Written By Zyanya
Oct. 12, 2020, 4:45 a.m.(3/9/1014 AR)
It is a humble poet who will confess to the flutter in her heart and her belly standing before an audience of very different faces. Before, in Jadairal, I would look into the crowd and see myself reflected back. There, I felt the calm and light of sharing. I knew I would be seen and known. Here, I was very nervous. The news which comes every day from the criers, the looks I receive in the streets, the things some have said to me...
When the doors opened and I was met with smiles, some of these flutters went away. When Ma took up her flute beside me and I felt the familiar strings beneath my hands, more of these flutters were gone. I took a breath and the notes were there.
Still it was not easy. To share. To look into that crowd. But I am glad to have done this. To open myself and to live in more than ink with others.
The Jade Moon is open. To those who came to celebrate with us, to hear the first part of my history, to share food and drink and music, I give my humble thanks to you. I bow to you.
When the doors opened and I was met with smiles, some of these flutters went away. When Ma took up her flute beside me and I felt the familiar strings beneath my hands, more of these flutters were gone. I took a breath and the notes were there.
Still it was not easy. To share. To look into that crowd. But I am glad to have done this. To open myself and to live in more than ink with others.
The Jade Moon is open. To those who came to celebrate with us, to hear the first part of my history, to share food and drink and music, I give my humble thanks to you. I bow to you.
Written By Zyanya
Oct. 9, 2020, 11:48 p.m.(3/4/1014 AR)
A Tale of Weijin, the first part of its history by Lir Zyanya-Shimin, Poet.
Chains broken, a world made free, Jadairal was born. The first where human hearts lived without shackle, where daily gift of choice was made to honor Skald. Slavery struck down and choice became their blessing, with each one made a prayer in hope it would soften the scars which still clasped every throat, every hungry heart.
Their choice once made became law: a stone can only be a stone, not carved, or lifted to greater monument. Born to toil will always toil, born to rule will always rule, hands which coins cross must pass them on without grasping.
But those who have will ever want for more and when Caer'alfar came again, borders were drawn with fire. Fire and blood, the lowborn spilled human blood on humanity's soil, until the highborn called a truce and named it freedom.
Client kingdom, bordered by bloodstained chain, proud Jadai, they pretended this was peace and looked away from the future when their children's children might once again serve. Those below did not blind themselves but saw these links not yet woven and knew when the altars of Caer'alfar were built anew in Daobujin Bo, their lives would be first upon the block. For stone must always be stone.
Foundations are not built with gold.
Those who had felt metal against their skin and writs against their soul, who had spilled their blood, given their children to the burning borders, they did not take sword in hand, did not rise in a wave to crash against the walls built of gold to drown those behind them. Skald's gift was not cast in stone or iron or gold but given to all. Those below knew the god of freedom as well as any who perched above. They chose not to rise up, not to cast down.
To mist-wrapped mountains,
their lives on their backs,
children on their hips,
they walked.
Bent and bowed
like wind-shaped trees,
they walked.
Until they saw a life ahead,
hearts hungry, hearts full,
they walked.
Chains broken, a world made free, Jadairal was born. The first where human hearts lived without shackle, where daily gift of choice was made to honor Skald. Slavery struck down and choice became their blessing, with each one made a prayer in hope it would soften the scars which still clasped every throat, every hungry heart.
Their choice once made became law: a stone can only be a stone, not carved, or lifted to greater monument. Born to toil will always toil, born to rule will always rule, hands which coins cross must pass them on without grasping.
But those who have will ever want for more and when Caer'alfar came again, borders were drawn with fire. Fire and blood, the lowborn spilled human blood on humanity's soil, until the highborn called a truce and named it freedom.
Client kingdom, bordered by bloodstained chain, proud Jadai, they pretended this was peace and looked away from the future when their children's children might once again serve. Those below did not blind themselves but saw these links not yet woven and knew when the altars of Caer'alfar were built anew in Daobujin Bo, their lives would be first upon the block. For stone must always be stone.
Foundations are not built with gold.
Those who had felt metal against their skin and writs against their soul, who had spilled their blood, given their children to the burning borders, they did not take sword in hand, did not rise in a wave to crash against the walls built of gold to drown those behind them. Skald's gift was not cast in stone or iron or gold but given to all. Those below knew the god of freedom as well as any who perched above. They chose not to rise up, not to cast down.
To mist-wrapped mountains,
their lives on their backs,
children on their hips,
they walked.
Bent and bowed
like wind-shaped trees,
they walked.
Until they saw a life ahead,
hearts hungry, hearts full,
they walked.
