quinara: Owl from Meg and Mog driving: 'Who let the owl drive?' (Meg and Mog Owl drive)
Buffy in S6, for an [community profile] sb_fag_ends prompt that I picked specifically from the poetry wot I like on my shelf, so I didn't really have any excuse anyway. This is the link, or below the cut:

Flashblind )

In other news, it's been a while since you've had a Nigel Kennedy video, so have another:

Sound quality's ever so slightly better on the Radio 3 website - http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/p01g9vvg - but the embed doesn't work because the BBC have never fixed that...
quinara: Wesley looking angsty. (Wes swirly)
About all the shit on Twitter as late.


Must go to bed now. Can't hide from the future forever!
quinara: Spike from Sleeper, looking dismayed against a green background. (Spike green)
I wrote a poem for [livejournal.com profile] sb_fag_ends! As I say over there, I've been threatening to write some angsty-angry Spike POV poetry set in S6 during the sex-fest ever since I wrote this fic. This isn't quite that, but it sort of is. Probably quite far along in the relationship, I'd put this just before Dead Things or so. Rated R for being very much definitely crude without being particularly extensive or precise. Not work safe!! Not very happy either, but just about free of stuff that needs a warning on AO3. For the prompt 'Starting a sexual relationship/Being strong in the face of temptation'.

so now begins the waiting. )
quinara: No Kicking Penguins (Penguins)
Well, it seems to have taken me nearly four hours, door to door, but then having a snooze on a sunny train with the windows open is one of the more pleasant ways to spend an afternoon, in my opinion. It was a lovely end to a lovely weekend; I feel so relaxed now, like I've been on a lovely holiday that did what holidays are supposed to do! Considering I've spent the week frazzled and sleepless and ill (as I've been telling everyone for the last couple of days, in my croaky voice, pitching in and out, I'm iiiiiiill...!!!), I feel very much rejuvenated.

Although, now I'm back inside after being out/on a ventilated rather than air conditioned train, I can feel the first scratchings of hay fever round my eyes... But I'm ignoring that for now.

We had many great talks/chitchats, including a workshop where we wrote an exciting bad!fic, complete with songs, for which I spent far, far too long playing with [livejournal.com profile] kazzy_cee's iPad in my own little world. I'll put up the fruits of that when the whole of the fic-stravaganza can be enjoyed, but here also is something else: inspired by [livejournal.com profile] speakr2customrs' talk on death in fanfic, a Beowulf-style epic-heroic death scene for Pingu (ish). (Although, now that I've looked up the episode which scarred me as a child and was clearly the inspiration for this - see below - I feel like I've been horrifically cruel...)

Pingu vs. Ice Dragon.

So Pingu ventured from his icy home
To waddle through the snow, Antarctic mist -
But there he found a dragon, claws like knives
To freeze and tear the flesh of penguins brave.
Still Pingu fought, with beak and magic spells:
Great fire flared to burn the air with flame.
And yet - the dragon roared, reared up, his eyes
A charcoal black, too dark against the sky
Before he fell upon the penguin, caught
In fear, his feathers stiff. One strike, and then
It was no more again that Pingu saw
His mum and dad at home, the igloo's warmth;
His body fell, its final KARK a sigh,
Which whispered softly on the icy breeze.
quinara: Buffy standing at the back of her house, looking grumpy by a tree. (Buffy Flooded)
I wrote a poem for [livejournal.com profile] sb_fag_ends (the DW site for which has somewhat died, I fear; sing out if you miss it and we'll try harder!). We're on Sumerian Proverbs this month, after [livejournal.com profile] brutti_ma_buoni uncovered a load, of which the the summary for this poem is one.

G; free of stuff needing an AO3 warning (but gloomy); Buffy POV in S6-ish; free verse with a slightly concrete edge, because I was experimenting.

I looked into the water. My destiny was drifting past.

