The Luniferous Gazette #38: Thumbelina's Tale Thrice-Told

 Andersen's "Tommelise" in Three Poems

~*~

In celebration of completing my first Fairy Tale Poetry capsule on YouTube, I thought I’d share the Tale of Thumbelina in three poems. The first two were written and published in 2015, but the last poem took me until 2026 to properly ink the ending. I hope you enjoy my retelling of Hans Christian Andersen’s beloved 1835 story, “Tommelise” in Danish, or as I grew up hearing it told—Thumbelina.

I. 

 Thumbelina’s Circumambiency

Whiter than snowfall,
The lake’s bone china face
Glitters through a thin sheen
Of water, depths smoother
Than a porcelain moon.
Blue flowers rimming
The bank never fade,
Bouquets of cornflowers
And sprays of alyssum
Blooming evenly always
Two inches apart.
My lake fills just
A plate, after all—
Not the world.
My shoulder blades are
Too bare for flight,
Yet my courage could
Overflow a thimble!
There are strands of seconds
When I dream of steering
My tulip petal prow across
Real lakes lapping the stars at night,
Through iris ferns shaking
Sword leaves in the breeze,
The world in all its live
Sapphire wideness—

Of wings for skying.

 

 

 II.

Thumbelina in Winter Blue

Winter-struck,
The bird is mostly dead,
But so am I—

Buried under earth with
My frostbitten dreams
Of free blue airs 

Shriveled

Deep inside me like
So many withered
Summer clovers.

A mole’s hole fits
My little tiny hopes
Perfectly.

(No breath of sun shall
Ever reach me here).

But if I can
Spark the swallow’s
Meager warmth,

Perhaps my shade-bound
Heart can share
Something of its wings

When I set its
Feathered fleetness
Wild come

Spring.

 

 III.

Maia’s Alation, or—
Thumbelina Gains Her Wings

No “Little Tiny” tremulous, 
never “thumbling” 
again—

Ever after “Maia,” 
he names me, 
lady vernal.

For my prince, with his 
shrewd crystalline gaze
can plainly scry 

My flowerborn soul is every 
inch as sun-spun as 
his own frame.

(Only I 
forgot my 
innate iridescence . . .)

Fit for flight with the wings 
of a silver fly, I shiver 
at the raw 

Flutter and new strength of 
gossamer panes against
 my back, wondering

How many morning stars and refractions 
of twilight might I stellify 
in a second’s swoop?

Only sky may tell!

 

While I doubt that there are many who peruse YouTube for the express purpose of listening to random poems, if a few wander into my online corner now and then and enjoy my dropped ink bouquets, I shall be glad. I’m still trying to balance that tricky creation v. consumption cycle—you know, figure out how to use social media responsibly without being devoured by it! 

After venturing back into Instagram last week, I decided to keep my cynestiamoon account so that I can share lunar photography there sometimes. But it wasn’t long before I found myself mindlessly scrolling and wasting unaccountable seconds again, my fingertip flicking past posts and reels at a speed to rival a hummingbird’s flicker. 

Thumbelina spent so much of her life cooped up in walled, enclosed spaces, I can’t imagine her wasting another moment of her precious existence under the artificial spell of a screen’s reflection. Her wings give flight to her will.  

So . . .

Maybe this is a reach, but bear with me now—

May our fingers be our better fairies! 

 

Sources:

Hersholt, Jean. (Translator). “Thumbelina.” SDU HC Andersen Centret. 
https://andersen.sdu.dk/vaerk/hersholt/Thumbelina_e.html

“Little Tiny’s Swallow.” (March 2015). Through the Gate, 6. 
http://throughthegate.net/issue6-mar2015/page-swallow.html

“Thumbelina’s Circumambiency.” (Summer 2015). Star*Line, 38(3), 
17. Science Fiction Poetry Association.

“Thumbelina History.” Surlalunefairytales.com.
https://surlalunefairytales.com/s-z/thumbelina/thumbelina-history.html

~*~ 

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The Luniferous Gazette #37: 1.3 Light-Seconds from the Farthest Human Wish

Chasing a "certain Slant of Light"

 

Did you know that no human has traveled more than 1.3 light-seconds away from our world? This is the distance that it takes for light to voyage between our planet and the moon, or 240,000 miles. That means that no human outside of an astronaut on the moon has ever made a wish farther from Earth. Perhaps someday there will be humans making Martian and Europan lunar wishes under sealed biodomes and far rays of sunlight! But as for now, the record stands. 

