Foil vs. Sabre

[Contemporaries who are not fond of language: Please skip this post.]

Don't we all think we know quite a few contemporaries who have a great deal of sense outside their head?
Do I see you nodding?
And smiling?
Well, most of you will be smiling at the picture this phrase is painting in - not outside :) - their head. Right?
And most of us - yes! Me too. - tend to use rather the sabre than the foil when it comes to praise ... let's say the lack of certain contemporaries' intelligence, or those whose richness of mental poverty is enormous.
The more delighted I was when yesterday reading this very post of my dearest English teacher, Stan (Carey).
If there was any need, it strengthened my conviction that Them bleedin' cuss words are not the non plus ultra of swearing.

I know that Stan when reading this does feel good and at the same time somehow embarrassed, and who would not, but: I do mean it.

I love the idea that those of my readers who love the English language would not only read the blog post commended above but, after reading it, feel the wish to discover the whole blog. It is worthwhile!

Ha ha ha ... and I like thinking of all the big and tiny mistakes Stan will discover while reading this.

Head over then, and one day - perhaps :) - I'll be able to tell what (deep) impact on my way of thinking had books like this ...

... and this

Anything to declare?

Nothing but my genius. Oscar Wilde,*October 16th, 1854

This is just "Adios"

Al Martino, October 7th, 1927 - October 13th, 2009

Riposa in Pace!

Anchors aweigh!

Memento mori*

* and sometimes it would sound like Carpe diem - which is about quite the same.

It's done

My long two-pointed ladder's sticking through a tree
Toward heaven still,
And there's a barrel that I didn't fill
Beside it, and there may be two or three
Apples I didn't pick upon some bough.
But I am done with apple-picking now.
Essence of winter sleep is on the night,
The scent of apples: I am drowsing off.
I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight
I got from looking through a pane of glass
I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough
And held against the world of hoary grass.
It melted, and I let it fall and break.
But I was well
Upon my way to sleep before it fell,
And I could tell
What form my dreaming was about to take.
Magnified apples appear and disappear,
Stem end and blossom end,
And every fleck of russet showing clear.
My instep arch not only keeps the ache,
It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round.
I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend.

And I keep hearing from the cellar bin
The rumbling sound
Of load on load of apples coming in.
For I have had too much
Of apple-picking: I am overtired
Of the great harvest I myself desired.
There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch,
Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall.
For all
That struck the earth,
No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble,
Went surely to the cider-apple heap
As of no worth.
One can see what will trouble
This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is.
Were he not gone,
The woodchuck could say whether it's like his
Long sleep, as I describe its coming on,
Or just some human sleep
Robert Frost, 1914

If - not the song, but ...

About three weeks ago Nevin posted a poem her father had send to her: Rudyard Kipling's "If".

In the comment section Webwisewoman mentioned that once she had heard the poem put in music, but could not remember by whom; whereupon Nevin wrote: "If anyone else does, please let us know..."

Well, Myladies, I tried but did not succeed.

However, I stumbled upon ... the poet's voice.

Enjoy.





With thanks to Jim Clark (poetryanimations).

Alternative to "Busting Bunkers"

Fashionable article

[...] if you wait long enough, fashion comes around again.

Now, ladies and gentlemen.

Where would one stumble upon such an old wisdom?

Think thrice.

Now?

No?

Want a little help?

Well, on a website registrated in the wonderful land of the Peace Nobel Prize Winner 2009.

Still no clue?

Well, take your time.

. . .

Congratulations, anyway, if you guessed the right answer.

And ... the peace of the night.

Happy birthday, Mr Putin ...

... one does not have to wish, hm?
Surely the gentleman enjoys a most happy day with all his dear friends, and everyone will have done his best to make the flawless democrat happy.
I wonder which one was the most special present today.

Three years ago, October 7th, 2006 some admirers intended to surprise (?) their beloved President with a very very special present - and assassinated Anna Politkovskaya.

Well, and here's a List of murdered Russian journalists.

The McGonagalls of Tunes

As everybody knows Omnium, which means all, thus everyone and everything, demand(s) a statue for William Topaz McGonagall, who can rightfully claim to be the world's worst poet ever, only - to a certain degree - challenged by a certain James McIntyre, whose Ode on a Mammon Cheese I warmly commend to read here.

One of the Tayside Tragedian's uncounted masterpieces you will find offered by Jams O'Donnell Esq, the master of The Poor Mouth; and don't miss the poetry slam in the comment section, which partly took place here, too.

End of the beforegoing.

Like Stephen Hawking is trying to find the Theory of Everything (ToE) the esteemed Mr Goatman asks "What is ART?" Precisely: Does there exist a definition? Is it possible to define ART?

I suggest a study trip to Edinburgh, as in McGonagalltown he might find some essential tesserae for his ToA (Theory of Art).

Ah, no more words
See and - above all - listen yourself.

Here's The Really Terrible Orchestra (RTO)

Enjoy.

Another guttural Sláinte, Sir

Same procedure as last year and the year(s) before?

Same procedure as every year!

Well, almost. This time you've to read 69 and 98.


Enough written.

I am off now with my only man to meet the birthday child in 'The Dalkey Archive', wishing him - accompanied by a very guttural Sláinte - the best of Omnium, if you know what I mean.

Gracias, Mercedes Sosa

Mercedes Sosa (9 July 1935 – 4 October 2009)