Aspergers: 2016

lundi 18 juillet 2016

Hearing ‘Indus’

A half-mile from the beach,
my shadow sheets give off
the faint whiff of my own sweat.
I’m thinking of the sky outside,
insanely blue, the street a viscid ribbon
flowing inch by inch in strange
marengo waves towards the sea.
I breathe in sizzling air and sand
while the sirocco breezes up
from the Sahara plains,
wheezing soft boredom through
my half-closed shutters.
I imagine everyone has died,
the island full of dried-up bodies
lying here and there, in every corner,
red and shrivelled, human chili pods.
A Dead Can Dance-song blares out
from the neighbours’ house,
Oonnaah cootitaeh janna ennech nay…,
the ethereal female voice,
the made-up language and the
slow, syncopic drums coating
this afternoon’s reality
with dusty, immaterial desires.
Even the dog that seems to bark
in the faint distance sounds
as unreal as a ghost hound.
Yullah-ouny-eezy-wahna…
Yullah-ouny-eezy-wahna…
I am too hot to move, to think,
to feel or to remember…
I guess that’s how I should remain,
A sweating body in a rented house,
on this forgotten isle of Lotus-Eaters.
And I am sure that I for one
would not regret…

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Hearing ‘Indus’

You are the lion of no mouth

You are the lion of no mouth
-------------------------------------
Hard emotion it can't be forgiven
A moment of distress as bitter as salt
While they freely sold it a captive city
In humiliation the ran and deceived
The decisive manner is not to halt
But were gone away as slaves
Leaving the city between a jaw of death
Nonchalant to the matter how it will be
The peace is not a stuff to buy
It is by blood normally has to gain
And quite sure you will be blamed
When people so much turning upset
Then you are the master who draws
A limit of exchange on his throne
Mosul was captive and many stole
The history of ancient becomes dust
And you are the lion of no mouth
What would say if people ask?
And what is the pretext if tomorrow comes!
Tomorrow will refuse the dark face indeed
And you settled at Baghdad seeking the empire
Between sergeants and official of rules
The dark point you neglect and make,
further royal flush as an innocent one
you're a camel like but you're stubborn
Your nation in Mosul is now in conflict
Knowing not where to go or move
Just dark days scattering a bitter wind
To whom you are a man of word!
Slave will be slave however to clothe
And the master is of word and sword

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You are the lion of no mouth

cheddaphobia

PB, I could try, try, to compete with that, but won't, knowing as I do that I have, for the time being, been outclassed. So please just accept this and bit of unbridled cheerleading until I think of a worthy rejoinder, as I shall strive to do while walking on the treadmill presently.

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cheddaphobia

dimanche 17 juillet 2016

Pics of your veggies (and fruits)...

This year for the first time I planted some veggies. I am a total newb, who knows nothin' about growing things, and will no doubt kill more plants than I succeed in growing to the point where they put stuff in my tum-tum, but I shall learn as I go. In any case, this fledgling tomato is my first ever such example. In this thread, please post pictures of the fruits and veggies you've grown.

New Tomato pic by Archibald Heatherington Nasty-Face, on Flickr

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Pics of your veggies (and fruits)...

I am a new member and I've just published a book . . . .

It's easy to publish an ebook today or even a newsletter or ezine. If you have a collection of poems, short stories, or an old manuscript you haven't done anything with, you can publish it through one of the on-line book distributors. Booktango, Bookcountry, and Smashwords are still free, and there are many other companies, such as ebookit, that charge a small fee.

All you need to do is edit your book, design a cover, and upload it. In no time you'll see it highlighted on the major ebook websites.

I've done that with my latest book, AFRICAN SAFARI BOOTCAMP FOR WOMEN. It's about a group of women who go on safari to see Africa and improve their lives. They end up in the bush without food, water, or weapons. Mo, the tour's geologist and a Kenyan-American who grew up with a Masai Tribe is saddled with the task of leading them to safety:

I hope you'll forgive me for tooting my book on my first post. You can find out more and read an excerpt at on my website.

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Difference: Enjoying & Analyzing literature

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samedi 16 juillet 2016

cheddaphobia

Is cheddaphobia still prevalent? If so, should literature get involved in going head to head with it? I know goudaphobia was extensive for a while outside of the city in the Netherlands for which the cheese was named, but that was back in the late 12th and early 13th Centuries. Likewise Jarlsberg struck fear in the hearts of those uninitiated in the ways of Norwegians, in the mid 1850s. But cheddar. Cheddar seems such a friendly cheese, and so common nowadays, it's hard to imagine bias against it persisting, but perhaps I'm mistaken.

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Recommended article from FiveFilters.org: Most Labour MPs in the UK Are Revolting.

cheddaphobia

Chinese Literature, Chinese films, and Chinese stuff

Hey y'all. Anyway I recently tried looking for a way to purchase Strange Tales from a Chinese Studio online, and I came across both the John Minford translation as well as the Herbert Giles one. The thing is, while I had already enjoyed Minford's rendition of "Story of the Stone", I was disappointed to read his comment in the introduction to "Strange Stories" that he left out certain parts because he felt they were irrelevant. I was also disappointed to find that the Giles translation, while longer, neutered a lot of the more scandalous content to render the work more palatable to a Victorian audience. So I am curious, does anyone know where I can find the original version, in the original language, either online or otherwise? Thanks.

