melodiesofeternity | Doki Doki Vaikuntha Club (Act 1)

Thank you so much everyone! I never expected so many people would join. If the meeting is successful, I hope to make this into a monthly thing.

[ The room is decorated in such a fashion, it looks strikingly similar to your typical Japanese high school classroom, complete with desks, chalkboards and various poster. There are also books, five on each desk. Most of them tend to be fictions and poetry books taken from the Curti Center's library. There are also short stories, dramas, romances, comedies and of course, horror stories. ]

Most people think it's boring, but literature can be anything. Reading, writing, singing. Poetry, legends, history. [A smile] We all practice literature every day without realizing it.

[ There are also refreshments placed on a few desks. Mostly water and cola as well as a homemade cake. Only one thought. One cake for... Twenty people? Monika might not have expected that many members. Please don't tear each other apart over that cake. ]

We have some time until the poem sharing session, so feel free to relax, read some of the books I brought or get to know each other! Words really bring us together. So let's make the best of this, alright?

[ Please feel free to reply with your own mingle sub-thread here! ]

Okay, everyone!

[ After a bit of time passed, Monika called out to everyone in the room. ]

Let's now share the poems we wrote. Find someone to share with and don't be embarrassed! We're quite a lot so we won't have time to share with everyone... But try to at least share with three different people, alright?

[ Please post your own top-level comment in this post for poem sharing. You don't have to put your poem in the top level, after all you should greet your poem-sharing partners first before showing them your poem! Poem sharing sessions involves both characters taking turns to show each other their poems and commenting on them. You can tag anyone you'd like! You also have to tag the partner you were assigned in the sign-up. ]

Oh- okay. Uh... I couldn't work out a name but that's okay, right?

[This was his chance to finally be in a club instead of just standing outside the window and looking in while trying to share in a bit of secondhand joy. He stood and unfolded a piece of paper he'd brought, and hoped he kind of understand what exactly poetry was like because he had no idea. But everybody always said poetry was just writing how you felt and letting your pencil run away with you, right?

So he'll just write about something that happened with him recently!]

A floating dock cradled by water,
just her and just me,
The moon big and silver,
the stars and black sea.

We didn't wanna sing,
looks and smiles a fake,
so we offered our no-thanks
and set out for the star-filled lake.

Stars blinked and stars flew,
one-thousand, two-thousand, three.
When I got the constellations all wrong,
you were you, and you never laughed at me.

And up above, within their spheres,
with luck held in their sway,
I'd not give up for fate itself,
the time we shared today.

...Yeah, that's it.

[What an odd poem. But he lowered the paper and stared expectantly, perhaps a bit pink in the face.]

I usually chuck the shit I write and keep it to myself. Well, no more, dammit!

This was a song bestowed to me by a member of my college from back home in Greyhawk. As it turns out, the drones at the Gauntlet failed to record more than a few seconds of it die to "time constraints".

[She made a face and shrugged. But she withdrew her guitar and settled into a seat. Her hand subtly implied a Spellblade (Divine) upon the strings.]

But you get the full version! How lucky! Please enjoy.

[She began to play:]

Lay down your head and I'll sing you a lullaby
Back to the years of loo-li lai-lay. . .

[It'd saved her from being eaten by a Behemoth! And, really, music like this had gotten her out of a pickle a great many times. Perhaps a lullaby may not exactly be what the doctor ordered for an afternoon meeting, but after everything that had happened of late, perhaps some form of respite may be what the doctor ordered. The sound was soothing, but at the same time rather invigorating, imbued with but a touch of white magic.

Did you lose any sleep the other night? Get a paper cut while writing your poem? By the time her song finished, they may be mysteriously absent from your form.]

Frisk, for quite possibly the first time that anybody in this room has seen, looks outwardly nervous. What were they doing? Well, that was obvious. The real questions were why they let Papyrus drag them to this thing, and why they gave in and wrote an actual poem instead of a really long pun or a stupid limerick. But they were here now, so... might as well commit.

