Category Archives: BOOKS

I was transformed into a rock of salt, because I questioned Your power.


I was transformed into
a rock of salt,
because I questioned
Your power.

I was trasformed into
A cloud, a dark cloud
because I questioned
Your beauty.
I was transformed into
an perpetual wave,
Searching for your presence
everywhere upon the face of the Earth,
because… I questioned
You existance…

and now,
You have extended my search of You among
the furtherst away stars, and dark spaces in the Universe…
Will I find You?
Will I like You?

By George Bost.
(Copyright 2016)
Long Beach, California.

Acuarelă (Minulescu) – Wikisource (in orasu-n care ploua de trei ori pe saptamana…)


https://ro.m.wikisource.org/wiki/Acuarel%C4%83_(Minulescu)

Acuarelă
de Ion Minulescu

Claudiei Millian

În orașu-n care plouă de trei ori pe săptămână
Orășenii, pe trotuare,
Merg ținându-se de mână,
Și-n orașu-n care plouă de trei ori pe săptămână,
De sub vechile umbrele, ce suspină
Și se-ndoaie,
Umede de-atâta ploaie,
Orășenii pe trotuare
Par păpuși automate, date jos din galantare.

În orașu-n care plouă de trei ori pe săptămână
Nu răsună pe trotuare
Decât pașii celor care merg ținându-se de mână,
Numărând
În gând
Cadența picăturilor de ploaie,
Ce coboară din umbrele,
Din burlane
Și din cer
Cu puterea unui ser
Dătător de viață lentă,
Monotonă,
Inutilă
Și absentă…

În orașu-n care plouă de trei ori pe săptămână
Un bătrân și o bătrână ―
Două jucării stricate ―
Merg ținându-se de mână…

Ion Minulescu Aquarela (in orasu-n care ploua de trei ori pe saptamana)

Ion Minulescu Aquarela (in orasu-n care ploua de trei ori pe saptamana)

Watch “Albert Camus – Discours de réception du prix Nobel, 1957” on YouTube


Watch “THE RAVEN. EDGAR ALLAN POE. READING BY VINCENT PRICE” on YouTube


Just a thought: “Imagination is fearlessness applied, with mother’s courage as weapon.”


“Imagination is fearlessness applied, with mother’s courage as weapon.”

(© poetic thought by GeorgeB @ euzicasa)

??????????? Answered (© poetic thought by GeorgeB @ euzicasa): “Time is capricious, love unclaimed transcends.”


https://euzicasa.wordpress.com/2013/02/14/st-valentines-day/

????????????? Answered (© poetic thought by GeorgeB @ euzicasa)

(© poetic thought by GeorgeB @ euzicasa)

Love, love, love,
is it love,
if one cannot embrace human vanity
or is it just plain silliness?
Should love be sang, declared,
or deep in one’s heart vault be contained,
no,
not like in a prison cell, but like
a precious ore not yet uncovered, claimed, explored…
not yet EXPLOITED, by anyone,
ever so well unclaimed,
it shines like the sum of all suns

Time is capricious, love unclaimed transcends.
(Posted Here )

Haiku:  Memories (© poetic thought by GeorgeB @ euzicasa)


Haiku: Memories

(© poetic thought by GeorgeB @ euzicasa)

Like clothes on clotheslines

Washed off a little each time:

Memories drying.

Haiku: Haiku def.(noun) (© poetic thought by GeorgeB @ euzicasa)


Haiku: Haiku def. (noun)

(© poetic thought by GeorgeB @ euzicasa)

Five syllables words

Seven syllables follow

End… as it started.

Haiku

Haiku

Haiku

Haiku

Thank You: to all followers of euzicasa! I promise all and each and everyone of you a great time while visiting this website!


Thank You: to all followers of euzicasa! I promise all and each and everyone of you a great time while  visiting this website!

Thank You: to all followers of euzicasa! I promise all and each and everyone of you a great time while visiting this website!

Watch “The Old Man and the Sea – Short, Animation” on YouTube


Watch “Cannery Row Audio Full” on YouTube


www.gutenberg.org/files/22330/22330-8.txt ( EBook of Clepsydra, by Camilo Pessanha) translation in English by Google Translate


http://www.gutenberg.org/files/22330/22330-8.txt.

EBook of Clepsydra, by Camilo Pessanha

The Project Gutenberg EBook of Clepsydra, by Camilo Pessanha

This eBook is for use by anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
reuse it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at http://www.gutenberg.net

Title: Clepsydra
Camillo Pessanha’s Poems

Author: Camilo Pessanha

Release Date: August 16, 2007 [EBook # 22330]

Language: Portuguese

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CLEPSYDRA ***

Produced by Tiago Tejo

CLEPSYDRA

POEMS OF

CAMILLO PESSANHA

LUSITANIA EDITIONS

Clepsydra

All rights reserved

Composite and Printed: Tip. from T. da Espera, 26

CLEPSYDRA

POEMS OF

CAMILLO PESSANHA

LUSITANIA EDITIONS

LISBON – 1920

INSCRIPTION

I saw the light in a lost country.
My soul is languid and defenseless.
Oh! Who could slide without noise!
On the ground disappear like a worm …

SONNETS

Complicated tattoos of my chest:
–Trophéos, emblems, two winged lions …
More, among wreathed hearts,
A huge, superb, pansy …

And my big guy … You have to gold in a barracks
Red, a lys; there is a maiden in the other,
In blue field, silver the body, that one
Which is on my arm like a buckler.

