30 Temmuz 2019 Salı

“I have to remind myself to breathe -- almost to remind my heart to beat!” ― Emily Brontë

film scene from "Wuthering Heights" version (2011)

Born in Thornton, Yorkshire, England, on July 30, 1818, Emily Jane Brontë lived a quiet life in Yorkshire with her clergyman father; brother, Branwell Brontë; and two sisters, Charlotte and Anne. The sisters enjoyed writing poetry and novels, which they published under pseudonyms. As "Ellis Bell," Emily wrote Wuthering Heights (1847)—her only published novel—which garnered wide critical and commercial acclaim. Emily Brontë died in Haworth, Yorkshire, England, on December 19, 1848—the same year that her brother, Branwell, passed away.
for more pls read:https://www.biography.com/writer/emily-bronte

The Night - Wind - Poem by Emily Jane Brontë
In summer's mellow midnight,
A cloudless moon shone through
Our open parlour window,
And rose-trees wet with dew. 

I sat in silent musing;
The soft wind waved my hair;
It told me heaven was glorious,
And sleeping earth was fair. 

I needed not its breathing
To bring such thoughts to me;
But still it whispered lowly,
'How dark the woods would be! 

'The thick leaves in my murmur
Are rustling like a dream,
And all their myriad voices
Instinct with spirit seem.' 

I said, 'Go, gentle singer,
Thy wooing voice is kind:
But do not think its music
Has power to reach my mind. 

'Play with the scented flower,
The young tree's supply bough,
And leave my human feelings
In their own course to flow.' 

The wanderer would not heed me:
Its kiss grew warmer still:
'Oh Come!' it sighed so sweetly;
'I'll win thee 'gainst thy will. 

'Were we not friends from childhood?
Have I not loved thee long?
As long as thou, the solemn night,
Whose silence wakes my song. 

'And when thy heart is resting
Beneath the church-aisle stone,
I shall have time for mourning,
And thou for being alone.' 

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29 Temmuz 2019 Pazartesi

“You must be careful not to deprive the poem of its wild origin.” ― Stanley Kunitz

Daniel Forero, Air, https://www.daniel-forero.com/

Happy Birthday to Stanley Kunitz who became the tenth Poet Laureate of the United States in the autumn of 2000. Kunitz was ninety-five years old at the time, still actively publishing and promoting poetry to new generations of readers. In the New York Times Book Review, Robert Campbell noted that Kunitz's selection as poet laureate—the highest literary honor in America—"affirms his stature as perhaps the most distinguished living American poet." Atlantic Monthly contributor David Barber likewise cited Kunitz as "not only one of the most widely admired figures in contemporary poetry but also, rarer still, a true ambassador for his art." Barber felt that Kunitz, having "continued to write poems of a startling richness at an advanced age . . . has arguably saved his best for last. . . . The venerable doyen of American poetry is still a poet in his prime."
for more pls read: https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/stanley-kunitz

The Layers
BY STANLEY KUNITZ
I have walked through many lives, 
some of them my own,
and I am not who I was,
though some principle of being
abides, from which I struggle
not to stray.
When I look behind,
as I am compelled to look
before I can gather strength
to proceed on my journey,
I see the milestones dwindling
toward the horizon
and the slow fires trailing
from the abandoned camp-sites,
over which scavenger angels
wheel on heavy wings.
Oh, I have made myself a tribe
out of my true affections,
and my tribe is scattered!
How shall the heart be reconciled
to its feast of losses?
In a rising wind
the manic dust of my friends,
those who fell along the way,
bitterly stings my face.
Yet I turn, I turn,
exulting somewhat,
with my will intact to go
wherever I need to go,
and every stone on the road
precious to me.
In my darkest night,
when the moon was covered
and I roamed through wreckage,
a nimbus-clouded voice
directed me:
“Live in the layers,
not on the litter.”
Though I lack the art
to decipher it,
no doubt the next chapter
in my book of transformations
is already written.
I am not done with my changes.
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28 Temmuz 2019 Pazar

“In the increasingly convincing darkness The words become palpable, like a fruit That is too beautiful to eat. ” ― John Ashbery

The Abstract and Kinetic Sculpture; Stingray by Apical Reform
Happy Birthday to John Ashbery who was recognized as one of the greatest 20th-century American poets. He won nearly every major American award for poetry, including the Pulitzer Prize, the National Book Award, the Yale Younger Poets Prize, the Bollingen Prize, the Ruth Lilly Poetry Prize, the Griffin International Award, and a MacArthur “Genius” Grant. Ashbery’s poetry challenges its readers to discard all presumptions about the aims, themes, and stylistic scaffolding of verse in favor of a literature that reflects upon the limits of language and the volatility of consciousness. In 2008, critic Langdon Hammer remarked, “No figure looms so large in American poetry over the past 50 years as John Ashbery.”

