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About Literature / Professional Michael-Israel JarvisMale/United Kingdom Recent Activity
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Literature
Ward Report

I.
On the hospital bed
the snake bites-
fastens its fang into the soft
of my arm
-and waits
with silent patience
while I count the ceiling tiles
and breathe
and breathe
in
this house of placid serpents
coiled shining
on their staves
I lie in grateful fear
waiting for the gentle comrade
who put the tooth in
to bleed me,
to draw a hot red line
from my heart
through
the bruise
in the fold
of my arm.
Her hand is steady
and cool on my anxious skin
she is the best shot
in her squadron;
and she always hits the vein.
II.
In the long watch
smiling sisters
rally us like sergeants
with sandwiches
that are doing their best
and coffee
that can do no worse
Clean and calm
this place has the feel of stretched elastic
it is doing its best
in the face of the worst
behind enemy lines
still giving
everything.
They let us leave after midnight
with a message to raise
the barrier-
a glimpse of a different
kind
of army;
no speeches
no medals
and no charges.
III.
I prefer the Order
of the Snake and Rod
:iconAutumn-Hills:Autumn-Hills
:iconautumn-hills:Autumn-Hills 4 0
Literature
Duress and the Decision
I have decided to accept
the chisel
darting across my form
excoriating
like the hooked in claws
of Sekhmet
I accept it
I accept it
Because the pain of
straining against each chip and splinter
taken from me
into the wind behind the mirror
is somehow worse in its
gasping knotted
incomprehension
than the blows of a rain of chisels
Which is not to say that the mason's teeth
do not bite harshly
they sting enough
to melt my thoughts
and redraw my portrait
again
and
again
It is just that I
cannot
fight the losses anymore
not without cutting myself
down-
I am all blade and no hilt
and my hands are bleeding
So I surrender
howling with a wolf's tongue
and I will let myself
become.
I will let the madness
sculpt my bones
and I will live in the new shape
joyously, when I can
joyously
when I can
I accept it.
I accept it.
:iconAutumn-Hills:Autumn-Hills
:iconautumn-hills:Autumn-Hills 2 0
Literature
When the Golden Hour Sours
When the golden hour sours
when the flutter of beauty in the eye
of the beholder stutters
and the joy beneath the skin
of every seen thing-
an excitement of sky
of tree
of sun on water; on a teardrop,
on a favourite mug
and the rich bloom of coffee drunk
at just
the right
time
And
of tomorrow; the sweet fire of tomorrow!
-when the golden hour sours
all of this hangs over the well
a dagger in the face
and poison in my water
the which to drown in
here is where my sadness hardens
and offers violence
for violence
and feels everything no less keenly
than when the light was good
here is the bridge
between the fierce bright verbs
of mania
and the numb slog
of surviving
being.
here.
again.
So.
I will cling to the bridge and howl
and think about who to kill
and eat,
in the damp ash of tomorrow.
:iconAutumn-Hills:Autumn-Hills
:iconautumn-hills:Autumn-Hills 0 0
Literature
Hanging Weather
Mist hangs
yes, hangs is the word
from a loom of trees
from the eaves of silent grey houses
between grass blades
roads
and smothered fields.
Panic can hang
soft and thick and sow
a creeping infiltration of the air
concealing all sure things
cold with the promise
of unseen cars and hidden falls
a horizon wide catastrophe.
It does not help to know the sky
is blue beyond
you cannot see it
when all the shapes within this cold embrace
are smudged and changed
the invisible ambush of everything
surrounds. Buries
and hangs.
:iconAutumn-Hills:Autumn-Hills
:iconautumn-hills:Autumn-Hills 2 0
Literature
08/18
I made a fake moustache
from Kipling cake foil
in the idle grey early hours
pressed it to my upper lip
and got a shock
from 20 years over my shoulder
why is there hair! there was never hair there
was there
But there. It. Is.
and why am I afraid?
I think it's because of the ghost.
A bruised and wordy child
conjured by cake foil
blinking eyes in a big head
with a face like his father's,
and like mum’s, and almost
but not enough like my own
not enough to know me
not enough.
I cannot talk to him
he is gone.
I am made of all the days that ate him.
and what would I say?
Would I tell him-
it is called depression
it changes but does not go away
Love,
you will love in ignorance
but never in shame
and always, always,
stories are
better
and they will make you better too.
I've molded the foil into a new shape
almost like a snake, almost straight
a crinkled Caduceus
I think about crushing it
forgetting it with a fist
but I don't.
The child isn't real.
but that never stopped me
and after all,
:iconAutumn-Hills:Autumn-Hills
:iconautumn-hills:Autumn-Hills 31 14
Literature
eggshells
Vomit me
into the open mouths
of a clutch of squawking gods
their beaks yawning to be
quenched
they won't care
