I dreamt of fingers laced in mold...
Apr. 21st, 2011 11:33 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
marinessToday's National Poetry month celebration poem was originally semi-published for a gaming group.
As a few people reading this might remember, I used to run a Vampire Larp (live action role playing game) withcoldecho and athenakt. At any given time, we had anywhere from 25 to 55 players showing up; part of the entertainment was wondering who, other than the diehard standbys, would be making an appearance.
As a gamemaster, my task involved editing, printing and photocopying the pregame info for the entire group – a generally four to six page handout that listed gossip, rumors, news items from the previous game (to let players know how their actions had been reported in our fictional media), and also providing clues to the deep mysteries of the game. Some of the clues were inserted into the news items, some handed out as dreams and nightmares to individual players.
And then I had the poems.
In game, these poems appeared on the walls of fictional places where our player characters would be hanging out – just appeared; no one ever saw them appear – or, in some cases, were suddenly spoken for no apparent reason by random characters on the street. I usually had one poem in every pregame handout.
As a poet, these provided an interesting challenge: write at least one poem, every other week, that not only rhymed, but contained specific words or images – and worked on at least some level as a poem. Adding to the fun, most of the time, the specific words and images weren't mine – they werecoldecho's. And adding further to the fun, the poems were coming from three different speakers.
I don't think many of the poems ended up working that well, but the discipline certainly helped me (even as it also drew my time away from other things I could be writing.)
I dreamt of fingers laced in mold
holding ten cards: a flush. I fold.
I dreamt of other shadows dire:
of leaves fog-caught; a bright lit dance
of liars laughing limned by fire—
while silken skulls caress my hands
(which rot here still; as owls laugh
and dance in masks, I shift my staff
with bleeding stumps) I twist and scream
yet never wake: is this a dream
or do I make these shadows prance?
No.
I leave no footprints on the sands.
I sleep, against the echoes cold
and listen to the owls scold –
and leave no footprints on the sand.
(March 1999)
As a few people reading this might remember, I used to run a Vampire Larp (live action role playing game) with
coldecho and athenakt. At any given time, we had anywhere from 25 to 55 players showing up; part of the entertainment was wondering who, other than the diehard standbys, would be making an appearance.As a gamemaster, my task involved editing, printing and photocopying the pregame info for the entire group – a generally four to six page handout that listed gossip, rumors, news items from the previous game (to let players know how their actions had been reported in our fictional media), and also providing clues to the deep mysteries of the game. Some of the clues were inserted into the news items, some handed out as dreams and nightmares to individual players.
And then I had the poems.
In game, these poems appeared on the walls of fictional places where our player characters would be hanging out – just appeared; no one ever saw them appear – or, in some cases, were suddenly spoken for no apparent reason by random characters on the street. I usually had one poem in every pregame handout.
As a poet, these provided an interesting challenge: write at least one poem, every other week, that not only rhymed, but contained specific words or images – and worked on at least some level as a poem. Adding to the fun, most of the time, the specific words and images weren't mine – they were
coldecho's. And adding further to the fun, the poems were coming from three different speakers. I don't think many of the poems ended up working that well, but the discipline certainly helped me (even as it also drew my time away from other things I could be writing.)
I dreamt of fingers laced in mold
holding ten cards: a flush. I fold.
I dreamt of other shadows dire:
of leaves fog-caught; a bright lit dance
of liars laughing limned by fire—
while silken skulls caress my hands
(which rot here still; as owls laugh
and dance in masks, I shift my staff
with bleeding stumps) I twist and scream
yet never wake: is this a dream
or do I make these shadows prance?
No.
I leave no footprints on the sands.
I sleep, against the echoes cold
and listen to the owls scold –
and leave no footprints on the sand.
(March 1999)