Michel-Vincent Corbeaux

cute

The sun is going down, at last. The sky is bruised and bloody. The century-long midsummer, once called endless, it is ending. Now will there come smoke-season, and the reaping, and the darkness. Now all the refugees of noon are huddled at the campfires. It’s long indeed since they’ve seen night—real night at least—and sunset Is just about the worst of omens they could dare imagine. At the campfires, as I pass them (In the darkness they don’t see me) I hear the lamentations and I wish them rest from grieving If all their griefs be honest (There are some dishonest mourners But not so many any more, by now they’ll have been dealt with) At the campfires when I pass them (for at many I’m not welcome But at those where I’m not welcome they don’t realize I’m listening) I hear them telling stories of the doomed and barren cities, Of Babylons unspeakable, of never-finished towers, Of plagues and proclamations and of midnight mass hysteria, Of basilicas collapsing under unsuspected deluge, (How it was unsuspected I know not, but that’s the story) Of Doggerland and Numenor and Camelot downfallen. Of promised end to history that never could have happened. Of Ragnarok that sunders all the veils in rage and grieving. Of Alaric the Visigoth who proved the word “Eternal” Is nothing but a word, when you apply it to a city.

Now Alaric the Visigoth was not some mere barbarian (If you had passed his campfire, in the darkness, you’d attest it) A veteran of the legions of the city he would pillage, He knew firsthand her hollowness. He knew the sun was setting: The wise in every epoch know that days don’t last forever, That sunset always comes. (At the campfires, as I pass them The children soon are sleeping, and the dogs with them are watchful Though not enough to scent me in the darkness, softly passing.) A city, just like all that mortals build, is not eternal. It has its dawn, it has its long midsummer, and its sunset. And history is not to be denied by mortal hubris: Let those who speak of endings take more care. Words have their meanings, Like any other weapon best be careful where you point them Best treat them as if loaded, and best discipline your trigger. Once drawn, a word like ‘End’ cannot be put back in the scabbard Until it has drawn blood. I fear you’ll find History is bloodless.

But the sun is going down, at least. Imagine if it didn’t. Imagine if this city found a way to be eternal. Imagine if the kind of men who’ve made it in their image Were suffered to end history, and make us live forever The kind of life they think we ought to live. No storied campfires. No many-colored flame. No winter cold, only a summer That never ends, and every day a hundredth-degree warmer. We’d have no bread, no circuses, and not a private moment To know ourselves in one another, as is only human. We’d hear only the stories that it profits them to tell us. We’d hold our very lives in tenancy to countless landlords. Before the High King’s horses we’d be trampled to the granite Upon the streets, beneath the hooves, and this would not release us. And we would pray for Alaric the Visigoth to save us And bring at last a long delayed, a bruised and bloody sunset.

They are grieving for the city, at the campfires as I pass them. As well they should. And who am I to countermand their weeping? Aye, grieve for this, your city. But then rest from your grieving. The sun is set, the time for grief, like all the rest, is ended. There are worse fates than ending. There are direr things than downfall. And the campfires, as I pass them (If you see me in the darkness Remember that I’ve lived there, Lord, how long? Out in the darkness, And if I can survive it surely you can too) are kindled. And kindling is a sacred thing, and makes a sanctuary. And kindling is an act of hope, however frail and feeble. And kindling is the first thing you must do, to build a city. Already, at the campfires, as I pass them in the darkness (Both ones where I’m not welcome and those where I join the circle With stories of my own to tell) they are exchanging stories. They may yet have enough of those to outlast all the darkness, Behold beyond belief another miraculous sunrise (Like Ararat, and Hoddmim’s Holt, and Alaric’s Disciples) And under it a city build. A new earth and new heaven. If so, I wish you joy of it—for joy comes in the morning— When I go, to the sunset, with my era that has ended.

Fall of the Western Empire

#Poetry

Ooh, I noticed you used this in my collection! Nice! ^v^

In case it's relevant @conradaltmann.com made these you don't have to empty your pockets to use.

Don't get me started on the professors who commonly teach courses for creative writing — especially poetry — in college. Of course, you already know my opinions on them. XD

My father’s old, his friends are gone.
He talks about their golden days,
At half his age, I nod along.
My father’s old, his friends are gone,
But counting mine the sums err on
The mounting side, a few each plague.
Now my old man, his friends are gone—
He tells me tales, I mark the days.

#whalesong

A graphic titled "Anti-Capitalist Service Trade." It contains the following text box prompts: Name, "Is seeking services/items", "Is offering services/items", and contact.

I'd like to try to get something new going on writersky: Do you love making character art? Are you a skilled beta reader or proofreader? Are you good at making graphics or maps?