Timbre: breaking, the megalomania …
Motto: ouch, – that insists night and day
Remembering ruins, shallow graves …

Among battling mountain castles,
And eagles in black, unfurling the waters,
What a gold necklace of besantes!

STATUE

I struggled to try your secret:
In your colorless look, – cold escalpello, –
My gaze broke, debating it,
Like the wave on the crest of a rock.

Segrêdo of that soul and my degraded
And my obsession! To drink it
I was your oscular lip, in a nightmare,
For nights of dread, full of fear.

And my fiery, allucinated oscule,
Chilled over the right marble
From this parted cold lip …

From that discrete marble lip,
Severe as a closed grave,
Serene as a quiet pelago.

PHONOGRAPHO

He is declaiming a deceased comic,
A platea laughs, madly,
Of the good hock … And there is a smell in the environment
Crypta and dust, – from the anachronic assumption.

Change the record, here’s a barcarola:
Lilies, lilies, river waters, the moon …
Before Your body the dream my fluctua
About a country, – ecstatic corolla.

Change again: gorgeios, refrain
D’a gold bugle – the smell of jonquil,
Lively and agro! – touching the dawn …

Ceased. And, loving, the soul of the horns
It was now dewy and veiled.
Spring. Morning. What an effluvium of violets!

It descends in tender leafs to collina:
–In glaucos, loose sleeping tones,
That they were fresh, my eyes stinging,
In which the rage’s flame declines …

Oh come, in white, – from the foliage immo!
The branches, take your hand away.
Oh come on! My eyes want to marry you
Reflect you virgin to the serene image.

From crazy bush a slippery stem
How delicate she danced on a finger
With a bright pink quiver! …

Slight skirt … Sweet breeze impelle her …
Oh come on! In white! From the end of the grove …
Soul of sylpho, camellia meat …

Slum arises! It comes from the waters, naked,
By throbbing an alvinitente shell!
The flexible kidneys and the chilling breast …
My mouth dies for kissing yours.

Without vile shame! What should be ashamed of?
Here I am beautiful, young and chaste, strong.
So white the chest! – to expose it to Death …
But now — the infamous one! —Don’t stand before you.

The clumsy hydra! … What a strangle …
Against the rock where your head is,
With the hair dripping water,

Go bend over, faint in love,
Under the fervor of my virginity
And my young gladiator pulse.

After the lucta and after the conquest
I was alone! It was an anthipathic act!
Deserted Island, and on the water table
All green, green, – out of sight.

Because you were, my caravels,
Loaded up with all my thesoiro?
–Long webs of golden llama moonlight,
Diamond subtitles of the stars!

Who undid you, inconsistent forms,
For whose love I climbed the wall,
“Armed lion, a sword in your teeth?”

Happy are you, O battle slain!
Dreams, back to back, eyes open
Reflecting the stars, gaping …

Who polluted, who tore my linen cloths,
Where I expected to die, my chaste scarves?
From my garden I demand the high turns
Who ripped them off and threw them on the way?

Who broke (what a cruel and simian fury!)
The table of me supper, – pine board?
And spread me the wood? And spilled my wine?
–From my vineyard the acidified and fresh wine …

O my poor mother! … Do not rise from the grave,
Look at the night, look at the wind. In ruin the new house …
From my bones the fire is going out soon.

Don’t come home anymore. Don’t tramp anymore.
My mother’s soul … Don’t walk in the snow anymore,
At night begging at the doors of the houses.

O my heart goes back
Where are you running from, crazy?
My burning eyes that the sinned
Burned … Return hours of peace.

Bend the elms of the roads from the snow,
The ash cooled on the solid.
Nights of the mountains, the shack …
“Look at my eyes like two old men …”

Extensive springtime evokes them:
“Already will blossom the apple orchard,
We have to decorate the Mayan hats–

Socegae, cool, feverish eyes.
–And we will go sing in the last
Litany … Sweet senile voices …–

The wild roses bloomed by mistake
In winter: the wind came to defolate them …
What scismas, honey? Why do you call me
The voices you just fooled me with?

Crazy Castellos! So early cahistes! …
Where we go, oblivious to the thought,
Holding hands? Your eyes, what a moment
They scrutinized mine, how sad they are!

And upon us the snow falls,
Deaf, triumpho, petal, slightly
Putting the floor together on the ice acropolis …

Around your figure is like a video!
Who sprinkles them – how much flower– from the CEO,
About us, about our hair?

And here is what remains of the finished idyllio,
“It will last a moment …”
How far the convent mornings go!
“From the cheerful abandoned little convent …”

It’s all over … Anemones, hydrangeas.
Silindras, – flowers so our friends!
In the cloister now the ortigas beat,
Snakes roam the old ponds.