Fluid Dynamics. )

quinara: Spike smoking on a crate. (Spike crate)
I'm not quite sure what to do with index posts, but it seemed like a good way of collecting all my random Spikeid content together, so here I am creating one! Please find everything ripe for your delectation, and feel free to comment on anything and everything wherever you like. ;)

But first of all, some vital stats. )

And a more reflective introduction. )

To read everything together, you can either go to
[The complete version at AO3]
[Download the shiny, shiny ebook version from Box.net, which includes the introduction as a foreword]

Alternatively, individual books are on LJ and DW. )

And the soundtrack's here! (And on LJ.)

Thats all, folks. :)
quinara: Wishverse Buffy in a white frame. (Buffy Wish white box)
So, this is it! The end. Dum-dum-dum... I've had a blast writing this; I hope anyone who's made this far with me has had fun too! [livejournal.com profile] brutti_ma_buoni has been excellent, naturally, keeping me going to the edge of doom, and all that. There'll be an index post in a minute, but just to reiterate this is Spuffy and PG-13, basically. It's about ~4200 words (~550 lines) and warnings of this book are the general death and denial of agency that's been going through everything.

The party returns home.



      The future, when it really happens, feels
A certain way. A single second comes
That knots together all the past before,
So every nudge of inclination, cause
Set out for consequence, they settle, stop.
... )
quinara: Illyria looking serious in bright light. (Illyria shine)
You knew it was coming! [livejournal.com profile] brutti_ma_buoni has absolutely rocked in getting these back to me, so the end is essentially nigh. Cheers for the fabulous beta, BMB! This book is about 4400 words (~570 lines) and has big warnings for death and violence.

Gunn and Illyria deal with their counterparts.



      Gunn hasn’t been quite sure what he should say
Now they’ve arrived in this bewitched world;
He hasn’t known ... )
quinara: Spike smoking on a crate. (Spike crate)
Back into the swing of the endgame now, where perhaps unsurprisingly I find myself getting a bit more wordy than before, so this book clocks in at ~4600 words (~580 lines). Still Spuffy (though Spike&Gunn + Spike&Illyria are probably more relevant labels here), still PG-13, still warnings generally for death and denied agency, though they only vaguely come up in this book. Big thanks to [livejournal.com profile] brutti_ma_buoni, who betas like a trooper and slapped my wrist in all the right places. Not in a weird way. Um.

Spike and the others return to the upper world.



      It’s later, in the evening, when Spike stands
With cigarette, back on the roof again –
The one that’s so familiar, where he
Escaped from rain and war and ruined streets.
Of course, this tarmac’s now ... )
quinara: Spike smoking on a crate. (Spike crate)
It's with this that I herald the beginning of the end, pretty much. The P required to complete this WIP is vanishingly small now, and so in hope that people might be interested in reading the whole fic now it's done, I present the 2011 version of book I, in which the tone is more in line with the rest of the poem and the syntax should be more natural and easy to follow! If you have some sort of nostalgic preference for the old version, it's still here, but this is what I'm going to archive etc.

After I've posted book XII (with an ETA of maybe sometime towards the end of next week, with X and XI over the weekend/beginning of next week? This is dependent on other things also, though X and XI are ready to go with just a couple of final once-overs), I'm going to put up an index post with a proper blurb, but suffice to say this is a ~50,000 word Spuffy-gen parapocalyptic jaunt set a short while after the AtS finale, rated either PG-13 or R depending on how much blood they put in on the film version. ;) General warnings for issues and events concerning death, agency, gods and violence. Also, it's all in blank verse, which I think of as being slightly more petulant in demanding attention than prose, so you might like to get a cup of tea and a comfy chair.

This first part is ~4300 words (~535 lines). Humongous thanks to [livejournal.com profile] gillo, who did masses of beta work for me on this back in the day - without her I doubt I'd have ever started, let alone finished. Also thanks to [personal profile] stultiloquentia, who cheerled (and kept on cheerleading) the idea from its inception.

The situation in LA unfolds.


