eart hed?03/ 08 Mont hl yMagazi neof :
Contents
earthed ? 03/08
Image copyright Authearth (created by Oliver Day)
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Interview with Robyn Jones Cartoons & Doodles Competitions Poets’ Corner Short Stories Quotes Classic Poems
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Interview Interview with Robyn Jones Age: 15 Writer & Poet By email Date: 03/08 Thed Which book or poem would you most like to have written and why? Robyn (does this mean which book do i wish that i had written myself?) Probably 'Ballet shoes' by Noel Streatfeild. I loved the way that it was written with lots of description, and the story spoke truthfully about the competitive world of theatre schools. I could really relate to the story because I grew up in the same theatrical atmosphere as the three girls in the book. I remember writing lots of stories about ballet and dancing when I was younger, but they were never as detailed as 'Ballet shoes!' I also like the idea of having one of my books made into a film, or TV drama because I have always been interested in the TV/film making process, and 'Ballet shoes' was broadcasted around Christmas last year on ITV. It will remain one of my favourite books of all time!
Propa English ? I will never acknowledge- in fact I refuse This new language that the young seem to use The ‘text’ revolution has infested our speech Draining its beauty like a sordid leech If Shakespeare knew he would turn in his grave If only our English language he could save! Wordsworth, Abbot, Shelly too Would weep in despair (if only they knew) My friends say it’s quicker, easier to apply Than the ‘boring’ English dialect that they need 2 get by But I am different, I utterly refuse This new language that the young seem to use
Thed What is your ambition for the next few years?
Does the culture of r tongue mean nothing @ all? The education of the young iz beginin to fall But y should I b like ma mates? Using txt 2 look kwl an get dates?
Robyn Basically I want to get really good grades, and get into a good college. I would like to study medicine eventually, so I need good GCSE's and A levels. I am going to try writing more often as well, and I will try and do some more work on various plots that I am currently working on.
Itz so eezy 2 b drawn 2 this new uprising I guess itz regard isun suprisin I guess dat itz nt dat bad If I dnt use txt, society wud go md? Lol. Robyn Jones 2
Thed How are you going to try to achieve it? Robyn Well I study quite a lot, and I do a lot of revision when it gets nearer to my exams. I don't really get nervous in tests so that helps a lot! I also help in my local primary school to teach Spanish, which helps me to remember the vocabulary easily. I suppose that to finish the story I am working on, I just need to dedicate more time to it, but that gets increasingly hard when my exams are so close. Thed What is the best thing a writer’s site could do to help aspiring writers? Robyn I think that one of the best things that writings sites do for writers like myself is to get their work out onto the internet, for publicity and also feedback on where they are going wrong, and also aspects of their work that the public and other writers enjoy. This really helps writers to improve their work, and make it more 'reader-friendly'. It is also hard for a writer to get their work published, so the writing websites give the author an opportunity for their work to be possibly seen by publishers who might not have had the opportunity to see the writers work before. It is also nice just to be in a community that is so creative, and to befriend like-minded people! Thed Have you seen Hugh Laurie in the US program House yet? Robyn No! I have never even heard of 'house', but i am sure it is very good! Sorry.. :)
Favourite Poem: Sonnet 130 William Shakespeare My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun; Coral is far more red than her lips' red; If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun; If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head. I have seen roses damask'd, red and white, But no such roses see I in her cheeks; And in some perfumes is there more delight Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks. I love to hear her speak, yet well I know That music hath a far more pleasing sound; I grant I never saw a goddess go; My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground: And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare As any she belied with false compare.
Thed Which book/story would you most like to be able to live in? Robyn Harry potter! seems a bit unoriginal, but just imagine what it would be like to turn your enemy into a frog! :) Oh, hang on- Harry Potter WITHOUT all of the evilness (Lord Voldemort). I love old buildings as well, so Hogwarts would really appeal to me! The character i would most like to be would probably be Ginny 3
Weasley, because of all of the female characters in the story, she is the most bold and fiery. Not because she marries Harry!
now. If i can do that for just one reader in the future, or even now, i think i would have fulfilled my role as a writer.
Thed Do you think a writer has any duties or obligations to the readers?
Thed anything else you would like to say or any question i should have asked that you would like to answer ?
Robyn Not specifically, but as a writer i do like to keep readers in suspense until right at the end of the story, and sometimes i leave the ending to the reader. I think that the most important thing to give to a reader is the enjoyment of reading! When i was younger, i read a lot of Noel Streatfeild’s books, and he inspired me to carry on reading, and to enjoy books like i do
Robyn Erm nope! Just that if i had to give any advice to writers, it would be to keep on writing, and to find a great online community like Authearth :)!
