Rather be it Shakespeare

On Shakespeare's 445th birthday and
the 393nd anniversary of either his death
and the death of Cervantes
just to wish a very special literary evening.

It's also the (International) Day of the book?

Well, yes. But isn't every day a day of the book?

Comparing the results of my recent attempts to write some sonnets myself with what I am rereading these days, I came to the conclusion, in order not to put anyone off the realm of poetry, to post one from the Master of Avondale.

Alack what poverty my muse brings forth,
That having such a scope to show her pride,
The argument all bare is of more worth
Than when it hath my added praise beside.
O blame me not if I no more can write!
Look in your glass and there appears a face,
That over-goes my blunt invention quite,
Dulling my lines, and doing me disgrace.
Were it not sinful then striving to mend,
To mar the subject that before was well?
For to no other my verses tend,
Than of your graces and your gifts to tell.
And more, much more than in my verse can sit,
Your own glass shows you, when you look in it.

CIII

Just a thought

Irony where is your sting?

[when those who are meant
just don't understand]

:)

Publishers, go on sleeping

He got tortured in the prisons of the Shah; he got tortured in the prisons of the pious Ayatollahs. He's one of the greatest living Iranian authors.

Read what wikepedia has to tell about Mahmud Doulatabadi.

After all, some of his best works have been translated into German.

And where are, f.e. the English publishers/ translators?

Sleeping?

Ah, yes. The biography f.e. of a lady-star who proudly claims she's never read a book promises to sell better, hm?

It's possible

Some Irish are looking backwards these days.

I do allow myself to focus on nothing but a tiny monumental advice / gesture.

From the frontier of writing

The tightness and the nilness round that space
when the car stops in the road, the troops inspect
its make and number and, as one bends his face

towards your window, you catch sight of more
on a hill beyond, eyeing with intent
down cradled guns that hold you under cover

and everything is pure interrogation
until a rifle motions and you move
with guarded unconcerned acceleration-

a little emptier, a little spent
as always by that quiver in the self,
subjugated, yes, and obedient.

Eagle patrol, Co. Tyrone, July 1985

So you drive on to the frontier of writing
where it happens again. The guns on tripods;
the sergeant with his on-off mike repeating

data about you, waiting for the squawk
of clearance; the marksman training down
out of the sun upon you like a hawk.

And suddenly you're through, arraigned yet freed,
as if you'd passed from behind a waterfall
on the black current of a tarmac road

past armor-plated vehicles, out between
the posted soldiers flowing and receding
like tree shadows into the polished windscreen.

Seamus Heaney (* 13. April 1939)

Related:

In praise of ...

The spirit that always says Yes

Last week I tried to convince the spirit that would always negate to once do the weeding for me, filling the trailer with the branches and carry the whole lot up the hill to the Easter Fire, then bring the compost from the pile to the field and do the ploughing, but ... he shook his head; which are but some of the reasons why I would have been extremely busy with not blogging for a couple of days.

Oh well, and I fell in love.

Ah, what a beauty! A Royal Highness. A real Queen who graciously accepted my humble offer and moved in one of the luxury hotels I had built for her a week earlier - a hole in the ground, filled with pebbles and glass-wool and covered with an everted flowerpot -: a humble (sic) bee.

The other morning the Lady spake to me: "And what's about the nectarious life you promised me and my people, Sir Sean?"
"Give me a minute, darling", I said. And, blushing, I raised my arms and demanded: "Now, be it spring!"

And since there's a humming and buzzing, a droning and whirring in and around Seanhenge, and a blaze of colours that would fill anyone who has ears to hear, eyes to see and a nose to smell, with joy and happiness.

Would you agree?

Spring in Seanhenge

Cherry

Forsythia and wild red currant

Morello cherry

Magnolia