Posted in BOOKS

The Wall – A Post-Apocalyptic Novel (Ravaged Land: Eventuality Book 1) by Kellee L. Greene

Description

For over a hundred years they’ve been told there is nothing beyond the wall but death and despair.

And no one has wanted to leave… until now.

Sadie Keane struggled daily with the laws that have been put in place since the wall was built.

Unfortunately, as a sworn officer of the law, not to mention the president of the city’s daughter, she has no choice but to uphold them.

But when Sadie learns about a secret exit from the city, all she can think about is leaving to find her friends who were banished by her father.

Will Sadie risk everything to find life in the world of death and destruction beyond the wall?

And if she leaves will she ever be able to return?

Source:

https://www.amazon.com.au/Wall-Post-Apocalyptic-Novel-Ravaged-Eventuality-ebook/dp/B07SGZ8RVF/ref=mp_s_a_1_2?keywords=Kellee+L.+Greene&qid=1563906279&s=gateway&sr=8-2

Posted in BOOKS

Alessio (Guzzi Legacy #2) by Bethany-Kris

Description
The son of a prominent Cosa Nostra Don, Corrado Guzzi’s life should have been all mapped out.
He would be what every other Guzzi man was, too—made, mafia. It’s their way.
But when given another choice, the chance to be something more, he takes it. Even if it comes with strings.
It’s there that he might find where he belongs, and Alessio Sorrento. The man who could change his whole life.
This love thing? It should have been easy, but they made it hard. Nothing about a relationship like theirs is simple.
Dictated by rules, weighed down with things left unsaid, and already hanging by a frayed thread.
This is what love looks like before, and after.
Before she came along.
And after she was there.
It takes one woman to change everything.
Ginevra Calabrese wasn’t ready for this—for them.
So, what happens now?

Source:

https://www.amazon.com.au/Alessio-Guzzi-Legacy-Book-2-ebook/dp/B07VF1KMJ7/ref=mp_s_a_1_1?keywords=Alessio+%28Guzzi+Legacy+%232%29+by+Bethany-Kris&qid=1563905999&s=digital-text&sr=1-1

Posted in BOOKS

Lies By Kylie Scott

Description

Betty Dawsey knows that breaking things off with Thom Lange is for the best.

He’s nice, but boring, and their relationship has lost its spark.

But steady and predictable Thom, suddenly doesn’t seem so steady and predictable when their condo explodes and she’s kidnapped by a couple of crazies claiming that Thom isn’t who he says he is.

Thom is having a hellish week. Not only is he hunting a double agent, but his fiancé dumped him, and thanks to his undercover life, she’s been kidnapped.

Turns out Thom is Operative Thom and he’s got more than a few secrets to share with Betty if he’s going to keep her alive.

With both their lives on the line, their lackluster connection is suddenly replaced by an intense one.

But in his line of work, feelings aren’t wanted or desired. Because feelings can be a lethal distraction.

Source:

https://www.amazon.com.au/gp/aw/d/1072014661/ref=tmm_pap_title_0?ie=UTF8&qid=&sr=

Posted in BOOKS

Diary of a Bad Boy by Meghan Quinn

Description

From USA Today best-selling author Meghan Quinn comes a sassy and sweet romance about an Irish rebel who falls in love with the wrong girl.

Full of witty banter and swoony moments, it’s the perfect romantic comedy to binge on.

Dear Diary, 

I might have gotten myself into a wee bit of trouble – and I’m not talking about the “court mandated community service”, or “therapy sessions from bashing a bloke in the head” kind of trouble.

I wish it were that simple.

Nope. I’m talking about the “falling in love with one of my client’s daughters”, kind of trouble…The kind of problem I can’t talk my way out of when the truth gets out.

How I ended up with her phone is a long story – and when she called to get it back, I took things a bit too far.

One innocent exchange wound up leading to so much more.

Fun, new, and totally immune to my charm, Sutton is different. And I had no idea she was the daughter of Foster Green. 

Blame it on the dark colored stout running through my veins, pushing me toward one bad decision after another.

Pushing me toward her even though I know right from wrong; even though she’s my client’s daughter. 

Dating her might be the best or worst decision I’ve ever made.