And as for me, I know that I will never be able to make a wish in this life that darts beyond 1.3 light-seconds from Earth. However, I do believe that there is a power in the brain that defies the bonds of gravity and velocity. 

Oddly, this ability is often only fully sharpened after defeat—resignation—the blunt acknowledgement that the world is sometimes too wearisome and painful to bear even one split-second longer.  

In her poem, “There is a certain Slant of Light (320),” Emily Dickinson speaks of the heavy oppressive light of winter afternoons, declaring, “'Tis the seal Despair – / An imperial affliction / Sent us of the Air –”  

I live in the northern United States, so I deeply feel what the poetess names that “Heavenly Hurt” during this ice-gripped time of year. Currents of fierce energy frost in the veins, and a chill claw shadows every waking thought. This is not a world for living things. 

One must cast their imagination wide to find them flourishing, like strange flowers between melting ice slabs . . . 

And search for pockets of paradise when the world gives only cold puddles and snow dams—

Charge! Past shores of salt crystal tears to oceans of wishes in the heart that still flicker and burn—

 

For no frozen darkness or cruel season in life will ever be stronger than our own seed-bound scintilla. At least, this is the tale that we tell ourselves, because that is how we outlast our fate for even a few seconds longer—

“Had I not created my whole world, I would certainly have died in other people’s. ”
~ Anaïs Nin

But how do we fly inward, faster and farther than 1.3 light-seconds, and reclaim the lost anatomy of our dreamscapes? I struggle with that question quite frequently, as anyone who grows old with their bones will keenly understand. Here are two “gem-tactics” that I roll around in my mind now and again:

Gem-tactic 1: Do the weird thing just because you love it! Gain +1 joyous slant of light. 

*I’m currently sketching one random horse per month because I used to love drawing as a child, and I want to cultivate that happiness again. Here’s my Artweaver practice sketch for February: a pink-dappled beauty that pays homage to this whimsically elegant and luxuriantly priced (also sadly out of stock) unicorn brooch. I added an amethystine heart twist as a tiny nod to Valentine’s. 

Gem-tactic 2: Carry an invisible talisman that reminds you who you are beyond ash or ember. Reboot 97%  stardust (*the amount of atoms we share with the stars).   

*This talisman doesn’t have to be fancy or erudite in complexity. For me, I thread the jaded cracks in my heart with a simple ribbon of ink. This poem was written by my late mother a very long time ago. I realized I could sing her kind message to the traditional tune of "Rose Red," so I swapped my name with the word “child” to make it a lullaby for others, too.

Bonnie’s Song

Child happy, wild, and free, running 
Towards all that she can be 
Child, lovely, kind and strong, never stopping 
Till day is gone. 
Child, dancer, artist, sprite don’t ever hide 
That radiant light 
Hold it high, that all might see the fire that 
Brings such joy to me. 

~Bonnie Bess Bickmore Page

I wavered over whether to include her poem as I sometimes worry about oversharing my most precious memories of my mom. But as I have no children, the shining remnants of her words will one day vanish with me like a forgotten bookmark. I hope that by sharing them here, I may leave a bright mote of warmth for someone else, too. 

I want to end this issue with a certain slant of silliness, for I believe that is the strongest power the brain possesses—to revel in ridiculosity!

The Swallowtail

Undaunted by the scorner’s scoffs, 
The nosy earwig, or the multi-pedian 
Myriapods of discontent—
She
Believed in flying. 
Her essence distilled in threads,
Tender-binding, silken strands
That wrapped her plump, ember-body 
Round and true (As a seed). 
Moon and sun orbited her cocoon, 
Stars trailed by in a milky gauze; 
A new world evolved within a Word. 
At last, 
Lucency called her out. 
So, leaving the ground behind
For the bliss of air-spent ways—
She gave her grace to wings. 

*If you enjoyed this poem, you may find more such inktacular musings in Tangible Creatures. 

