Wednesday, January 16, 2013

My Cordial Merci

I have noticed recently that I have had a spike in viewers lately, AND I AM UTTERLY DELIGHTED. Apprently, I have a reader or two from Egypt, Canada, the former Soviet Union, Australia, Sweden, etc.! And I recently got to the milestone of 1000 pageviews! Which is incredibly exciting! I have decided to treat you all, as a thanks, with a medley of deliciously entertaining items:

I will make a post about the dodo bird later!

funny pictures of monkeys eating bananas Funny Pictures of Monkeys Eating Bananas

Whose Line is it Anyway links (You're welcome):

And now, my favorite poems for you to enjoy:

April Midnight By Arthur Symons

Side by side through the streets at midnight,
Roaming together,
Through the tumultuous night of London,
In the miraculous April weather.
Roaming together under the gaslight,
Day’s work over,
How the Spring calls to us, here in the city,
Calls to the heart from the heart of a lover!
Cool to the wind blows, fresh in our faces,
Cleansing, entrancing,
After the heat and the fumes and the footlights,
Where you dance and I watch your dancing.
Good it is to be here together,
Good to be roaming,
Even in London, even at midnight,
Lover-like in a lover’s gloaming.
You the dancer and I the dreamer,
Children together,
Wandering lost in the night of London,
In the miraculous April weather.

“Hope” is the thing with feathers - (314) By Emily Dickinson

“Hope” is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -

I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.

After a Rainstorm By Robert Wrigley

Because I have come to the fence at night,
the horses arrive also from their ancient stable.
They let me stroke their long faces, and I note
in the light of the now-merging moon

how they, a Morgan and a Quarter, have been
by shake-guttered raindrops
spotted around their rumps and thus made
Appaloosas, the ancestral horses of this place.

Maybe because it is night, they are nervous,
or maybe because they too sense
what they have become, they seem
to be waiting for me to say something

to whatever ancient spirits might still abide here,
that they might awaken from this strange dream,
in which there are fences and stables and a man
who doesn’t know a single word they understand.

The Bones of My Father By Etheridge Knight

There are no dry bones
here in this valley. The skull
of my father grins
at the Mississippi moon
from the bottom
of the Tallahatchie,
the bones of my father
are buried in the mud
of these creeks and brooks that twist
and flow their secrets to the sea.
but the wind sings to me
here the sun speaks to me
of the dry bones of my father.

There are no dry bones
in the northern valleys, in the Harlem alleys
young / black / men with knees bent
nod on the stoops of the tenements
and dream
of the dry bones of my father.

And young white longhairs who flee
their homes, and bend their minds
and sing their songs of brotherhood
and no more wars are searching for
my father’s bones.

There are no dry bones here.
We hide from the sun.
No more do we take the long straight strides.
Our steps have been shaped by the cages
that kept us. We glide sideways
like crabs across the sand.
We perch on green lilies, we search
beneath white rocks...

The skull of my father
grins at the Mississippi moon
from the bottom
of the Tallahatchie.
And finally, piece of french history! This was the signature drawing of the infamous cabaret (night club, almost) Le Chat Noir, which was located in Paris during the late ninteenth century. It was modern, and all the 'hipsters' of the time went there to smoke, drink, and write stunning and famous masterpieces!

Also can be a mini-poster for poor people like me.

Thank you, and to all, I bid thee good morrow!

Your adoring friend,
Not Athena


No comments:

Post a Comment