Only time, whiskey, and one more roll around the mattress with her will tell.

Roark

Source:

https://www.amazon.com/Diary-of-a-Bad-Boy/dp/B07VFBGVVC/ref=as_li_ss_tl?keywords=diary+of+a+bad+boy&qid=1563884875&s=gateway&sr=8-2&linkCode=sl1&tag=leftsidemq_7-20&linkId=c6d5010a4690421876cfd1f2889725b2&language=en_US

Posted in POEM OF THE WEEK

Civilian and Soldier by Wole Soyinka

My apparition rose from the fall of lead, 

Declared, ‘I am a civilian.’ It only served 

To aggravate your fright. For how could I 

Have risen, a being of this world, in that hour 

Of impartial death! And I thought also: nor is 

Your quarrel of this world. 
You stood still 

For both eternities, and oh I heard the lesson

Of your traing sessions, cautioning – 

Scorch earth behind you, do not leave 

A dubious neutral to the rear. Reiteration 

Of my civilian quandary, burrowing earth 

From the lead festival of your more eager friends 

Worked the worse on your confusion, and when 

You brought the gun to bear on me, and death 

Twitched me gently in the eye, your plight 

And all of you came clear to me. 
I hope some day 

Intent upon my trade of living, to be checked 

In stride by your apparition in a trench, 

Signalling, I am a soldier. No hesitation then 

But I shall shoot you clean and fair 

With meat and bread, a gourd of wine 

A bunch of breasts from either arm, and that 

Lone question – do you friend, even now, know 

What it is all about?

Posted in POEM OF THE WEEK

The Deserted Village by Oliver

Goldsmith Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain,

Where health and plenty cheered the labouring swain,

Where smiling spring its earliest visits paid,

And parting summer’s lingering blooms delayed:

Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease,

Seats of my youth, where every sport could please,

How often have I loitered o’er your green,

Where humble happiness endeared each scene;

How often have I paused on every charm,

The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm,

The never-failing brook, the busy mill,

The decent church that topped the neighbouring hill,

The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade,

For talking age and whispering lovers made;

How often have I blessed the coming day,

When toil remitting lent its turn to play,

And all the village train, from labour free,

Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree:

While many a pastime circled in the shade,

The young contending as the old surveyed;

And many a gambol frolicked o’er the ground,

And sleights of art and feats of strength went round;

And still as each repeated pleasure tired,

Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired;

The dancing pair that simply sought renown

By holding out to tire each other down!

The swain mistrustless of his smutted face,

While secret laughter tittered round the place;

The bashful virgin’s sidelong look of love,

The matron’s glance that would those looks reprove:

These were thy charms, sweet village; sports like these,

With sweet succession, taught even toil to please;

These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed,

These were thy charms—But all these charms are fled.
Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn,

Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn;

Amidst thy bowers the tyrant’s hand is seen,

And desolation saddens all thy green:

One only master grasps the whole domain,

And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain:

No more thy glassy brook reflects the day,

But choked with sedges works its weedy way.

Along thy glades, a solitary guest,

The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest;

Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies,

And tires their echoes with unvaried cries.

Sunk are thy bowers, in shapeless ruin all,

And the long grass o’ertops the mouldering wall;

And, trembling, shrinking from the spoiler’s hand,

Far, far away, thy children leave the land.
Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey,

Where wealth accumulates, and men decay:

Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade;

A breath can make them, as a breath has made;

But a bold peasantry, their country’s pride,

When once destroyed can never be supplied.
A time there was, ere England’s griefs began,

When every rood of ground maintained its man;

For him light labour spread her wholesome store,

Just gave what life required, but gave no more:

His best companions, innocence and health;

And his best riches, ignorance of wealth.
But times are altered; trade’s unfeeling train

Usurp the land and dispossess the swain;

Along the lawn, where scattered hamlet’s rose,

Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose,

And every want to opulence allied,

And every pang that folly pays to pride.

Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom,

Those calm desires that asked but little room,

Those healthful sports that graced the peaceful scene,

Lived in each look, and brightened all the green;

These, far departing, seek a kinder shore,

And rural mirth and manners are no more.
Sweet Auburn! parent of the blissful hour,

Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant’s power.