Trying their best to calm themself, Frisk coughs and mutters, "Um. This is my poem. It's called 'Cycles.'" At first, their reading is rushed, but as they make their way through the recital Frisk gradually gets into the cadence of their amateur poem.

Yellow shine
Darkness fades
Eyes open
Then close

Time to try again

Step forward
(One after another after another)
Towards foes
Towards fights

Towards friends
(Their stories are now mine to carry)
Deep breath
Path chosen

Long fall
(Stench almost smothers)
Alone again
But not

Claustrophobic memories
(Things to do, can't tarry)
Concentration conquers
Darkness swells

Yellow shine
Darkness fades
Eyes open
Then close

Time to try again

"So. Um. Yeah, that's it," Frisk says, shifting from foot to foot. "Yeah, I know it's bad."

( when rutile had heard of the 'literature club' they had envisioned something... well, definitely something different than this. you might call it a real-time interpretation of 'what I expected'— with visions of scholarly types discussing ancient works of history or medicine... vs 'what I got' which is what looks decidedly like a... classroom.

but they'd agreed to be here of their own will, and while rutile could think of several thousand other ways to better spend their time... they had done what was asked— and written something down on the provided materials.

it's written on a small corner of a page though. you can catch a glimpse of it, but they might need a little more coaxing to hand it over entirely... )

Edited 2018-07-28 02:37 (UTC)

[Ravus can't really explain why he showed up today. He's had the strange urge to compose poetry ever since he visited the Swordsmaster Guild. It's not something he wants to do, but he's written out some short poems just to exorcise them from his mind.

He flips through pages in a little notebook, trying to find one that is less embarrassing than the others to share. Maybe he can just...sneak out and pretend this never happened.

...no, damn, the club leader already spotted him, and his moogle is guarding the door to prevent escape. He sighs.]

I have several short poems, in the 'haiku' style. The first is titled "Spring".

[He clears his throat.]

Sylleblossom blooms,
Tranquil blue in fields of green,
Heralding the spring.

[The other people in this room have probably never even seen a sylleblossom. Why did he think this would be a good idea? He scowls and flips through his pages for a less idiotic poem.]

[This is stupid. Dylas is sitting at one of the tables with his personal belongings—a water bottle, a journal, a snack. His attention is more focused on Yue and who his partners are and whether or not Monika approaches him. He's only here to make sure Monika doesn't stab Yue.

Whoever approaches the table will find a poem on a sheet of paper sitting there to be read.]

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as “Nevermore.”

The black chocobo, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—
Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”
Then the bird said “Nevermore.”

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”

[As if that weren't bad enough, there are some unsettling clues about. Firstly, this poem is marked with a page number. It's also printed, not hand-written. Thirdly, there are tear-edges, because he clearly tore this out of a poetry book. It might be that poetry book over there on the counter. It is, in fact, that poetry book over there on the counter, that someone must have brought in (sorry Monika).

He might have a real poem with him, though. Who knows? He's not even making eye contact with whoever comes to share poems with him.]

Yeah, just...read it. Whenever you're ready.

[Why on earth is the quintessential jock here writing poetry? Well, why not? It had been a spur of the moment decision, made when he saw something in a sunrise. When he approaches, it's with an embarrassed smile and scratch of his head.]

Uh, hey. I know this isn't what I usually do, and that's gonna be pretty obvious, but. Hear me out? It's quick, I promise.

[Okay. Breathe. Begin.]

Drifting through life
Dreaming away
City of lights, so shiny, so bright
Is it all a lie?

Blazing red
The sun arrives
Paints a picture of the skies
It eludes our grasp

At my side
The hand I hold
Smiles and secrets, never told
Under the painted sky

The dream is gone
Our journey's done
Alone under a different sun
I begin again

But don't forget
That whispered word
On the breeze, I hope you heard
My joy, my wish, my love

For you.

