Fairycore

Welcome back, poetry people!

As a lighter extension of last week's discussion, I thought I would continue sharing some fairy-themed pieces I’ve created. I am not just interested in fairy lore and mythology; I love creating my own! Besides writing poems, if you have been subscribed long, you may know I have been creating fairy creatures of my own to inhabit the fairy tale land I write about, Langrisha’a. This previously published article, Fantastic Fairies, contains five fairies I’ve created, and this week’s companion article contains five more.

As a loose warning, this post contains a picture of my rollie pollie terrarium, in case you have a bug phobia and want to avoid this, it is the photo for the third poem.

Fashion trends change with the wind, that green glow lingers on

Fairycore really had a moment there; fast fashion pumped out green and neutral-toned flowing skirts and lacy layering tops, with mushroom and fairy accessories like we found an infinite resource glitch the rest of us just weren’t privy to. Within a year, a whole new crop of aesthetics popped up. Was anyone else in love with Goblincore as well? No, just my fire and dice-loving peat for brains, ok…

I don’t see living my “best fairy life,” if you will excuse a slightly ridiculous phrase I’ve borrowed from pop culture, as being about what I wear. It can be fun, don’t get me wrong, and I have quite a few pieces of clothing that one could describe as fitting that aesthetic. Still, I curate my closet based on natural fibers, layering potential, and ability to maintain over time. I’m a secondhand shopper, first and foremost. So what is fairycore to me? What does living a fairy tale life mean if not wearing flowing dresses and sitting in picture windows?

To me, it’s a mindset, quietly heeding the call of the forest, the desire to collect and transform tiny trinkets, and a connection to all of the tiny animals of the world. A desire to be alone, hidden away from unknown eyes, high up, watching things roll by. No matter your size, having a feeling of delightful smallness, I call it the tiny inside; indulging in laughter and dancing, and color and sound! Anyone can live their best fairy life. Not all fairy tales have a happy ending, so don’t fret about the tone or direction things may take for a moment. Just try and enjoy the journey as best you can.

The Tiniest Hideaway

We have a beautiful meadow not far from where I live, and there’s such an abundance of life there no matter the season, but especially in spring. When everything’s first emerging and blooming. There are so many wildflowers, with bobbling blossoms and a bevy of wild mountain grasses and shrubs. There isn’t one way you can turn without your vision being filled with leaping and buzzing bugs or spotting a tiny scurrying creature.

I love to imagine myself shrinking and disappearing into the flora, becoming a part of the earth. Making friends or maybe even having a little tousle with some of the most infinitesimal inhabitants of the meadow. This was written as one such imagining.

The Tiniest Hideaway

How I long to slip between the waving blades of grass and
slender stems of wildflowers, vibrant and fragrant.
I know I can widdle away and wander there for time-warped hours,
searching for a domed petal-topped gazing tower.
Racing to the top of fungus cap stairs, bursting out in a shining, dewy shower.
Every moment spent carefree, laughing, and dancing in a miraculous fairy bower.
No need to ever hide or cower;
only friends are found, not a single foe or even a grumpy glower.
My companions, a brilliant luna moth and a rolling armored arthropod,
I ride astride, now supported and empowered.
Slithering through the dust, I pluck discarded acorns from the leaf litter for cupcake flour.
I engage the busy ants, beg they carry my load, be my heavy lifting power.
As I grind up nuts, I enjoy the nightly meteor shower.
In the morn, I wake to freshly baked cakes.
A pot of chickory drink steams in the light of the brightest sunflower.
I take my leave to a sudden cloudburst, a perfect sunshower,
and sail home in a boat made of oak leaves.
Inflating the spider silk sails entirely with lung power.

The Song of a Summer Shower
Hail, a fairy snowball fight!

Where I live here in South Lake Tahoe, we frequently get hail. It’s usually relatively small, almost like Dippin’ Dots ice cream if you have ever seen or eaten that. Of course, you can’t just scoop up a dish of hail off the ground and eat it; even if you drown it in syrup like a snow cone, the water would still be too dirty, even here in the mountains. It was a fun picture to get, though.