Here as I take my solitary rounds,

Amidst thy tangling walks and ruined grounds,

And, many a year elapsed, return to view

Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew,

Remembrance wakes with all her busy train,

Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain.
In all my wanderings round this world of care,

In all my griefs—and God has given my share— 

I still had hopes my latest hours to crown,

Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down;

To husband out life’s taper at the close,

And keep the flame from wasting by repose.

I still had hopes, for pride attends us still,

Amidst the swains to show my book-learned skill,

Around my fire an evening group to draw,

And tell of all I felt and all I saw;

And, as a hare, whom hounds and horns pursue,

Pants to the place from whence at first she flew,

I still had hopes, my long vexations passed,

Here to return—and die at home at last.
O blest retirement, friend to life’s decline,

Retreats from care, that never must be mine,

How happy he who crowns in shades like these

A youth of labour with an age of ease;

Who quits a world where strong temptations try,

And, since ’tis hard to combat, learns to fly!

For him no wretches, born to work and weep,

Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep;

No surly porter stands in guilty state

To spurn imploring famine from the gate;

But on he moves to meet his latter end,

Angels round befriending Virtue’s friend;

Bends to the grave with unperceived decay,

While Resignation gently slopes the way;

All, all his prospects brightening to the last,

His Heaven commences ere the world be past!
Sweet was the sound when oft at evening’s close

Up yonder hill the village murmur rose;

There, as I passed with careless steps and slow,

The mingling notes came softened from below;

The swain responsive as the milkmaid sung,

The sober herd that lowed to meet their young;

The noisy geese that gabbled o’er the pool,

The playful children just let loose from school;

The watchdog’s voice that bayed the whisp’ring wind,

And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind;

These all in sweet confusion sought the shade,

And filled each pause the nightingale had made.

But now the sounds of population fail,

No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale,

No busy steps the grass-grown footway tread,

For all the bloomy flush of life is fled.

All but yon widowed, solitary thing,

That feebly bends beside the plashy spring;

She, wretched matron, forced in age for bread

To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread,

To pick her wintry faggot from the thorn,

To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn;

She only left of all the harmless train,

The sad historian of the pensive plain.
Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled,

And still where many a garden flower grows wild;

There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose,

The village preacher’s modest mansion rose.

A man he was to all the country dear,

And passing rich with forty pounds a year;

Remote from towns he ran his godly race,

Nor e’er had changed, nor wished to change, his place;

Unpractised he to fawn, or seek for power,

By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour;

Far other aims his heart had learned to prize,

More skilled to raise the wretched than to rise.

His house was known to all the vagrant train,

He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain;

The long remembered beggar was his guest,

Whose beard descending swept his aged breast;

The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud,

Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed;

The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay,

Sat by his fire, and talked the night away;

Wept o’er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done,

Shouldered his crutch, and showed how fields were won.

Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow,

And quite forgot their vices in their woe;

Careless their merits or their faults to scan,

His pity gave ere charity began.
Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,

And e’en his failings leaned to Virtue’s side;

But in his duty prompt at every call,

He watched and wept, he prayed and felt, for all.

And, as a bird each fond endearment tries

To tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies,

He tried each art, reproved each dull delay,

Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way.
Beside the bed where parting life was laid,

And sorrow, guilt, and pain, by turns dismayed,

The reverend champion stood. At his control

Despair and anguish fled the struggling soul;

Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise,

And his last faltering accents whispered praise.
At church, with meek and unaffected grace,

His looks adorned the venerable place;

Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway,

And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray.

The service passed, around the pious man,

With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran;

Even children followed with endearing wile,

And plucked his gown, to share the good man’s smile.

His ready smile a parent’s warmth expressed,

Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distressed;

To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given,

But all his serious thoughts had rest in Heaven.

As some tall cliff, that lifts its awful form,

Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm,

Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread,

Eternal sunshine settles on its head.
Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way,

With blossomed furze unprofitably gay,

There, in his noisy mansion, skilled to rule,

The village master taught his little school;

A man severe he was, and stern to view;

I knew him well, and every truant knew;

Well had the boding tremblers learned to trace

The day’s disasters in his morning face;

Full well they laughed, with counterfeited glee,

At all his jokes, for many a joke had he;

Full well the busy whisper, circling round,

Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned;

Yet he was kind; or if severe in aught,

The love he bore to learning was in fault.

