Show Posts

This section allows you to view all posts made by this member. Note that you can only see posts made in areas you currently have access to.


Topics - irina

Pages: 1 [2]
16
English / MONDAY
« on: June 27, 2015, 11:18:07 AM »
The birds are in their trees,
the toast is in the toaster,
and the poets are at their windows.


They are at their windows
in every section of the tangerine of earth-
the Chinese poets looking up at the moon,
the American poets gazing out
at the pink and blue ribbons of sunrise.


The clerks are at their desks,
the miners are down in their mines,
and the poets are looking out their windows
maybe with a cigarette, a cup of tea,
and maybe a flannel shirt or bathrobe is involved.


The proofreaders are playing the ping-pong
game of proofreading,
glancing back and forth from page to page,
the chefs are dicing celery and potatoes,
and the poets are at their windows
because it is their job for which
they are paid nothing every Friday afternoon.


Which window it hardly seems to matter
though many have a favorite,
for there is always something to see-
a bird grasping a thin branch,
the headlights of a taxi rounding a corner,
those two boys in wool caps angling across the street.


The fishermen bob in their boats,
the linemen climb their round poles,
the barbers wait by their mirrors and chairs,
and the poets continue to stare
at the cracked birdbath or a limb knocked down by the wind.


By now, it should go without saying
that what the oven is to the baker
and the berry-stained blouse to the dry cleaner,
so the window is to the poet.


Just think-
before the invention of the window,
the poets would have had to put on a jacket
and a winter hat to go outside
or remain indoors with only a wall to stare at.


And when I say a wall,
I do not mean a wall with striped wallpaper
and a sketch of a cow in a frame.


I mean a cold wall of fieldstones,
the wall of the medieval sonnet,
the original woman's heart of stone,
the stone caught in the throat of her poet-lover.

The poet is Billy Collins

17
English / Introduction to Poetry
« on: June 27, 2015, 09:59:02 AM »
Introduction to Poetry

I ask them to take a poem   
and hold it up to the light   
like a color slide

or press an ear against its hive.

I say drop a mouse into a poem   
and watch him probe his way out,

or walk inside the poem’s room   
and feel the walls for a light switch.

I want them to waterski   
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author’s name on the shore.

But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope   
and torture a confession out of it.

They begin beating it with a hose   
to find out what it really means.

The poet is   :D
Billy Collins

18
English / The Trouble with Poetry
« on: June 27, 2015, 09:50:24 AM »
The Trouble with Poetry: A Poem of Explanation

The trouble with poetry, I realized
as I walked along a beach one night --
cold Florida sand under my bare feet,
a show of stars in the sky --

the trouble with poetry is
that it encourages the writing of more poetry,
more guppies crowding the fish tank,
more baby rabbits
hopping out of their mothers into the dewy grass.

And how will it ever end?
unless the day finally arrives
when we have compared everything in the world
to everything else in the world,

and there is nothing left to do
but quietly close our notebooks
and sit with our hands folded on our desks.

Poetry fills me with joy
and I rise like a feather in the wind.
Poetry fills me with sorrow
and I sink like a chain flung from a bridge.

But mostly poetry fills me
with the urge to write poetry,
to sit in the dark and wait for a little flame
to appear at the tip of my pencil.

And along with that, the longing to steal,
to break into the poems of others
with a flashlight and a ski mask.

And what an unmerry band of thieves we are,
cut-purses, common shoplifters,
I thought to myself
as a cold wave swirled around my feet
and the lighthouse moved its megaphone over the sea,
which is an image I stole directly
from Lawrence Ferlinghetti --
to be perfectly honest for a moment --

the bicycling poet of San Francisco
whose little amusement park of a book
I carried in a side pocket of my uniform
up and down the treacherous halls of high school.

WAIT.........

 THE POET IS..........BILLY COLLINS, THE U.S. POET LAUREATE FROM 2001 TO 2003, IS THE AUTHOR OF SEVEN COLLECTIONS OF POETRY AND IS A DISTINGUISHED PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH AT LEHMAN COLLEGE OF THE CITY UNIVERSITY OF NEW YORK. HE SERVES AS THE POET LAUREATE OF NEW YORK STATE.

19
English / Everybody has a story to share. What's yours?
« on: June 04, 2015, 04:04:34 PM »
SS SERENDIPITY
by Vernon Magnesen, Elmhurst, Illinois
In July 1915, Henry and his eight-year-old daughter, Pearl, were excited for the company outing the next day. That evening, Henry had a violent argument with his landlord, ending with the landlord spitting on a painting of the Virgin Mary. Henry was so upset, he fell ill and canceled their trip. He and Pearl missed the cruise on the SS Eastland, which sank with over 800 people on board—but not my future grandfather and mother. Thanks to that miracle argument 100 years ago, 22 descendants are alive today.

CLEAR EYES, FULL HEARTS
by Stephanie Adair, Metairie, Louisiana
Every day, upon picking up my 11-year-old son from school, I would ask, “How was your day?” For years, I got the same response—“Fine, fine”—with no eye contact. His autism, it seemed, was going to deprive me of the normal chitchat parents unconsciously relish. One early spring afternoon, I asked the question, expecting the same answer. “How was your day?” My son replied, “Good, good.” Then he looked at me and said, “How was your day, Mom?” With tears streaming down my face, I said, “It’s really good—the best day ever.”

TINY TREE
Monte Unger, Colorado Springs, Colorado
A neighborhood kid with branches and leaves sticking out of his pockets and a headband came into our front yard. He looked like a little soldier in camouflage. “I’m acting like a tree so butterflies will come,” he said. As he waited on the grass, I brought out a huge blue preserved butterfly I’d purchased in Malaysia and hid it behind my back. I walked over, kneeled, pulled out the butterfly, and said, “A butterfly has come to see you.” He gasped, and his eyes widened. His wishes won’t always come true, but one did that day.


Source: Reader's Digest


20
English / Rain drops....
« on: May 05, 2015, 04:36:11 PM »
Rain drops before hitting the ground have no smell but the moment they hit the ground and interact with dirt, the fresh and almost sweet fragrance comes out.

The smell is called "petrichor," that is derived from the Greek words "petra", meaning "stone", and "ichor", which refers to the fluid that flows like blood in the veins of the gods.

"They talked about oils emitted by plants, and certain chemicals from bacteria, that lead to this smell you get after rain following a long dry spell," said Cullen Buie, assistant professor of mechanical engineering at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology in Cambridge.

When a raindrop hits a porous surface it traps tiny pockets of air.

These bubbles speed upward before breaking the drop's surface and releasing microscopic particles, called aerosols, into the air.

Now, researchers think these aerosols carry the rainlike aroma.

The researchers observed the process with a system of high-speed cameras, reported LiveScience.

Depending on the speed of the droplet, and the properties of the soil, a cloud of hundreds of aerosol droplets might be dispersed in as little as a few microseconds.

The new research "brings the conversation of bubble-induced aerosol formation from the ocean over to the land," said James Bird, assistant professor of mechanical engineering at Boston University.

"This paper provides an elegant mechanism by which these microbes can be propelled past the stagnant layer of air around them to a place where the breeze can take them elsewhere," Bird concluded.

The findings were published in Nature Communications.

Pages: 1 [2]