I generally like the sound of a rainstorm; it can be very relaxing, but this was a little loud for my taste. On this occasion, I let my mind imagine a more enchanting reason for such a clattering commotion. I have heard the story some parents tell to calm their children during rainstorms, that the thunder is just angels engaging in various activities. Bowling, playing drums, etc.… That line of thinking led me to a fairy snowball fight.

The Song of a Summer Shower
Hail, a fairy snowball fight!

As I lie here abed
Listening to the
hypnotic patter
Of rain
On the old tin roof

I hear an off-refrain
The chirping laughter
of a chorus
That trills and tra la las
It echoes and overlays
never seeming to abate

The pouring rain driving down
Upon the mossy logs
a steady drip, leaking in
above the fireplace
sizzling as it drips
on the heated stove plate
Yet all I hear
Are peals of fairies’ giggles

They occupy their time
Pelting my shelter with
projectile hailstones
The assault continues
Unrelenting ‘till sunshine
Breaks through
soggy grey clouds

Baking mud pies in
Their minuscule
shaped-tin hearts

Tiny Hearted, In A Big World

I love insects, bugs, and creepy crawlies of almost all kinds. I have a phobia of spiders and other spider look-alikes. Other than that, I’m a Bug Babe (is that a thing? I should start a club for so-called girls that like bugs, lol). I have a rollie pollie terrarium, and I love taking care of them and watching them scurry and burrow about; they are just so tiny cute!

I’ve always had an interest in insects and really anything exceptionally small. It wasn’t an acceptable interest for a “girl” where I came from. I was allowed to engage with ballet and history, with tea parties and fashion because those were all “normal,” even so, the way I engaged with them left me doing it alone. I am not sure which is worse: not having friends who like the same things as you or knowing that your friends are doing the same activities you are and just refusing to engage you in any way regarding them.

So, I would still be caught catching grasshoppers and crickets, digging up worms, and catching frogs in the backyard if I had some outside playtime. Or, more likely, in the event I was playing at someone else's house. I recall my cousins always had a lot of peepers in their yard, while mine never had any. My last best friend, before moving away from Missouri to Florida, also loved to catch bugs and frogs, and she even joined a dance class with me. We were inseparable. Like two green peas in a pod, suddenly split, with one clinging to each side as it parted.

Tiny Hearted, In A Big World

Queen of the Bitties
I take charge over
this rustling domain
where pill-bugs run
a fabulous
big top circus
with a couple of
wingless damsel flies
on the high-flying trapeze
some crickets
sing in grasshopper
and a shimmering
iridescent beetle
rolls dung into
magnificent shapes

I spend most days
searching for sparkling specials
threading them, dangling
onto spider silk tassels
hand-painting them
with precious lacquer
tinted with crushed
cochineal
diminutive even amongst
the teeniest of standards
the most precious
highly prized gems
do I wear

I ride a glorious winged
scarab
sacred and intimidating
none shall oppose my
authority
riding high above the
ants and fleas
wielding a staff of
Silver-tipped allium
dandelion fluff stuffed in each
precious flower head
ready to pound out
the floaty alarm
should anyone try
and cause me harm

I survey my
color-filled dominion
flying end to end
spending time with
every imaginary friend
the most
miniature of beings
make the very best
companions
that is why you
could fit every one of
mine on the flattened
palm of your hand

Fairy Fire

This little piece of narrative poetry was thought up after giving someone an explanation of my tattoo. The fairy represents me, but when I conceived of it and told the artist what I wanted, it included a second image, which I ended up leaving off and may eventually be added to the piece; I’m not sure. I described it as a green fairy with butterfly wings made of fire, exploding out of a taper candle flame. When we workshopped the size and placement of the tattoo, it was decided that the candle would be left off, at least at that time.

So, in this poem, I took that idea, a fairy born from the flame of a candle, and ran with it. I went a little crazy with the formatting on this one. I hope you enjoy this extreme and wacky formatting; I like it a lot.