The village all declared how much he knew;

‘Twas certain he could write, and cipher too;

Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage,

And even the story ran that he could gauge.

In arguing too, the parson owned his skill,

For e’en though vanquished, he could argue still;

While words of learned length and thundering sound

Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around,

And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew

That one small head could carry all he knew.
But past is all his fame. The very spot

Where many a time he triumphed is forgot.

Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high,

Where once the signpost caught the passing eye,

Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspired,

Where grey-beard mirth and smiling toil retired,

Where village statesmen talked with looks profound,

And news much older than their ale went round.

Imagination fondly stoops to trace

The parlour splendours of that festive place:

The white-washed wall, the nicely sanded floor,

The varnished clock that clicked behind the door;

The chest contrived a double debt to pay,— 

A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day;

The pictures placed for ornament and use,

The twelve good rules, the royal game of goose;

The hearth, except when winter chilled the day,

With aspen boughs, and flowers, and fennel gay;

While broken teacups, wisely kept for show,

Ranged o’er the chimney, glistened in a row.
Vain transitory splendours! Could not all

Reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall!

Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart

An hour’s importance to the poor man’s heart;

Thither no more the peasant shall repair

To sweet oblivion of his daily care;

No more the farmer’s news, the barber’s tale,

No more the woodman’s ballad shall prevail;

No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear,

Relax his ponderous strength, and lean to hear;

The host himself no longer shall be found

Careful to see the mantling bliss go round;

Nor the coy maid, half willing to be pressed,

Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest.
Yes! let the rich deride, the proud disdain,

These simple blessings of the lowly train;

To me more dear, congenial to my heart,

One native charm, than all the gloss of art.

Spontaneous joys, where Nature has its play,

The soul adopts, and owns their first-born sway;

Lightly they frolic o’er the vacant mind,

Unenvied, unmolested, unconfined:

But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade,

With all the freaks of wanton wealth arrayed,

In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain,

The toiling pleasure sickens into pain;

And, even while fashion’s brightest arts decoy,

The heart distrusting asks, if this be joy.
Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen, who survey

The rich man’s joys increase, the poor’s decay,

‘Tis yours to judge how wide the limits stand

Between a splendid and a happy land.

Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore,

And shouting Folly hails them from her shore;

Hoards even beyond the miser’s wish abound,

And rich men flock from all the world around.

Yet count our gains. This wealth is but a name

That leaves our useful products still the same.

Not so the loss. The man of wealth and pride

Takes up a space that many poor supplied;

Space for his lake, his park’s extended bounds,

Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds;

The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth

Has robbed the neighbouring fields of half their growth;

His seat, where solitary sports are seen,

Indignant spurns the cottage from the green;

Around the world each needful product flies,

For all the luxuries the world supplies:

While thus the land adorned for pleasure, all

In barren splendour feebly waits the fall.
As some fair female unadorned and plain,

Secure to please while youth confirms her reign,

Slights every borrowed charm that dress supplies,

Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes;

But when those charms are passed, for charms are frail,

When time advances and when lovers fail,

She then shines forth, solicitous to bless,

In all the glaring impotence of dress.

Thus fares the land, by luxury betrayed,

In nature’s simplest charms at first arrayed;

But verging to decline, its splendours rise,

Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise;

While, scourged by famine, from the smiling land

The mournful peasant leads his humble band;

And while he sinks, without one arm to save,

The country blooms—a garden, and a grave.
Where then, ah! where, shall poverty reside,

To ‘scape the pressure of contiguous pride?

If to some common’s fenceless limits strayed,

He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade,

Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide,

And even the bare-worn common is denied.

If to the city sped—what waits him there?

To see profusion that he must not share;

To see ten thousand baneful arts combined

To pamper luxury, and thin mankind;

To see those joys the sons of pleasure know

Extorted from his fellow creature’s woe.

Here, while the courtier glitters in brocade,

There the pale artist plies the sickly trade;

Here, while the proud their long-drawn pomps display,

There the black gibbet glooms beside the way.