Written By Zyanya
Oct. 9, 2020, 11:14 p.m.(3/4/1014 AR)
The bowls are empty,
tables cleared.
One lantern still burns.
I take it with me to bed.
tables cleared.
One lantern still burns.
I take it with me to bed.
Written By Zyanya
Oct. 6, 2020, 2 a.m.(2/25/1014 AR)
White on white on gray,
there is no end to the sky
or its gifts in winter.
Stare at the clouds long enough
it all becomes confusion.
there is no end to the sky
or its gifts in winter.
Stare at the clouds long enough
it all becomes confusion.
Written By Zyanya
Oct. 3, 2020, 11:17 p.m.(2/20/1014 AR)
Blood on the snow spills the story of a man. Vivid calligraphy, this language of frost, of crimson, of screaming steel.
Snow falls again,
softly.
Snow falls again,
softly.
Written By Zyanya
Oct. 1, 2020, 10:25 p.m.(2/16/1014 AR)
Late geese flying south
you need no directions
and I want none.
you need no directions
and I want none.
Written By Zyanya
Sept. 28, 2020, 4:32 a.m.(2/9/1014 AR)
These mornings,
the sun fights the wind to rise
its light catching the frost
swept from naked branches
and painting dawn over the snow.
At the window, I hold my breath
but not my heart.
the sun fights the wind to rise
its light catching the frost
swept from naked branches
and painting dawn over the snow.
At the window, I hold my breath
but not my heart.
Written By Zyanya
Sept. 27, 2020, 6:51 p.m.(2/8/1014 AR)
The last leaf on the tree
awaits the wind's playful tug.
Its true bed is below.
awaits the wind's playful tug.
Its true bed is below.
Written By Zyanya
Sept. 23, 2020, 6:55 a.m.(1/27/1014 AR)
Winter is
the moon come down
to rest upon the pond
reminding us the red fish
sleeping beneath are safe
until the breath of spring
comes again.
the last note of the year
held so long, so high
the ear cannot hear it
but our bones can.
the frost cast from naked branches
on wind that also carries my hope
for you.
the moon come down
to rest upon the pond
reminding us the red fish
sleeping beneath are safe
until the breath of spring
comes again.
the last note of the year
held so long, so high
the ear cannot hear it
but our bones can.
the frost cast from naked branches
on wind that also carries my hope
for you.
Written By Zyanya
Sept. 22, 2020, 5:11 a.m.(1/25/1014 AR)
On Grieving
These stones,
which never touched your feet
now touch mine;
the shape traced beneath my toe
you will never feel, or see.
Moss-smell, rock-smell, salt-smell,
lungs full as yours cannot be,
I am carried.
Between sand and surf and sea
I abide on this line, palms lifted,
and pray this wind in my hands
once touched yours.
These stones,
which never touched your feet
now touch mine;
the shape traced beneath my toe
you will never feel, or see.
Moss-smell, rock-smell, salt-smell,
lungs full as yours cannot be,
I am carried.
Between sand and surf and sea
I abide on this line, palms lifted,
and pray this wind in my hands
once touched yours.
Written By Zyanya
Sept. 21, 2020, 7:22 p.m.(1/24/1014 AR)
Where field meets forest
the shadows overlapped
but for you they parted.
I was safe there.
the shadows overlapped
but for you they parted.
I was safe there.
Written By Zyanya
Sept. 18, 2020, 3:18 a.m.(1/17/1014 AR)
I have not yet written a proper journal. In the Archives I preserve my poetry because they speak for me in many ways, my impressions of this new home. These impressions are perhaps more clear in my cradle tongue and to those accustomed to the forms of poetry I have mastered. They do not translate directly...as I do not translate directly, I think.
It has been very hard.
The differences between Arvum and Weijin, or Arvum and all of the Empire, are vast. Not only in age but in knowledge, in philosophy, in experience. It is the difference between stepping into a cultivated garden and facing a wild forest. The Empire is immense, with great natural beauty...but it is also old and in that age its culture has been tended. The blood which watered the soil has had time to fade. Not so, here. It is still fresh.
There have been kindnesses and gifts made. There have been understandings and knowledge shared, friendship offered, invitations accepted. I have also angered some by disagreeing with them or by explaining what is known of history outside of this land, where the people were made to forget. I have been called a slave. I have been told true art can only be crafted in true freedom. I have been told I am wrong in my thinking and that to disagree is an insult. I have learned quickly to not see the staring and to smile when I am insulted for in this land of freedoms there is no shield for the common person offended, or wounded, or killed. Here the judges do not ride to bring their justice. It falls to me to carry this responsibility of answering well even when cut deep.
