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Nation Called Panem

by Shawna Jacques
written about Hunger Games (by Suzanne Collins),
ttto “City of Marrow” by S.J. Tucker,

which is written for a book called Orphan’s Tales: In the Cities of Coin and Spice,
by Catherynne M. Valente

Lyrics updated 03-06-2016

If you are not familiar with this book, it is a beautiful pair of books of stories within stories within stories. The story the original song is about is about a city that has fallen to ruin due to a monster comprised mostly of teeth and hunger. The city, which used to mint coins from metal, now mints coins from the bones of dead children, and they make other children work the machines. A boy and a girl stick in that wretched workforce decide to take matters into their own hands, and the boy literally feeds his own arm into the machine so they have coins for their escape. Then I read The Hunger Games, and this practically wrote itself.

(oooo intro)

You’d never know that Panem was
a different place, up until the war
her city’s heart lost its way
so long, so long
gone is the country, the people, the land
now hunger is all that’s in store
above and below she has rotted away,
so long, so long

the districts had called
for Capitol fall,
but now no more than twelve you will find
broken shattered walls
no one there at all
gone to ashes and wasteland and lost time

bakers’ sons and coal miners’ daughters
must take their own lives to hand
I have been through the games of hunger,
and I have come out again.

(so) Fear for the lives they’re wasting
their Reaper may come for you
there’s only one victor, so try to win
they’re counting on you to pull through
or the Hunger Games may take them, too.

(ohhh, oh, I volunteer
ohhh, oh, I volunteer)

Truly, we’ve lost our great nation
that hunger has all but devoured
I look to my mother but I’m all alone
no one looks after the kids now

(ohhh, oh, I volunteer
ohhh, oh, I volunteer)

There can be no hope for our nation
while President Snow is in power
The odds aren’t in favor
Of me or of you

there’s only the Games now,
there’s only the blame now…

Fear for the lives they’re wasting
their Reaper may come for you
there’s only one victor, so try to win
they’re counting on you to pull through, oh…

Fear for the lives they’re wasting
their Reaper may come for you
there’s only one victor, so try to win
they’re counting on you to pull through
or the Hunger Games may take them, too.

bakers’ sons and coal miners’ daughters
must take their own lives to hand
fear now the Games of Hunger
you may not come out again.
I have been through the Games of Hunger
and I have come out again.

Fear for the lives they’re wasting
their Reaper may come for you
there’s only one victor, so try to win
they’re counting on you to pull through
the Hunger Games must someday end, too.

(mockingjay whistle tune)

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Poem of the Week #4: Every Day You Play (Pablo Neruda)

Crafty Odysseus

Tis the week of Valentine’s Day. I should respond to it with the traditional dose of bile, but my heart isn’t in it. Almost everything about Valentine’s day is shite: the pressure applied to couples, the loneliness and inadequacy foisted on to the singles, the rampant commercialisation, and above all the rose tinted and sickly portrait of love that the day has come to promote and represent. Still, an entire day (and a saint) dedicated to erotic love can’t be all bad.

Poem of the week is therefore ‘Every Day You Play’ by that Nobel winning Chilean love guru Pablo Neruda, notable for including possibly the sexiest final line of a poem ever written…

Every Day You Play (Pablo Neruda)

Every day you play with the light of the universe.
Subtle visitor, you arrive in the flower and the water.
You are more than this white head that I hold…

View original post 303 more words

Warm (Work in progress)

This piece is NSFW.

Read the rest of this entry

The Hermes and Hekate Road Show, Episode 1

On all my social media outlets…

The Hermes and Hekate Road Show, Episode 1

This is awesome. It is even more awesome, in my view, because the folks playing Hermes and Hekate are my defining priest and priestess for those roles from Spring Mysteries in years past.

Steer wisely.
Something about cycles.

These are pieces of advice from those deities via that priest and priestess, dispensed to me over the last 6 years. They are also statements that relate to the content of this podcast.

Check it out, y’all.

Sometimes A Wild God

Sometimes A Wild God, by Tom Hirons, is an amazing poem.

Poemlet that popped into my head this morning…

Mirror, mirror,
made of stone,
polished antler,
brass, and bone,
Tell me truly:
on my own?
Seated, silent
lifeless throne.

Someone Else’s Words: The Sincerity of a Child

Here’s a light for you
You can put all of your secrets in
And they will never come out again.

 

My little 6 year old housemate just said this to me. ❤

Character: The Atacarthian Manticore

In her den, the Manticore snarls and rages. She hates everything, even while loving it so tightly that the broken edges cut her. She would destroy it all until every creature around her suffers as soul deep as she does, bleeding her love out on the foundations which are all that remain of her home; even they are nearly gone. The great City Atacarthia has been destroyed, desecrated by a new queen, her consort, and the Order in power which deems that nothing that the City was previously is good enough for it. They raised her hopes at first with talk of cooperation and slow but needed improvements, then razed it level, only to raise up their own pathetic mockery of the beauty and ancient pride with which the City once held up Her head. The Manticore would love nothing more than to see it burn.

Do not approach that cavern, child. The Manticore is no less deadly for her sobs and screeching than she was at the height of her prosperity. Manticores still sting, roar, sing, and kill as their fathers teach them, and New Atacarthia would do well to remember that.

Prose: Shimmy

Have you ever seen a breeze shimmy amongst the leaves of a tree? I looked out the window of the bus and that’s what it looked like. Maybe the wind would like to take up bellydancing… Then it can wear windchimes as a belt and perform for the street lights, and bask in the glow of the audience.

This has been your Quiet Moment poetic morning announcement.

From 06-13-2007, my Livejournal.

Poem: Delicious

Smooth, silky, dark
Plump, cupped in my hand
Brushing with my lips, sinking teeth in
Tangy, slick, cool
Melting, and sweet
Licking the last traces from the center.

Summer plums are truely delicious.
Bounty of the mother.

 

Written in my Livejournal on 06/09/2009