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Cartoons & Doodles
What the art galleries don’t show you (by Mike Knowles)
John (Jock) Davies
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Competitions March: We did not have enough entries for audio books, book reviews, cartoons and column posts again so the £50 per month prizes for those competitions will start once we have more members and entries. However, despite that, we have decided to award a prize to Mike Knowles for “Pegleg” & Simonelli for “A lemon tree” (both as shown in last month’s edition of earthed ?). March Winners (£50 each):
Farang Ignore the server; Contradiction to your frame. “The farang is foolish He is rich, he is insane.” Who are the people who Harvest huge white bags of rice? They are the same as those who Parade a friendly smile. “We want your money white-man That is what we know” Who should we smile at And who should we ignore? South East of Asia Our money will not help you grow. But for your beauty The farang will always go. David Chevasco (Van Vieng mountains, Laos)
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Communication Default David searched the kitchen. He was breathing heavily, his eyes half closed, yet he was unnaturally calm. Any man, he thought to himself as a thin strip of sunlight shot through the window into the dim room, any man would do the same. Any decent, Christian man would know that he would be doing her a favour by it, and after all, it’s not like she is any good here. But he doesn’t need to reason; he knows it is too late to go back now. He steadily strode to the granite surface where the tool laid glimmering. He carefully picked the knife up, and caressed the blade with his little finger. He smiled to himself. A small line of red emerged across his fingertip. Seeing his blood, he was overcome with an angry desire to drain the life of anything that dared step in his path. How dare she? As if he wasn’t good enough for her? It hadn’t been long since the affair had begun. She loved that, that thing as if they were to be parted, the earth would shake with grief. How he loathed their relationship. But not for long. He turned on his heel, and marched into the lounge, the knife solidly in his hand, waiting to kill. His wife sat on the sofa, her head in her hands. She looked up as David entered the room. Her face was red. He never realised how pathetic she looked before. Seeing the knife flash in her husband’s hands, Linda stood, and backed away with horror. 'David.... I am so sorry.' But David wasn’t listening any more. He advanced, until he was close enough to hear her breathing. He smiled. 'Goodbye Linda Brown.' He pushed the knife quickly and sharply into her side. She fell without a word, crumbling to the floor. David stood there, the dull thing in his hand, dripping with blood. He looked towards the sofa. There it was, the single object that had caused the conflict. David remembered the endless nights where he sat alone while she was attending to it. A state of the art, silver mobile phone. David glanced towards the window as the street lights began to glow outside. He picked it up at arms length, looked towards his dead wife, and then back at the phone. David smirked. Should get a few bob on Ebay... Robyn Jones
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Short Stories EYE Professor Tang greeted me outside his laboratory. I’d expected a charismatic figure. Instead, I was confronted by a little wizened character who looked like the shopkeeper in that film, The Gremlins. ‘Doctor Proctor,’ I said, holding out my hand. ‘From Ethics.’ ‘Ah, yes,’ said Tang, shaking my hand briefly. ‘I have friends there. A nice place.’ ‘Ethics,’ I said. ‘Not Essex. I’m from the General Medical Council Ethical Committee.’ I explained that the GMC had picked me because I knew something about genetic engineering ‘I’m here to find out if your work contravenes the guidelines on medical research as laid down by the GMC. The accusation is that you have cloned a human being and, by doing so, you have caused unnecessary suffering.’ ‘Political correctness!’ Tang retorted. ‘Everyone know that the General Medical Council is pandering to politically correct politicians and hysterical New Age Activists.’ ‘That’s utter rubbish, Professor!’ I retorted. This discussion was getting us nowhere, so I decided to go for the jugular. ‘Professor Tang, I must ask you now: is there any truth in these allegations?’ For a split second Tang looked away. Did I detect some guilt? Then he sighed. ‘Yes, we have cloned a human being. Its name is Cyclops and it is six months old.’ ‘It?’ ‘We…’ Tang looked mildly embarrassed. ‘Have not been able to determine its sex. I think you had better see for yourself.’ With some trepidation I followed him down the corridor into a small room. As we entered I was confronted by one of those incubators that keep premature babies alive. It stood in the middle of the room, hooked up to various tubes and monitoring equipment. I turned to look at Tang who nodded at me. This case had massive implications. If it became commonplace to clone perfect babies in the laboratory, it might also be possible to produce the female eggs synthetically. And then what use would men have for us women? 8