that my taste grew sour hair
on your fertile tongue,
that your stomach bucked
clenched
buckled and blenched
they won't care
that it cost you tears
—sobbed out of a black womb:
dry heaves of agony
staring at that blank hotel wall—
to swallow my heart.
they won't care
and they never have.
Eyes boil in fragile eggshell heads
tongues snap,whip-licks
their pinched bellies
distend and crawl with caustic liquor
they won't care
that the void is never full
that I can never sate
their fledgeless thirst
that I am thin gruel, thirdhand
and that you starved to lose me.
they won't care
that I am poison
a shrieking double helix
a steel centipede coiled through young lungs
that even hatchling gods
will choke on.
And when the nest bleeds oceans
and the last croak floats
I'll seep free of gooseflesh corpses, and
crystallise
on the hotel bathroom floor.
From a starless sky your bones
:iconAutumn-Hills:Autumn-Hills
:iconautumn-hills:Autumn-Hills 1 2
Mature content
Introducing Xivo - work from 'Warprince' :iconautumn-hills:Autumn-Hills 0 0
Mature content
Company of the Horned Moon Oath Speech :iconautumn-hills:Autumn-Hills 0 0
Literature
Walls Remain
The house is almost naked.
These walls—
long hid by bookcases
are now bare
now flushed with sunlight
and empty of warm shadows cast by curtains
(those too are gone)
the walls remain
but not in the same way.  
Little
white
sticker signs
mark all the taps, the doors, the water heater
warning against use
That copper drum was so full of boiling, glaring heat!
now it is cold and drained
they left a rusty stain of water
when they bled it.
It is not the emptiness
that aches
when the van leaves with the last boxes,
nor the nails that jaw the letterbox closed,
nor the keys that no longer fit.
But posters of disbanded bands on bedroom walls
discarded clothes—the books
we did not take,
they hurt.
The house is almost naked
from the outside you can see that
and the lowering sun has made all the white clouds gold
and one lamp in a brother’s bedroom
unlit,
casts its shadow on the sunlit wall.
:iconAutumn-Hills:Autumn-Hills
:iconautumn-hills:Autumn-Hills 6 0
Mature content
The Hundred Thousand Fingers :iconautumn-hills:Autumn-Hills 0 0
Mature content
In the Ice :iconautumn-hills:Autumn-Hills 30 11
Mature content
Profile :iconautumn-hills:Autumn-Hills 0 0
Literature
The Tyranny of Consciousness
I choke on my eyes
blinking
one by
one I
swallow, retch
they will not lie down
they will not lie down
they play drums on the knuckles that twitch
under the skin
of my chest.
.clings around my ribs
and resists
the battering sacks that my lungs become
a volume of silence
a chaos of roaring
a weep of shouts
they will not lie down
they will not lie down
they will not lie down
At last
I swallow my eyes
one
by one
forcing them like needles
through thick wet leather
They are still open in the dark
of my stomach
still roving.
.blinking in the socket of my bowel
and still.
they will not lie down.
:iconAutumn-Hills:Autumn-Hills
:iconautumn-hills:Autumn-Hills 0 0
Mature content
All of a Man :iconautumn-hills:Autumn-Hills 1 2
Literature
Poetry Live March, 2016 - Cambridge
Here are two sedate witches
shawled in the dignity of dark colours
sober nuns in the order of
the word Written
the word Spoken
the word offered in devotion
Spelled to catch meaning
they raise
their  true image from the ink cauldron
to speak with the dead that once they were
and by voice they force the lungs of memory
to breathe again
These two wise women
sedate
teenagers.
They scry the personal past
but the fleeing fearful young
run forward.
The witches are safe now that we burn children.
later
the fat black woman
slight and quiet and a hundred meters tall
so full of voice
like a jericho whisper at the walls of babylon
she hauls whoops from the uniform rows
sows shaking heads among the lads
a pale crop ripe to blush
at her rap
an offence of baby sounds
without pretence of violence
then
she leaves the stage on the strength of a smile—she will never be colonised.
last
striding toward us
dragging secrets into the stage lights
some kind of wizard
his voice rolls with oceans
and
:iconAutumn-Hills:Autumn-Hills
:iconautumn-hills:Autumn-Hills 0 0
Literature
The Saint of St. Lazare
On the escalator in St. Lazare
going down as
we ascend
there is an old man wearing no pants
his pale legs like lolly sticks
descend
from a grubby coat just long enough to hide what
nestles between those withered thighs
he stares straight ahead as he
passes with the diagonal serenity of
a sad line graph
he is chewing even though his mouth is
empty
busted washing machine tongue
hidden under a short
beard like lichen clinging.
He doesn’t seem to care about his missing trousers.
Now he is out of sight as the escalator
nudges me on to walk again
and he is gone
along with the troubling absence he wore
leaving only the dangle of
question? marks
:iconAutumn-Hills:Autumn-Hills
:iconautumn-hills:Autumn-Hills 0 0