Sources:

Dickinson, Emily. “There is a certain Slant of Light (320).” The Poetry Foundation.org. 
https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45723/theres-a-certain-slant-of-light-320

Nin, Anaïs. Goodreads.com. 
https://www.goodreads.com/quotes/156703-had-i-not-created-my-whole-world-i-would-certainly

“‘Seeing’ the Earth, Moon, and Sun to Scale.” Nasa.gov. 
https://www.grc.nasa.gov/www/k-12/Numbers/Math/Mathematical_Thinking/seeing_the_earth_moon.htm

Howell, Elizabeth. (1/10/2017). “Humans Really are Made of Stardust, and a New Study Proves It.” Space.com. 
https://www.space.com/35276-humans-made-of-stardust-galaxy-life-elements.html

 ~*~ 

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The Luniferous Gazette #36: Pearls for Anna

 Lucent Wounds and Wonders

*

For better or worse, my friends have the right to request a post from me on any topic of interest! I’ve owed Anna a post on pearls since November, and I hope she will forgive my ignominious delay . . . .

I could only begin with my favorite passage on pearls ever found in Earth Prayers from around the World: 365 Prayers, Poems, and Invocations Honoring the Earth. Editors Elizabeth Roberts and Elias Amidon explore the nature of reality through a Buddhist Sutra, revealing that “the heaven of Indra is said to be a network of pearls so arranged that if you look at one you see all the others reflected in it. In the same way some scientists now recognize that each object in the world is not merely itself but involves every other object” (p. 170). 

When I first read this description, my mind was instantly awestruck by the imagery of this web of inseparably interlaced gems. Even though I can’t fully comprehend this concept from my outsider’s perspective, I appreciate its beauty and how it reminds me of the mysterious process of quantum entanglement across our universe. For in my mind, there is no orb more wholly mysterious than a pearl. 

Perhaps that is why pearls have utterly entranced humanity throughout history. Last year I thrifted a book exclusively on these oyster gems, Tears of Mermaids: The Secret Story of Pearls by Stephen G. Bloom. The second my eyes spotted the coiled necklace shimmering on the cover, I snatched that book off the shelf display faster than a finger snap! Best two dollars ever spent.

Before I read this exhaustively fascinating book, I had no idea of the sheer global appetite for these orbs, especially during the Pearl Era from 1524-1658. These nacreous spheres were such important markers of prestige that there was even pushback against gaudy pearl displays by Venetian officials, who imposed a fine on husbands whose wives indulged in this shameful “pearl obsession” (Bloom 21). In  fact, in 1627 a German bishop even went so far as to excommunicate women who would not relinquish wearing their pearls (Bloom 21). Oh, what scandal! I definitely would’ve been excommunicated for my rebellious persistence in pearl adornment. 

Levity aside, there is also a much darker history to pearls I didn’t know about until I read Bloom’s work. Entire indigenous tribes were enslaved and decimated after being forced into dangerous pearl diving to feed the insatiable market demand for these gems (Bloom 13). While the ugliness of such human behavior never shatters the outer purity of the pearl, it does remind me that these spheres mask their full origin story in a glow.  

For in its essence, isn’t a pearl a kind of wound? It was never meant to exist within the natural life cycle of an organism. It only exists because an irritant like a shard or a parasite became trapped inside an oyster which then layered it in calcium carbonate to protect itself. The pearl is both a marker of past pain and the patient process of creating armor. 

Perhaps that is why those who cry pearls in fairy tales are often met by greed and danger. In the Danish fairy tale Princess Rosamund, the princess spills pearls instead of tears whenever she weeps, a gift that results in a conniving lady of honor plucking her eyes out to steal her place in marriage. (Don’t worry, Rosamund gets them back, along with her prince at the end).  

I don’t think humanity will ever escape our allurement with pearls. Even faux pearls contain a sufficient aura of glamor to mimic the wonder of the real thing. I will never forget spilling my stocking upside down as a teenager and watching a delicate pearl and crystal bead necklace fall out like a mermaid’s lost treasure— 

My sister B had noticed me admiring it at the thrift store and secretly bought it for me as a stocking stuffer. Arrayed in my teardrop pearl pendant, I felt as beautiful as Elizabeth Bennet! And I daresay the kindness of my sister's gift made the pearl’s shine that much brighter. 