      Of bloody awfulness and fallen towns,
O Calliope, would I sing if you
Would lend your aid. And, wow, I sound a bit
Pretentious, don’t I? Sorry ‘bout that – what
I meant to say was this: I've got a plan... )
quinara: Cartoon Giles cleaning his glasses. (Giles cartoon)
The podcasts for [livejournal.com profile] writerconuk have been put up, by the wonderful Audio Video! It's all very exciting. If you want to know what WCUK is like, or just listen to people talking about fandom, do check them out!

I'm on there with my Fanpoetry Talk, in particular. When I get home, I'd like to make a video with my Powerpoint Presentation, but for now I've uploaded the .ppt file here, which you might like to follow along!

[Quinara - Fanpoetry Podcast, WCUK 2011]

(Massive shout outs to [personal profile] mere_ubu's Spaiku, [personal profile] sobsister's sonnet and [personal profile] fulselden's ballad in here!)

quinara: Sheep on a hillside with a smiley face. (Default)
Oh yeah, and what's the etiquette on commenting on poems people have shared just to share them? I keep having to scroll over this poem on my list where I'm sure the sentiment is very nice (other languages have words for sentiments we don't have, what does that mean, blah blah), but it chats about all these Sumerian tablets that were apparently business records, and what if they were poetry or psalms, and I keep getting this bitter taste in my mouth, because I'm almost certain the poet is talking about the Linear B tablets and apparently can't be bothered to work out the difference, and because frankly there is plenty of poetry and religious writing in Sumerian, thank you very much. I don't want to shoot the messenger, but I don't know what to say. I don't think the poem was posted with the intention of presenting it as blinkered anglophone wank, so it seems like it might be worth pointing out that that's how it comes across. And, and, and gumpity grump, the Sumerians and the Mycenaeans are not the same bloody people and it takes damned cheek to sideline all the thousands and thousands of people who used Sumerian for a massive rich multitude of purposes for some patronising bloody lament about what it would have been like if they'd done more with their language than count up sheep. Because they bloody did. Grump. Whinge.
quinara: No Kicking Penguins (Penguins)
I'm just back from [livejournal.com profile] writerconuk which was absolutely fabulous, as usual, with a lovely mix of interesting and funny new people, familiar old hands that it's always nice to catch up with at conversational pace (even if they spent a considerable portion of the weekend telling me how much was going to go wrong with my body as it got older... Cheers again, gang!), tasty food, tasty drink, comfy hotel furniture and extra specially informative talks! Having got back, also, I have found myself in the WiFi-enabled cafe down the street and am being constantly informed by menus to 'make myself at home', so I intend to.(I feel very cool though; this is the sort of cafe that only appears on TV, with loads of random tables and rickety chairs, with nice people serving you stuff and a whole library's worth of old books to read. I feel like a proper student or something... ETA: I should probably explain this with an extra comment that I currently have no internet in my house, and so have been using my phone as a WiFi hotspot, but do not have anywhere near enough data allowance to properly surf the net, so that's why I've been somewhat absent, and will probably continue to be until I go to France via my parents' house at the end of this week.)

I'm a bit tired so I'm not sure I'm up to recounting everything at any sort of length at the moment, but I did do a fanpoetry talk involving a workshop where we collectively wrote a poem in the style of Blackadder (from the Blackader III era - written to Amy Hardwood in Amy and Amiability, aka The Shadow, before she screws him over), and I have promised Gill repeatedly that I would post it, so the two versions are below the cut. There should be a podcast of the talk at some point (scarily!), so I'll post the rest of the presentation then, because the slides aren't very informative on their own and all else I have are the scribbles in my notebook.

Poemy Poem. )

I learnt many things over the weekend, so I'll have to get on those at some point. I think the main points are, though, that my vids are vastly more amateur than it's quite standard for vids to become (I have this horrible feeling I might have to learn some software); I have a worrying tendency of picking up on [personal profile] sueworld's accent and vocal mannerisms if I talk to her for more than five minutes; also that Tara in OMWF is actually enjoyable to play when putting on a mildly(?) David Bowie voice. And when having an EastEnders style row with [personal profile] bogwitch as Willow.

