

Instead of any of yesterday’s angry poems, I’m posting one written over two weeks ago. It is dedicated to my beautiful friend, who hasn’t ceased to amaze me during this magical, intense year — and probably never will.


MY EVER
                  to Eija

I’ll remember your frail figure
sitting on the window sill
at the end of the corridor where
my life pulses pulses pulses
with purposes and reasons
I’ll remember your gentle smile
hovering so close so real
as close to real as—
The air has changed
in a second for a second for ever
for my ever

A proper writer’s flood is really enjoyable when it comes in a good moment. Brief explanations about the two recent drabbles here, in the “Through the Rain” entry.

Title: Just a Drizzle
Characters: Remus/Sirius
Era: post-Hogwarts
Rating: G
Word count: 100
Disclaimer: I disclaim.


Just a Drizzle

As if it weren’t bad enough already, it starts to rain. But no, it’s not even a proper downpour, which would match their tempers and perhaps water them down. Just a thin, irritating drizzle.

They walk faster, hands in their pockets, tense shoulders, eyes fixed on the ground. For a second — perhaps out of habit — Remus feels like trying again, and even saying sorry first, because of course neither of them wanted to— But no, he’s too tired for this.

“I’m leaving,” he says instead.

Sirius just nods and strides on, the keys to their flat ringing in his pocket.

This drabble, together with the one to be posted next, was inspired by a rain photo prompt over at sirius_remus100, unfortunately too late to take part in the challenge. Although the two pieces deal with the same prompt and can be interpreted as picturing two different outcomes of the same situation, I’m posting them separately — for order’s sake.
Comments are, as always, loved dearly, constructive criticism in particular. (I’m somewhat uncertain about the repetitions …)

Title: Through the Rain
Characters: Remus/Sirius
Era: post-Hogwarts
Rating: G
Word count: 100
Disclaimer: I disclaim.


Through the Rain

What happens next is rain: light, silvery curtains that close around them with soft patter. They don’t move for a while yet, staring at each other with their fists clenched and the harsh words burning their throats.

Finally the rain puts these out with a hiss, and Remus closes his eyes and lifts his face and hands to accept it. He exhales slowly, then shakes his head, sending droplets of water flying.

He can hear Sirius smile through the rain and he opens his eyes to see him lift his face, too.

“Let’s go home,” Sirius says into the sky.

Oh, I can’t resist posting. It’s one of the two drabbles I wrote today … or have written, as today’s not over. Criticism is most welcome. Rather predictably, so is praise.

Title: When Remus Opens the Door and Smiles
Characters: Remus/Sirius
Era: GoF (Lying Low at Lupin’s)
Rating: G
Word count: 100
Disclaimer: I disclaim.


When Remus Opens the Door and Smiles

When Remus opens the door and smiles, he’s all greying hair and hunched shoulders, and the wrinkles around his eyes are new and not from smiling.

Sirius’s been imagining this: himself knocking on this door, and Remus opening, and smiling, and saying “Hello, Padfoot,” as if it’s been a week and not a life. He’s been imagining stepping over the threshold and feeling warmth seep through his skin again, and filling all the empty places.

When Remus opens the door and smiles, Sirius knows it’s been too long and too wrong, and he feels like crying. Instead, he smiles back.

Before I start making my slow way through my f-list, replying to some inspiring comments here and posting the rest of the poems from my beginning-of-June flood, now that I finally have time to do so, I’m posting a poem which I wrote down only yesterday, although it started forming in my mind exactly a week ago. Comments of any sort are greatly appreciated.


CUT BEFORE

In the morning I cut the flowers
of roses, heavy in the rich overbloom,
before their pale petals fall and get stained,
before they hang their bald heads in shame
like young women after chemotherapy,
before they drink up the juices
which only the new buds deserve.

Another of yesterday’s poems. I’d say it is pretty unusual for me as regards the sort and amount of stylistic means. Next step on the way of changes?


THE AFTERNOON HAS COME

The afternoon has come whispering of summer
and far lands. Then enclosed the city in a cage of heat,
with one look burning out the strength to escape
and leaving nothing but the helpless dream.
The air shimmers in its sleepless fever,
waiting for the crisis to come. For now,
the seconds slow down.

I changed my mind. I am crazy. Writing like crazy. Crazy things.

It’s my first Remus/Sirius poem since, as I’ve just checked, a year: the previous one was “Foundations”, written exactly on the 8^th of June 2006 (and posted precisely four months later). So I really couldn’t wait. The next peculiarity is the fact that the poem’s rhymed — although I expect this might soon cease to be a peculiarity.

Just in case, as I don’t include a header: it is Remus’s perspective, sometime after OotP. I would be most happy to hear what you think. Concrit is, as always, loved dearly.


LEAVE-TAKING

Tending to your dreams, I forgot mine,
And they fled like birds of summer,
Leaving a songless air behind.

So did you. Following their call
You took off and went south to fly
Over the sunny lands. Enthralled,

I watched you leave, a voiceless cry
Burning my throat, until you were gone
Beyond the far horizon’s line.

Ooh, life is crazy. Since yesterday I’ve written another rhymed poem — but I’m not at all sure I’ll decide to post it, as it’s sort of … funny … or something — and a, let’s say, ‘normal’ poem, which is for some reason also strange. Yet another one is waiting to be written, but for now I have a fresh piece of prose (which started as a poem, to be exact). I count it to the “Seriously” collection, which has until now comprised of poems only.