Same goes for a lot of Chinese media. I'm looking for some of King Hu's films, for example. And Tsai Ming Liang's films are a ***** to find.

So yeah maybe we can expand this thread to talk about availability of Chinese Media in the west.

Chinese Literature, Chinese films, and Chinese stuff

vendredi 15 juillet 2016

Saloon Girl

Brimming from Weston cusp
shady eyes, arched brows
ensconced in denim folds
whitewashed dreams
borne by a Wrangler ego
bourbon-laced strains
exuding from profane lips
buckskin tread tracing the
lilac laces of a comely train
plastered over eggshell frame
parted by a coarse breeze
baring the silted template
of pretense, scorned love
still, the matador follows the scent
the sweet honey suckle drip
into the portals of wine and song
to drown his passions
with bawdy lines that coax
but never spark romance
in the hollowed soul
of a gratuitous vixen
who will share in seamly lines
but only pair with his bank notes

Saloon Girl

"Byron" By Jonny Lee Miller produced by the BBC

[unable to retrieve full-text content]

Image: http://ift.tt/29EbXEC Face it, the British have so... "Byron" By Jonny Lee Miller produced by the BBC

Alice Munro - Walker Brothers Cowboy

Anyone read this story?

I'm just reading Munro for the first time and have read 2 short stories so far and they bore me to death.

Specifically this one seemed UTTERLY pointless. Not only does nothing happen, which is fine, plotless stories can be good, but there's also just nothing there.

So my question is, are there any Munro fans here who've read this particular story to tell me whether they like it and what they like about it?

Also generally, what do you like about her?

Alice Munro - Walker Brothers Cowboy

We Need To Write a Novel About These Times

Someone needs to write a novel about these times like Joyce's character Stephen Dedalus says, "forge in the smithy of my soul the uncreated conscience of my race." Occupy Wall Street, perpetual economic recession, austerity, perpetual war for perpetual peace, massive demonstrations, extreme political candidates, Islamic terrorism, etc.

We Need To Write a Novel About These Times

At the Library

I share the library's Internet Room
With some local misfits, loners who
Cannot work in silence—they gasp,
They sing, or laugh, or babble,
Or do all these things, and cause by their gabbling
Discomposure in others, who loon-call back
By chiding, cursing, condemning, and hinting at
Brickbats and battery. As yet no fistfights
Have broken out, nor duels with épées,
Nor acts of war, but I'm thinking of wearing
A suit of armor
Next time I log onto the network there.

At the Library

By the Numbers

#1 — At the Java Shack

A milky milquetoast, shy but amiable,
He traveled by train (two lines!) to reach me,
Only twenty minutes late.
We spend an hour; he's semi-chummy:
Veers away but then looks back.
Ill-at-ease, but so are pigeons
When the gyr-hawk wheels o'erhead.
A door left open: "You should call me."
Haven't heard from him again.

#2 — At Rappahannock

He got a ticket in the District
On his way to meet me here.
Soft-spoken Susquehannan man
Who splits his time with Ailing Mother;
Caretaker type, in other words.
Thoughts trickle out, and then the torrents
Flow as if a dam's been breached.
Untidy affairs of too-close family
Consume him in baby dragon-bites.
Time creeps by—it's hard for me
To shut his spigot; with hat in hand
I back away. We part outside. Once more I offer:
"Next time you're down—"
No further whisper from that quarter.

#3 — At Peet's in Shirlington

A waste of bus fare on my part.
Stiff as a joist, he's polite but terse;
After ten minutes, he makes excuses
And scampers away. Too many men
Want marble-y models well out of their league.
The harvest has ended; the fields are sallow;
The crop has been creamed and I'm left with husks.

#4 — At Rappahannock

A coffeehouse—less than ideal place
To rendezvous with the latest number,
For caffeine gives him a pain in the head.
A bundle of nerves, but loose enough
To chuckle (or giggle) from time to time;
Hands clasped together to keep them from breaking,
He prays for something I can't divine.
He wants to linger, but interviewing's
Best done in pieces, so I dismiss him
Benedictus—we shall see.

#5 — At Buzz (Ballston)

His sonorous voice impresses me—
A Stentor over the phone, although
He requires a script I can't supply,
For I know my lines from the heart; but his?
In his pauses I lose my own unmarked place.
In person he is cordial enough,
And yet, those lapses and falterings
So hinder his otherwise perfect speech—
His improvisational talents are nil.
With Siberian eyes and well-preserved features
(For one his age), he's desirable,
Which means that after thirty minutes,
He is gone. These one-date wonders
Deceive themselves with talk of friendship;
Such bally rot!
It doesn't matter how outgoing, bright,
Or congenial one happens to be,
Assessments of bodily merits win out.
They want what was foremost on Jupiter's mind
In Noel Coward's vintage musical opus,
And who can blame them for taking a pass?
They sniff me and smell my obsolescence,
They stare and see a cindery dud.
The things that I offer—loyalty, amity,
Trustworthiness, truth, and soulful solace—
Are worthless commodities in this era.

***

Oh, the wishy-washy fish
In the cesspool where I cast
My poorly baited line!
Some are screwy, some are torpid,
Most are blanks and largely benign.
All I need is one good swimmer,
Not too stinky, not too flashy,
Dependable and not too dim,
Some depth preferred—not overly trashy,
But not too prudish, either, you see:
A balance is always the quandary.

