DARK to me is the earth. Dark to me are the heavens. Where is she that I loved, the woman with eyes like stars ? Desolate are the streets. Desolate is the city. A city taken by storm, where none are left but the slain.
Sadly I rose at dawn, undid the latch of my shutters, Thinking to let in light, but I only let in love. Birds in the boughs were awake; I listen'd to their chaunting; Each one sang to his love; only I was alone.
This, I said in my heart, is the hour of life and of pleasure. Now each creature on earth has his joy, and lives in the sun, Each in another's eyes finds light, the light of compassion, This is the moment of pity, this is the moment of love.
Speak, O desolate city ! Speak, O silence in sadness ! Where is she that I loved in my strength, that spoke to my soul ? Where are those passionate eyes that appeal'd to my eyes in passion ? Where is the mouth that kiss'd me, the breast I laid to my own ?
Speak, thou soul of my soul, for rage in my heart is kindled. Tell me, where didst thou flee in the day of destruction and fear ? See, my arms still enfold thee, enfolding thus all heaven, See, my desire is fulfill'd in thee, for it fills the earth.
Thus in my grief I lamented. Then turn'd I from the window, Turn'd to the stair, and the open door, and the empty street, Crying aloud in my grief, for there was none to chide me, None to mock my weakness, none to behold my tears.
Groping I went, as blind. I sought her house, my beloved's. There I stopp'd at the silent door, and listen'd and tried the latch. Love, I cried, dost thou slumber ? This is no hour for slumber, This is the hour of love, and love I bring in my hand.
I knew the house, with its windows barr'd, and its leafless fig-tree, Climbing round by the doorstep, the only one in the street; I knew where my hope had climb'd to its goal and there encircled All that those desolate walls once held, my beloved's heart.
There in my grief she consoled me. She loved me when I loved not. She put her hand in my hand, and set her lips to my lips. She told me all her pain and show'd me all her trouble. I, like a fool, scarce heard, hardly return'd her kiss.
Love, thy eyes were like torches. They changed as I beheld them. Love, thy lips were like gems, the seal thou settest on my life. Love, if I loved not then, behold this hour thy vengeance; This is the fruit of thy love and thee, the unwise grown wise.
Weeping strangled my voice. I call'd out, but none answer'd; Blindly the windows gazed back at me, dumbly the door; See whom I love, who loved me, look'd not on my yearning, Gave me no more her hands to kiss, show'd me no more her soul.
Therefore the earth is dark to me, the sunlight blackness, Therefore I go in tears and alone, by night and day; Therefore I find no love in heaven, no light, no beauty, A heaven taken by storm, where none are left but the slain !
Was it long ago that you met sunrise watching the crimson sun jumping quickly right from a lake depth accompanied with a deafening songs of birds ? And when was it last time that you purposelessly wandered around a green-golden forest inhaling a dizzy smell of herbs with pleasure and cutting off tough mushrooms on the way ? And have you ever seen how passionately a black-cock in love utters the mating call to his gray hen ? Or have you experienced admiration mixed with fear when something suddenly cracked in the nearest bush and then you see a striped side of a wild piglet ?
Belarus is famous for its Belarussian Internet Brides, its 'dictator' and, umm.... Arriving into Minsk you are greeted by stony-faced passport control officers who pore in grim silence and with painstaking detail over each and every passport. When passport officers retire they go on to work at hotel reception, internet cafes, and as checkout chicks. They are spectacularly good at saying "Niet" and turning their back on you with a hrmmph when you ask if they speak any English. Maybe this isn't so very different from Paris, but it was a world away from Colombia.
Or ever the knightly years were gone With the old world to the grave, I was the King of Babylon And you were a Christian Slave.
I saw, I took, I cast you by, I bent and broke your pride. You loved me well, or I heard them lie, But your longing was denied. Surely I knew that by and by You cursed your gods and died.
And a myriad suns have set and shone Since then upon the grave Decreed by the King of Babylon To her that had been his Slave.
The pride I trampled is now my scathe, For it tramples me again. The old resentment lasts like death, For you love, yet you refrain. I break my heart on your hard unfaith, And I break my heart in vain.
Yet not for hour do I wish undone The deed beyond the grave, When I was a King in Babylon And you were a Virgin Slave.
W. E. Henley : "Or Ever The Knightly Years Were Gone"
Arthur Rackham - Brünnhilde unregretting the loss of her valkyriehood
Mackie, Rudolf Forster, looks just like my father; particularly leering over Polly during the murder-ballad; Polly was played by Carol Neher, who died in a soviet camp in 1942. Ernst Busch plays the street-singer who narrates; Lotte Lenya, Kurt Weill's wife, sings Pirate Jenny.