Title: I Still Wake Up
Rating: PG
Word count: 100
A/N: All feedback is loved dearly, and concrit is rewarded with strawberry cake.
EDIT (1^st of July): Changed punctuation in the last sentence. Thank you, opheliet, for first questioning it, and paulamcg, for the suggestion of improvement.


I Still Wake Up

There were no goodbyes or silly letters. One day I came back and you weren’t there, and that was all right.

I’m getting used to sleeping alone. I’ve given up on trying to continue our evening conversations in my mind, and I read good books instead. I also have more space now: to stretch, and toss, and turn, and— And that’s all right, too.

But I still wake up at night like I used to, trying to snuggle closer. I listen in the dark for the sound of your breathing, but of course there’s nothing to hear — so I laugh.

It seems that I’m going through an experimenting phase in my writing: first line breaking, now — horror of horrors! — rhyming. This particular poem I blame on one Philip Larkin, my most recent love, whose “Collected Poems” I’ve been reading and sometimes translating into Polish (“An April Sunday brings the snow”, “To Failure”, “To My Wife”, “Coming” — I’m considering posting the translations, but who’d read them, really?) for almost a month now. His specific rhythm and rhyming sort of suggested, or even forced themselves on me as soon as the idea for this piece came. In the end I didn’t follow any regular rhythm, however, but concentrated on playing with rhymes (with an invaluable help from my rhyming dictionary, I must admit).

For some reason I wasn’t afraid to destroy the butterfly (an explanation about butterflies in my previous post), perhaps because it seemed to be a playful one from the very beginning. And I’m pretty sure I have not destroyed it, but — although I believe in every word — this piece remains more of a game for me than a real poem, coming “from deep in my stomach”.

Enough ramblings, here it goes, finished yesterday. All feedback is lo♥ed.



MY FICKLE FRIEND, CALLED MUSE

My fickle friend, called muse,
she likes to be late:
walk down the steps, hesitant,
waving her peacock fan,
while I stand by the car and wait,
my eyes carefully cast down and penitent.
Of course, she can

afford all the hesitation she will.
She knows I’ll keep standing next to the open door,
I’ll keep standing her moods,
I’ll wait for her ‘till
I fall, and more,
while she laughs, eludes —
this fickle friend of mine, called muse.

This is a poem I wrote two days ago. As I explained in my thank-you notes to the wonderful comments on “Look”, I make here another attempt to develop the idea of unconventional line breaking, although this time on a much smaller scale.

I’m wondering whether, or actually how the poem can be understood without a key, which is the meaning of the butterflies. Butterflies are a returning metaphor in my poems and I believe that knowing what the idea refers to can change the reading considerably. I decided to offer the answer — behind a cut, so as to not impose my interpretation on anyone. It might be interesting to read the poem without any explanation and perhaps only afterwards look for the key … But I leave the choice up to you.



THAT COME

the butterflies that come in rain,
sad butterflies with the patterns smudged on their wings —
the butterflies that come in snow,
the patterns on their wings carved by frost —
oh, how they can fly!
the butterflies that don’t come at all,
that evade the reach of my fingers,
the patterns on their wings hand-painted —
the butterflies that rule the world,
colourful tyrants of frail form —
come
don’t
come



( The Butterflies )

I hope this overlong explanation doesn’t deprive anyone of their own interpretation. Feedback of any sort and length will be most appreciated.

I wrote this piece a few weeks ago, inspired by this wonderful, wonderful poem by Eija (paulamcg): both by a particular phrase, with which I chose to begin my poem, and by the technique of unconventional line breaking in search of ambiguity. This is my very first take on this style and I must admit I was rather uncertain about the results. Thank you, Eija, for your encouragement, and for the inspiration in the first place!

I love comments of any length and dealing with any aspect of my writing.


LOOK

I don’t
touch you at all
but you
feel it
don’t you
look
on the corners
of your mouth
caress
I won’t
stop staring

And one more, written (down) yesterday morning. This poem is very special to me for a reason I cannot reveal yet, as I don’t want to influence the reception. I would absolutely love to hear about your possible interpretations, associations, ideas, impressions — everything. No worries, there’s no such thing as wrong answers :-)


GARDEN

I turned around
and her eyes were a garden
a spring garden
where the flower buds had frozen and dropped
a summer garden
with an empty swing
an autumn garden
where no one rakes the leaves

but the winter wouldn’t come

Yet another poem from the 12^th of May. I was wondering why I can call it a poem, when the language is so obviously simple and, well, prose. But I do call it a poem — and I believe it is more the concept of the piece, the way it was written and can be received, that make it one, than the language as such. Or do they?


HARDER

I bought myself today
a small bouquet of lilies of the valley.
I arranged them carefully in a blue vase
and looked at them, while listening to silly old love songs.

It was a beautiful morning.
Every time the cry started to rise
from deep in my stomach,
I just smiled harder.

Another poem from yesterday. I see I’m slowly beginning to play with the form. Hopefully it will bring some interesting results.
Feedback is — as always — loved dearly.


NO ONE WILL HEAR

Scream, my poems, scream!
No one will hear you.
Claw at the doors and try to tear down the walls,
the only response will be the echo of your cries.
Scream until your throats burn, burn away,
no one will hear you.
No one
will hear
us
No one
no one
hear
me