In my own thrifting adventures, I’ve found several faux pearl beauties. After rummaging through a questionably grody glass bowl of pins that I feared might give me tetanus, I discovered this vintage Joan Rivers heart in the mix. Though slightly scuffed on one side, I could not leave this incredible one dollar beauty behind. 

Or this outrageously impractical pearl purse I thrifted for a mere six bucks. Don’t ask me when or where I’ll use it, right now it makes fabulous wall décor!

Of course, my most triumphant acquisition is the lost Pearl of Welthian, discovered in a secret pocket of a vintage corduroy jacket—

*Just kidding, it’s only a splendid marble. But did its pearlescence make you believe for even a second? For one may find dropped pearls and sky pearls everywhere you look!

Just glance with open mind, and you might catch a luminous slant— 

Sources:

Bloom, Stephen G. Tears of Mermaids: The Secret Story of Pearls. St. Martin's Press, New York. 2009. 

Roberts, Elizabeth and Elias Amidon, Editors. Earth Prayers from Around the World: 365 Prayers, Poems, and Invocations Honoring the Earth. HarperSanFransisco. 1991. 

 ~*~ 

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The Luniferous Gazette #35: That Time I Thrifted a Fashionista

She is the Moment – And So are You

*

As the last issue was rather philosophical in nature, this week’s gazette shall be devoted to an utterly ludicrous affair—the proper appreciation of this singular diva currently hanging on a peg on my wall. 

I thrifted her from my local Savers for about thirteen dollars. She’s such a large pendant that she easily over-spans the palm of my hand. She’s not one to be stuffed in a jewelry drawer. No, this signature piece deserves to be displayed to study the fascinating combination of all her bold and subtle details. Designed by Karla Jordan, my Google lens investigations reveal that she is a vintage abalone construct most likely from the 1980’s. In some lights, her hat gleams deep pink, in other slants, an almost blazing red hue. I adore her. 

However, I must admit that my other family members’ reactions have been rather mixed: “hideous, tacky—absolutely fabulous!—definitely ‘a look’ that must be planned carefully.” I suppose I can agree with all three assessments of my newfound fashionista. What is a “fashionista,” precisely? The Oxford Dictionary gives us two possibilities, a “fashion designer,” or “someone who is always dressed in a fashionable way.” And she amply deserves that title in my opinion. She pairs so well with polka dots, after all . . .

And transitions easily from such ladylike elegance to the fierce, feline charisma of leopard spots. 

I wouldn’t go so far as to declare her a “neutral,” perhaps more the surprise chameleon of fashion accessories! But what of a name? At first glance, she bears a striking resemblance to a certain cinematic “Amélie,” but her faraway eye never meets another human’s gaze, lending her an untouchable air of dreamy composure. Upon deeper reflection, I believe she appears to be a lady who enjoys reading mystery novels by the poolside while sipping from ice-chilled goblets, so perhaps I shall call her “Agatha!” Yes, that’ll do nicely. 

Dear Agatha, I’m glad I discovered you on the middle shelf of the thrift store’s jewelry counter. I could hardly miss you and your gaudy aura of self-possession. 

Her confidence and soft-curled bob remind me of a well-loved 1951 book that belonged to my mother, The Seagulls Woke Me by Mary Stolz. Unfortunately, I seem to have misplaced my copy, so I am relying on vivid fragments of memory from my own reading. 

The protagonist, Jean, is a young teenager whose entire identity has been controlled by her mother down to the last detail. She is not allowed to cut her burdensome long hair, a “mane of glory” that is always bound tightly to her head. She is also forced to wear frumpy clothing at social functions that embarrasses her around her peers—including a particularly sad “taupe” dress, if I recall correctly. 

Yet Jean gains the courage to discover her own style when she decides to go to St. Kethley that summer, an island off Maine where her uncle runs a hotel. Cutting her heavy locks off to free her trapped curls, sixteen-year-old Jean embarks on a personal journey to become her true self (*and incidentally, also gains a handsome summer crush). I think every human goes through such phases of change, sometimes multiple times in our life, where we tear free from old selves and experiment with a new way of being. 