Blueprints and Others

BY JOHN ASHBERY
The man across the street seems happy,
or pleased. Sometimes a porter evades the grounds.
After you play a lot with the military
you are my own best customer.

I’ve done five of that.
Make my halloween. Ask me not to say it.
The old man wants to see you — now.
That’s all right, but find your own.
Do you want to stop using these?

Last winning people told me to sit on the urinal.
Do not put on others what you can put on yourself.
How to be in the city my loved one.
Men in underwear    ...    A biography field
like where we live in the mountains,

a falling. Yes I know you have.
Troves of merchandise, you know, “boomer buzz.”
Hillbilly sculptures of the outside.
(They won’t see anybody.)
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27 Temmuz 2019 Cumartesi

"Time, like the sea, unties all knots" -I.Murdoch

Chiharu Shiota: "Beyond Memory", Gropius Bau, Berlin, 2019, https://www.tagesspiegel.de/kultur/museum-wiedereroeffnet-gropius-bau-startet-nach-umbau-in-neue-aera/24130830.html

From the publication of her first collection, Only a Rose for Support (1957) onwards, Hilde Domin, who was born on July  27,1909, won almost every German literary and cultural award, including the Rilke, Nelly Sachs and Hölderlin prizes. In an era of prose, her distinctive poetry rapidly attained the status of modern classic in her homeland. Direct and affectingly simple, her work elicited a rare warmth of emotional response beyond the narrow confines of the academy. "A refugee from the east," she once wrote, "can recognise himself in my poems as much as an intellectual."
for more pls  check: https://www.theguardian.com/news/2006/mar/16/guardianobituaries.bookscomment1
for her poems pls check:https://arlindo-correia.com/161005.html

Nicht müde werden


Nicht müde werden
sondern dem Wunder
leise
wie einem Vogel
die Hand hinhalten.


        Do not grow weary

Do not grow weary
but gently
to the wonder
as if a bird should light
hold out your hand.

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26 Temmuz 2019 Cuma

Sign Up to Receive the Poem of the Day

                                                   Maxim Zhestkov, https://media.work/

Extinction of Silence

That it was shy when alive goes without saying. 
We know it vanished at the sound of voices 

Or footsteps. It took wing at the slightest noises, 
Though it could be approached by someone praying. 

We have no recordings of it, though of course 
In the basement of the Museum, we have some stuffed 

Moth-eaten specimens—the Lesser Ruffed 
And Yellow Spotted—filed in narrow drawers. 

But its song is lost. If it was related to 
A species of Quiet, or of another feather, 

No researcher can know. Not even whether 
A breeding pair still nests deep in the bayou, 

Where legend has it some once common bird 
Decades ago was first not seen, not heard.

If you like to receive the poem the day you can sign up here:https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/poem-of-the-day

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20 Temmuz 2019 Cumartesi

“The leaves were still on the trees, but were becoming dry, perched like birds ready to fly off.” ― Buchi Emecheta

                                       http://africanaliterati.com/2017/01/27/memory-buchi-emecheta/

Buchi Emecheta, in full Florence Onyebuchi Emecheta, (born July 21, 1944, Lagos, Nigeria—died January 25, 2017, London, England), Igbo writer whose novels deal largely with the difficult and unequal role of women in both immigrant and African societies and explore the tension between tradition and modernity.
for more pls check: https://www.britannica.com/biography/Buchi-Emecheta

“1975 was International Women's Year. I had never heard the word 'feminism' before then. I was writing my books from the experiences of my own life and from watching and studying the lives of those around me in general. I did not know that writing the way I was, was putting me into a special category. I had the first inkling of it on 28 June 1975 when the International Women's League invited me to give a speech.” 
― Buchi Emecheta, Head Above Water

            A Tribute to Buchi Emecheta by her 1st son, Sylvester Onwordi & a Dirge by Prof Akachi Ezeigbo

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18 Temmuz 2019 Perşembe

Poetry of England and Wales in an INTERACTIVE MAP

https://poetrysociety.org.uk/projects/the-places-of-poetry/

Places of Poetry is an interactive online mapping project that has gathered more than 2,000 poems pinned to locations in England and Wales that correspond to them.
The aim is to use creative writing to prompt reflection on national and cultural identities in England and Wales, celebrating the diversity, heritage and personalities of place.
The site is open for writers to pin their poems to places from 31st May to 4 October 2019. It will then be closed for new poems but will remain available for readers. They welcome writers of all ages and backgrounds. And want to gather as many perspectives on the places and histories of England and Wales.
source: https://www.placesofpoetry.org.uk/About/