Fairy Fire

Soft,
supple
feet
shuffle
sleepily
down
the
darkened
corridor
in the flickering candlelight

A reflexive y aa www nnnnn issues forth
exhale, puffing and st utt e ri n g the flame

Just as the sudden gust of breath

caressed the meager flame

leapt

It to vibrant life

it
The vision of fl ti chaos
ng

Glowing glittering green

Unaware of mortal rules

But not a bone in her mean

ng
di
un
Ephemeral and bo on air

The fire licked her twitching heels

And tossed her verdant hair

With a penetrating stare

And lilting laugh that

Sticks in the ear, like a jingle 

Called out by a Beauty Queen 

At a rollicking county fair

Touting facial creams N’ beauty elixirs

Both equally fabled for

youth preserved and skin touchably fair

Darting out the window

with curious delight, she dis
 app
 ear
 s 

Into the gem-studded night

Without fear or care

The lady, in her feeble despair

L
e
a
p
t f ra nti c al l y

after on wings of maddened jealousy

She flew out to the rocky sea

Her heavy spirit finally

Lighter

than air

The Writers In The Walls

As I mentioned last week and as has been woven through this week’s fare, I am very nearly obsessed with all things tiny. That includes stories of miniature worlds like The Borrowers; those books entranced me as a child, and I’m still enchanted by tales and retellings of tiny creatures and people living right under our noses, so to speak.

I have a small collection (pun intended) of vintage Fairy Winkles and Poly Pockets. It’s slow growing since I don’t have a lot of disposable income, and these have become popular collectibles just when I tried to start a collection; the story of my life, and exactly why I can’t collect larger, more expensive items. Actually, you know, I should start collecting independently published books of poetry; I wonder what would happen then…

My pencils and pens really are always going missing. The hubs and I are in a constant tizzy. Usually, four or five times a gaming session, standing up, shaking out our clothes and blankets, and checking the crevices of our chairs. I would say permanently losing one writing utensil almost every gaming session. I have no idea where these are all really going, but that inspired this piece.

The Writers In The Walls

Why are my pencils always gone?
As soon as I set one down, it’s flown.
I write with pen, marker, crayon, 
whatever I can get my grubby hands on.
No matter what writing implement I’ve found,
a tiny writer comes out of the walls,
scavenging supplies for their own little scrawls.

I set up more and more elaborate seductions,
treats and sweets, cool drinks, and shiny trinkets.
Yet all they seem to want are my various writing styluses.
Inked, chalked, oiled, or paint-tipped,
any medium is fair in our endless raiding game.
I sit here patiently, waiting, all day.
Yet only if I dare to glance away momentarily
do they foray from their ingenious hiding places.

Say, I start on some flowery poetry
and set my gel pen down in the grass to think.
I may find a clover in place of my
pretty green sparkly wand of worldliness.
Any and all attempts at Inkpen retrieval
will always end in outright upheaval.
I have invested more in ink than the cost
I’ve spent on decorating or clothing
my deteriorating outer covering.

Why, if I didn’t know better, I might start to think,
they didn’t care a wit for my
precious tubes of graphite and ink.
I have started to contemplate the possibility that these
miniature enemies must be using them for building materials,
or to equip a great army; yeah, that’d be the one I’d pick.
I know that it’s just a trick of the mind’s pattern-creating shtick.
No, the tiny creatures I am up against
must be writing frantically on the inside of the walls,
the bottoms of the floorboards, the pipes feeding the toilets and sinks,
anything people might miss.

In fact, I suspect they write novels at night
and feed them into my ears.
Inscribing them one letter at a time,
painted onto a grain of rice.
Passed chain link style,
held tight to the ankles of their peers.
I always wake with an itch where I hear,
rubbing my pinky around in my ears.
I shake my head about, expecting to see letters pouring out,
only a kink in my neck ever appears.
I head back to my favorite spot,
as usual, the ideas flow from my pen.
There, they were at it again, those writers in the walls.
As soon as I stopped to marvel
at the miraculous flow bestowed upon me,
they grabbed their sacrificial offering.

I guess they take them as both supplies and recompense?

I’m so glad you had a chance to sit down and take a wander through this little glimmer of green today. I’m on a healing journey, one that takes a lot of energy. I think we’ve all heard the expression, “You can’t pour from an empty cup.” That is why I intersperse those tough weeks, where I’m doing the heavy lifting of this memory work, revisiting those revelations, and digging deeper to see where I’ve made it with my journey so far. To bring my head up for a bit of air, let myself, and you by extension, rest from the deep darkness and gloom.

Until Next week,

K.B. Silver