By the Numbers

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no title

No ground coffee,
not in the mood for tea or to drive,
straight to the patio,
I woke up today as if still dreaming
to the noise of birds
that sounded like what I would hear
when I was a kid
in the islands several oceans away,
to the scent of grass
that reminded me of the meadow
where I caught
grasshoppers and luminous dragonflies,
and to the warm breeze
of the sun-drenched midmorning
when I used to walk
by the river before the browning of April,
then I went inside,
after smoking a couple of Marlboro reds,
awake and wondering
how I would tackle the sink full of dishes.

no title

The litany of green

I don’t like green
the smelly pallid shades of mint
of sage pistachio olive
the funereal moss the gloomy pine
the Stygian juniper or seaweed
or worst of all the snick’ring glare
of lime of pear of parakeet
I don’t like green
don’t tell me it means
life nature balance energy renewal—bah!
I don’t like spring
standing in my office legs spread
hands on my hips a bold tiger I am
the ruler the boss my heart
pumps gains and profits through my
body I gaze out full-length windows
over glum and ashen city veins
over the towers of today’s cathedrals
made of concrete and glass
and people swarming these bogs
like as many useless ants
insects I don’t like insects
I have a mind to drive my almighty fist
through the window panes
smash the face of this ugly place
make it shatter and splatter with blood
but the phone rings and someone tells me
to make more faster better run rabbit run!
hail shareholders! I am God!
I don’t like people
I grow trees and transform them
into parquet floors Swedish furniture paper
white paper a.ss-wipe paper—
wipe my a.ss you worthless buggers—
I don’t like God
and then oh God—meadows!
the place where you lazy pointless pricks
can sit and listen to time passing by
nobody tells you hours minutes seconds count
in only one breath I build
continents I destroy continents while you
you breed you keep the whole
machine going and persuade yourself
that’s life that’s all there is
the sun sets behind the skyline
in fire and blood but I’m wearing
my black-and-white goggles
who needs the colours of this
I don’t like red
I don’t like blue
I don’t like green

The litany of green

jeudi 14 juillet 2016

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Third Generation Germans

This was something I had never even stopped to consider, but it is certainly well worth understanding. Some Germans feel guilty about their grandparents who were Nazis doing the war. This piece sums it up well:
http://ift.tt/29Ctayp.

I was made aware of this by August Guelfen, who was telling me about this in a private message, and later posted in my astronomy thread:

Hello again,

If someone is interested in the indo german/nurse roots of "Game of Thrones", so he or she should read the "Thule", especialy the Edda Saga, that is the whole truth about the Song of Fire and Ice. Tolkien's Lord of the Rings is concepted the same way, but a bit more interesting, I guess... I read the "Thule" entirely, also the Edda Saga of indo german "apocalypse". But I am very lucky to be able to read old german, nowadays, I don't even know one person under 30 besides of me, who is able to read it, without being paid for it as historians or as scientists. Besides, their exist another funny thing,
called "The Guelphen Saga". It was written down the first time nearly 700 years ago, I guess... My old manhunter family is the best, beleave me... We hate and murder each other even sometimes today... We are indeed ol' dirty bastards of murder and mayhem... Can you imagine us at Christmas diner ?! It's great and more cold than in Sebiria in terms of emotions.

There are several Germans on LitNet. Its hard for me to understand that someone who wasn't even born in the Second World War can feel guilt for his grandfather having been a prominent and senior Nazi.

There were Nazi admirers in all countries, even in Britain: Oswald Mosley. Other countries had their quite substantial political parties, like the Arrow Cross in Hungary, Franco in Spain, Salazar in Portugal and Mussolini in Italy. The 1930s was the fascist era in Europe, partly the product of the Great Depression.

Third Generation Germans

Bloodline, season 2

OK, you varmints. Review time again. I believe I wrote about Bloodline in these here pages after watching season 1 last year, and mentioned that it was one of the finest dramas I'd seen, with both the acting and the writing being dazzlingly good. Well I just finished watching season 2 (it's on Netflix) and will now share my thoughts. Basically, it started out very good, not quite as strong as season 1 but almost. Then about halfway through the season I noticed a slight deterioration, mainly to do with the level of intensity and the faintest dumbing down. This was followed by an OK but not riveting season finale. I really believe the reason for the deliberate lessening of the intensity was, as I quickly realized while watching, the fact that, big surprise, the makers of the series had decided to drag out the story so as to get another season out of it, maybe more than another season. This is always a mistake. Intense, well-written stories need to be allowed to have their natural beginning, middle and end. All good stories feature this natural arc. It's when a network gets greedy and wants more episodes and seasons that the trouble starts. This particular story clearly was meant for two seasons; the components of the story were such that you could see how it would all resolve at the end of season 2. But alas, no. So, while I will probably tune in next spring to see how it all goes, I will do as I've had to do so many times in the past when a network f*cks up a great show in this way--shrug, sigh, and reach for another donut.