I walked towards the incubator and looked in. For a moment I thought I was going to pass out. There, on a large gauze pad, was an eye. Just an eye…nothing more. A big blue one. ‘Is this some kind of sick joke?’ I gasped, when I’d recovered my power of speech. Tang shook his head. I struggled to maintain my composure. ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘We appear to have a living organism in the shape of a human eye.’ I turned to Tang. ‘Perhaps you can supply me with a photograph of…of…Cyclops. Otherwise, it may be difficult convincing my colleagues that I wasn’t hallucinating.’ ‘Certainly.’ After the photograph was taken, Tang escorted me to the main entrance. As he held the door open I stopped. It was a rhetorical question, but procedure demanded I ask it. ‘By the way. Just for the record, Professor Tang. Is there anything else wrong with it?’ ‘Yes,’ he said. It’s blind.’ Mike Knowles
Slapstick & Tickle
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We met at The Accident Prone Society Annual Dinner and Dance. Always a messy affair. I’ve been going for three years now and it always seems to consist of a group of awkward people dancing in their dinner. I can never work out why the organisers book the same ballroom, up three flights of stairs. Either they have a strange sense of humour or they get a commission from medical supplies companies. At this event ‘tripping the light fantastic’ had another meaning. Mary caught my eye immediately. Fortunately, I had some Optrex on me. I asked her to dance. It started off okay but then a chair decided to join us swiftly followed by a curtain and curtain rail. I can’t remember how we ended up in the caretaker’s supply room but Mary looked fetching with a bucket on her head while I found the mop handle down my trousers a little uncomfortable. ••• “Would you like to come in for coffee?” she asked as the car’s airbags deflated. I was thrilled. “I’d love to.” This was my first proper date for ages. The last time, the sudden interruption by the sprinkler system had dampened my ardour. Picking our way through the debris, Mary showed me down to her basement flat. “I really ought to get that loose railing fixed,” she said as we examined our cuts and bruises at the bottom of the steps. “Never mind,” I said. “I always carry Savlon and Elastoplast.” “So do I!” she gasped. “We’re so alike!” I settled down on the settee while Mary scalded herself in the kitchen. “Could you use any help?” I called through. “Well, yes. The biscuits are on a shelf out of my reach. Could you get them for me?” Like a knight to the rescue of a fair damsel, I tripped over the runner and somersaulted through the louvre doors into the kitchen. One of the doors swung back and clouted me on the head. “Oh dear,” said Mary. “Sorry.” “Not your fault, Mary,” I said manfully. “Now, where are these biscuits?” “They’re on the top shelf, there, above the sink.”
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The kitchen was tiny so I had to proceed with great care, stepping up onto a three-legged stool right behind Mary who was engaged in a titanic struggle with kettle, teapot and boiling water. I could steady myself with my fingertips on the edge of the shelf while leaning my right knee against the kitchen sink. “My goodness, what a lovely mosaic,” I said, catching sight of the bit of wall above the sink. “Did you do it yourself?” “Yes,” said Mary. “But it wasn’t meant to be a mosaic. It was my first attempt at tiling.” As I stretched up towards the biscuits, the first thing to go was the stool. My left foot swung backwards, burying my left foot in Mary’s groin. She gasped and bent forward, jamming the teapot spout down the back of my belt, pouring its boiling contents down my trousers. With Mary clinging onto both legs, the shelf was going to collapse in any second and I didn’t want to fall on top of her, so I levered my right knee into the sink and managed to direct the shelf full of biscuits, tinned fruit and strawberry jam behind my head, hoping that most of it would miss Mary, as I propelled my body through the tiny window. I only got half way through. Thankfully it was not double glazed and broke quite easily. My legs were stuck in a sink full of washing up and my upper body and arms were dangling out into the tiny space between the neighbouring buildings. The taps found parts of my body I never knew I had. A battered and sticky Mary was draped over my backside with her hand down my trousers trying to extract the teapot. This would have been just the right moment for the vicar to call but fortunately this was real life, not a farce. ••• “Well, I didn’t really feel like biscuits anyway,” said Mary as she applied the thirty-ninth plaster to my face. We now almost matched eachother with the range of surgical dressings on our faces and bodies. We had managed to make a safe retreat to the living room and had settled for glasses of cold water instead of tea or coffee. “Best to be on the safe side,” I said. “That’s what I always say,” she said. “We’re so alike!” Mary had a lit a couple of candles and placed them on the coffee table for atmosphere. I reckoned I was in with a chance. 11