I wonder if the person who owned this pendant before me felt free and gorgeous when she donned the hatted lady. Did her necklace also inspire a sassy sense of aplomb and grace as she stepped out to face a new day? This Valentine’s, may we all wear whatever makes us feel bold, or comfy, or quietly beautiful. You don’t have to dress for anyone but yourself. You don’t need to be iconic, or take pictures, or share them, unless you want to—but I hope you feel worthy of existing in your own skin as you are now.  

I have almost no photos of my mother in the last decade of her life because she had low self-esteem due to chronic health problems that affected her body image. I wish I could tell her that I loved her exactly as she was, fiercely, in every moment that I had the privilege to know her. 

And I want to embrace my own brief moment on Earth with all the fearless poise of abalone Agatha!

She is the moment:
Vintage fashionista queen—
Ever in style.

Source:

“Fashionista.” Oxford Learner’s Dicitonaries.com.
https://www.oxfordlearnersdictionaries.com/us/definition/english/fashionista

 ~*~ 

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The Luniferous Gazette #34: Salt and Sugar Musings on Okaloosa Island

Erasing the Space Between Thought and Being

* 

Please enjoy these captured flashes of sight and sound from Okaloosa Island taken last week: 

I was born with a brain that rarely shuts up, and this mental susurrus cuts deeply sometimes. Yet I can always find respite in the unruly rhythm of the ocean. It’s too loud to ignore or overcome. Its vast wildness must be heeded. Duly humbled, I readily surrender my tangled thoughts to the wholeness of the sea. 

Perhaps this heron senses the immense totality, too? The complete creature breathing over Earth in soft curls of foam and salty spray . . .

The sea breezes soothe my internal head gale with a relentless lullaby of waves, reminding me: 

 

I’m just another sand speck on the shoreline of time, a brief bonding of matter and thought that will be pounded into oblivion in a temporal gust one day. 

Wandering beside the waves allows me to feel the edges of my own insignificant parameters. How could I not next to a fiercely fluid body that envelops 71 percent of our planet? Sometimes, with continents and capitols stuck in the craw of my consciousness, I forget the blue side of Earth where there’s barely any dry dirt visible from space. Yet the Ocean rolls in sapphire solitude while we stick things clamor over landmasses. 

Know your smallness. I think it’s the only way for us to reconnect with everything else. Yet sometimes, we get so bogged down in our own unique desires and dreams, desperate to leave some kind of mark that time won’t take away . . . 

Our fate was always set for ultimate erasure. Still, I naively wish it was possible for humanity to understand itself better first. Terribly trite, but I make no apologies for that starry-eyed girl who grew up on Star Trek, and once believed.

Did you know that if the space between the atoms in every human body was erased, you could shrink our entire species down to the volume of a sugar cube? All our genetic data, tragedies, and triumphs compressed into a tiny object that rests easily in the palm of a hand. Would that inescapable closeness link all our minds in some grand heaven or hell? I wonder. Some shimmering horizons seem almost impossible to imagine anymore . . . 

What if to be human, a conscious being, is to become in some ways unshareable? Set apart, each thought a million light years from every truly fathoming the deepest core of another’s heart? Maybe so. But I reject those bonds and bounds! And I will leave this last golden sun song from my time in Okaloosa with you, a small offering from my own shattered wishes.

  

Sources:

“Just how Big is the Ocean?” Smithsonian Natural History Museum. ocean.si.edu.

https://ocean.si.edu/planet-ocean/seafloor/just-how-big-ocean

“A Different View of Earth.” Smithsonian Natural History Museum. ocean.si.edu.

https://ocean.si.edu/planet-ocean/different-view-earth

Sundermier, Ali. (30 August 2016) “You Could Fit The Entire Human Race Into A Sugar Cube — And 13 Other Facts To Put The Universe Into Perspective.” iflscience.com

https://www.iflscience.com/you-could-fit-the-entire-human-race-into-a-sugar-cube-and-13-other-facts-to-put-the-universe-into-perspective-37650

 ~*~ 

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The Luniferous Gazette #33: My Dear Little Viand

Draconic Advice for Mortal Crumbs

*For reasons that shall remain unexplained until a later date, this issue is short and entirely fictional.

Viands: "Articles or dishes of food, now usually of a choice or delicate kind" (Dictionary.com). 