Bloodline, season 2

Swirling Stars

When did Wonderland end, when we, the dreamers of nihil, but dada,
couldn't see the border, counldn't feel what it meant ?
We danced delightful pavans of death in a hopeful ride of swastika...
So, forming living machines made us unfree ?
Unfree, but meaningful in a smashed world with the word "be"...
What would you define as a cold heartless machine ?
Myself, unable to want humanity, without a metalmade garden green ?
I hope so, it would make you a living human being, just flesh and bone,
but never you will fear to become a heart like mine, a living steelmade stone.
Why I should define myself as a human, when inhumans are the same in rights ?
Why should I love breathing with flesh lungues your siner's lovely air for blood rites ?
Homo Nihil is in the air, but when they will pay for what they have done ?
Never, is your secred crying wish, not mine..., You will become what you are: undone...
I put down for myself the word human long time ago, I guess I am today only a ghost of random,
a dead distorted spirit inside an old forgotten machine, a deathless king in a dead kingdom...

Swirling Stars

Am i selfish or crazy in love?

The best way I can explain this is that you are the manager and I’m a sales associate of a business that has gotten farther and farther each month from its year goal to where we are going to have to close the store we have love for. I’ve been trying to get you to understand something to benefit the business for the past year, but it has been in some negative and extreme manners that strays you away from even taking the time to listen to what that idea of benefitting the business is. Both coming to a point at different times of not being super happy about the business we want to thrive, which diminishes some self-confidence to go above and beyond to make this business work how its suppose to. As you are putting a lot of work to manage the store, I have been so concentrated on this idea of how the business will thrive and have a future. However , it has taken away from me selling to customers, which really effects how you are getting credit for managing. This whole time I have been trying to formulate ways for you to understand this idea that would allow each other to thrive together and benefit who we are as employees and the business. You as a manager have believed in so long that I would come to my senses and go back to the sales associate you hired me as, which was the time the business was doing well. So now our investor for the business is about to shut down our store we put so much work in, and all there is left to blame is me the sales associate because I wasn’t reaching sales for the past half year. However, for the time i was lagging I have been trying to get to you to understand this new concept for the business that would rebrand and open up the doors to what our business was plus more to have a future with it. I have believed for so long and tried to formulate ways to see eye to eye on this value-driven idea, that once you understood it we would thrive. Towards the tail end of the business about to close, I have been feeling the pain of losing loyal customers and the motivation to sell because of this thought of something beyond making goal. The more time of sitting on that, the worse i became at selling and i would take it out on you, my manager because I didn’t want to just reach goal however I had to make some numbers so thats what I did to stay an employee with you and be somewhat happy. The longer of time went on with that, the harder it was for me to stay at ease by showing you I will make sales and that I’m motived to do so where I know we could be. And the aggression would come out with little demand from you to just do your job, which I regret to the fullest and was a immature move. I should’ve been upfront and clear a while ago about showing you this concept in a way that you could grasp it at a time where the business was meeting ends and going a little above goal. I wish more then anything that I could’ve conformed everything that I have come to understanding more and clearly towards the end of our business about to be closed. This is where we are, that I wasn’t selling enough to meet goal which effected you harshly enough to fire me. here I am trying to get to you that I should’ve been more mature to try harder to meet goals. but thinking for myself for the only part i can, its that you never wanted to come down to a salesman mindset and change the way you managed the store. In addition to that, that if thats the case I should’ve been more mature to take myself out of the job and let you hire on someone who I know could do the job under your management so you could be happy enough to feel comfortable with the business meeting goal. But I keep going back and forth with that idea. and I haggle you one last time hoping that you didn’t make the decision to close the store, that you could listen to me and fully grasp that I never meant to hurt you as my partner for this business. I miss the comfort for the both of us of meeting our goals enough to feel at ease. But it isn’t enough to tell the investor to stay with it. so at the hardest and very very end of this business ending. I am hoping you will trust or understand this idea i have been wanting for so long so the business will still be funded, where then we start our partnership to reaching our full potential for our individual selves and for the business we have held onto for so long to naturally drive and rebrand it to the greater potential it can reach to. If I get shut off from even you listening to me in the beginning then I will have to back off and go with a new business and partnership that would only be 2nd as good as the potential of what the original could’ve been unless i come to terms that my view on our business and partnership was only a learning lesson for the both of us. being mainly you on what type of businesses make you happy and what kind of partnerships (employees) reach that true partnership. Im still pushing under the gnarliest of situations for you to not see the business plan but to trust that the investor will take it so we can thrive.

Am i selfish or crazy in love?

Spenser and Milton

Edmund Spenser and John Milton: the two Protestant epic bards of English literature, from whom great English literature since has sprung.

Coleridge, Keats, Blake, Byron, Dickens, Melville, Hawthorne - all these have taken from the wellspring of Spenser and Milton.

The Faerie Queene is one of the most renowned epic romances, and Paradise Lost the English language's greatest epic (not including Chapman's Homer, Pope's Homer, Dryden's Iliad, and Arthur Golding's translation of the Metamorphoses).

The Faerie Queene, by the way, is respected by Camille Paglia, Harold Bloom, George Saintsbury, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, C. S. Lewis, and was even, to my knowledge, influential to Shakespeare and Milton in significant ways.

Whom then do you prefer?

Camille Paglia, in Sexual Personae, has effectively ranked Spenser over Milton, arguing that Milton's attempt to combat Spenser's visual Apollonian impulse via word-fetishism has failed to exceed the grandeur of Spenser.