All of a sudden, she pushed me backwards on the sofa and pressed her body against mine. My head was hanging off the end near the coffee table. “I’ve heard them talk about you down at the Society,” she purred, pushing her face closer to mine. “Apparently you’re really hot stuff.” “Well, you know,” I blushed. “You might find yourself playing with fire.” “I think you might be right,” she squealed as I pulled her closer. “Your hair’s burning!” There’s always something, isn’t there? I thought morosely as I ran to the toilet and doused my flaming head in the bowl. The toilet seat came crashing down and I accidentally flushed the cistern. “Thank you,” called Mary. “I forgot to flush it the last time I went.” We decided to call it a night. “I’ll call you,” I told her as I staggered up the steps. As I walked home, I wondered what the lads back at work would make of it. We were always swapping our stories of romantic conquests. Anything to make life a little less boring at Sizewell B’s Department of Health and Safety. Simonelli
Don Juan Of the Dead It took him a while before he realised what it was. It had caught his eye as he padded through the soft undergrowth. Initially, it was just a flash of white in his peripheral vision but as he took a couple of steps back and looked more closely, intently, it dawned on him what it was. She lay there still, naked, covered sparsely with fallen foliage. At first he wasn’t sure if she was asleep but as he got closer it became clear that the figure that lay before him was dead. He looked around and seeing that he was quite alone, approached the body with caution, tentative steps at first and then more assured as he got nearer and the form took proper shape; definition creeping in. 12
He saw that she was young, slim and dark, not dark skinned but dark featured; her face peaceful with no sign of trauma save for a deep red mark round her neck. He was shocked initially but once this feeling subsided he began to grow more relaxed and confident in her presence. She looked so peaceful lying there, and brushing her long hair away from her face, he realised that she was in fact quite beautiful. He didn’t know what to do. His head told him to run, run to the nearest house and raise the alarm. Still, another part of him urged calm; stick around, gaze upon this rare beauty. He was sure, convinced, that he had never been this close to such a beauty. He could report his discovery later. But that was just it. It was HIS discovery, his prize and he didn’t want them, the authorities, swarming around her poking and prodding. She looked at peace just now. He wanted to enjoy that peace and inhale her beauty. He sat down next to her, slowly and quietly, as if not to disturb her. He knew it was stupid but he felt a certain amount of reverence towards this form that lay so still, so perfect on the soft moss. He created what he thought was the likely identity of the young woman. He gave her a name, an occupation, passtimes, career, the lot. He attempted to breath life into the figure again by making her seem more real, removing her cold anonymity. After about an hour of sitting, staring and imagining, he gingerly reached out to touch her upper arm. He drew his fingers back, quickly, the chill of her body shocking him. He reached out again, this time prepared for the cold. Once used to this he became emboldened, running his hands up and down her slim arm. Eventually, confidence growing with every touch, he put his hand behind her neck and gently lifted her head from the ground. Her hair stuck to the clammy undergrowth and, using his other hand, he pulled it out from behind her head, spreading it out above her. Placing her head gently back on the ground, he admired his handiwork. He fixed a few hairs here and there but when he was finished he took a step back. Her hair fanning out behind her, catching now and again in the wind that wafted through the woods, he thought she looked almost alive, the wind imbuing her once more with life. His touch, he decided, was making her more animated, more alive. He had never been this close to a naked woman, never mind one so beautiful. He longed for her touch but what she could not give, he decided he had to take. He looked around again; no-one about but he wanted to ensure that they had their privacy, Nicola and he. He noticed a small, secluded copse not far away and gently taking both her ankles, he dragged her through. He couldn’t look at her as he did so, feeling that he was treating her beautiful form with casual brutality but it was necessary if they were to have the privacy he craved. 13