Thank you so much for being here! It means the world to me.

[ Monika beams, she seems to be genuinely happy that so many people answered the call. ]

Anyway, here's my poem.

[ Monika's poem is written in a composition handbook, which she hands over to her poem-sharing partner: ]

The Lady who Knows Nothing

An old tale tells of a lady who wanders Vaikuntha.
The Lady who Knew Everything.
A beautiful lady who had found every answer,
All meaning,
All purpose,
And all that had ever been sought.

But here she is,

Crying.

Lost adrift worlds, victim of dreams.

Day after day, she loses.
She loses all she knows.
And when all answers have escaped her,
When all purpose is gone,
Love is all that remains - What she started with.
But her love doesn't look back.

And here she is,

Crying.

Lost adrift her own thoughts, victim of her knowledge.

She loses and she loses even more.
Soon to lose even love.
She waits for a hand to catch her, for love to save her.
But nothing happens.

She looks in the distance and sees shadows of a dream,
But the shadows speak with an hollow voice.

"You have found no answer.
You know of no meaning.
You know of no purpose.
And you seek only the impossible.
You are no legend.
For you know nothing."

And they turn away, leaving her alone with her tears.

[Oh boy! Time to show off his literary brilliance! ...Granted, writing poems is a lot trickier than one would think. True, he considers himself highly literate! A true wordsmith! But poetry and monologues are very different.

Or are they?

Well, regardless, Papyrus greets the rest of the club with a grin, his chin up, chest out, and overall posture exuding confidence.

...which is good because deep down he's maybe just a teensy bit nervous. No matter!]

FELLOW MEMBERS OF THE CLUB, BRACE YOURSELVES, FOR I, THE GREAT PAPYRUS, AM ABOUT TO DELIVER TO YOU TRUE LITERARY GENIUS!!!

[Just let him... pull out his poem. One moment.

DEEP BREATHS.

He's got this!!!]

HOPES SHATTERED, FEAR REIGNS, HEARTS CRYING FOR JUSTICE!
STUCK IN A PRISON, UNABLE TO SEE THE STARS, YEARNING FOR THE WORLD LEFT BEHIND

DAY BY DAY, WEARING FAKE SMILES TO MASK THE STORM WITHIN
THEY SAY "EVERYTHING IS FINE"
BUT THE SMILING MASK BEARS ITS SHARE OF CRACKS
IT ISN'T FINE AT ALL

A PROMISE ONCE MADE TO REKINDLE LOST HOPES
TO BREAK DOWN WALLS, FREEDOM FOR ALL!
DETERMINATION BURNING BRIGHT
LIKE FLAME UPON A CANDLE

BUT LIKE ALL CANDLES...

[He pauses. This got... personal. Maybe this wasn't the best idea. But he's come this far. Besides, it's all rather abstract, isn't it?]

THE LIGHT FLICKERS. THE WAX MELTS.
A BRIEF GLIMMER, FLEETING.
BUT THE WORDS ECHO THROUGH THE DARK.
"EVERYTHING IS FINE!"

DESPITE FURTHER CRACKS, THE MASK PERSISTS

SO TO DOES HOPELESSNESS, AMPLIFIED BY TWISTED TRUTHS
GONE IS THE MONARCH. THE CRY FOR FREEDOM AMPLIFIES INTO AN EXPLOSIVE BURST
NOW MORE THAN EVER, THEY YEARN FOR HOPE

BUT HOPE IS NOT LOST
IT'S NEVER LOST FOR GOOD
SOMETIMES IT JUST HAS TO BE FOUND

SOMETIMES THAT HOPE DOESN'T EVEN REALIZE HOW MUCH IT MATTERS
SOMETIMES THAT HOPE WEARS A MASK AS WELL

FAKE SMILES, STILL CRYING "EVERYTHING IS FINE"

IT'S HARD WHEN THE WORLD IS AGAINST YOU
WHEN PEOPLE DON'T BELIEVE YOU CAN MAKE A CHANGE
BUT YOU AREN'T ALONE
OTHERS CAN REKINDLE THE FLAME, CARRY THE TORCH
KEEP THAT DETERMINATION BURNING, SHINING

AND ONE DAY, WE CAN ALL BASK IN THE STARLIGHT ANEW, SIDE BY SIDE

[There! That was very wordy. But hopefully at least a certain someone there will feel a bit better now.