When I had contacted Harold Bloom about this, he ranked Spenser just below Milton, though he loves both. And it seems that the literary world, while loving both, has generally preferred Milton's high grandness to Spenser's luxuriant yet dreamlike visual fancy.

So whom do you find greater? And why? In style, form, themes, general influence, etc.?

If you prefer Paradise Lost to Faerie Queene, and vice versa, why?

Spenser and Milton

Marcella

So, bored one night recently and against my better judgement, as I've had enough of crime dramas for the next fifty lifetimes, I tried Marcella, a new Netflix series whose description sounded woefully predictable. I was pleasantly surprised at how well done it was. It kept me thoroughly engaged throughout, which is hard to do nowadays as I tend to get bored quickly with whatever I'm watching and instead go play a video game. As for Anna Friel, who played the lead, I was only familiar with her in the vaguest sense. She's very good, but her face full of cosmetic surgery should be a cautionary tale to the rest. The woman was only in her late thirties when the series was made a year or two ago, but had clearly already had a facelift, lip job, etc., as I suppose is the Hollywood norm. At certain moments, when she smiles or makes other expressions, the extensive alteration really becomes apparent and looks freakish and weird (to me.) I know that women in their early twenties now, entertainers and models especially, are already going in for surgery, in our insane modern culture, but honestly, Anna Friel is an attractive woman and I'd have preferred to see a normal looking woman in her late thirties. A few lines on the face never hurt anybody and she needn't have worried. I'm just nitpicking, it has nothing to do with the series, which I do recommend.

Marcella

English Decadent Verse

Hey everyone! So I have to write a paper on "To what extent are beauty and rot corresponded in English Decadent verse?"

My tutor said this is more of an explore question really.

Any starters or help would be apprecitted as its a 3000-4000 word essay and I'm seriously struggling! It's strickly poetry!

Thanks! Looking forward to getting some pointers!

English Decadent Verse

RIP Hector Babenco

"You know what", said the donkey, "come along with us. You´re sure to find something better than death wherever you go ("Ei was", sagte der Esel, "zieh lieber mit uns fort,..., etwas besseres als den Tod findest du überall").
Brüder Grimm, Die Bremer Stadtmusikanten

RIP Hector Babenco

mercredi 13 juillet 2016

From morn up to night:

Who would give me the soul of breath?
I wonder if there was any land yet heath!
As those maidens saying yet art chaste!
Being sinful even disclose smiling teeth
I am a man already being sincere
To a lady for long adjusting queer
Some cities overseas look domestic
For maids caudling meads would err
I may ask someone in the world if wise
And just look in face when he got prize
To know if he was deserving the odds?
Or insincerely once laughs but most lies
From morn up to night I would sleep
As a child on a cradle move and weep
To see that glamorous shape if I own
Into my mihrab today I knee and leap

From morn up to night:

Which introductions/guides to literary analysis and criticism do you recommend?

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Which introductions/guides to literary analysis and criticism do you recommend?

Help me find the name of this poem?

Ok, i saw this poem many years ago & haven't been able to find it since.
It's a short, older (English?) love poem & goes something ? like this:

"How was the party at (Mrs. Jones? - or someone's?) house ?"
"I don't remember, because (girl's name?) was not at my side."

"How was the party (at someone else's house)?"
"I dont remember, because (same girl's name) was at my side."

These are not the exact words, but that's the gist of it. I'm thinking the name of the poem might be "Juliet" ? , but I can seem to find it anywhere
Does this ring a bell with anyone?

Help me find the name of this poem?

Allusions to Shakespeare from Mr. Trump?

Here in the U.S., it seems that while Judge Ginsberg, George Will and Senator Kirk are hoping that Mr. Trump is setting the table, so to speak, for someone else, other reasonable people have endorsed Mr. Trump hoping that some of his stranger comments are, in part, literary allusions. Recently, one of our journalists wrote that Trump may have had in mind a 19th century political party when he used the phrase "know nothing." One might add that the phrase also occurs often in a TV comedy from back in the day. Shakespeare fans may wonder if Trump has in mind both the comical "wall" from MND and the more serious one from R&J: " He ran this way and leapt this orchard wall." Certainly, many educated New Yorkers noted in 2011, during a ceremony marking the 9/11 attacks, that the mayor quoted a memorable line from MAC. Therefore, any mention of women on their knees might also recall passages from that play. Many also might recall a question from songwriter Pete Townshend's "rock opera:" What is happening, in his head?"

Allusions to Shakespeare from Mr. Trump?

A Little Bit Of Humour # 174

21st CENTURY NURSERY RHYMES # 375

Star light, star bright,
No I don’t want to tonight
If truth be told, alright
I think stargazing is ****e

WHEN WE SPEAK OF A BROTHER

When we speak of a brother
We can also speak of brethren,
But although we say Mother,
I have never heard said, Methren

BIMBETTE IS NOT THE BRIGHTEST

Bimbette is not the brightest
And living with her is very hard
In fact she’s the reason
The gene pool needs a lifeguard

I ALWAYS THOUGHT THAT ALCOHOL

I always thought that alcohol
Made me funnier, smarter, oh
And a much better dancer
But then I saw myself on video

IF I’M SMILING, I'M THINKING

If I’m smiling, I'm thinking
Of doing something naughty
If you see me laughing, its
Because I've done it already

PROBLEMS ARE ALL ABOUT PERSPECTIVE

Problems are all about perspective
One of those “cup half full” affairs
So Escalators don't break down
They just magically turn into stairs.