Illegal Parrot Trade Source: Defenders of Wildlife From press release:
In one of the most detailed examinations ever of any illegal animal trade, the report estimates that Mexican parrot trappers illegally capture roughly 65,000 to 78,500 parrots annually. About 75 percent of these die from stress, disease, rough handling, crushing, asphyxiation or dehydration during capture and transport before reaching the consumer. In many instances, 50 parrots are stuffed in a shipping container barely larger than a shoe box for days on end until they reach the market. Estimates for the number of parrots smuggled into the United States are as high as 9,400 each year. Many of these are sick, injured, dying or severely traumatized. None of these birds have proper legal documentation and are sold without the required health examination and quarantine to identify potential disease risks.
Populations of high-demand parrot species have decreased by 25 percent to 30 percent and have disappeared entirely from many regions. For example, the yellow naped parrot has not been found in the Mexican state of Oaxaca for several years.
Defenders’ report identifies several different routes frequented by parrot smugglers to get the birds across the border into the United States. The most common routes are the Gulf Coast trade route, which ends in southern Texas in Brownsville, Eagle Pass, El Paso, Laredo or McAllen. Smugglers who choose to take the Pacific route, which hugs the coastline, are most commonly destined for Tijuana or Tucson, Ariz. Parrots are trafficked through airports across the nation as well. The main ports of entry are Chicago, Honolulu, Los Angeles, Miami, New York City and San Francisco.
+ Full Report (PDF; 10.5 MB) + Determining if Your Parrot Is Legal Before You Buy (PDF; 355 KB) + Is U.S. Demand Driving Mexican Parrots to Extinction? (PDF; 275 KB)
Well, the men who built my house are DEAD now; ergo what ? The men who built my house also drank whiskey that had been filtered through hobo’s socks, and they had furtive shameful sex with pox-scarred doxies behind the tavern --- a sin they could never quite wash away no matter how many times they went to church. You could see the steeple from the alley, after all. One night when the moon was bright, the clouds seemed to snag on the steeple, rip open and spill out a thousand stars. And there he was with his back on a brick wall, a barmaid gnawing away with no joy or love ---
Then the cloud passed over the moon, and the steeple receded back into the blackness of the night. A sign. If it wasn’t, it could be.
Subsequent to his enforced decision to relocate to Elba, General Bonaparte held a last reunion with his Guard. He spoke with his usual grandiloquent mixture of sentiment and hard lying, then left his audience in tears, wanting more.
Afterwards the soldiers burnt the flags under which they had so many victories, which was semi-noble.
First it was his world history class. Then he saw it in his economics class. And his world issues class. And his environment class. In total, 18-year-old McKenzie, a Northern Ontario high schooler, says he has had the film An Inconvenient Truth shown to him by four different teachers this year. "I really don't understand why they keep showing it," says McKenzie (his parents asked that his last name not be used). "I've spoken to the principal about it, and he said that teachers are instructed to present it as a debate. But every time we've seen it, well, one teacher said this is basically a two-sided debate, but this movie really gives you the best idea of what's going on." ... But Mr. Gore's filmed climate-change lecture is showing up in classrooms across Canada, frequently unaccompanied by critical analysis or a discussion of competing theories. "One of the teachers at my kid's school showed it and he even said ahead of time, 'There is some propaganda in this,' " says Tim Patterson, a Carleton University earth sciences professor. "I said to him, 'You even knew this was a propaganda film, and you still showed it in your classroom ?' " The weirdest part: It was the gym teacher.
As usual, people overcomplicate simple truths; there is no concept of propaganda here: whether or not the teachers consider Mr. Gore's effort to be made of whole cloth or not, that is not their purpose. Put gently, what bitterly resented lost powers did teachers use to possess that they possess no longer ? The desire, ability and legal right to whale small dumb kids senseless. Either because the students annoyed them, or they looked at them funny, or because the teacher felt like it.
Now forbidden to practise their ancient art as in the brave old days, they will make do with repetition as many times as is humanly possible before the children collapse into sought for comas.
When you haven't got what you want; you make do with what you've got.
All cold was gone a merry sun pale hung to light the hopeful morning to the fair we strolled.
My thought was ever of the prize in silver wrought from Augsberg town: last fulsome perfection of the creator the Master of all workers before he left us. The baby bear, a hands-breadth high curled cunning with her paws outstretched; soft little haunch firm-placed sideways; t’other leg straight out. The silvern fur tricked dizzyingly over-wrought; dainty curved the muscled frame as in nature; The little face sweet and pure staring as children in beatitude.
Saint Ursula was ever my favorite And to Köln a few years back My pilgrimage was entered; Yet though wonders there were plentiful to the country-bred However wars had pressed upon the town a half-century before T’was redolent now enough None such as this little silver bear was got. This marvel honey sweet, culmination of all He made now the peerless prize for sending a bolt through the brazen similitude a poll on the tallest pole the ragged popinjay.
It's a fairly rare occurrence that we delete a user, but sadly a recent sign-on from Russia has had to go: admittedly this is only a gut reaction, yet I'm certain that purveyors of high quality Tramadol have no place here; So Farewell, DrSoulinder whose email is the delightfully Finnish sounding firstname.lastname@example.org, and may you be happy in a better world.