Check out the map: https://www.placesofpoetry.org.uk/

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“The fragrance always stays in the hand that gives the rose.” ~ Hadia Bejar

Matylda Stein, The Language of Flowers

 Two Pictures
by Rose Hartwick Thorpe

Sunset.
A ball of fire suspended
Low o'er a molten sea;
Infinite glory blended,
Lost in eternity.
A vivid crimson paling
With pencilings of gold;
A white cloud outward sailing,
Foam billows fold on fold.
A quivering, throbbing rapture,
Red torches flaming high;
A thousand waves that capture
Pale rose-tints from the sky;
A lesser glory, blending
With blue more faintly blue,
A rosy light ascending
To pierce all distance through.
Commingling tints grown fainter,
A 'dim fire,' burning low, -
Ah, never skill of painter
Can mix the colors so!
A mellowed beauty lingers,
A curtain pearly gray
Is drawn by unseen fingers
Across the face of Day.
Gone the resplendent wonder, -
God's glory passed away,
We stand the gray sky under
Beside a sea of gray,
And sigh because life's story,
Like sunset's fleeting kiss,
Tells tales of transient glory,
Lost rapture, vanished bliss.
Sunrise.
Silence profound, then faintly
Low throbbings in the air;
A presence holy, saintly,
Hushed voices breathing prayer,
A wavering light uncertain,
A soft glow, spreading wide;
A dusky, sombre curtain
Drawn suddenly aside;
Pale rays of rare completeness
Far down the sky's dim lawn,
Moist lips of rosy sweetness
Upraised to kiss the dawn;
A wondrous burst of rapture
From bird-throats swelling long,
Which echo elves recapture
And flood the earth with song.
A richer color showing,
A flush across the gray,
A deeper carmine glowing,
Night shadows rolled away;
A gleam of polished silver,
A glow of burnished gold,
A liquid mass of splendor,
A glory manifold;
A royal car suspended,
Hung swaying in the blue,
The grand cor'nation 's ended
And rose-tints fade from view.
O, human heart grown tender
With thought beyond all speech!
This sunrise scene of splendor
No human art can reach
Revives hope's blessed story,
Bids faith ascend on high,
And view eternal glory
Where rose-tints never die. 
Rose Alnora Hartwick Thorpe, née Rose Alnora Hartwick, (born July 18, 1850, Mishawaka, Ind., U.S.—died July 19, 1939, San Diego, Calif.), American poet and writer, remembered largely for a single narrative poem that gained national popularity.

for more pls visit: https://www.britannica.com/biography/Rose-Alnora-Hartwick-Thorpe
for more poetry pls visit: https://www.poemhunter.com/rose-hartwick-thorpe/
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15 Temmuz 2019 Pazartesi

“Ideas are to objects as constellations are to stars [translated from Trauerspiel, 1928].” ― Walter Benjamin, The Origin of German Tragic Drama

Robert Frank, For the Glory of the Wind & the Water 1976

 Walter Benjamin: „Sonette (17)“
Die Harfe hängt im Wind sie kann nicht wehren
Daß deines Todes Hauch die Saiten rührt
Der in den Herzen große Feuer schürt
Und Wellen lächeln macht auf hohen Meeren
Zur frühen Stunde da du mich entführt
Gedenkst du noch der silbernen Galeeren
Des glühenden Gesprächs eh in Schären
Die feuchten Dünste deine Stirn berührt
Kann nun verwehter Hauch dich noch erreichen
Da schon die Wolke deinen Blick umfängt
Und lauschst du noch dem trauervollen Zeichen
Das sich im nächtgen Winde zu dir drängt
Den Klang vernimmst du den erstrebend warfen
Im letzten Schmerz zerspringend meine Harfen.

Arte - Walter Benjamin (Des histoires d'amitié) - 23-01-2013

Walter Benjamin, (born July 15, 1892, Berlin, Ger.—died Sept. 27?, 1940, near Port-Bou, Spain), man of letters and aesthetician, now considered to have been the most important German literary critic in the first half of the 20th century.

