Tuesday, November 4, 2008

Steampunk Poem from Viridian Girl

Blood and Brass: The Poem of Sylvia Weathersby





There was once was a woman named Sylvia Weathersby

Who lived to the ripe old age of 103.

She lived alone with no spouse or mate

Spending time reading books, building machines, or engaging in debate.



She was born in the year 1824

Just before the Steam Glass War

When Conductors built constructs immense and tall

Or squat and little, strong and small.



When Sylvia was young, her father and mother dear

Taught her the science of constructs and gears.

The child was delighted with metal and brass

And also learned daily of the War of Steam and Glass.



As she grew up, her mind expanded beyond expectations

Giving way to hopes and dreams as well as frustrations.

For Sylvia asked many questions, to know the world in whole,

Studying the designs of machines that were fueled with coal.



When she was 17, she designed her first construct named Tim

It was taller than her, metal sleek and slim.

Walking around her studio, making loud whistles and pops

Tim was continuously fueled, Sylvia making sure it would not stop.



When she turned 24 in 1848

Sylvia built construct Number 38.

Each one more dazzling than the one before

People wondered, "Would she ever get bored?"



Her constructs were used mainly for good

While Sylvia created as many as she could.

She supported the war, to drive the evil out-

Those who hated the Conductors, their minds full of doubt.



"Why must we live according to their rules and laws

When they can live without any flaws?"

These were the folks who were deemed evil and full of hate

Thinking that progress could most assuredly wait.









But people like Sylvia wanted more in life

Than buying tea and cakes and complaining of strife.

She dreamed of a day when man and machine would

Work together as they truly should.



So she walked and pondered and thought of a way

To make her dream come to life in some way.

Every day, she walked along the streets

Passing by florists and butchers with fresh meats.



She would walk from day till twilight

Watching the street boys light up the gas lights.

And, every night she would go home

Back to her own unfinished work, back to being alone.



No thought came into her mind that would bring peace

Ending the entire war, suffering to be released.

She wanted to do her part for the Great Cause

To prove to the enemy that the war was flawed.



One night, around a quarter to three

Sylvia lay in her mechanical bed, rocking with misery.

Her thoughts kept her up late into the night

But none of them would work, none of them had the bite!



For years and year the war raged on through the land

While more and more people began to take a stand

Against the brutal fights and the blood spilled on the ground

From dead bodies that fell without a sound.



The skies turned black with soot and ash

Caused from the cannons that BOOMed with flash.

Mechanical soldiers, of brass and steel

Fought the humans with bloodthirsty zeal.



Then, suddenly, in the year 1893

Around the time for afternoon tea

The war was over, much to everyone's surprise

Causing many a person to stupidly rub their eyes.



A truce was made between the warring sides

No one was the victor, no one secured the prize.

People could finally go home after so many years

To families who missed them, their eyes full of tears.





Sylvia watched loved reunite with their broken men

Knowing that they will never fight again.

There was much praise and fanfare

People screamed and laughed without any cares.



Within a year, everyone was back to their lives

Women with their husbands, men with their wives.

Conductors continued to build for the good of all

Remembering what happened before, thereby saving them all.



Yet the horrors of the war continued to remain

For blood still ran freshly along the plains.

No machine could remove the blood from the ground

And those who lost their lives were placed in a burning mound.



Fires consumed massive graves night and day

Sending putrid smoke along the way.

People would look up to the smog ridden skies

Wondering why there was a war to secure humanity's prize.



The Age of Steam still rolled on with dreams and progress

Giving people what they wanted, creating less stress

And soon the skies did turn back to what they knew

Fluffy clouds among a sea of clear blue.



Sylvia Weathersby lived till she was 103

Still working on gears and learning alchemy.

When she died many mourned her death

Thinking of the exact time when she took her last breath.



Many learned from her teachings and her published works

For they were worthwhile and not full of quirks.

Man and machine must support each other, it was said

This was an idea that would never become dead.



"The war taught me much, she would say

And I am glad it is better this way.

Conductors are here for all, no matter what you think

Assisting with growth of food or better water to drink."



And now my tale has ended, the lesson learned well

For I as a Conductor will not go to Hell.

I work my magick to help those in need

Still remembering the war, when many were in need.





All were affected during that time of hatred and fear

Engaged in a war that lasted many a year.

Remembering when the sky was black and grey

And how utterly long it stayed that way.

Monday, November 3, 2008

Another Poem from the Viridian Girl - 2006

Is it not possible
To forget the words said to the wind?
Only later caught and collected like a rare
Specimen of butterfly, pins ready
In case flight and escape are still
Thought of as options.
Remember when it was simple?
To speak a word and then watch it quickly
Disappear, only to be recycled
For the next round?
Fatigue settling in to a
Loss that can no longer be gained.

2006

Poem from Viridian Girl - 26 September 2006

If one sits still long enough
Mushrooms will begin to grow on their skin like edible tattoos.
Fungus of every colour, size, and smell
Sprout in response to a thought, dream untouched,
Wish gone awry. Eating your own strengthens the resolve,
Not waste, taken and absorbed back into the collective.
Cultivated and naked bodies
Create plentiful for the world, assist in darkened rooms,
Stored from the sun and savoured as thinly sliced
During parties of ill repute; women dressed
In dark coloured floor length dresses, eyes
Distorted by kohl, mysterious and secretive
While the men stand to the side, their purpose not yet given.
Samples of everyone lay about, the atmosphere like an opium den,
Gothic tragedy creating
Such sexual frustrations and non-limitations to those
Who truly deserve it.
Those who are beyond normal, those who savour
Their own blood as the finest wine, drawn
From their slender wrists with pearl handled knives
And glasses heated and waiting.
Their eyes, violet and piercing, their mouths painted with
Crushed blueberries, they are the ones who eat of the mushrooms
And drink sweet absinthe and blood, thoughts dancing
From one to another.
It was here that I was born, naked and pale
And ready to eat my own flesh
That was dusted and oiled with unguents made from faerie wings
And first kisses. Artists and writers, thinkers
Populate the rooms where the flesh mushrooms grow.
Hidden from the sun for it will kill them, vampiric souls
That occupy flesh caskets, making them lord and rulers
In a world that has yet to experience fear.

26 September 2006