About the registration of your deldo name!
“That my eyes can barely spell,”
Cançados … And the withered aroma

May it evolve from your common name!
The silence of oblivion ennobled him.
O sweet, naive, grave inscription.

Singra the ship. Under clear water
You see the seabed of fine sand …
–Imprecable pilgrim figure,
The endless distance that separates us!

Pebbles of the lighter porcelain,
Faintly pink shells,
In cold luminous transparency
They lie deep under the flat water.

And the sight probe, reconstructs, compares.
So many wrecks, wrecks, wrecks!
–O gleaming vision, beautiful lie!

Little roses that the tide had gone …
Teeth that reciprocate it will wear …
Shells, pebbles, pieces of bones …

It was a day of useless agonies.
Sunny day, flooded with sunshine! …
The cold swords flashed naked …
Sunny day, flooded with sunshine! …

It was a day of false joy.
Dahlia flaying, – his molle smile …
The ranches of the pilgrimages returned.
Dahlia flaying, – his molle smile …

More impressionable day than the other days.
So lucid … So pallido … So lucid! …
Diffuse of theoremas, of theorias …

The day futil more than the other days!
Minute of discreet ironies …
So lucid … So pallido … So lucid! …

The autumn has passed, already makes the cold …
“Fall from your hurt laugh.”
Winter algid! I oblique the sun, cold …
“The sun, and the clear waters of the river.”

Clear waters of the river! River waters,
Fleeing under my tired gaze,
Where do you take me my care?
Where are you going, my empty heart?

Ficae cabellos d’ella, floating,
And under the fleeting waters,
Your eyes open and scisendo …

Where are you going to run, melancholy?
–And, refracted, long waving,
Your translucent cold hands …

When I came back I found my steps
Still fresh on the damp sand,
The fugitive hour, recalls,
“So redivative!” in my dull eyes …

Bleary eyes from contained tears.
–Little steps, because you screwed
Thus misled, and afterwards you have become
To the point of the first goodbyes?

Where you went without a wind, in the wind,
Around, like birds in an avian,
Until the azita is gone …

All this long track – for what?
If the tide will come to you,
Like the new track that starts …

Retinal images
Why do you not stare from my eyes?
What are you passing like crystalline water
For a source never again! …

Or to the dark lake where it ends
Your course, silent of junctions,
And the vague anguished fear rules,
“Because you’re going without me, won’t you take me?”

Without you, what are my eyes open?
“The useless mirror, my pagan eyes!”
Aridity of successive deserts …

It is even a shadow of my hands,
Casual flexing of my uncertain fingers,
Weird shadow in vain movements.

POETRY

When will the upright rise,
Again, from the ruined castello,
And there will be shouts and flags
In the cold morning breeze?

Will you hear the rebate play
About the abandoned plain?
And we will go to combat
With a coat and helmet and the long sword?

When will we go, sad and serious,
In the long and vain strife,
Letting oaths, improper,
By the currency and subtitles?

And we’ll be back, the old ones
And purissimos handlers,
(How many jobs and dangers!)
Almost dead and winners?

. . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . .

And when, O Doc Infanta Real,
Will you smile at the belveder?
–Magra stained glass figure,
For whom we went to fight …

I don’t know if this is love. I look for your look,
If any pain hurts me, seeking a shelter;
And in spite of that, believe! I never thought of a home
Where you were happy, and I happy with you.

For you I never cried any broken ideal.
And I never wrote you any romantic verses.
Not even after waking up I looked for you in bed
As the sensual wife of Cantico of canticos.

If it’s loving you, I don’t know. I don’t know if I idealized you
Your healthy color, your tender smile,
But I feel smile to see that smile
That penetrates me well, like this winter sun.

I spend with you the afternoon and always without fear
Of the twilight light, which unnerves, that provokes.
I do not take long to look at the curve of your breast
I didn’t even remember kissing you in the mouth anymore.

I don’t know if it’s love. It will be maybe start …
I don’t know what change my present soul …
Love, I don’t know if it is, but I know I shudder,
Maybe I got sick of knowing you were sick.

Drumming in a hurry,
And wobbly.
Bonet next door,

Garboso the drum
Advance around
From the field of love …

Hard, soldier!
The bent step!
Well wobbled!

Loves puff you.
May the girls kiss you.
May the boys envy you.

But there, O soldier!
O sad alienated!
However exalted

May the touch complain,
No one to call you …
No one who loves you …

To my heart an iron weight
I will arrest on the turn of the sea.
To my heart an iron weight …
Throw it overboard.

Who goes on board, who goes offended …
The feathers of love do not want to carry …
Sailors, I lifted the heavy vault,
Throw it overboard.

And I will sell a silver clasp.
My heart is the sealed vault.
The seven keys: there is a letter inside …
“The last one, before your engagement.”

The seven keys, – the enchanted letter!
And an embroidered handkerchief … I’ll take it,
Which is for wetting it in saltwater
The day I finally stop crying …

Twilight

There is a murmur of complain in the room,
Of love desires, of these pills …
A sparse tenderness of bleating,
It feels like a fading perfume.

