I just found this post, which I apparently wrote on August 6th, and have no memory of at all. I do remember [personal profile] thisbluespirit doing the poetry meme again, and me thinking what a good idea that was; but it's news to me that I actually did it! Anyway, it's a simple enough endeavour (and I recommend it). You write down five fandoms, and then go here, and write down the fifth line of the random poem that you land on - whatever it is, and believe me, there's some doozies. Then hit refresh a few times until you've got five. Use them as inspiration for a ficlet for each fandom. Usually you'll end up with at least four poems by Emily Dickinson, but try not to find it too disheartening. The internet has always been obsessed with her.

(Not posting for two months isn't one of the rules, incidentally. That just happened, for reasons. Mostly involving stupidity.)

"...who in my shoulder sinks sweetly teeth," Sometimes I Am Alive Because With, by e.e. cummings.

Fandom: Blake's 7.

He had expected something else, perhaps. Something harder beneath all that sheer, white silk. Something colder than ordinary human skin; a chitinous carapace, or reptilian scales to match the icy aloofness of her stare. Instead the flesh gave under his hands — all too human; all too softly, warmly female. Silk rubbed against leather. Diamonds clickered against iron studs. For a moment he was taken aback — and then her teeth were drawing blood, her impossibly long heels were flailing like knives, and the Federation's all-powerful Empress of the Galaxy was an inhuman nightmare all over again.


"Like a kettle, rivers overrun; still," Dark August, by Derek Walcott.

Fandom: Doctor Who.

"A cup of tea somehow always tastes better made with water from Earth." The Doctor regarded the teapot with a warmth befitting the steam drifting gently from the spout – then sighed. "But needs must..."

"I'm not complaining." George sat on the blue-tinted grass, watching floodwaters pour over rocks warmed by binary suns, and thought that Earth water seemed hopelessly passé. The Doctor settled beside him, and handed him a cup.

"A cup of tea, and then we'll explore," she said, blue eyes as bright as ever. "No reason an adventure shouldn't be civilised."

"Sure." George smiled his thanks, fighting back a livelier grin. "There's always a first time for everything."


"...and fall to earth into indifferent ponds." Duino Elegies: The Fourth Elegy, by Rainer Maria Rilke.

Fandom: Forever.

New York, ever a city in motion. Eight million people, bustling one way and then the other. Talking on cell phones, yelling for cabs, singing in bars, crying out their passions, their angers, their fears. A city always moving onward. Little time to notice one more face amongst their thronging crowds. One baby turned to a boy, turned to a man, turned old and grey — and his father, the mystery lost amongst them. Ever young, forever unchanging, coming and going beside his son as the years fell away ever faster, and they waited in expectation of an end that could not, that would not, come to them both.


"His thoughts were bare, his words were brittle", Rose Leaves, by Robert Service.

Fandom: Iron Man/Avengers.

Dawn, again. Somehow the sun kept on rising. It hadn't yet lost its wonder, to a man who had so nearly witnessed the last morning. To a man who hadn't yet forgiven himself for whatever part he might have played in almost ending the world. One hand reached out to touch the window and, through it, the tiny yellow disc as it rose, and warmed, and its brightness splayed out against the still dark blue of the sky. He watched it climb, as it changed indigo into azure, and orange into gold — and as always he watched it alone. Guilt, ego, the weight of responsibility — all were the same in the end, and all turned his words to weapons and his silences into preying beasts. Nobody stayed around for long. With everything that had happened — with all that he had seen and done and said — he supposed that he could expect nothing else.


"g", warped this perhapsy..., by e.e. cummings.

Fandom: White Collar.

The darkness was not quite complete, though at first glance it had appeared so. The faintest glint of moonlight showed through a tiny crack in one shutter, and Mozzie could see it reflected on a thousand glass cases, gleaming on a succession of gems and gee-gaws within. On something else, too — a pair of sapphires, glittering as they passed through a ribbon of moonlight, and seeming to hover several inches above him. He smiled, and one of the sapphires vanished in a wink of silent welcome. Everything, clearly, was ready. Time to go to work.

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