After he had got her in the position he wanted, her arms back down by her sides, hair fanning out around her head, he stopped and contemplated what he was about to do. He knew it was wrong. Not just wrong, but sick – he knew that but still, he craved the contact. Looking the way he did and lacking any kind of social skills, this might be his only chance. She hadn’t been dead that long after all; rigor mortis had not yet set in and her skin, although cold, was still soft to the touch. Determined not to be a coward for once in his life, he started to explore her body with his hands; every inch, every crevice was touched, stroked and savoured. He felt a charge rush through his body, a feeling that was alien to him; he felt dizzy, light-headed yet invigorated. He started to take his clothes off, whispering what he imagined were seductive phrases to Nicola. Slowly, gently, he lowered himself on top of her with all the style and panache of a teenage virgin. It was difficult at first but once he was in, he lost all sense of self-consciousness and imagined himself the last of the great lovers. He ad-libbed her groans to match his. At first he felt stupid but gradually he got lost in his macabre love scene. He placed, with difficulty, her arms around his waist and imagined that he was her only one, the one she had waited all her life for and now, in these dark, dank woods, they had found each other. When he was done, he got off immediately, all the passion suddenly evaporating with his release. He was ashamed, disgusted and terrified. What had he done? What had he become? He knew it was by no means normal but still, on reflection, he felt that he deserved it, was in some way entitled to it. Years of rejection had been leading to this point, the point where he had possessed the most beautiful figure he had ever seen. He had had no choice. What was expected of him? A life of celibacy, never knowing what it felt like to taste another’s body? He looked down at her again, lying as still as she had before. His manipulations of her body during the act had convinced a part of him that she really had been reanimated by his lovemaking. Now? Now she was as she had been. Cold, pale, like the clichéd porcelain doll. He hurriedly put his clothes back on as reality started to flood back into his mind and bring him back to the here and now. He was a freak. He knew that but still, he felt like a great conqueror who had taken the love of such a great beauty. A Don Juan of the dead. He bent down and kissed her cheek and whispered gently in her ear, “Same time, same place tomorrow darling”? Martin
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My Naked Heart I was having a future thought. You know, the type when you visualize an event. I was seeing myself in a house on top of a very high mountain. All of a sudden, the walls fall off, nowhere to be seen. Nothing was seen. It was all bright. Only naked brightness, too strong to experience. Without warning, my mind called back the silver mirror and the cracked lip. After many years of preparation, I’m still not prepared. But I am prepared to handle this past phenomenon. I was the peacemaker not knowing how to make the peace. At age 14, what can you expect. There was not enough range except that my singular heart felt it was the only way. Only later did I realize it was a compromise without all the facts. There was never a moment she did not find some reason to rant and rave her dissatisfaction. Was she not perfect enough, had she not arrived? Had I not arrived for her? I tried to believe my new life emerged after having been submersed into the Pacific Ocean. Everyone was rejoicing, and I felt pride. I made my declaration to submit to a much higher power than myself and to rectify the disorders that had crept into my life. From it came a high degree of self-discipline, but it was at such a great price. My fresh opportunity to begin again as a holy daughter was short lived. Frankly, I do not remember what the storm was all about. It probably was something I said to establish my individuality. I ran into my sanctuary, my room, my bed. She chased after me with mirror in hand. I folded to protect my face, but a shard managed to cut my knee and upper lip as the mirror smashed. The blood scared her, and I cried in my heart to feel the pain, to extrude the pain, to harden the pain against her and all she stood for that day: Everyone betrayed everything. As they say, time heals all. With me, healing time is about eight hours or less. The sun does not settle; that is, my head does not fall on my pillow, entertaining anger—the sediment that shores up and distributes its particles in liquid haste. I let it go because I let it go so many times before. It was a habit, you see. I didn’t hit replay or pause; I survived by playing the future. I’m telling you this to say what? I assure you, there will be no plenary indulgences to explain my mother. She was conflicted. In her 15
own way, she was seeking truth. You know, truth—the supreme reality, ultimate meaning, value of existence. In my naked heart I know her existence was not without merit even though her anger delayed her progress. She had a lot of merit. I returned to my breath. Armida
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Poets’ Corner Luang Prabang
Whirlwind of lovers
The Nam Khan, Laos (photo copyright Zinnie)
Blake's painting - Whirlwind of Lovers
To your people the Mekong means business The Nam Khan is their playground.