Honeysuckle withers in the brush
And the aroma that they exhale through space,
Has delusions of fat and tiredness
Nervous, feminine, sweet.

They feel spasms, agonias d’ave,
Inaprehensiveis, minimal, serene …
“I have your small hands in my hands.”
My gaze on your soft gaze.

Your hands so white with anemia …
Your eyes so sweet with sadness …
–This is the languishing of nature,
This vague suffer from the end of the day.

If you walked in the garden,
What a smell of jasmine!
So white in the moonlight!

. . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . .
. . . . . . . . . . . . .

Behold, I have it with me.
Overdue, it’s mine anyway
After so much dreaming …

Why do I grieve like this?
It wasn’t her, but
(What I wanted to hug),

Garden time …
The aroma of jasmine …
The moonlight wave …

After the golden wedding,
From the promised time,
I don’t know how bad it is now
It made my life late …

I have to return …
And it misses me …
“But to remind me
I don’t know that pain invades me.

I don’t even want to go on,
Walk new paths,
My poor feet, dorir,
Already purple of thorns.

Neither stay … and die …
Lose you, vague image …
Cease … No more seeing you …
As a light goes out …

My heart goes down,
An extinguished balloon …
–Best it burned,
In the dark, set on fire.

In the fastidient mist,
Like a grave coffin …
–Because it doesn’t blow before
Of violent pain and new ?!

What apprehension still holds him?
Atom wretched …
–If the train smashed
D’a train panting! …

The inane, vile spoil
From the selfish and weak soul!
Brought him the sea of red
Take him in the hangover.

Chorae Arcades
From the video player!
Convulsed,
Winged Bridges
Nightmare …

From which they fly,
Whites, the bows …
Underneath,
Fall apart,
In the river, the boats.

Slings, hiccups
Weeping Tails …
What ruins, (listen)!
If they look,
What a sink!

Wobbly stars …
Lacustrine solids …
–Mails and masts …
And the alabaster
From the balusters!

Broken ballot boxes!
Ice blocks …
–Chorae arcades,
Shattered,
From the viôloncello.

AROUND FLOWER BOATS

Only, incessantly, a flute sound cries,
Widow, gracile, in the quiet darkness,
–Perfect voice that exiles from among the most,
“Sound parties masking the time.”

In the orgy, far away, that in scintilla flares
And the white lips of the carmine deflate …
Only, incessantly, a flute sound cries,
She was gracious in the quiet darkness.

And the orchestra? And the kisses? All night out,
Caution, stop. Only modulated track
The flute flute … Who’s going to do it?
Who knows why you regret it without reason?

Only, incessantly, a flute sound cries …

IN A PORTRAIT

From under the square quadrangle
From the fresh land that will swell me,

And after much rain,
When the herb spreads with the oblong,

Still, friend, the same look of mine
He will go humble across the sea,

Wrap you up in tender price,
Like that of a poor grateful dog.

Weak voice that you pass,
What a humbling moan
I don’t know what misfortunes …

It would be said that you ask.
One would say that you tremble,
United to the walls,

If you come in the dark,
Trust me in the ear
I don’t know what bitterness …

Sighs or fallas?
Because it’s the moan,
The breath you exhale?

One would say that you pray.
Murmurs softly
I don’t know what sadness …

“Being your mate?”
I do not know the way.
I’m foreign.

“Past love?”
Cheer up, say
I don’t know what terrors …

Finhainha, delirious.
–Happy projects? –
Sighs. Expires.

In jail the bandits arrested!
Your air of contemplatives!
What’s the beasts with burning eyes ?!
Poor of your captivating eyes.

They walk dumb between the bars,
They look like fish in an aquarium.
–Florid Field of Saudades
Why tumultuous shoots?

Serene … Serene … Serene …
Brought them handcuffed to escort.
–Extreme bowl of poisons
My heart always in revolt.

Heart, quiet … quiet …
Why do you rise up and blaspheme?
Pschiu … Don’t hit … Slowly …
Look at the soldiers, the handcuffs!

LAST

O virtuous colors that lie underground,
–Blue, red hemoptyse flares,
Glow dams, vesanias chromatic–,
In the limbo where you await the light that baptizes you,

The eyelashes are cerrae, anxious not veiled.

Aborts that overhang the cider fronts,
So serious to scismar, in the mouths of museums,
And listening to the water running in the clepsydra,
Vaguely smile, resigned and atheus,

Cease to think, the abyss do not probe.

Moaning coo from unreached dreams,
That all night long, sweet souls pining,
And the lacerations on the edge of the roofs,
And in the wind exhales in a soft whine,

Fall asleep. Do not sigh. Do not breathe.

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Haiku: The Labyrinth (© poetic thought by GeorgeB @ euzicasa)


Haiku: The Labyrinth

(© poetic thought by GeorgeB @ euzicasa)

Eternity-

In this Labyrinth I’m lost-

Till the End of time.