SOME OF US LEARN FROM

Some of us learn from
The mistakes of others
The rest of us are destined
To be the others

I HATE PEOPLE WHO USE BIG WORDS

I hate people who use big words
I think it’s pretentious
And they only do it to make
Themselves look perspicacious

MANY MODERN HOMES NOW

Many modern homes now
Have a panic room in it
But to my two daughters
And my dear wife Brigit
Any room is a panic room
When they’ve lost a phone in it

ONE OF LIFE’S UNIVERSAL TRUTHS

One of life’s universal truths
Is not really much of a surprise
But behind every great man
There’s a woman rolling her eyes

A Little Bit Of Humour # 174

mardi 12 juillet 2016

need help with poetry

i have poetry exam which includes William Blake's songs of innocence and experience......Samuel Taylor Coleridge's Dejection an ode...Kubla Khan....The rime of the ancient Mariner..... John Keats' hyperion book 1.....ode to autumn...ode to nightingale....ode on a grecian urn..........Ted hughes' thought fox...that morning....chaucer ....full moon and frieda.....Philip Larkin's mr.bleaney ...church going.....ambulances.....1914.......seamus heaney's personal helicon.....tolland man......a constable calls.....toome road.....casting and gathering........but i dont know how to prepare these moreover i'm pretty bad at poetry....and there is not much time left in exam.......theres 50% choice too in exam......so please help me getting through with it.....thanks...

need help with poetry

One River, it would bestow the nation

Night passed and we wait another
As dark as you can't see your palm
A man came whispering between the trees
He logged but scything bushes as a meteor
Aspherical shape and the ground is wetted
Balanced into two ways then it fogged
A yellow dress put on as that grass faded
It comes, he said on a faint voice
The wagon which carrying the half-corpus
And this end would have two ways opened
Garrulous into his speech but often nodding
He said, the north, would keep you go on
While the south, will keep you going down
These dichotomies had been engraved
On your faces since you were born
And this tree I would keep to be a shade
To whom dismissed and being homeless
Therefore, dearest sons I am your uncle
His face is spherical like the full moon
Looks like Shatt al-Arab when plodded
In One River, it would bestow the nation

One River, it would bestow the nation

Coursework advice

Hi, I'm in preparation for my NEA (Non-examined assessment) which is basically coursework. I have to choose any novel/prose text to analyse from any of the following critical viewpoints: marxism, feminism, eco-criticism, narrative. I must create my own question. I have several ideas but none of them particularly enthral me so I'd appreciate any ideas, thoughts, or advice anyone might have. I also don't mind if I haven't read the text as I can then read it with a specific viewpoint in mind.
Thanks.

Coursework advice

Why aren't the French as widely read as the Russians?

Does anyone have any idea as to why the major French novelists like Balzac, Stendhal, and Flaubert don't have as wide a readership beyond their borders as major Russian figures like Dostoevsky, Tolstoy, and Chekhov do beyond theirs? Just wondering. Also, I've heard people say that in France Balzac is significantly lower ranked than the other two aforementioned Frenchman, but living in France myself, I've never had that impression and have gotten the sense on the contrary that many French intellectuals see Balzac as their greatest literary glory, at least with respect to prose writers. He certainly gets mentioned more than Stendhal or Zola it seems.

Why aren't the French as widely read as the Russians?