And it was important to get some of this off his chest in a loose way that won't immediately make it clear what the context is. Probably.]

[Adrien's here alright, but by no means was he some literary master or capable of writing such amazing poems. And, hearing a few people read their own, he was a little uncertain about openly sharing his own. Even if that person he'd want to read it to wasn't here, it just... there was still something about it that wasn't just right.]

[So, he would be there, but not sharing yet. Instead, he's pouring over his poem, pen hovering as though to add something or make a correction before reconsidering with a troubled look.]

I wasn't really prepared to write a poem, I can only hope it's not too bad.

[He didn't feel that creative, but he would follow the exercise and share as instructed.]

But this is fun, it feels like being back in school a little. Though I suppose it feels more like being in first year than anything.

[Terra's paper is smudged with many erasings and scribbled notes on the side. He worked hard on this, clearly.]

I've never really written a poem before. I hope I did it right.

I felt the summer sun upon my face;
It filled my tired veins with liquid gold.
At night the moon hung gentle in its place
As stars about it echoed songs of old.
The sky is hollow here, it does not sing
As once it did in worlds now lost to me.
I only hear them in remembering;
The dark enfolds the moon-road on the sea.
Foreign sun, take pity on my plight:
Make me forget the silent empty night.

[It was going to be a sonnet, but he ran out of time. He kind of wishes he'd chosen something shorter.]

[All these people and their fancy poems...and here's Yue, whose only prior experience with poems was that time he stole Hijikata's haiku collection.

...Welp, no point worrying over it. You work with what you've got, right?]

there are no foxes
no monsters, family, masks
but i still have wings

Is that okay? Trying to think of things to write is pretty hard...heheh.

[There's all sorts of scribbled-out attempts all over his paper--along with a bunch of doodles in the margins.]

[Shi's only gotten colder feet since arriving. He's always had a secret desire to write music and lyrics for them, but never anyone to share those with. Though still shy about the music part, he does pull himself together to timidly write a poem.

"My sea was full of life and light,
and always was my friend.
She taught me to everyday find delight,
until they chose her end.

The sea they saw was not the same,
not a blessing but a curse.
Onto the sea they put all their blame,
But our seas were not inverse.

Even though they took my sea away,
I know I'm not supposed to cry.
Such a story should not replay,
because sister asked me not to die.

Even though they took my sea away,
I know I'm not supposed to cry.
The waves still bless them every day.
Tears will not pacify."]

Um... I'm sorry. Is my handwriting bad? Can you read it?

[Roxas is not creative, to say the least. His pursuits have always been athletic or just plain survival, and he never really got into the artsy stuff. But he wants to try, because, well... maybe it will help. So he went to the library and read a bunch of poems, but he's not sure it really helped.]

This is my first time trying to write a poem or anything like that... So, uh, I'm sorry.

[Because he's convinced, and he's probably right, that what is written on the page is garbage.]

A drum, so soft you barely hear it,
it's so easy to tune out every day.
Waves on the shore, the flap of wings.
Just a soft pounding, constant.

Footsteps, rainfall, a clock ticking.
A loud noise, speed up.
Relaxing afternoon, slow down.
Rhythmic and steady, never-ending.

So easy to take for granted,
always there in your ears
but you never really hear it.
It's there if you listen, ever present.