Watch “The Magic Shop by H. G. Wells Audiobook – FULL” on YouTube


Watch “POEMS OF WILLIAM BLAKE – FULL Audio Book – Songs of Innocence and of Experience & The Book of Thel” on YouTube


Wikipedia: Agatha Christie


https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Agatha_Christie

Dame Agatha Mary Clarissa Christie, Lady Mallowan, DBE (née Miller; 15 September 1890 – 12 January 1976) was an English writer. She is known for her 66 detective novels and 14 short story collections, particularly those revolving around her fictional detectives Hercule Poirot and Miss Marple. Christie also wrote the world’s longest-running play, a murder mystery, The Mousetrap,[2] and, under the pen name Mary Westmacott, six romances. In 1971 she was appointed a Dame Commander of the Order of the British Empire (DBE) for her contribution to literature.[3][4]

Dame

Agatha Christie
Lady Mallowan

DBE

Agatha Christie in 1925

BornAgatha Mary Clarissa Miller
15 September 1890
Torquay, Devon, EnglandDied12 January 1976(aged 85)
Winterbrook House, Winterbrook, Oxfordshire, England[1]Resting placeChurch of St Mary, Cholsey, Oxfordshire, EnglandPen nameMary WestmacottOccupationNovelist, short story writer, playwright, poet, memoiristGenreMurder mystery, thriller, crime fiction, detective, romanceLiterary movementGolden Age of Detective FictionNotable worksCreation of characters Hercule Poirot and Miss Marple, Murder on the Orient Express, The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, Death on the Nile, The Murder at the Vicarage, Partners In Crime, The A.B.C. Murders, And Then There Were None, The MousetrapSpouses

Archibald Christie
(m. 1914; div. 1928)

Sir Max Mallowan(m. 1930)

Children1RelativesJames Watts(nephew)SignatureWebsiteagathachristie.com

Christie was born into a wealthy upper-middle-class family in Torquay, Devon. Before marrying and starting a family in London, she had served in a Devon hospital during the First World War, tending to troops coming back from the trenches. She was initially an unsuccessful writer with six consecutive rejections,[5] but this changed when The Mysterious Affair at Styles, featuring Hercule Poirot, was published in 1920.[6] During the Second World War, she worked as a pharmacy assistant at University College Hospital, London, acquiring a good knowledge of poisons which feature in many of her novels.

Guinness World Records lists Christie as the best-selling novelist of all time. Her novels have sold roughly 2 billion copies, and her estate claims that her works come third in the rankings of the world’s most-widely published books,[7] behind only Shakespeare’sworks and the Bible. According to Index Translationum, she remains the most-translated individual author, having been translated into at least 103 languages.[8] And Then There Were None is Christie’s best-selling novel, with 100 million sales to date, making it the world’s best-selling mystery ever, and one of the best-selling books of all time.[9] Christie’s stage play The Mousetrap holds the world record for longest initial run. It opened at the Ambassadors Theatrein the West End on 25 November 1952, and as of April 2019 is still running after more than 27,000 performances.[10][11]

In 1955, Christie was the first recipient of the Mystery Writers of America’s highest honour, the Grand Master Award. Later the same year, Witness for the Prosecution received an Edgar Award by the MWA for Best Play.[12] In 2013, The Murder of Roger Ackroydwas voted the best crime novel ever by 600 fellow writers of the Crime Writers’ Association.[13] On 15 September 2015, coinciding with her 125th birthday, And Then There Were None was named the “World’s Favourite Christie” in a vote sponsored by the author’s estate.[14] Most of her books and short stories have been adapted for television, radio, video games and comics, and more than thirty feature films have been based on her work.

Life and careerEdit

Childhood and adolescence: 1890–1910Edit

Agatha Mary Clarissa Miller was born on 15 September 1890 into a wealthy upper-middle-class family in Torquay, Devon. She was the youngest of three children born to Frederick Alvah (“Fred”) Miller, “a gentleman of substance”, and his wife Clarissa Margaret (“Clara”) Miller née Boehmer.[15]:1–4[16][17][18][19]:16[20][21]

Christie’s mother Clara was born in Dublin[a] in 1854[22][23] to Lieutenant (later Captain) Frederick Boehmer (91st Regiment of Foot)[24] and his second wife Mary Ann Boehmer née West. Boehmer died aged 49 of bronchitis (although biographers often claim he was killed in a riding accident) in Jersey in April 1863, leaving his widow to raise Clara and her three brothers alone on a meagre income.[25][26] Two weeks after Boehmer’s death, Mary’s sister Margaret West married widowed dry goods merchant Nathaniel Frary Miller, a U.S. citizen.[27] To assist Mary financially, the newlyweds agreed to foster nine year old Clara. The family settled in Timperley, Cheshire.[28]Margaret and Nathaniel had no children together, but Nathaniel had a seventeen-year-old son, Fred Miller, from his previous marriage. Fred was born in New York City and travelled extensively after leaving his Swiss boarding school. He and Clara eventually formed a romantic attachment and were married in St Peter’s Church, Notting Hill, in April 1878.[15]:2–5[16]

