One of my favorite fairy tale figures is Baba Yaga, an old witch who lives in an enchanted forest, rides a mortar instead of a broom, lives in a house with chicken legs and usually has three magical sons. I have an obsession with witches in general, but something about this old Russian spell caster really captures my imagination.
I think one day i’d like to write about the adventures of her youth. How she became powerful and delightfully evil (although she is good in a couple of tales). So, here you go, young Baba Yaga (who would have a different name, since Baba means old woman. Maybe just Yaga?).
I grew up with Baba Yaga stories and have written my own. She is the best for stories.
weak in the knees
to be quite upfront
make my body
it has knees
So I’ve gone over this poem a thousand times now, and I still don’t think it’s very good, but I can’t bring myself to dick around with it any further.
I would also like to apologize to my dear friend for all of the awful punctuation to be found in it.
But without further adieu, this is “Were Words” a poem about Raphael Kabo <3
When I was seventeen
I met a boy named Alexander
He was an awkward sweet sixteen
Angsty teenage dreamer
Who wrote bad puns
In my textbooks
When he sat next to me
We crashed into each other
Like only teenagers do
Like a car crash,
We became those little parts
Hidden inside each other,
That we could never share
Outside of our
Over the days and weeks
And years and tears
The moves the changes
The discoveries of love and life and art
We didn’t grow apart
But so much closer,
Despite the fact he kept getting further
Away from me;
With his star bright ambitions
Shining and shimmering
His talent for talentedness.
Our lives now seemingly
Headed in directions
So far removed from
Where we started,
He tore himself out of me
And left dreary Canberra
For the evocative placenames
He didn’t actually leave me
At least not completely
Because in all my empty places
He left me tomes of poetry.
And if words were memories
He left me with overproof rum
He left me with Russian Spy
Satellites disguised as black swans.
He left me walking the street of Sydney
After watching Amanda Fucking Palmer
Make love to her ukulele
On our table
In her underwear.
If words were blankets
Then he left me with enough
To last me
(And the people sleeping
The biting winter
Of Canberra weather.
If words were flowers
I would have enough
To fill the Arboretum
And cover this city
In petals for the next
If words were steel
My friend would be a master armourer.
Hammering his paper anvil
With the keys of his typewriter.
Forging fantasy in the flames,
Austenized with dreams
And quenched in spilled ink.
Creating worlds worth wearing
Into the battle of life.
Ironically I feel like, after this, words are insufficient to describe my feelings. So:
six-year-old-girl student: hannah, there is a problem that i can’t talk to you about.
hannah: why not?
student: you just wouldn’t understand.
hannah: what makes you think i won’t understand?
student: well, it’s just…see…i am only six years old but i know how to act like a lady. i sit like a lady and i wear dresses and i know how to cook and do dishes and bake cakes. and you, weeeelllll….
hannah: and me what?
student: well…it’s just…YOU ACT LIKE A BOY!!!!
hannah: i act like a boy??
student: you talk like a boy!
hannah: how do boys talk?
student: and you only wear jeans!!
hannah: everybody is allowed to wear jeans!
student: and you sit like a boy! ladies don’t sit like that!
hannah: well, here’s the thing. acting like a lady is super fun! and i do all my own cooking and i do all my own dishes and i bake pretty good cakes, okay? and at my other job i wear dresses and i sit like a lady all the time. but you know what? sometimes i don’t feel like acting like a lady. and that’s okay! girls can act however they want!
student: can i tell you a secret?
hannah: of course you can.
student: [whispers] sometimes i like my brother’s toys more than i like my toys
hannah: that’s awesome! you’re allowed to like anything you like. what do you like about them?
student: i like scooby!
hannah: SCOOBY IS FOR EVERYONE.
|Me:||*sees book store* *looks to friend* *shuffles towards bookstore*|
also: after the ap euro multiple choice section i made designs for the second wave of romantic writers as the world’s most popular emo-folk-punk-indie-pop boy band (and mary godwin), The Romantics
introducing: george gordon byron
- “the bad boy”
- dark and tortured soul
- once had a hot makeout session with selena gomez
- once had a hot makeout session with literally everyone
- lead singer
- wears too much guyliner
- (it’s funny because there’s no such thing as too much guyliner)
- “the cute one”
- writes all the songs about happy things and sad things and cute things and kissing girls that get on the radio the most
- plays bass guitar
- is the most peppy and enthusiastic when they make the video diaries
- dating mary so fucking hard
- “the dreamy one”
- plays the piano
- has dark and tragic past
- was really polite to ellen degeneres when they went on her show
and mary godwin
- “the drummer”
- so done with all this shit
- can also play the accordion, the violin, the flute, the cello, the trombone, the xylophone, and the motherfucking mandolin
- writes all the songs about sea monsters and irish legends and zombies that appeal to the hipster fans
- seventeen magazine has repeatedly said that she is a lesbian
- she’s not a lesbian
- she did think ellen degeneres was pretty hot, but
- she’s dating percy shelley
- no, really, seventeen, she’s dating percy shelley, he’s taken.
- how the fuck did you not think he was taken.
- she fucking made out with him on stage.
- (to be fair, so did byron)