Born into a prosperous Jewish family, Benjamin studied philosophy in Berlin, Freiburg im Breisgau, Munich, and Bern. He settled in Berlin in 1920 and worked thereafter as a literary critic and translator. His halfhearted pursuit of an academic career was cut short when the University of Frankfurt rejected his brilliant but unconventional doctoral thesis, Ursprung des deutschen Trauerspiels (1928; The Origin of German Tragic Drama). Benjamin eventually settled in Paris after leaving Germany in 1933 upon the Nazis’ rise to power. He continued to write essays and reviews for literary journals, but upon the fall of France to the Germans in 1940 he fled southward with the hope of escaping to the United States via Spain. Informed by the chief of police at the town of Port-Bou on the Franco-Spanish border that he would be turned over to the Gestapo, Benjamin committed suicide.



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11 Temmuz 2019 Perşembe

Got a minute? A Vending machine for free stories


The French publishing house’s Short Story Dispensers are delivering fiction to the public and breathing new life into the art of storytelling. The Dispensers are connecting readers across countries and cultures by publishing contemporary short stories, free of charge. Short Édition’s innovative design provides people with literary experiences in unexpected places: from train stations to libraries to cafes, hotels, universities and Francis Ford Coppola’s wineries. The list goes on and on.

for more pls visit: https://dispenser.short-edition.com/
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10 Temmuz 2019 Çarşamba

Why we should read MARCEL PROUST

“Reading is that fruitful miracle of a communication in the midst of solitude.”


Happy Birthday to Marcel Proust, (born July 10, 1871, Auteuil, near Paris, France—died November 18, 1922, Paris), French novelist, author of À la recherche du temps perdu (1913–27; In Search of Lost Time), a seven-volume novel based on Proust’s life told psychologically and allegorically. He has written the longest novel ever searching for the meaning of life.
for more pls read: https://www.britannica.com/biography/Marcel-Proust
here is the PDF version of "In Search of Lost Time" Volume I: https://uberty.org/wp-content/uploads/2015/12/Proust-1.pdf
and here is the audiobook: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7j9PPf1maUw


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9 Temmuz 2019 Salı

“The Gothic tradition was begun by Ann Radcliffe, a rare example of a woman creating an artistic style.” ―Camille Paglia

 Ann Radcliffe | Nick Groom

Ann Radcliffe, née Ann Ward, (born July 9, 1764, London, England—died February 7, 1823, London), the most representative of English Gothic novelists. She stands apart in her ability to infuse scenes of terror and suspense with an aura of romantic sensibility.

“My dear sir,’ said Emily, timidly, ‘what mean those tears?’—they speak, I fear, another language—they plead for me.”

“Emily gazed with melancholy awe upon the castle, which she understood to be Montoni's; for, though it was now lighted up by the setting sun, the gothic greatness of its features, and its mouldering walls of dark grey stone, rendered it a gloomy and sublime object. As she gazed, the light died away on its walls, leaving a melancholy purple tint, which spread deeper and deeper, as the thin vapour crept up the mountain, while the battlements above were still tipped with splendour. From those, too, the rays soon faded, and the whole edifice was invested with the solemn duskiness of evening. Silent, lonely, and sublime, it seemed to stand the sovereign of the scene, and to frown defiance on all, who dared to invade its solitary reign. As the twilight deepened, its features became more awful in obscurity, and Emily continued to gaze, till its clustering towers were alone seen, rising over the tops of the woods, beneath whose thick shade the carriages soon after began to ascend.”
― Ann radcliffe, The Mysteries of Udolpho

audiobook


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4 Temmuz 2019 Perşembe

Take my hand in all your languages I will listen - Ana Gavilá

La Chinoise, 1967, de Jean-Luc Godard 


Fiction & Literature

  • Babel, Isaac - Free MP3 - "The Story of the Dovecote" (read by Nathan Englander) - Free MP3
  • Babel, Isaac - "You Must Know Everything" - Free MP3
  • Baldwin, James - "A Letter to My New Nephew" (read by Chris Rock) - YouTube
  • Baldwin, James - The Story of Siegfried - Free iTunes - Free MP3
  • Baldwin, James - Fifty Famous Stories Retold - Free MP3 Stream/Download
  • Ballard, JG - "A Place and A Time to Die" (Dramatized version) - Free MP3 Stream
  • Ballard, JG - “Track 12” and “Venus Smiles” - Free Stream
  • Ballard, JG - Cocaine Nights - Free Stream
  • Ballard, JG - "My Dream of Flying to Wake Island" (read by William Boyd) - Free MP3
  • Ballard, JG - The Drowned World - Free Stream
  • Ballard, JG - "The Stories of JG Ballard" (dramatized for radio) - Free Stream
  • Balzac, Honoré de - La Comédie Humaine (French) - Free Downloads

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"Peer at the pupil of a flame." - Hang Kang

  Winter through a Mirror           Hang Kang, translated by Sophie Bowman   1. Peer at the pupil of a flame. Bluish heart shaped eye the ho...