My Dear Little Viand,

I know you’re terribly afraid right now. You don’t feel like you are enough for this moment. And you aren’t, not really—not even a mealy mouthful worth crunching between my fangs. But what you lack in mortal substance, you make up for in scrumptious gumption.

You can’t measure that. You can’t squash it under claw. No matter how small you crush  a quantum of courage, a stubborn fleck always survives and flutters free. What a delicious intangibility! I think you call that iron flavor “free will”?

Please remember: I didn’t spare your life all those years ago just to watch you crumble now. You’re not a cookie. Trust me, I would’ve downed you in a gulp with a barrel of fresh cream if that were so.

You’re only human, and for such a brief snatch of seasons, too! But you’re also exactly the right amount of spice and spark breathed into being by the universe today. And I believe your heart will always be big enough to hold a million times more stars than seconds in this life. Gleam on in the gloaming tide, Little Grit. 

Yours in eternal ravening,

Antiquarius

Source:

"Viand.”

https://www.dictionary.com/browse/viand

Collins English Dictionary — Complete & Unabridged" 2012 Digital Edition © William Collins Sons & Co. Ltd. 1979, 1986 © HarperCollins Publishers 1998, 2000, 2003, 2005, 2006, 2007, 2009, 2012

The Luniferous Gazette #32: A Thousandth of a Gleam

Our Biophotonic Birthright

“No need to hurry. No need to sparkle. No need to be anybody but oneself.” 
-Virginia Woolf, A Room of One’s Own. 

I love this short and simple triad of sentences penned by Virginia Woolf—especially in January, the start of a new year. Societal expectations often dictate the formation of grand, character-building resolutions now! Yet the rush to shine as fiercely and quickly as possible can be utterly exhausting and counterproductive. Sometimes, a deep winter hibernation is in order. Or perhaps just a quiet determination that need not be spoken aloud, just sheltered in the heart.

No need to hurry . . . 

Did you know that your body glows? The gleam is just 1000 times too dim for your eyes to perceive it. Metabolic reactions turn energy into bioluminescence. But this light is “ultraweak,” meaning that the human gaze will never be sensitive enough to see the biophotons that are our birthright. 

No need to sparkle . . . 

Whether our sheen is just a thousandth of a gleam or a solar flare of creativity, beauty and power that dazzles many, the tiny shimmer in our cells will last until our final breath on Earth. There is something comforting in knowing this constant flicker is always a part of me. 

No need to be anybody but oneself . . .   

Sometimes I feel that the older I get, the less sure I am of anything—especially myself. But I do know that I won’t be announcing inktacular writing goals anymore. I’ve heard that such splendiferous pronouncements can bypass the steady, boring growth of hard work and hit the brain’s reward center too early. Why disrupt my innate motivation by breaking out the celebratory pom-poms prematurely?

Instead, I shall scribble dark starlight quietly with my diamondiferous writing group for a solid chunk of months. Some sparkles, like the last shining grit of Fantasia, must be held closer than a whisper until it’s finally time to let them go. 

I do have one monthly Artweaver goal to share today, though. I’m getting back into drawing horses again! My mom adored those creatures above all other animals on Earth, raising her daughters on The Black Stallion, Black Beauty, Flicka, and all horse-related adventures. I suppose it was only natural that I would fall in love with them, too. After rummaging through my old art supplies, I even found my cherished horse sketch books:

While I’m quite rusty at equine art, I’m determined to pursue the noble form once more. I must admit that I chuckled when I ran across this quotation by Paul Brown in Drawing the Horse: “Lots of people, especially artists, say that the horse is one of the most beautiful things that God ever made but the d---dest thing to draw. Nonsense. He is beautiful all right, and there is no more pleasant thing to sketch.” 

I agree! Presenting January, the first of twelve dreams I dedicate to the Year of the Horse (*it begins on February 17th of 2026, so this horse is an early admission): 

Sources:

Brown, Paul. Drawing the Horse: Gaits, Points, and Confirmation. Van Nostrand Reinhold Company. 1981. 

Masaki Kobayashi, Daisuke Kikuchi, and Hitoshi Okamura. Edited by Joseph Najbauer. July 16, 2009. “Imaging of Ultraweak Spontaneous Photon Emission from Human Body Displaying Diurnal Rhythm.” <https://pmc.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/articles/PMC2707605/>

~*~ 

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