The dome where Pleasure holds her midnight reign

Here, richly decked, admits the gorgeous train;

Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square,

The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare.

Sure scenes like these no troubles e’er annoy!

Sure these denote one universal joy!

Are these thy serious thoughts?—Ah, turn thine eyes

Where the poor houseless shivering female lies.

She once, perhaps, in a village plenty blessed,

Has wept at tales of innocence distressed;

Her modest looks the cottage might adorn,

Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn;

Now lost to all; her friends, her virtue fled,

Near her betrayer’s door she lays her head,

And, pinched with cold, and shrinking from the shower,

With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour,

When idly first, ambitious of the town,

She left her wheel and robes of country brown.
Do thine, sweet Auburn, thine, the loveliest train,

Do thy fair tribes participate her pain?

E’en now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led,

At proud men’s doors they ask a little bread!
Ah, no!—To distant climes, a dreary scene,

Where half the convex world intrudes between,

Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go,

Where wild Altama murmurs to their woe.

Far different there from all that charmed before,

The various terrors of that horrid shore;

Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray

And fiercely shed intolerable day;

Those matted woods where birds forget to sing,

But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling;

Those poisonous fields with rank luxuriance crowned,

Where the dark scorpion gathers death around;

Where at each step the stranger fears to wake

The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake;

Where crouching tigers wait their hapless prey,

And savage men more murderous still than they;

While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies,

Mingling the ravaged landscape with the skies.

Far different these from every former scene,

The cooling brook, the grassy-vested green,

The breezy covert of the warbling grove,

That only sheltered thefts of harmless love.
Good Heaven! what sorrows gloomed that parting day

That called them from their native walks away;

When the poor exiles, every pleasure passed,

Hung round their bowers, and fondly looked their last,

And took a long farewell, and wished in vain

For seats like these beyond the western main;

And, shuddering still to face the distant deep,

Returned and wept, and still returned to weep.

The good old sire, the first prepared to go

To new-found worlds, and wept for others’ woe;

But for himself, in conscious virtue brave,

He only wished for worlds beyond the grave.

His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears,

The fond companion of his helpless years,

Silent went next, neglectful of her charms,

And left a lover’s for a father’s arms.

With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes,

And blessed the cot where every pleasure rose;

And kissed her thoughtless babes with many a tear,

And clasped them close, in sorrow doubly dear;

Whilst her fond husband strove to lend relief

In all the silent manliness of grief.
O luxury! thou cursed by Heaven’s decree,

How ill exchanged are things like these for thee!

How do thy potions, with insidious joy,

Diffuse thy pleasures only to destroy!

Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness grown,

Boast of a florid vigour not their own;

At every draught more large and large they grow,

A bloated mass of rank unwieldly woe;

Till, sapped their strength, and every part unsound,

Down, down they sink, and spread the ruin round.
Even now the devastation is begun,

And half the business of destruction done;

Even now, methinks, as pondering here I stand,

I see the rural virtues leave the land:

Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail

That idly waiting flaps with every gale,

Downward they move, a melancholy band,

Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand.

Contented toil, and hospitable care,

And kind connubial tenderness, are there;

And piety with wishes placed above,

And steady loyalty, and faithful love.

And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid,

Still first to fly where sensual joys invade;

Unfit in these degenerate times of shame

To catch the heart, or strike for honest fame;

Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried,

My shame in crowds, my solitary pride;

Thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe,

That found’st me poor at first, and keep’st me so;

Thou guide by which the nobler arts excel,

Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well!

Farewell, and oh! where’er thy voice be tried,

On Torno’s cliffs, or Pambamarca’s side,

Whether where equinoctial fervours glow,

Or winter wraps the polar world in snow,

Still let thy voice, prevailing over time,

Redress the rigours of th’ inclement clime;

Aid slighted truth; with thy persuasive strain

Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain;

Teach him that states of native strength possessed,

Though very poor, may still be very blessed;

That trade’s proud empire hastes to swift decay,

As ocean sweeps the laboured mole away;

While self-dependent power can time defy,

As rocks resist the billows and the sky.