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I.
On the hospital bed
the snake bites-
fastens its fang into the soft
of my arm
-and waits
with silent patience
while I count the ceiling tiles
and breathe
and breathe
in
this house of placid serpents
coiled shining
on their staves
I lie in grateful fear
waiting for the gentle comrade
who put the tooth in
to bleed me,
to draw a hot red line
from my heart
through
the bruise
in the fold
of my arm.

Her hand is steady
and cool on my anxious skin
she is the best shot
in her squadron;
and she always hits the vein.

II.
In the long watch
smiling sisters
rally us like sergeants
with sandwiches
that are doing their best
and coffee
that can do no worse

Clean and calm
this place has the feel of stretched elastic
it is doing its best
in the face of the worst
behind enemy lines
still giving
everything.

They let us leave after midnight
with a message to raise
the barrier-
a glimpse of a different
kind
of army;
no speeches
no medals
and no charges.

III.
I prefer the Order
of the Snake and Rod
to every Royal Regiment.

The sting of the cannula
is sweeter
than all the wreaths laid
in reverence
at the feet of the unknown
soldier
and I would rather die
in defence of Asclepius
than of St. George
and all his subtle dragons
for if we forsake
our solidarity
with the snake and staff
and betray its grace
for thirty silver eagles

its passing
will damn a nation
and a plague
will fall
on all our Houses.
Ward Report
I recently spent some time in the hospitality of our NHS (National Health Service) which provides all healthcare free at the point of service. I will be seeing them again in a week.
Hospitals are hard places to enjoy. We don't want to be in them, and there are some very good reasons for that. But I believe that the National Health Service, which was not the first of its kind, but the first Universal Healthcare system for a nation with such a population size. It became a model for later systems.
To this day it is still a more efficient and effective system than anything in the States, despite being deliberately stretched by a hostile government for almost a decade, and chronically underfunded for even longer than that.

We don't thank medical staff for their service in the same way that we do members of the armed forces. I think we should.
Loading...
I have decided to accept
the chisel
darting across my form
excoriating
like the hooked in claws
of Sekhmet
I accept it
I accept it

Because the pain of
straining against each chip and splinter
taken from me
into the wind behind the mirror
is somehow worse in its
gasping knotted
incomprehension
than the blows of a rain of chisels

Which is not to say that the mason's teeth
do not bite harshly
they sting enough
to melt my thoughts
and redraw my portrait
again
and
again

It is just that I
cannot
fight the losses anymore
not without cutting myself
down-
I am all blade and no hilt
and my hands are bleeding

So I surrender
howling with a wolf's tongue
and I will let myself
become.
I will let the madness
sculpt my bones
and I will live in the new shape
joyously, when I can
joyously
when I can

I accept it.
I accept it.
Duress and the Decision
Encapsulating a possible turning point with regards to my private mental health war. There's more to it than that, but I'll leave that up to you.
Loading...
When the golden hour sours
when the flutter of beauty in the eye
of the beholder stutters
and the joy beneath the skin
of every seen thing-

an excitement of sky
of tree
of sun on water; on a teardrop,
on a favourite mug
and the rich bloom of coffee drunk
at just
the right
time

And
of tomorrow; the sweet fire of tomorrow!