The proposal is this: we all have different things we excel at, so why not trade services with our fellow writers? 🧵

The Black Plume Poetry by Michel-Vincent Corbeaux

Name: Michel-Vincent Corbeaux

Seeking: Illustration/Graphic Design (Posters), Translation (English—>Any Language), Voice Recording (Poetry)

Offering: Poetry (SFW/English, length negotiable w/ any form), Critical Feedback (Poetry)

Contact: www.black-plume.com (Examples of my work are found here!)

Wasting words of distraction, whither wayward men Stagnate -- slavish faction -- sleeping in Mammon's den. Arise! Awaken to glory! inherit your throne, indeed! Of justice and courage, the story crafted will conquer greed. ~ Michel-Vincent Corbeaux

Here's a short poem I recently wrote, now in calligraphy! I even made the ink myself, too!

Some months ago, I was chatting with @corvid-conquest.bsky.social, and we ended up challenging eachother to each do a form we'd never done before.

I made him write a mathnawi, and he picked virelai... so this is what I came back with.
#poetry

The Voice of Dog: “Un-Feathered Bipeds” by Michel-Vincent Corbeaux Today we present a poem by Michel-Vincent Corbeaux, who has been studying, writing, and perfecting the craft of poetry within the Furry Fandom for over a decade, is a member of the Poetry Society of T...

Today we present “Un-Feathered Bipeds” a poem by @corvid-conquest.bsky.social.

#FurryLit #Poetry

❄️ YCH GIVEAWAY - COZY WINTER LOFT
(ALL SPECIES/ALL GENDERS) ☕️

🗣 GIVEAWAY ENDS - Feb. 02/25

✨HOW TO ENTER:✨
1. Follow Me On BlueSky
2. Like and Share This Post
3. Comment Your Characters Ref-Sheet Below

Note:
-Customizable and Can Be SFW/ NSFW
-By entering you agree to my TOS t.me/planetshinei...

Still Life: Ink on Table
(Critique Appreciated)

The Black Plume Poetry by Michel-Vincent Corbex

I happen to have a website now! ^v^

www.black-plume.com

Love Against Aggravation SoFurry is one of the largest and longest-running furry art, ficton, chat and community sites. Serving the furry community since 2002 and home to over 400.000 registered users. Your furry home on the ...

So @corvid-conquest.bsky.social challenged me to write a Virelai with the specified subjects "the board game you played most in childhood" and "your feelings about your husband."

I think I did rather well.

#poetry

I see you already have me on that list! XD

@astraplanetshine.bsky.social ^v^

Thanks for honoring me on the podcast! I very much appreciate it! ^v^

“Agricola & Avarice” by Michel-Vincent Corbeaux (read by Solomon Harries) - The Voice of Dog Today we present a poem by Michel-VincentCorbeaux, who has perfected his craft of poetry for over a decade, and may be commissioned for his poetry via n...

Today we present “Agricola & Avarice,” a poem by @corvid-conquest.bsky.social.

Read by @solh.bsky.social.

#FurryLit #PoetryMonth

Ref sheet commission for @corvid-conquest.bsky.social im really happy you have a ref sheet now! ^w^ #furry #art #bird #crow

Thanks, Astra! Always appreciate your work! ^v^

I'm late in saying this, but thanks Shiloh! ^v^

I uploaded the poem that @shilohskye.bsky.social commissioned from me! Thank you, Shiloh, once again! ^v^

Gareth, The Wolf Knight (Zweihander Proem):

www.furaffinity.net/view/54644150/

www.sofurry.com/view/2107608

www.deviantart.com/corvid-conqu...

Call for poetry submission, same text as in post and replies.

The Voice of Dog is looking for submissions for Poetry Month.
This April, we again want to feature furry poets and those who'd like to become furry poets.

I was there last year, and I'll be there again this one! ^v^

Out of curiosity, would any bilingual people here be interested in trying their skills in poetry translation for me?

Oh wow! Quite the praise, and also unexpected, but appreciated! ^v^

Poetry in Gothic Calligraphy with Crow in Negative Silhouette as Thumbnail Image

I have finally figured out an appropriate pricing for commissions, and I am thus now open for poetry commissions! Find more information at the links below:

www.deviantart.com/corvid-conqu...

www.furaffinity.net/commissions/...

www.sofurry.com/view/2075533

Thank you,
~ Michel-Vincent Corbeaux

Under the parabola of a plum,
The man turning into a glutton;
I chewed upon the plum too long,
The plum shallowed down into my stomach —
It sang on taste buds, "Sweet! Delicious!"
Behold a gift designed to nourish.

Fortuna: [to Agricola]
"'T is always best to struggle truly free,
"Than bound and shackled to prosperity."

Illustrated by @astraplanetshine.bsky.social

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