Fred and Clara’s first child, Margaret Frary (“Madge”), was born in Torquay in 1879,[29] where the couple were renting lodgings. Their second child, Louis Montant (“Monty”), was born in Morristown, New Jersey, in 1880[30]while they were making an extended visit to the United States. When Fred’s father died in 1869,[31] he left Clara £2000; they used this money to purchase the leasehold of a villa in Torquay named Ashfield in which to raise their family. It was here that their third and final child, Agatha, was born in 1890.[15]:6–7[18]

Christie as a girl, date unknown

Christie described her childhood as “very happy”.[32]:3 She was surrounded by a series of strong and independent women from an early age.[15]:14 She lived primarily in Devon, but made occasional visits to the homes of her step-grandmother/great-aunt Margaret Miller in

Haiku: Blue skies at sunset (© poetic thought by GeorgeB @ euzicasa)


Haiku: Blue skies at sunset (© poetic thought by GeorgeB @ euzicasa)

Blue skies at sunset

Proceed starry nights throughout,

Sunny days to come.

Unpainting…a perfectly painted tableau ( ©poetic thought by GeorgeB @euzicasa)


Unpainting…a perfectly painted tableau

( ©poetic thought by GeorgeB @euzicasa)

Everyday I…I efface another color

of my perfectly painted tableau,

accomplishment of the day past…

I aim for a unicolor, a pure black or white, I can’t make up my mind…

So, every morning, seated at my easel, I use the widest paintbrush, and chose, today will be white over black, to cover the painting behind, to hide yesternight hard work, to start anew,

a new memory, painted over an older one,

no holidays,

weekends,

only Monday Mornings,

nonstop,

in perpetuity,

forever Amen!

Haiku | Academy of American Poets


https://poets.org/glossary/haiku

Haiku | Academy of American Poets

Haiku | Academy of American Poets

Get your copy of the ebook of “My Disillusionment in Russia (1922), by Emma Goldberg from the link bellow


Get your copy today, free of charge from Gutenberg

We’ll wait and see, but chances are… (Poetic thought by GeorgeB) visit my poetry page Here


We’ll wait and see, but chances are… (Poetic thought by GeorgeB)

Detached from the dormant tree
All the dried leaves have fallen but one…a special one,

for unknown reasons…
The winds didn’t detach it,

nor did the cold rains,

the freezing breezes of December or

the early mornings’ icy crystals of frozen water…

all these barely scratched new tears

upon its dried out reddish-brown, wrinkled face…

Will it survive the winter?

Will it hang around till spring?

Will it be the exceptional leave its home, no matter what?

Will it be the last of the survivors, born on the death list,

in the country of the dead,

under the symbols of the crossed sickle-n- hammer?

We’ll wait and see, but chances are…
(Transmission interupted here)

(Poetic thought by GeorgeB) HERE

Quote by Henry Miller: “To walk in money through the night crowd, prote…” | Goodreads


https://www.goodreads.com/quotes/7942315-to-walk-in-money-through-the-night-crowd-protected-by

Quote by Henry Miller: “To walk in money through the night crowd, prote...” | Goodreads

Watch “Robin Williams reads “I Love You Without Knowing How” by Pablo Neruda” on YouTube


I love you without knowing how, by Pablo Neruda

I love you without knowing how,

by Pablo Neruda

This is how pieces de résistance are born: Watch “Bob Fosse on All That Jazz” on YouTube


This is How pieces de résistance are born

Watch “Leonard Cohen – A Thousand Kisses Deep” on YouTube



The ponies run, the girls are young,
The odds are there to beat.
You win a while, and then it’s done ?
Your little winning streak.
And summoned now to deal
With your invincible defeat,
You live your life as if it?s real,
A Thousand Kisses Deep.

I’m turning tricks, I’m getting fixed,
I’m back on Boogie Street.
You lose your grip, and then you slip
Into the Masterpiece.
And maybe I had miles to drive,
And promises to keep:
You ditch it all to stay alive,
A Thousand Kisses Deep.

And sometimes when the night is slow,
The wretched and the meek,
We gather up our hearts and go,
A Thousand Kisses Deep.

Confined to sex, we pressed against
The limits of the sea:
I saw there were no oceans left
For scavengers like me.
I made it to the forward deck.
I blessed our remnant fleet…
And then consented to be wrecked,
A Thousand Kisses Deep.

I’m turning tricks, I’m getting fixed,
I’m back on Boogie Street.
I guess they won’t exchange the gifts
That you were meant to keep.
And quiet is the thought of you,
The file on you complete,
Except what we forgot to do,
A Thousand Kisses Deep.

And sometimes when the night is slow,
The wretched and the meek,
We gather up our hearts and go,
A Thousand Kisses Deep.

The ponies run, the girls are young,
The odds are there to beat .

Quotation: In the end, it’s not the years in your life that count. It’s the life in your years.


image

In the end, it’s not the years in your life that count. It’s the life in your years.

Citat/Quotation: Socrates!


“The children now love luxury. They have bad manners, contempt for authority; they show disrespect for elders and love chatter in place of exercise.”
― Socrates

quotation : Washington Irving


There is a healthful hardiness about real dignity that never dreads contact and communion with others, however humble.