-when the golden hour sours
all of this hangs over the well
a dagger in the face
and poison in my water
the which to drown in

here is where my sadness hardens
and offers violence
for violence
and feels everything no less keenly
than when the light was good

here is the bridge
between the fierce bright verbs
of mania
and the numb slog
of surviving
being.
here.
again.

So.
I will cling to the bridge and howl
and think about who to kill
and eat,
in the damp ash of tomorrow.
When the Golden Hour Sours
Investigating that liminal point between two very divergent mental states, which, unfortunately is not a liveably escapable experience.
Loading...
Mist hangs
yes, hangs is the word
from a loom of trees
from the eaves of silent grey houses
between grass blades
roads
and smothered fields.

Panic can hang
soft and thick and sow
a creeping infiltration of the air
concealing all sure things
cold with the promise
of unseen cars and hidden falls
a horizon wide catastrophe.

It does not help to know the sky
is blue beyond
you cannot see it
when all the shapes within this cold embrace
are smudged and changed
the invisible ambush of everything
surrounds. Buries
and hangs.
I made a fake moustache
from Kipling cake foil
in the idle grey early hours

pressed it to my upper lip
and got a shock
from 20 years over my shoulder

why is there hair! there was never hair there
was there
But there. It. Is.

and why am I afraid?

I think it's because of the ghost.
A bruised and wordy child
conjured by cake foil

blinking eyes in a big head
with a face like his father's,
and like mum’s, and almost

but not enough like my own
not enough to know me
not enough.

I cannot talk to him
he is gone.
I am made of all the days that ate him.

and what would I say?

Would I tell him-
it is called depression
it changes but does not go away

Love,
you will love in ignorance
but never in shame

and always, always,
stories are
better

and they will make you better too.

I've molded the foil into a new shape
almost like a snake, almost straight
a crinkled Caduceus

I think about crushing it
forgetting it with a fist
but I don't.

The child isn't real.
but that never stopped me
and after all,

I am listening.
Hi everyone,

I've been almost silent and nearly completely absent on here for too long.
Just so you know, this journal is going to come around to an upbeat perspective, but it's gonna dive deep and dark first. Okay? A long absence deserves a proper explanation. I never left you, dA. Never.

The reason for this is summed up by a shitty couple of years taking their shots at me and my wife.

A few years ago, we were homeless, living with friends. Then we moved in with Cet's family. My wife has a difficult relationship with her parents at times, so that wasn't great, but it saved us. I will always set out to believe in family.

Throughout this general period of our lives, four of our friends attempted to take their own lives. Two of them sadly did. Two are still with us

A couple of Novembers back I got a job at a school, which has become a job I love at that same school. It got us out of Cet's folks' and into the city, lodging with a friend of my family. Cet also got a job some time after that, and it looked like we'd finally be able to get on up into real independence.

Cet's job made her sick. Violent assaults, lack of training, lack of support - and then came the day that they fired her. They lied about her in their report and it looked very like my wife was going to lose her clearance to work with children, which she had trained to do since she was a teenager. Cet got very sick after that. Depression with suicidal ideation. It felt like our world was being crushed bit by bit.

Not long after they fired her, the place she'd worked at got shut down for being unsafe. No surprises there, but not much consolation. Thankfully, my wife began to recover, and she is in good recovery now. She proved so strong when the next blows came that I'm still amazed.

My family lost their house to the mortgage people last October.
We lost our lodging in the city in November, without any warning (not my friend/landlady's fault, just unavoidable) so we were homeless too. I'd just helped get my parents out and to friends, and now we were moving too. The same day we had to leave the city, Cet got a job just down the road from there.

So, the Winter of 2017 and Spring of 2018 were spent commuting between the coast and the city, both of us working and hanging on. My family squeezed in with us at Cet's folks' again. It was stressful, but there was grace in it. A hard Christmas, especially for Cet, though. My mental health was.... a bit frayed at this point. We were conscious that because we were both working, we were in a position to save for our own flat deposit for renting - a step up, for sure, but we felt like we'd gone backwards.

Anyway, here we are, been living in our flat in the city for over a month now. We found the place, got in with help from friends and family, and it feels like the nightmares are receding a bit. Some days are still difficult, but we can cook for ourselves and keep house like fucking adults for the first time in a very long time. My family moved down to the West Country (Devon) like pioneers or refugees or a mixture of the two. We are still here.