You are a proud people here. Bright and willful, fierce and stubborn. You hold light in one hand and cruelty in the other, and both are as natural to you as breathing. I have worn the writs of an Imperial citizen and cannot conceive of bringing harm to another. I do not understand these instincts yet. Our sufferings in the Empire taste of different sorrows.
But I am learning. My blood is your blood. You are me. Maybe I can be more like you.
It has been very hard.
The differences between Arvum and Weijin, or Arvum and all of the Empire, are vast. Not only in age but in knowledge, in philosophy, in experience. It is the difference between stepping into a cultivated garden and facing a wild forest. The Empire is immense, with great natural beauty...but it is also old and in that age its culture has been tended. The blood which watered the soil has had time to fade. Not so, here. It is still fresh.
There have been kindnesses and gifts made. There have been understandings and knowledge shared, friendship offered, invitations accepted. I have also angered some by disagreeing with them or by explaining what is known of history outside of this land, where the people were made to forget. I have been called a slave. I have been told true art can only be crafted in true freedom. I have been told I am wrong in my thinking and that to disagree is an insult. I have learned quickly to not see the staring and to smile when I am insulted for in this land of freedoms there is no shield for the common person offended, or wounded, or killed. Here the judges do not ride to bring their justice. It falls to me to carry this responsibility of answering well even when cut deep.
You are a proud people here. Bright and willful, fierce and stubborn. You hold light in one hand and cruelty in the other, and both are as natural to you as breathing. I have worn the writs of an Imperial citizen and cannot conceive of bringing harm to another. I do not understand these instincts yet. Our sufferings in the Empire taste of different sorrows.
But I am learning. My blood is your blood. You are me. Maybe I can be more like you.
Written By Zyanya
Sept. 14, 2020, 6:40 a.m.(1/9/1014 AR)
Here is how to build a storm.
The windows are shuttered, the door is barred.
When the house stands open the sky sees.
It sends the rain to wash the step.
The windows are shuttered, the door is barred.
When the house stands open the sky sees.
It sends the rain to wash the step.
Written By Zyanya
Sept. 12, 2020, 7:06 a.m.(1/5/1014 AR)
We come to the falling season
when earth and sky are made one,
as floor and ceiling are joined
by the drape of a lace curtain.
When the snow melts I wonder
will spring's perfumes make me feel
that I am finally home?
when earth and sky are made one,
as floor and ceiling are joined
by the drape of a lace curtain.
When the snow melts I wonder
will spring's perfumes make me feel
that I am finally home?
Written By Zyanya
Sept. 9, 2020, 3:01 a.m.(12/27/1013 AR)
As night comes to the forest
I look to the leaf-littered floor
where the last sunlight casts
its hopeful sparks.
I look to the leaf-littered floor
where the last sunlight casts
its hopeful sparks.
Written By Zyanya
Sept. 8, 2020, 1:09 a.m.(12/25/1013 AR)
To the sound of moving water
I do not sleep but I dream
this is the song: that all songs
may be one song for they begin
as a single note to be chased
with different flourishes.
One song from many
as all dreams are one dream
as all dancers hold the same breath.
I do not sleep but I dream
this is the song: that all songs
may be one song for they begin
as a single note to be chased
with different flourishes.
One song from many
as all dreams are one dream
as all dancers hold the same breath.
Written By Zyanya
Sept. 7, 2020, 5:22 p.m.(12/24/1013 AR)
Autumn sunlight falls in lances
heavy on the land
with a sweep of her warm hand
they hum like harp strings.
heavy on the land
with a sweep of her warm hand
they hum like harp strings.
Written By Zyanya
Sept. 6, 2020, 7:34 a.m.(12/21/1013 AR)
The ring around the moon tonight
shines brighter than its smile.
Another step closer
you will wear it as a crown.
shines brighter than its smile.
Another step closer
you will wear it as a crown.
Written By Zyanya
Sept. 5, 2020, 5:05 p.m.(12/20/1013 AR)
Pearls of morning dew
briskly shaken from the long grass.
The wind turns to shower other fields.
briskly shaken from the long grass.
The wind turns to shower other fields.
Written By Zyanya
Sept. 3, 2020, 5:03 p.m.(12/16/1013 AR)
The wolf looking to the sky
sees his stars Dream-painted,
his captured leap
and so he grasps eternity.
sees his stars Dream-painted,
his captured leap
and so he grasps eternity.
Please note that the scholars may take some time preparing your journal for others to read.