The Rough Music

Your fear-torch can’t burn my might,
or force me or mine to stand aside.
Soul to soul, we are all connected
by the music that warms the heart
and entices the brain to dance true,

eventually. She will see your moves
for what they are, and you’ll lose
steps… and face.

That sound? Oh, just my words
putting on their combat boots,
tapping their This Is Enough Crap
sisterly tune. To kick you with?
Of course not! We aren’t you.

Still,
when kicks morph into shoves,
words can’t speak for all the hurt
your misdeeds have played
into our boots.

You started the beat, un-dear fiend…
But once the music hits the flesh,
the dance gets rough and feeds
on stress, leaving control to be held
by none.

.
Partly inspired by one of my favorite quotes, from Terry Pratchett’s I Shall Wear Midnight:

“You set the rough music on me, didn’t ya?”

“No one controls the music, Mr. Pretty—you know that. It just turns up when people have had enough. No one knows where it starts. People look around, and catch on another’s eye, and give each other a little nod, and other people see that. Other people catch their eye and so, very slowly, the music starts and somebody picks up a spoon and bangs it on a plate, and then somebody else bangs a jug on the table and boots starts to stamp on the floor, louder and louder. It is the sound of anger, it is the sound of people who have had enough. Do you want to face the music?”

linked to Poets United (Poetry Pantry, 294), Sanaa’s Prompt Nights
and Rereading My Pratchett

Music Girl Rebecca, by PlaviDemon“Music Girl Rebecca”, by PlaviDemon
via

a wee note: I already added the name of the winner of Magic Love Crow’s “Reclaiming My All” giveaway to the end of the original post. But I wanted to share it here again, just in case someone forgot to go check. Curious? *mischievous cackles* All right, I will be good… The winner is:

Laura Morrigan, of Roses and Vellum!

Congrats, Laura! Please send me your mailing information (magalyguerrero @ live . com). On behalf of Magic Love Crow (and moi), I wish to thank everyone for their heartfelt comments on the giveaway post. It was wonderful to see so many friends celebrate the art of another. ♥

Under Her Breast

The brilliant, sexy (and extremely modest) witchy woman hosting the Sunday Mini-Challenge: Carpe Jugulum, over at the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads, invited everyone to craft a new poem that speaks of their thoughts/feelings on the following Terry Pratchett quote: “Don’t trust the cannibal just ’cos he’s usin’ a knife and fork!” And because I always listen to my delightful self *giggles-infused-cackles*, I accepted the challenge. 😉 Here is my Carpe Jugulum inspired poem. I will also link this piece to Holly’s Vampire’s Day Soirée.

“Under Her Breast”

Every heart fell
for the silver in his tongue,
for a mouth that licked minds
dazed
before sinking teeth into flesh;

every heart
but the one under her breast.

She had tasted
the fakery that oozed
out of the shine in his eyes,
watched him sign contracts
with the blood of shackled sheep,
while sitting on the backs
of the choice-robbed
and the enthralled.

She had wondered
if any of them would ever see
the muck that stuck to his bones,
the worms that rotted the hollows
that should’ve housed a soul;

will they sense the incubus
under the wealth-made halo,
or has he sucked all the marrow
out of their future and wits?

.
The Crimson Messenger, by Kristof Corvinus“The Crimson Messenger”, by Kristof Corvinus

I Collect Nightmares

I dream a lot, but I rarely have nightmares. I think that if I ever found myself haunted by terrible dreams, I would self-prescribe a generous dose of Granny Weatherwax’s headology. So… when Björn, over at the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads, asked, “How about the nightly visits?” I responded with a poem inspired by Granny’s headology, in Terry Pratchett’s Maskerade.

.
I collect nightmares.

Petunia was my first, named
after a great-aunt, who forced me
into pink lace, taffeta and chiffon,
topped by a brain-shrinking tiara.

She wilts under black ink,
runs screaming
at the sight of comfy jeans.

.
The Prick, my second nightmare,
wears eyes, teeth and stink
that fit Aunt Petunia’s son.
She says The Prick doesn’t exist;
but armed me with couch-talk
and pills of fog, to quiet
what might lurk in my dark.

Talk and fog make poor weapons
against crooked teeth and eyes aflame.
To collect The Prick, I had to craft
a heavy Nightmare-Be-Naught Stick.

.
On days of turmoil, The Prick
has tried to creep into my sleep;
but my Stick breaks his teeth
and puts out his eyes
before he can spread his stink.

I collect nightmares… and Sticks.

.
Headology: “Granny Weatherwax had never heard of psychiatry and would have had no truck with it even if she had. There are some arts too black even for a witch. She practiced headology—practiced, in fact, until she was very good at it. And though there may be some superficial similarities between a psychiatrist and a headologist, there is a huge practical difference. A psychiatrist, dealing with a man who fears he is being followed by a large and terrible monster, will endeavor to convince him that monsters don’t exist. Granny Weatherwax would simply give him a chair to stand on and a very heavy stick.” ~ Maskerade

linked to Rereading My Pratchett

I Said No Bogeymen, by Zorm“I Said No Bogeymen”, by Zorm
(This illustration was inspired by Hogfather, a different Pratchett book. But the character’s reaction to the boogeyman makes me think that she, too, has heard of Granny’s headology.)