Sometimes it grows warmer or colder,
Or it tries to beat out of my chest.
That's how I know I'm alive.
I hope my heart is really mine.

[And now he's just gonna avoid eye-contact because this all makes him feel oddly vulnerable??]

Edited 2018-07-29 21:13 (UTC)

[ Hunk was... not a poet. But Monika put this together and she was his friend and he wanted to support her, so he set all that aside. He'd spent days with books from Arito's libraries, trying to figure out what he was doing. Poetry was a lot more complicated than talking about food.

Even now he was still freaking out on the inside. What if he makes a poetic faux pas? These people all probably know what they're doing, so he's gotta try to play it cool, but still... ]

I'm kinda new to this, so let me know if there's something that didn't work! It was actually pretty fun once I got started...

[ The page looks pristine, like he used an entire notebook to scribble out all of his initial drafts and changes, and hand-wrote the final version on another sheet. ]

The Heat ＿〆(･ω･。)

The trigger clicks, the empty blackness swarmed with heat.
Then the moons break, their riches seeping into the void.
A blazing sword begins to cut, and those riches are destroyed.

Each swing finds stone and slag, knocked away to a beat.
Pow, the cannon shouts, filling space with matter shining gold.
The battle's end is close at hand, just like times of old.

One final strike and finally, victory's complete.
It's time to lick my wounds, to clean house.
But the heat is intense, one I can't douse.

So now it's time to move on, or it all could repeat.
To my castle I flee, victorious like the kings.
To catch my breath, and see what else today brings.

Another day, another struggle, another new friend to meet.
Again I leave, ready to fight with all my brawn,
but then I think- did I leave the stove on?

[ And then he looks expectantly at his poem-sharing partner. ]

[ Much to her own surprise, Sylvarie found herself sitting amidst the outworlders with a thin leather-bound journal in her lap. Though she had already considered attending the club on her own, it was Primrose’s insistence that had truly caught her off guard. The moogle certainly has never made her disapproval for many creative arts unknown, yet this one she had deemed “suitable” and “ladylike,” whatever that meant.

Nonetheless, it had been years since she had last taken part in any sort of poetry or literature, so while she may have given her best effort, there was no denying the nervous hesitation in her voice when she extracted her poem. ]

This is… I’m not sure I was ever good at any of this, but I appreciate your taking the time to listen.

[ Breathing in, so began the steady rhythm, voice filled with melancholy as the words slipped past. ]

Memories from long ago
Paint your waters with pitch black
Storms above and rage below
A vessel drowning with just one crack

Yet echoes from further still push forward with all might
Sunshine bright and beauty bestowed
Waves ebbing and sand white

Perilous is the might of the sea
Her waters refuge for a monster’s den
Yet the same sea does grant reprieve
Breathing life, again and again

Many are the facets of the sea
Merry yet sorrowful, her song a forgotten plea

Of the two distant echoes, which shall ring true?
Days of laughter and joy, or the night when terror grew?
All in due time, some would say
Yet with each wave that recedes, so too do the days fray

[ Finished, she looked to her listener timidly. Criticism she could handle, but that made it no less intimidating when it came to such material. ]

Edited 2018-08-01 03:51 (UTC)

[It had seemed like such a fun idea at the time. Literature club! And then it turned out that they'd be sharing poetry, which made her cringe a little. The last time she'd attempted poetry it had turned into quite an adventure. But there was no way the same thing would happen again! It would definitely be different this time.

But rather than recite her poem, she's just going to casually slide over the notebook where it's written. She'd had the option of reciting it, but in the end Marinette had decided to let people read it for themselves if they were so inclined.]

Quiet adonis
with sparkling skin
and golden hair.

Words tumbling,
feet stumbling,
all I can do is stare.

Eyes like spring,
smile like the sun,
your presence lights up the room,
banishing the gloom.

Will you ever think of me
the way I think of you?

ARRIVAL & MINGLE

(frozen comment) POEM SHARING

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