Oh, oh, oh, though my Docs also won an award for Cutest Shoes (I may have been ungracious about the 'cute' label, but was chuffed nonetheless) and I won an apparently authentically patterned Fourth Doctor scarf in the raffle, as knitted by [livejournal.com profile] lilachigh! I am much pleased with it, and look forward to wearing it in the autumn/winter. (Yes, with my anorak parka! At least until I need a thicker coat. :P)

Hope everyone got home OK, or is stiil OK at the hotel! I'm already looking forward to the next meet up. :D
quinara: 'You may be silent, but this will shut you up,' says Andrew. (Andrew ninja)
I've been a bit busy running around with things over the last couple of days, so, while I managed to read quite a bit, I didn't have the time to comment very much. And now I've forgotten where I've been, so if you think I might have read something you've written, I probably did and probably thought it was great? Sorry for being useless. *slaps wrist*

In other news, I'm doing a talk at [livejournal.com profile] writerconuk in August, and worked out that that subject I could most easily be enthusiastic about was fanpoetry! So that's what I'm talking about. But! I would love to get some wider opinions on it, so please take my anonymous poll:

Inform the world! Get thoughts off your chest! )

Also, do feel free to freeform ramble about fanpoetry in the comments, either on LJ or DW, and link the poll to people. I'd love to hear your thoughts! It's probably reasonably obvious that I'm a massive fan of the stuff - but maybe it's less obvious that I think loads more people could and should get involved with writing it, because it doesn't have to be complicated or difficult. I think it's great for getting inside characters' heads or looking at certain situations, where the same subject matter in prose could be really static and boring. Viva fanpoetry!
quinara: Wesley looking angsty. (Wes swirly)
My other Three Weeks for Dreamwidth thing was to post some poetry to [community profile] forkedtongues, which really meant sorting out a project that I'd vaguely started and subsequently abandoned. It involved trying to translate Aristophanes' Lysistrata in way that actually got across a bit more of the cultural implications, using another cultural context - which was basically the sort of Monty Python/Carry On/Ealing Studios school of British comedy, which is actually a better match for Aristophanes than you'd think. The problem I generally have with Lysistrata is that people seem to take it as vaguely proto-feminist (the women go on a sex-strike, thereby taking their sexual agency into their own hands and asserting their political opinions for the benefit of Athens and Greece), and, yeah, maybe that works in a modern performance, but it's not what I think follows naturally from the Greek and the Athenian context. (The play is basically full of stereotypes, and Lysistrata only really gets where she does by eschewing her femaleness; on top of that the whole play was written and performed by men for men (at least primarily), so I don't think you can really escape the ha-ha, we're-all-lads vibe.)

Of course, there's also the general problem that I don't know many translations that are actually funny, which, by the bye, Aristophanes is...

So, anyway, this is something like the first 'scene', translated in a way that hopefully is possible to follow without footnotes, gets across some of the frown-making aspects and attempts to actually be amusing. Under the first cut is the Greek (edition N.G. Wilson, Aristophanis Fabulae, Tomus II. [Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2007]) and a slightly more literal translation (A.H. Sommerstein, Aristophanes Lysistrata. [Warminster: Aris & Phillips, 1990]), which takes a couple of liberties for sense, but keeps everything culturally located in ancient Athens and gives a good impression of what the Greek says. Under the second is my playscript prose translation.

Lysistrata (1-54) )

My Translation. )
quinara: Rinoa from FFVIII watching petals fly. (Rinoa petals)
Just bringing over a poem I wrote for the 'rear view mirror' prompt over at [community profile] sb_fag_ends. It's a mashed-up free verse villanelle from Drusilla's perspective that I wrote quite quickly but am not too unhappy with. Suitable for everyone and lacking in any material that would induce a warning on AO3.

Autocar Eurydice.

When you first get out, you look back,
Glance up to the rear view glass
As you take the cassette and turn it in your hand.