i spit and i’m spat on like a whirlwind of lovers there’s no time for Newton leaving trails of vapour there’s no tongues for Susan in yesterday’s paper or anything left at all
Your children have suffered much from your beauty and your weakness. Their children will suffer for their beauty too. But their smiles Ngaam lai, ngaam lai lai and their warmth Khawp jai lai lai. Luang Prabang: A jewel on a pinhead trying to balance. James Grimsby
i sit and i admit it there’s a whirlwind of others but she’s already aware she’s a lie detector no space to manoeuvre she’s damn effective at finding my flaws i’ve pissed it up the wall there’s a whirlwind of cover-ups fuck-ups and close calls turbulence in the sky and all those telephone calls 17
it just ain’t right it was so enjoyable L. A. Temple
Short Poem
Napoleon Bonaparte, Queen Victoria, Ronnie Corbett, Frankie Dettori, Mohamed Al Fayed, Carla from Cheers, Angus Deayton, Ben Elton, Michael J Fox, Red Skelton Red Buttons, Dustin Hoffman, And in built-up shoes, Tom Cruise. Lester Piggott, Mickey Rooney, Ian Hislop, Rosemary Clooney Lulu, Robin Cook, Dudley Moore, Jimmy Clitheroe, Danny DeVito, Lou Costello, Robert DeNiro Al Pacino, Quentin Tarantino, And in built-up shoes, Tom Cruise. Simonelli
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The Curious Nature The curious nature turned to watch me, Suddenly guilt flushed for watching A bird you see Perched, most lightly On my trellis. It had spent a little while rummaging on the ground To find a piece of light twig or reed And then launched itself onto my trellis And watched me When satisfied, for then it ignored me Struck with violence At the trellis With the reed In its beak In silence As if to say that I do not provide Ample sized And perfected custom reeds Surely it is my duty after all To provide Ample sized And perfected custom reeds And that I should be glad it would not complain But that from now on As repayment it would do as it pleased Because after all it could make Ample perfected custom reeds As it flew away I was to note How comparatively I would never be freed I wish I was a curious nature sometimes For the I wouldn’t have to put words in its mouth Christopher John Eggett
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Quotes
"The pursuit of success is more valuable than its possession" James Grimsby "If you do not change direction, you may end up where you are heading" Lao Tzu
said it, no matter if I have said it, unless it agrees with your own reason and your own common sense." Siddh rtha Gautama (Buddha) I want it said of me by those who knew me best, that I always plucked a thistle and planted a flower where I thought a flower would grow. Abraham Lincoln Here is a good rule of thumb, too clever is dumb.
“A dreamer is one who can only find his way by moonlight, and his punishment is that he sees the dawn before the rest of the world. ” Oscar Wilde
Ogden Nash He who cannot draw on three thousands years is living from hand to mouth. Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe
“O wad some Power the giftie gie us. To see oursels as ithers see us! It wad frae monie a blunder free us. An foolish notion...” Robert Burns (To a Louse)
Strange is our situation here upon earth. Each of us comes for a short visit, not knowing why, yet sometimes seeming to divine a purpose. From the standpoint of daily life, however, there is one thing we
Heaven knows we need never be ashamed of our tears, for they are rain upon the blinding dust of earth, overlying our hard hearts.
do know: that we are here for the sake of others; above all, for those whose smile and well-being our own happiness depends; and also for the countless unknown souls with whose fate we are connected by a bond of sympathy…
Charles Dickens(From Great Expectations)
Albert Einstein
“There is no such thing as a wrong note. It is the note that follows that determines whether the note before was wrong or right." Variations have been attributed to Miles Davis, Art Tatum & Thelonious Monk
I reasoned thus with myself: I am wiser than this man, for neither of us appears to know anything great and good; but he fancies he knows something... whereas, as I know I do not know...then I appear to be wiser Socrates
"Believe nothing, no matter where you read it, or who 20
Classic Poems of the Week
Desiderata
(Perseid Meteor Shower, copyright Mischiru) Desiderata Go placidly amid the noise and haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence. As far as possible without surrender be on good terms with all persons. Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even the dull and the ignorant; they too have their story. Avoid loud and aggressive persons, they are vexations to the spirit. If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain and bitter; for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself. Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans. Keep interested in your own career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time. 21
Exercise caution in your business affairs; for the world is full of trickery. But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals; and everywhere life is full of heroism. Be yourself. Especially, do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love; for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment it is as perennial as the grass. Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth. Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness. Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here. And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should. Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be, and whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul. With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful. Strive to be happy. Max Ehrmann, Desiderata
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Your Feet
When I cannot look at your face I look at your feet. Your feet of arched bone, your hard little feet. I know that they support you, and that your sweet weight rises upon them. Your waist and your breasts, the doubled purple of your nipples, the sockets of your eyes that have just flown away, your wide fruit mouth, your red tresses, my little tower. But I love your feet only because they walked upon the earth and upon the wind and upon the waters, until they found me. Pablo Neruda 23
Th’end Date: March 27, 2008 earthed ? is copyright Authearth and the content is copyright of its respective members.
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