lundi 11 juillet 2016

In the light of a candle

The Violinist

Dear guests, tonight you will see my new home and will hear my new story. It is about a spider, music and something else. But first, come in. This place is smaller than the old one, but here you can feel the night in a different way. High above the street the air is colder and the whispers are so far away that you can’t hear them. Come. Tonight we will use the balcony. The candle is already lit. Have a seat and let’s begin…
The view is fascinating, isn’t it ? And all you can hear is the music of the night. You do not know what I am talking about ? Of course. On the street, in the house, near the abandoned hotel – all you can hear are the whispers. The shadows murmur hopefully, thinking you would join them. The animals of the night stalk quietly but still you can feel them. People wander, but their voices are lost in the desert of the city. Up here ? Nothing like that. No cars, no animals, not a single living soul. Up here you can listen to the night. It sings, plays and whispers. Its words slip around you almost clear enough to understand. The mist covers the city until all you can see is white.
Just after midnight, when even the cats have gone to sleep, the silky darkness starts playing. Its instruments are the hands of a little girl, pushing away the nightmares, a twitch of a cat’s tail, a breath in the leaves. And when the Lady of Night desires, they all play for her. A scream, forgotten in a moment. A moan, left unnoticed. A night flower rustling with its petals, reaching toward the moonlight. The heartbeat of the night can be heard if you listen close enough. And sometimes, only sometimes, a violin can be heard in the darkness.
The melody cannot be followed, it can’t be recorded but if you try hard enough you can guess its source. Some nights, when the sky is clear and the full moon bathes the bones of the city in its silver light, and if you stand high enough, you can see it. The mansion of thorns.
It has been here since before my time. Even before my parents’ time. It hasn’t changed through the decades. And not everyone could see it. Even less people can enter it. Nobody has left it. Because even if you could see the magnificent building from your balcony, when you go there, it would’ve disappeared. You wouldn’t be able to guess the direction, around it there are no landmarks and the forest around it can be from anywhere. And nowhere. Because there hadn’t been a forest in this city since the middle ages. And that kind of trees ? Sharp, thorny and bare, their black skeletons ghostly reaching to the stars ? They have never excised. This is the house of the Lady of the Night. There she holds her balls where souls have to dance until the end of the eternity. There she controls her orchestra of damned that play for her every night. In these halls a lone violinist wanders, looking for escape and knowing there just isn’t one.
Her name is not important. All I can tell you is that she isn’t from here. Her dress carries the signs of long ago forgotten fashion that had never existed near this country. Her dark hair is twisted in an intricate style and after a closer look you can see the spiders. They crawl through the tresses, spinning webs and catching stray hairs, keeping her perfect. In her hand there is a violin. It looks new, but it is actually older than time. It is the violin of the mistress of the mansion and when she wants music, this is her instrument. She doesn’t play, of course. And the girl can’t drop it. She had tried. Tried to burn it, to throw it away. To stop playing. But the Lady of the Night wants her entertainment. And even after the girl’s fingers are cut, her blood colouring the fine wood of the instrument, she keeps playing. Because she can’t stop. None of them could.
Each of the occupants of the mansion has followed a shadow or a spider, a stray beam of moonlight or a kitty in the darkness. And once you enter the shadows, you are not in your realm. You are in the Thorn Mansion. And She owns you. You exist only for Her pleasure. And she makes sure you know it.
In the spiked halls, between bloody tapestries and grotesque paintings, wander children and elders, men and women, travelers from every time and place. Because the world is enormous and there is night everywhere. Through time and space She collects her puppets, creating a special collection you can see right after you become a part of it. No matter if it’s summer or winter, right after midnight or four in the morning, if you are on the North Pole or in China, you can see it. Looming above cities and villages, fire and ice, storms and seas. It is there. And in the house she it waiting.
For you.
Because her collection isn’t even close to finish. And in everybody she could find a piece she wants. So be careful when you wander at night. The Thorn Mansion may look like a horror movie stage or a normal house. With thorns and spikes or rose garden and a tiny lake. With warmly opened doors or hideous gates, made of bones and vines. Inside there is a warm place to sit and a bed of nails to rest. Good food and poison that leaks up the walls and follows you with its hisses. Puppies and snakes. Red and black roses. Eternal life in the clutches of the darkness. And do not forget the spiders.
Happy Halloween and sleep well.

In the light of a candle

The Magnificent Killer – A review of the novel ‘Jack Slade’

“It isn't hard to find evil in this world. Evil is always more easily imagined than good, somehow.” – Gregory Maguire

Author Richard Dawes’ novel ‘Jack Slade – Night of the Hunter’ is an action filled adventure thriller. The protagonist of the novel is its namesake, Jack Slade. He works for the Diamond Group, a private security organization that deals with crisis situations all over the globe. However, the antagonists he pursues aren’t from this world. Jack Slade is the Head of the Occult Division, and he is its only member. He is the operative who prevents the dark forces from overrunning the world. A number of gruesome murders have taken place in San Francisco, and Slade is asked to work with the police department to catch the killer. But the job becomes dangerous when he realizes he has to go up against the most powerful Vampyre in the world.

'Night of the Hunter' and Jack Slade have an easy going feeling about them. They aren’t complex by any stretch of the imagination. There are vast segments within the book, however, that turn serious and intent driven – in discussions of good & evil, existence of different realities, and how the perception of any phenomenon is dictated by the perspective from which it is viewed. The writing is very good and the author’s eye for detail is excellent. The descriptions, be it of the scenery or of the characters are spot on and the reader will feel as if they are right in the middle of the action. There are plenty of standout scenes in the book. The opening segment itself does a good job in setting the right mood. There’s plenty of suspense in the narrative and the reader will definitely be shocked by the climax.

Jack Slade is an interesting character. He differs from the heroes generally found in Occult and Fantasy fiction fighting demons and evil forces. He is an up-front hero and does his job quickly and efficiently. He is also able to curb his lone-wolf approach and work as part of a team as they tackle dangerous situations. Then again, his advanced psychic senses give him an advantage over others when battling evil forces. The supporting cast is well drawn, and each character has his or her own style. The villain, Lawrence Swann, is a worthy opponent for Slade, and is larger than life. Even though Swann is pure evil and from a different realm, he has an efficient way of dealing with situations and in furthering his plans.

The only problem I had with the book was its editing. Occasionally, the way some chapters ended and the next began raised an eyebrow. The transitions weren’t smooth and there was a certain abruptness. Also, I felt the long conversation between Slade and a psychologist could have been diminished without losing the message.

'Night of the Hunter' and Jack Slade will definitely keep the reader interested. The action is fast paced, stylized, and vividly described. The world Jack Slade moves within is definitely worth exploring and deserves sequel stories.

The Magnificent Killer – A review of the novel ‘Jack Slade’

The SAS Cook.

THE SAS COOK.