Washington Irving (1783-1859) Discuss

quotation: Life is a predicament which precedes death. Henry James


Life is a predicament which precedes death.

Henry James (1843-1916) Discuss

Quotation: Idleness, like kisses, to be sweet must be stolen. Jerome K. Jerome


Idleness, like kisses, to be sweet must be stolen.

Jerome K. Jerome (1859-1927) Discuss

quotation: “We should be careful to get out of an experience only the wisdom that is in it and stop there;…”, Mark Twain


We should be careful to get out of an experience only the wisdom that is in it and stop there; lest we be like the cat that sits down on a hot stove lid. She will never sit on a hot stove lid again and that is well; but also she will never sit down on a cold one anymore.

Mark Twain (1835-1910) Discuss

quotation: “I have come to have the firm conviction that vanity is the basis of everything,…” Gustave Flaubert


I have come to have the firm conviction that vanity is the basis of everything, and finally that what one calls conscience is only inner vanity.

Gustave Flaubert (1821-1880) Discuss

quotation: W. Somerset Maugham


Conscience is the guardian in the individual of the rules which the community has evolved for its own preservation. It is the policeman in all our hearts, set there to watch that we do not break its laws. It is the spy seated in the central stronghold of the ego.

W. Somerset Maugham (1874-1965) Discuss

quotation: In art economy is always beauty. Henry James


In art economy is always beauty.

Henry James (1843-1916) Discuss

today’s birthday: Gustave Flaubert (1821)


Gustave Flaubert (1821)

Flaubert was a French writer considered one of the supreme masters of the realistic novel. At 22, he abandoned law studies to pursue a career as an author. In 1856, after five years of work, he published his masterpiece, Madame Bovary, about the frustrations and love affairs of a romantic young woman married to a dull provincial doctor. A sharply realistic portrayal of bourgeois boredom and adultery, the novel led to his prosecution on moral grounds. What was the verdict? More… Discuss

quotation: It was such a lovely day I thought it a pity to get up. W. Somerset Maugham


It was such a lovely day I thought it a pity to get up.

W. Somerset Maugham (1874-1965) Discuss

this pressed for your hearts and minds: STATELESS OF LEBANON | Linda Dorigo


The offspring of a Lebanese woman who is married to a non-Lebanese man cannot be considered Lebanese citizens. Even if they have been born and raised in the country. These children are Al-Maktum Qaid or “Stateless.” The stateless in Lebanon also consist of Palestinian refugees or descendants of Palestinians who rejected Lebanese citizenship in order to steer clear of military service when the country was under the French mandate in 1932. Unofficial estimates speak of 35,000 women married to foreigners, and a number of stateless that exceeds 100,000 out of a population of almost 4 million.The stateless have no passports, do not have access to public health care and cannot attend public schools. They are also unable to own private property. Even marriage and travel are incredible obstacles. Gender inequality in nationality laws can create statelessness in which children cannot acquire nationality from their fathers, and are forced to live an incomplete life.The Lebanese government has refused to discuss the archaic law, which dates back to 1925. Some critics say this is because a change in numerical terms by one group over another would result in a shift in political representation and the balance of power within the already vulnerable and sectarian-divided government. Granting women the right to pass on citizenship would lead to an increase in the number of Muslims within Lebanon and could possibly open the doors to Palestinian refugees too.Karim is 9 years old. Every 3 years he has to renew his resident visa to remain in Lebanon. He must study at a private school, since he is not allowed to attend public school. He says he would like to become a doctor to help his mother, Nadia, who is paying for his education. His father, who is also stateless and is of Kurdish origin, was born in Lebanon 55 years ago. Ibrahim lives with his mother in the Beqa‘ valley. He never knew his Syrian father because he left the family and never returned home. “I did not grow up with my real father,” he says. “My brothers and I can not even go to Syria because when we were born there was not enough money to register births, marriages and deaths.” Ibrahim went to school for only 4 years. He was engaged once, but she left him because of his social condition. Moustafa is the founder of the independent movement “Our rights group”. He is stateless, married and father of 3 children, who are therefore also stateless. “I started this campaign alone, without money, more or less two years ago,” he explains. “I suffered a lot for my condition. Today we need to be united because the inability to extend the nationality denies not only women their full rights as nationals, but also denies her children their basic rights as human beings. The same happened to Youssef: he is Palestinian, married to Nada, and they have 3 children. He and his wife are engineers, they work together, they have a studio, but officially he is her employee. The family house, cars, and properties belong to Nada because Youssef is not allowed to own anything. “Before opening the studio with Nada, I was project manager and I had 12 engineers under me,” Youssef says. “No one knew my origins, otherwise I would have been forced to leave the job. Our children understand the restrictions, and when they get married, we will be careful to choose the ‘right’ person”. The story of Samira is well known in Lebanon. She was married to an Egyptian man who passed away in 1994. She has 5 children. None are studying at university because education for non-Lebanese is very expensive. In 2009, for the first time in Lebanon, Judge John Azzi granted citizenship to her children, but two days later the government intervened and quashed the decision. Azzi, who was Head of the Court, lost his office and became a lawyer. He wrote his experience in “A Trip of a Lifetime to Nationality”. Many other families pay the consequences of the Lebanese law. Yousra for example is mother of 2 sons. Hani’s father is Jordanian, while Ali’s father is Lebanese. Yousra has been divorced twice. Since Hani, the youngest, has no nationality he cannot go to public school. The family pays $2.000 a year for his education and his residence permit needs to be renewed every 3 years. Lorenzo he is an Italian journalist married to a Lebanese woman. Their 2 sons can apply for Italian IDs but not Lebanese ones. “I did not think this could be a problem,” Lorenzo said “But talking with my wife I felt more involved, and discovered the injustice”.Links: Private Magazine, Cargo Collective