Having just been studying this page on Russian Anthems Museum through the ages ( it comes out as 1.27 GB in download weight ), in addition to their renowned page for The Internationale, I rather think the Welsh Guards version of God Save The Tsar is the stateliest, despite the fact that they play it as the hymn, 'God, the Omnipotent ! King who Ordainest, Thunder thy Clarion, Lightning thy Throne !' with a distinct Valleys type intonation...
Simon Sebag Montefiore continues his excursions into Russian History with the hopefully ironic title Young Stalin, not omitting the tyrant's better points:
Inspired by a hunger for learning and an instinct to teach, he feverishly studied novels and history, but his love of letters was always dominated by his drive to command and dominate, to vanquish enemies and avenge slights. Patient, calm and modest, he could also be vainglorious, pushy and thin-skinned, with outbursts of viciousness just a short fuse away... He cultivated the coarseness of a peasant, a trait that alienated comrades, but usefully concealed his subtle gifts from snobbish rivals.
A review relates a Bolshevik party prior to their seizure of power where each was asked the finest pleasure life offers --- from recollection, I believe it was a hunting-party and Lenin was the cynosure of attention as always --- after each had related their undoubtedly trite and tawdry aspirations, Koba gave his ideal:
"My greatest pleasure is to choose one's victim, prepare one's plans minutely, slake an implacable vengeance, and then go to bed. There's nothing sweeter in the world."
A useful corrective to the fact that great French linesmen, such as Daumier and Grandville, put their talents to the revolutionary cause, may be that Alfred Rethel rather outdid them in biting morbidity for the opposite team.
His Auch ein Todtentanz [ Set here ] may have been inspired by merely the Belgian sufferings, but since published in 1849 it seems more likely to be a general comment on the vanity of revolution…
Death sets off on his mission:
Even more pleasing might be his Nemesis, especially since the fierce lovely lass is not only pursuing a wretched malefactor, but that the painting was won in a lottery by a secret criminal and that this joyous serendipity sent him insane…
From the Galerie St. Etienne Rethel had long been interested in the subject of death, and at one point even began a series of genre scenes – among them Death as Friend and Death as Enemy –that echo Holbein’s anecdotal approach. However, his Dance of Death of the Year 1848 differs from its Medieval prototypes in several key respects. Unlike Holbein’s cycle of discreet vignettes, Rethel’s six woodcuts form a cohesive narrative, wherein Death first dupes the workers into rebelling and then leads them to their doom. Far from being the great equalizer, Rethel’s Death figure reveals the ideal of equality to be illusory. Moreover, whereas Medieval depictions stressed the universality and inevitability of death, Rethel’s Death is highly selective: those who fail to heed its siren call are spared. The implication is that the victims are to blame, for they have, however inadvertently, chosen their fate.
Deviants boasting Lack of Courage of the Sameness of Stagnated Being The Modernistic Urban Landscape Sodium Flaring Lights arcing to hell Plastic Anime The Death of Deference to favor Achievement of Celebrity Sounds of Common English Biting Daily in monotones in Simple values
Beware of loud crusaders: yet shun the unformed ordinary.
In the black season of deep winter A storm of waves is roused Along the expanse of the world. Sad are the birds of every meadow-plain Except the ravens that feed on crimson blood At the clamour of harsh winter - Rough, black, dark, smoky; Dogs are vicious in cracking bones; The iron pot is put on the fire After the dark black day.
I work all day, and get half-drunk at night. Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare. In time the curtain-edges will grow light. Till then I see what's really always there: Unresting death, a whole day nearer now, Making all thought impossible but how And where and when I shall myself die. Arid interrogation: yet the dread Of dying, and being dead, Flashes afresh to hold and horrify.
The mind blanks at the glare. Not in remorse --- The good not done, the love not given, time Torn off unused -- nor wretchedly because An only life can take so long to climb Clear of its wrong beginnings, and may never; But at the total emptiness for ever, The sure extinction that we travel to And shall be lost in always. Not to be here, Not to be anywhere, And soon; nothing more terrible, nothing more true.
This is a special way of being afraid No trick dispels. Religion used to try, That vast moth-eaten musical brocade Created to pretend we never die, And specious stuff that says No rational being Can fear a thing it will not feel, not seeing That this is what we fear --- no sight, no sound, No touch or taste or smell, nothing to think with, Nothing to love or link with, The anaesthetic from which none come round.
And so it stays just on the edge of vision, A small unfocused blur, a standing chill That slows each impulse down to indecision. Most things may never happen: this one will, And realisation of it rages out In furnace-fear when we are caught without People or drink. Courage is no good: It means not scaring others. Being brave Lets no one off the grave. Death is no different whined at than withstood.
Slowly light strengthens, and the room takes shape. It stands plain as a wardrobe, what we know, Have always known, know that we can't escape, Yet can't accept. One side will have to go. Meanwhile telephones crouch, getting ready to ring In locked-up offices, and all the uncaring Intricate rented world begins to rouse. The sky is white as clay, with no sun. Work has to be done. Postmen like doctors go from house to house.