Posted in POEM OF THE WEEK

On Being Human by C. S. Lewis

Angelic minds, they say, by simple intelligence 

Behold the Forms of nature. They discern 

Unerringly the Archtypes, all the verities 

Which mortals lack or indirectly learn. 

Transparent in primordial truth, unvarying, 

Pure Earthness and right Stonehood from their clear, 

High eminence are seen; unveiled, the seminal 

Huge Principles appear.
The Tree-ness of the tree they know-the meaning of 

Arboreal life, how from earth’s salty lap 

The solar beam uplifts it; all the holiness 

Enacted by leaves’ fall and rising sap;
But never an angel knows the knife-edged severance 

Of sun from shadow where the trees begin, 

The blessed cool at every pore caressing us 

-An angel has no skin.
They see the Form of Air; but mortals breathing it 

Drink the whole summer down into the breast. 

The lavish pinks, the field new-mown, the ravishing 

Sea-smells, the wood-fire smoke that whispers Rest. 

The tremor on the rippled pool of memory 

That from each smell in widening circles goes, 

The pleasure and the pang –can angels measure it? 

An angel has no nose.
The nourishing of life, and how it flourishes 

On death, and why, they utterly know; but not

The hill-born, earthy spring, the dark cold bilberries. 

The ripe peach from the southern wall still hot 

Full-bellied tankards foamy-topped, the delicate 

Half-lyric lamb, a new loaf’s billowy curves, 

Nor porridge, nor the tingling taste of oranges.

—An angel has no nerves.
Far richer they! I know the senses’ witchery 

Guards us like air, from heavens too big to see; 

Imminent death to man that barb’d sublimity 

And dazzling edge of beauty unsheathed would be. 

Yet here, within this tiny, charmed interior, 

This parlour of the brain, their Maker shares 

With living men some secrets in a privacy 

Forever ours, not theirs.

Posted in POEM OF THE WEEK

Try To Remember Some Details by Yehuda Amichai

Try to remember some details. 

Remember the clothing 

of the one you love 

so that on the day of loss you’ll be able to say: last seen 

wearing such-and-such, brown jacket, white hat. 

Try to remember some details. For they have no face 

and their soul is hidden and their crying 

is the same as their laughter, 

and their silence and their shouting rise to one height 

and their body temperature is between 98 and 104 degrees 

and they have no life outside this narrow space 

and they have no graven image, no likeness, no memory 

and they have paper cups on the day of their rejoicing 

and paper cups that are used once only. 

Try to remember some details. 

For the world  is filled with people 

who were torn from their sleep 

with no one to mend the tear, 

and unlike wild beasts they live 

each in his lonely hiding place and they die 

together on battlefields 

and in hospitals. 

And the earth will swallow all of them, 

good and evil together, like the followers of Korah, 

all of them in thir rebellion against death, 

their mouths open till the last moment, 

praising and cursing in a single 

howl. Try, try 

to remember some details.

Posted in BOOKS

I Live, I Die, I Burn, I Drown by Delmira Agustini

I live, I die, I burn, I drown

I endure at once chill and cold

Life is at once too soft and too hard

I have sore troubles mingled with joys

Suddenly I laugh and at the same time cry

And in pleasure many a grief endure

My happiness wanes and yet it lasts unchanged

All at once I dry up and grow green

Thus I suffer love’s inconstancies

And when I think the pain is most intense

Without thinking, it is gone again.

Then when I feel my joys certain

And my hour of greatest delight arrived

I find my pain beginning all over once again.

Posted in POEM OF THE WEEK

Dawning by Yahia Lababidi

There are hours when every thing creaks

when chairs stretch their arms, tables their legs

and closets crack their backs, incautiously

Fed up with the polite fantasy 

of having to stay in one place

and stick to their stations

Humans too, at work, or in love

know such aches and growing pains

when inner furnishings defiantly shift

As decisively, and imperceptibly, as a continent

some thing will stretch, croak or come undone

so that everything else must be reconsidered

One restless dawn, unable to suppress the itch

of wanderlust, with a heavy door left ajar 

semi-deliberately, and a new light teasing in

Some piece of immobility will finally quit 

suddenly nimble on wooden limbs

as fast as a horse, fleeing the stable.