Roach asked for a capsule machine for Hanukkah so he got one. He has informed me that he intends to fill it with teeth, bones, and strange poetry, which is very on brand for him.
IMPORTANT REQUEST FOR TUMBLR PEOPLE: i need more poems to go inside
please reblog this post with a poem you like
the capsules will be filled with small bones, cool rocks, tiny arts and crafts kits, and possibly shells, and it will be stationed outside my house very close to the nearby alleyway, for strangers to enjoy. ideally each capsule will have a poem printed out and folded inside, but im open to good jokes, bad life advice, and scathing condemnations of late stage capitalism.
every now and then i'll take all the quarters out and redistribute them around the nearby area.
DELIGHTED to see others getting in on the Weird Capsule Machine game!
If you need a source for more empty capsules, I got fillable eggs from American Carnival Mart, because they had the ones that look like semi-realistic bird eggs. They’re $11/100, and they close really firmly and STAY closed. Highly recommend!
also, poem:
“Recuerdo,” by Edna St. Vincent Millay
We were very tired, we were very merry—
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.
It was bare and bright, and smelled like a stable—
But we looked into a fire, we leaned across a table,
We lay on a hill-top underneath the moon;
And the whistles kept blowing, and the dawn came soon.
We were very tired, we were very merry—
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry;
And you ate an apple, and I ate a pear,
From a dozen of each we had bought somewhere;
And the sky went wan, and the wind came cold,
And the sun rose dripping, a bucketful of gold.
We were very tired, we were very merry,
We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.
We hailed, “Good morrow, mother!” to a shawl-covered head,
And bought a morning paper, which neither of us read;
And she wept, “God bless you!” for the apples and pears,
And we gave her all our money but our subway fares.
Oh man I LOVE that more people are doing tihs! I created one of these for an end-of-the-world nihilism-punk LARP that got cancelled for the pandemic.
I can't resist a request for poetry, even if I can't get it to format properly.
Mimnermus in Church by William (Johnson) Cory. 1823–1892
YOU promise heavens free from strife,/ Pure truth, and perfect change of will;/ But sweet, sweet is this human life,/So sweet, I fain would breathe it still;/ Your chilly stars I can forgo,/ This warm kind world is all I know.
You say there is no substance here,/ One great reality above:/ Back from that void I shrink in fear,/ And child-like hide myself in love:/ Show me what angels feel. Till then /I cling, a mere weak man, to men.
You bid me lift my mean desires/ From faltering lips and fitful veins/ To sexless souls, ideal quires,/ Unwearied voices, wordless strains:/ My mind with fonder welcome owns /One dear dead friend's remember'd tones.
Forsooth the present we must give/ To that which cannot pass away;/ All beauteous things for which we live/ By laws of time and space decay./ But O, the very reason why/ I clasp them, is because they die.
My Star
All that I know/ Of a certain star/ Is, it can throw/ (Like the angled spar)/ Now a dart of red,/ Now a dart of blue;/ Till my friends have said/ They would fain see, too,/ My star that dartles the red and the blue!/ Then it stops like a bird; like a flower hangs furled: /They must solace themselves with the Saturn above it. /What matter to me if their star is a world?/ Mine has opened its soul to me, therefore I love it./ -- Robert Browning
There is no Frigate like a Book/ To take us Lands away/ Nor any Coursers like a Page/ Of prancing Poetry –/ This Traverse may the poorest take/ Without oppress of Toll –/ How frugal is the Chariot/ That bears the Human Soul –/ -- Emily Dickinson
And a couple more.
We have calcium in our bones, iron in our veins,/carbon in our souls,/and nitrogen in our brains./93 percent stardust,/ /with souls made of flames, we are all just stars/ that have people names./ 93 Percent Stardust | Nikita Gill
ON PROBLEMS
Our choicest plans/ have fallen through,/ our airiest castles/ tumbled over,/ because of lines/ we neatly drew/ and later neatly/ stumbled over./ – Piet Hein
"Consolation for Tamar" by A.E. Stallings
on the occasion of her breaking an ancient pot/ You know I am no archeologist, Tamar,/ And that to me it is all one dust or another./ Still, it must mean something to survive the weather/ Of the Ages—earthquake, flood, and war—/
Only to shatter in your very hands./ Perhaps it was gravity, or maybe fated—/ Although I wonder if it had not waited/ Those years in drawers, aeons in distant lands,/
And in your fingers' music, just a little/ Was emboldened by your blood, and so forgot/ That it was not a rosebud, but a pot,/ And, trying to unfold for you, was brittle./
my dreams, my works, must wait till after hell by Gwendolyn Brooks/ I hold my honey and I store my bread/ In little jars and cabinets of my will./ I label clearly, and each latch and lid /I bid, Be firm till I return from hell./ I am very hungry. I am incomplete./ And none can give me any word but Wait,/ The puny light. I keep my eyes pointed in;/ Hoping that, when the devil days of my hurt/ Drag out to their last dregs and I resume/ On such legs as are left me, in such heart/ As I can manage, remember to go home,/ My taste will not have turned insensitive/ To honey and bread old purity could love./
So many poems, so little time.