It was a quiet, almost opulent pub in Knightsbridge called “The Grenadier”, neatly tucked away down some narrow streets and Martin was trawling for a guardsman. Eventually his eye lit upon a fresh faced young man at the bar & he opened with some obscure reference to the weather or the price of beer that is a trait inherent in the demeanor of some Englishmen.

They appeared to be getting along quite well, when the young man called Max, leant forward to Martin in an almost conspiratorial manner and said in a soft voice “I’m in The Regiment.”

“Oh” said Martin “So am I. What’s your specialty?”

“Well, eh, explosives” he spluttered out, having expected to impress and in reality being wrong footed.

“ That interesting” said Martin knowing full well that this elite SAS unit of the British Army to which he referred, normally work in small units of three with compatible specialties skills like; linguistics, communications, ordinance etc.

“Seen much action?” asked Martin.

“Yes, umm” said Max “You know, the normal thing, Northern Ireland, Oman, Iraq, but I can’t talk about it.” Feeling trapped and uncomfortable, he decided to change tack. “What about yourself?”

Martin stone faced said “I’m the cook.”

“The cook! What you mean in the mess?”

“Oh no, I’m operational. In fact I’m quite well known, whether for knocking up an omelet under mortar fire or creating “pot au feu” in a copse in Crossmaglen.”

“Married?” asked Martin.

“No, not actually” replied Max. “Not much time for that.”

“Quite right too” said Martin “Women are all right, but you can’t beat the real thing”

A look of reality and shock transformed Max’s face. The macho, male bonding had gone awry and he was the prey.

“Excuse me, Martin, must just take a leak” he said, looking to escape.

“No problem Maxi, I’ll join you” said Martin.

The two entered the urinals, both unzipped, but for Max nothing came. Panicking he rezipped, wet himself unconsciously & dived for the door, hurrying out into the street.

Martin smiled to himself and returned to his beer at the bar. He looked up at the brightly shining glasses hanging overhead and reflected

“Beware of Gay SAS Celebrity Chefs!”

The SAS Cook.

The life art

The life art
As two eyes above hanged in one's way
Keeping aside not to glimmering one day
I so far keep my emotion of those blonds
To see my heart captured fetching stay
I can't reckon on eyes being smart
While in deep piercing a smoothable part
This way is often trodden by softy legs
And it is since ancient years the life art
Can't you promise giving me a new soul?
Then I into pleasure hear my solo fall
Come and drink up until you satisfy
I am not your beverage as a given dole
Tread upon my grave near that wooded lake
And give your cattle the way a time you awake
That huts you passed are my letters of proof
And any Holy word it may on opposite shake.

The life art

Entertaining non genre fiction?

I'm quite new to literature and haven't read much and I'm looking to read something now. I'm looking for recommendations on entertaining non genre fiction.

I've read some of the short stories from DF Wallace's Hideous Men and its been putting me to sleep. I've read some of the synopsises of Franzen's books and that alone almost put me to sleep.

So I'm looking something that isn't genre, but is entertaining. Also, I'd prefer something recent and I'd prefer short stories over something longer, but not necessarily on either of that.

Entertaining non genre fiction?

Untitled

That's you in the future, pal:
Little old gent in lime green shorts
Leaning slightly forward as he trots
From bench to Metrobus bay.
He's on some sort of meds and vocalizes
Private thoughts;
People avoid him, and why not?
There's nothing comely or cool about him.
A pack of cells in slow decline,
He sheds dead skin and shreds of vigor;
What crackerjack capital he once had
He spent in days but shyly remembered;
Now, warping like a wooden rail—
Worn out, splintering end to end—
With scads of time he cannot use,
He rides on home to his saggy bed,
Bland bowl of oats,
Incessant blather of TV,
Rhinoceros nails and drippy nose,
Man doomed to outlive Methuselah.

Untitled

Retorts.

Upon a lie seven times removed:--bear your body more
seeming, Audrey:--as thus, sir. I did dislike the
cut of a certain courtier's beard: he sent me word,
if I said his beard was not cut well, he was in the
mind it was: this is called the Retort Courteous.
If I sent him word again 'it was not well cut,' he
would send me word, he cut it to please himself:
this is called the Quip Modest. If again 'it was
not well cut,' he disabled my judgment: this is
called the Reply Churlish. If again 'it was not
well cut,' he would answer, I spake not true: this
is called the Reproof Valiant. If again 'it was not
well cut,' he would say I lied: this is called the
Counter-cheque Quarrelsome: and so to the Lie
Circumstantial and the Lie Direct.

Fellow Lit Netters, what are your favorite retorts?

Retorts.

dimanche 10 juillet 2016

What goes in your bunker? Post a pic...

This is a new game in which you post a picture of something you would put in your bunker. A description of said thing and your reason for wanting it in your bunker should accompany it. I'll start. A compact but modern kitchen area seems sensible, complete with oven and stove top. I'm going to be down there a while, cooking healthy food is a must:

Barbie oven by Archibald Heatherington Nasty-Face, on Flickr

What goes in your bunker? Post a pic...

homophobia

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Today, 06:15 PM #1

confidentially pleased

Join Date

Nov 2011

Location

London

Posts

9,790

homophobia

is it prevalent still?
and should literature get involved in getting head to head with it?
if so how?

it may never try
but when it does it sigh
it is just that
good
it fly

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homophobia