Source: STATELESS OF LEBANON | Linda Dorigo

quotation: A superhuman will is needed in order to write, and I am only a man. Gustave Flaubert


A superhuman will is needed in order to write, and I am only a man.

Gustave Flaubert (1821-1880) Discuss

quotation: It wasn’t until late in life that I discovered how easy it is to say “I don’t know.” W. Somerset Maugham


It wasn’t until late in life that I discovered how easy it is to say “I don’t know.”

W. Somerset Maugham (1874-1965) Discuss

quotation: The almighty dollar, that great object of universal devotion throughout our land, seems to have no genuine devotees in these peculiar villages. Washington Irving


The almighty dollar, that great object of universal devotion throughout our land, seems to have no genuine devotees in these peculiar villages.

Washington Irving (1783-1859) Discuss

quotation: “…And Love to all men ‘neath the sun!” Rudyard Kipling.


Teach us Delight in simple things,

And Mirth that has no bitter springs;

Forgiveness free of evil done,

And Love to all men ‘neath the sun!

Rudyard Kipling (1865-1936) Discuss

Ce- ti doresc eu tie dulce Romanie- Veta Biris


Ce- ti doresc eu tie dulce Romanie- Veta Biris

quotation: Love is never lost. If not reciprocated, it will flow back and soften and purify the heart. Washington Irving (1783-1859)


Love is never lost. If not reciprocated, it will flow back and soften and purify the heart.

Washington Irving (1783-1859) Discuss

THE ADVENTURES OF HUCKLEBERRY FINN by Mark Twain – FULL AudioBook | Greatest Audio Books


THE ADVENTURES OF HUCKLEBERRY FINN by Mark Twain – FULL AudioBook | Greatest Audio Books

today’s birthday: Mark Twain (1835)


Mark Twain (1835)

Twain was an American author who, as a humorist, narrator, and social observer, is unsurpassed in American literature. Born Samuel Langhorne Clemens, Twain grew up in a port town on the Mississippi River and eventually became a river pilot. He first won fame with the comic masterpiece “The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County.” His 1885 novel The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn has been called the first modern American novel. According to Twain, how did he acquire his pen name? More… Discuss

today’s birthday: Louisa May Alcott (1832)


Louisa May Alcott (1832)

Determined to contribute to the small family income, Alcott began writing to help support her mother and sisters. She first achieved widespread fame and wealth with Little Women, one of the most popular children’s books ever written. The novel, which recounts the adolescent adventures of the four March sisters, is largely autobiographical. Her first book, Flower Fables, was a collection of tales originally created to amuse the daughter of her friend, what famous American poet? More… Discuss

today’s birthday: Friedrich Engels (1820)


Friedrich Engels (1820)

With Karl Marx, Engels was one of the founders of modern Communism. After forming a partnership to promote the socialist movement, the two organized revolutionary movements and collaborated on several works, most notably the Communist Manifesto. Though Marx’s personality has overshadowed that of Engels, Engels served as the foremost authority on Marx and Marxism after Marx’s death in 1883. Despite his criticism of capitalism, Engels supported Marx’s publications by doing what? More… Discuss

Bookbinding


Bookbinding

The craft of bookbinding began simply, with the use of boards to protect parchment manuscripts. By the 2nd century, sheets of parchment were being folded and sewn together. During the Middle Ages, the practice of making fine bindings for these sewn volumes rose to great heights; books were rare and precious articles, and many were treated with exquisite gilded and jeweled bindings. What is the uncommon practice of binding books in human skin, a technique dating back to the 17th century, called? More… Discuss

quotation: Of course poets have morals and manners of their own, and custom is no argument with them. Thomas Hardy


Of course poets have morals and manners of their own, and custom is no argument with them.

Thomas Hardy (1840-1928) Discuss

today’s holiday: National Bible Week


National Bible Week

A week devoted to encouraging people to read the Bible, in the belief that it will arouse a positive spiritual force in a world plagued with problems. National Bible Week is promoted by the National Bible Association (originally the Laymen’s National Committee), a non-denominational group of businessmen founded in 1940 and devoted to the application of the Golden Rule in daily life. A huge audience listened to the NBC radio program that was broadcast to kick off the first National Bible Week scheduled for December 8-14, 1941; Pearl Harbor had been bombed just hours before. More… Discuss

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