That hell is far gone and we’ve been there too long,
When you first get out, you look back.

... )
quinara: Illyria looking serious in bright light. (Illyria shine)
One thing I thought it would be fun to get into for Remix Madness was some poetry - either turning it from prose or trying to rework a poem (it's almost like music, people, ooooooh). Luckily, [personal profile] stultiloquentia put her name in the sign up box, which meant I could work with one of my most favourite fanpoems - Illyria Writes a Poem (What country, friends, is this?) - which is a beautiful sestina of shiny sounds and images, all about Illyria's displacement and sense of displacement that comes from her grief, with poetry the means through which she replaces herself as a humbled writer rather than a big, prophesied, written thing (a sense of order growing from a form without scansion and rhyme scheme the way only a sestina can grow it). I read over it again and found wanting to know how the 'world', as it were, felt about Illyria's shifting position within it - from omnipotent God-King to human-esque poet, which gave me a very obvious first line, as you'll see. The poem's construction gave me a sense of verse length and cyclicity, as well as key words: again, rhyme, home, grief, insects, hand. I decided 'again' could be conceptualised into the remix-concept itself, but everything else got in there. Then, I won't lie, there was some very productive freestyling. Then some equally productive editing.

I ended up with 120 words of AO3 warning free G poetry about nature watching Illyria somewhat askance: :D

Write My Country New (Fearful Suppliant Mix). )
quinara: Anya drinking whiskey. (Anya whiskey)
So, I finally got round to doing the dutiful niece bit and phoning my two aunts to thank them for my birthday cards. (One aunt is from The Land Of Demonstrative Thanks and sees this as standard courtesy rather than an inconvenience - my mum always feels bad my brother and I never send her family thank you notes after Christmas like her children do to us, even when we get the presents at her house and say thank you there; the other is not, but I could hardly leave her out.) I kind of hate talking on the phone, and feared the small talk - but it was actually lovely! Like my ringing was an actual pleasant surprise.

Also, it was strangely reassuring to talk to my aunt (the one not from The Land) about her birthday, which was a couple of days after mine and fairly non-eventful as well (she teaches; they had a parents' evening). It's always nice to talk to someone else whose response to 'did you have a nice birthday?' is 'yeah, it was OK...'. Sure, we're in different generations, but between eating jelly and ice cream on the lawn and having to go to work, I think my day doing bugger all was quite respectable. (And I did see people in the evening, so there.)

PS. In other news, I decided to join [community profile] napowrimo and see how I did trying to write a poem every day in April. I'm doing well so far! Nothing fannish or suitable for public consumption yet, but it's enjoyable having a notebook around and seeing what I come up with to say. (One of my main problems with non-fannish poetry has always been thinking I have nothing to talk about. There does seem to be something there, at least...)
quinara: Buffy's sad-looking profile from Villains. (Buffy profile)
Yay! I achieved my goal of getting these three books posted before my birthday! (Heh, it seemed laughably easy back in January - apparently my rational brain knows me much better than my intuitive one...) This book doesn't end on a cliffhanger, so I hope it won't be too irritating to wander back into the abyss between updates again. I'm definitely looking forward to finishing this, never fear - just need to recover my poetry brain.

Let's get to it! Spuffy (as in actually a bit); PG-13; ~4300 words (~550 lines); warnings for the series of death and denied agency, with only brief mentions in this book, but added for this book is reasonable amount of stylised gore. Big thanks to [livejournal.com profile] brutti_ma_buoni for the butt-kicking beta!

Illyria shares a memory and other preparations are made.



      She’s caught by light, by pain that magnifies
Light brightly, feels her body fall away,
Keep falling, rushing wind against her skin,
Until she’s fallen into dark and cold.
For minutes then Illyria can’t move,
Her muscles trembling with shock and pain,
Stone hard around her gushing acid blood;
This does not feel as her flesh feels, but then
She can’t remember who or where she is.
There’s light again... )


quinara: Sheep on a hillside with a smiley face. (Default)

December 2015

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