THE RAIN IS FULL OF GHOSTS

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Danielle shares A. Molotkov's "Lightening" with Max. Talking points include the prose poem, Aloysius Bertrand, fig trees, eye surgery, and Duncan MacDougall's dead-weighing experiments. Talking points include: idioms, the New York School, personism, dune buggies, time, and square things vs. Talking points include contemporary sonnets, sextets and octaves, Swan Lake vs.

Ladyhawk, reaction shots, and finding displeasure with Aquaman. Talking points include strophes, memories of place, prospecting by taste, and the s arcade game Dig Dug. Talking points include dead girls, associative leaps, capitalist consumption, and watching infomercials while depressed.

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Rain of the Ghosts Full Cast AudioPlay by Greg Weisman — Kickstarter

Talking points include revision poems, cold and flu season, crappy weather, and mixing up biblical stepfathers. In this episode, Danielle shares Erika L. Martin Luther King Jr. In this episode, Danielle overcomes Max's resistance to D. Powell's "[ode]. Horace, odes, hyacinths, trochees, and blue movies. Talking points include the holidays, the Christmas Whale, and complicated joy. Topics touched upon include elegies, miscommunications, and Mercury in retrograde. Topics include Thanksgiving, Oedipus, and some ugly facts about the Pilgrims.

Topics touched upon include metaphysical poets, paradox, and staying in bad relationships. Danielle explains her personal connection to Dana Levin's "Door," working for a mean art dealer, and the dream that lead her to teaching. Max laments too many choices and, once again, brings up Watership Down. By sheer coincidence, our 13th show falls on Halloween week! Max is a little disappointed to find it has nothing to do with the Ghostbusters antagonist.

Danielle explains what an aubade is to Max by sharing Ocean Vuong's wonderfully dark poem "Departure" with him. Max is thrilled. Maybe too thrilled. In this extended episode, Shaun and Danielle discuss two poems from Richard Siken's Crush Wishbone and Planet of Love and how they work together in that crazy, sexy thrill ride of a book. We discuss Danielle's history with the poet, Godzilla studies, and Danielle tries to explain "ekphrasis" to Max. We have our first guests! Portland-based Doula Olivia Murphy brings Rilke's poem to the show and tells us why she loves it. Topics touched upon include the financial crisis, translation, winter in Vermont, Greek myth, and enduring hardship with grace.

Max pays Danielle the best compliment she has ever received. September Women Poets month wraps up with Samiya Bashir's poem. We discuss the pastoral tradition and how this poem can be an anti-pastoral work, our poor gardening, and Danielle explains some math terms to Max.

Jennifer Chang's poem leads to a discussion of the "flatness" of fairy tale characters, and how her poem defies it with the complexity of her speaker. To celebrate Labor Day, we share a Denis Johnson poem sure to make you further hate your office job. Smith coming-of-age poem "Thirst," disagreeing on their interpretations.

Beast In Black - Ghost In The Rain

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Developers constantly update and improve. Castle Black is practically abandoned these days, its purpose waning, what with the defeat of the Others and peace with the Wildlings. She can understand that. She does not begrudge him that. They all need space and time to heal. When there is enough liquid wax she tips the candle to pour it gently onto the parchment and presses the Stark sigil stamp into the soft resin.

She long gave up the hope of seeing Jon at her coronation, her previous ravens to the Wall had gone unanswered. And ravens will never find him beyond the Wall.

The Rain is Full of Ghosts of Tonight

And yet…. She rereads the script, the slanted careful letters, and wonders if they are too much, or perhaps if they are too little. I write this hoping that if and when this message finds you, it finds you well. There are whisperings of a new King beyond the Wall in the North.

Tell me it is true? You were born to rule, after all. I have stood witness to that. I saw the truth of it once. I shall be glad if you have regained that for yourself. I have heard it said that heavy is the head that wears the crown. Perhaps we shall have that in common after all.

The coronation is set for only a few hours from my time of writing. I suppose I shall have to find that out for myself. By the time you read this, I will be Queen in the North. Perhaps he will never read it, like the others. Perhaps he will, and ignore it still. Which is worse?

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She rolls it into a scroll anyway and calls a servant to have it sent to Castle Black. If her staff notice the frequency of Ravens to the wall, they do not make comment. Sansa is grateful for this small awarded dignity. Later in the day, when she has been updated on the re-building work and other important issues, Sansa returns to her chambers.

Laid out on the bed is the coronation dress that she herself and a few girls on her staff have worked on for so long. She moves towards it, trailing her fingers over the stitched direwolf, the red weirwood leaves, the Tully scales on the sleeve. She has poured her whole family into the dress, and it is beautiful. Sansa knows beauty is not everything, but she can admit to wanting to feel beautiful for tonight.

What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why (Sonnet XLIII)

It is its own kind of armor. Laid out beside the dress is the asymmetrical cloak, fashioned after the ones that Arya favored, a rich dark black fur. It sits over her heart when worn. There sits a plain wooden box next to the cloak and Sansa pauses with her hand outstretched, a slight lump in her throat before she opens the catch and reaches in to lift the delicate crown from inside. A gift. A gesture. A labor of love, Sansa thinks, for the sister of the woman he wishes to follow across the world, but can not.

She sets the coronet aside on the furs on her bed. And then she lifts out the second crown. Larger, with a thicker band, a darker silver, but the two direwolves are the same. She sent the raven on the very day that she first heard the whispers of Jon leaving the Wall for good. Winter was thawing, slowly and steadily, but the news had almost shattered her heart. The blood of Winterfell, both of them, no matter whose seed Jon was borne from. The North has always chosen its own leaders. Who was anyone else to tell them otherwise? Not in the Independent kingdom she had created. She thinks of his solemn, long face, imagines soft snow melting in his curls, imagines the crown she had fashioned for him resting upon them, wild and untamed.

A smile again pulls at her lips. Outside, the snow has melted into a soft sleeting rain, a sure sign of the coming Spring. It sounds a gentle rhythm on the window panes and Sansa is grateful she is warm and indoors.

“What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why”

She hopes that Jon too is tucked into a Wildling tent and sat before a roaring fire. She will not think of whether there is a Wildling woman pressed into his side.

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These are the things she only allows herself to think about on the nights where, alone in bed, she can not sleep for thinking about the wars that have passed and the family she has lost. On those nights, one more painful thought hardly makes the difference. It will wait for him, she thinks. She will wait for him. A serving girl helps her into the dress and brushes out her hair until it gleams in the firelight.

She leaves it loose and heavy, some soft sort of rebellion. When they place the Stark crown atop her head it fits snugly and she straightens to look at the Northmen, on their knees before her. There is pride at that moment, relief too, and there is longing.