And I'm back. Throughout this homelessness, my PC lived at a friend's. I've got it back now. I'm reconnecting with things that got stolen from me - not just my writing, but my communities. I'll understand if many of you aren't expecting this journal, if nobody reads it as a result, but I'm going to build dA time back into my routine. I grew up with this place.

Yeah. I'm back.
Heart I love deviantART! Heart 

---
I think I've fainted. 
Sorry to get all heavy, guys! A new Maker's Bloodline book is coming soon, so watch this space, cos I'll no doubt be plugging it here like crazy. In the meantime, I'm working on the sequel to Gravedigger, and I expect I'll put sample chapters up here if people are interested.

Huge love.

Izzy


  • Listening to: Flobots
  • Reading: Oathbreaker by Brandon Sanderson
  • Watching: Grimm/Safe/Stuff on Youtube
  • Playing: Just Cause 3
  • Eating: Saucisson sec avec reblochon
  • Drinking: Grape soda

deviantID

Autumn-Hills's Profile Picture
Autumn-Hills
Michael-Israel Jarvis
Artist | Professional | Literature
United Kingdom
I've been a member of DeviantArt for over eight years. In that time, I more or less grew up and learned to write at the same time. I completed a First Class BA Degree in Creative Writing, with Honours; but it was DeviantArt that fostered my first writing. It was DeviantArt that gave me my first taste of feedback, encouragement; and criticism.

Since University I've independently published three books, two of which were born here, on DeviantArt. You can find Osric Fingerbone and Gravedigger chapters in my Fiction Finder over on the right, in draft form, unedited and unimproved. Meanwhile, I've signed with the Publisher Booktrope, that offer an entirely new model of publishing.

As a result, I'm now working with a professional team to republish my books. I dreamt of this kind of progress over those eight years. I am still dreaming of the successful future I hope I have in writing books, and selling them to people who want to read them. It's that simple for me.

DeviantArt is still here. So will I be. I will always owe this community much.

My books are available still in their indie form, here: www.amazon.co.uk/Michael-Israe… (UK link) and here: www.amazon.com/Michael-Israel-… (US Link)

Gravedigger will be republished within the next couple of months.
Interests

Wishlist

Grass River view by SivrajStudios Grass River view :iconsivrajstudios:SivrajStudios 1 0 Gass View Wind Mill by SivrajStudios Gass View Wind Mill :iconsivrajstudios:SivrajStudios 4 0 .MISSING YOU. by evol1314 .MISSING YOU. :iconevol1314:evol1314 88,768 9,516 Cthulhu Cthucks by salshep Cthulhu Cthucks :iconsalshep:salshep 549 288

Comments


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:iconyouinventedme:
YouInventedMe Featured By Owner Jan 13, 2019  Hobbyist Writer
I appreciate the :+devwatch:
Reply
:iconautumn-hills:
Autumn-Hills Featured By Owner Jan 15, 2019  Professional Writer
Likewise!
Reply
:iconautumn-hills:
Autumn-Hills Featured By Owner Dec 28, 2018  Professional Writer
No worries!
Reply
:iconchimeradragonfang:
ChimeraDragonfang Featured By Owner Nov 3, 2018
Hap Birf!   Birthday cake  icon 
Reply
:iconautumn-hills:
Autumn-Hills Featured By Owner Nov 17, 2018  Professional Writer
Takk!
Reply
:iconpennedinwhite:
PennedinWhite Featured By Owner Oct 16, 2018  Hobbyist Writer
Thanks for the watch, dear. 

Honored! :heart:
Reply
:iconyokoboo:
Yokoboo Featured By Owner Jun 3, 2018  Professional Digital Artist
Thanks for the watch!
Reply
:iconautumn-hills:
Autumn-Hills Featured By Owner Jun 3, 2018  Professional Writer
You're welcome! I've just read through every single page of Daughter of the Lilies. The moment I saw you were on dA I just had to Watch.

Awesome stuff.
Reply
:iconberkleydown:
BerkleyDown Featured By Owner Mar 23, 2016  Student General Artist
Your poetry reminds me of Shane Koyczan's - please take that as a huge compliment.
Reply
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