Season of mists and mellow
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and pump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimmed their clammy cells.
To Autumn : John Keats
Poetry Month Special
Many years later, as he faced the firing squad, Colonel Aureliano Buendia
was to remember that distant afternoon when his father took him to discover
ice. At that time Macondo was a village of twenty adobe houses, built on the
bank of a river of clear water that ran along a bed of polished stones,
which were white and enormous, like prehistoric eggs. The world
was so recent that many things lacked names, and in order to indicate them
it was necessary to point. One Hundred Years of Solitude : Gabriel
Garcia Marquez: Translation : Gregory Rabassa
He was an old man who fished alone in a
skiff in the Gulf Stream and he had gone eighty-four days now without taking
a fish. In the first forty days a boy had been with him. But after forty
days without fish the boy's parents had told him that the old man was now
definitely and finally salao, which is the worst form of unlucky, and the
boy had gone at their orders in another boat which caught three good fish
the first week. The Old Man and the Sea: Ernest
Sth, I know that woman. She used to live
with a flock of birds on Lenox Avenue. Know her husband, too. He fell for an
eighteen-year-old girl with one of those deepdown, spooky loves that made
him so sad and happy he shot her just to keep the feeling going. When the
woman, her name is Violet, went to the funeral to see the girl and to cut
her dead face they threw her to the floor and out of the church. Jazz : Toni Morisson
On an evening in the later part of May a
middle-aged man was walking homeward from Shaston to the village of Marlott,
in the adjoining Vale of Blackmore or Blackmoor. The pair of legs that
carried him were rickety, and there was a bias in his gait which inclined
him somewhat to the left of a straight line. He Occasionally gave a smart
nod, as if in confirmation of some opinion, though he was not thinking of
anything in particular. Tess of the d'Urbervilles : Thomas
1801- I have just returned from a visit to
my landlord- the solitary neighbour that I shall be troubled with. This is
certainly, a beautiful country! In all England, I do not believe that I
could have fixed on a situation so completely removed from the stir of
society. A perfect misanthropist's Heaven-and Mr Heathcliff and I are such a
suitable pair to divide the desolation between us. Wuthering Heights : Emily Bronté
Let there be surging seas of weaving
Let there be flights of light-lifting
And sun-sure-rise of larks of sublime
joys to seize
Let us meet and greet sit and read as
Blend in and mend on and mind our dreams
October 14-15: Sat-Sun: 19:00-23:00
In the early days, when your feet still struggled,
each morning, to find themselves, you inhabited a city
that only made sense on paper. I, the flitting
white cane that guided you, steered us
through espresso daydreams on yawning streets,
beneath bus-shelters – we were both blind –
doe-eyed and awe-full among stricken gallery frames.
Chariot-bearing heroes race the landscape
For this is make believe land
And you are my centre-piece
The world is essentially
A tableau of glitter
Of love and adventure, forever and ever
Where a feeling spans the universe
And you make my dream
I like to believe
I fall and I see
vapours of the voice
formation and reflection
understanding parcels crystallise
of milieu emerge
memories and faith its self repeats
and create an interwoven mess.
'I am your lover.' he said,
caught by the half shadow, half light.
'Will you wax and wane upon
To make you
is all I have
after being close enough
to kiss your tousled smile
What am I supposed to say?
Cover it up by moving you in the way,
Then replace you when I’m afraid
Didn’t you know, I’m not the same
Serve me and do to impress,
But I praise only to repress,
You remind me of a love that was lost
I’ve been turned to ice, whatever I touch is frost.
slope of castle crag, a family of cottontails
duck into the close of fallen rock, a warren
of underground homes. At dawn, as the tourist buses
line the castle-side of Johnston Terrace, the rabbits rest.
Jackdaws caw and peck at the after-trail of hare.
Men in dark suits sit at benches, face the fortress
on lunch breaks, stare blankly at mobile phones,
the last pages of a book – have forgotten the castle,
the rabbits, in all their daily toxic repetition.
Take me into the earth.
Smelling the dark soil.
Breathing the dew-damp dark.
Will I have left samsara then?
Every sign representing another
and another and neither representing
a real thing.
Take me back.
There is no going back
or standing still,
there is no direction.
rumbling in these catacombs.
The truth is now. This second. This instant,
the heart of mind, is brought home
in an instant, by the drowning of the telephone,
the destruction of the doorbell,
the demolition of 2.4 and the dinner party.
It's brought home for an instant…
Somewhere along the way to finding something,
to keep us from thinking about that which we should not
whilst we distracted ourselves from that which we were
We forgot to breathe.
To bring it home.
Sit, as the world wheels about you,
Ride the bus, as the universe flounders
and what will we leave?
Empty promises and shiny cars,
we didn't so much as look at the world,
or touch it with a curious finger.
|| September 19: 2017 || ά.
The VI London Poetry Festival 2017: October
14-15: Saturday-Sunday: 19:00-23:00. Poetry and
Music Festival. The Festival started in 2005 and
went on for five years; the fifth being held in
2009. This year the Festival resumes its
celebrations of the word and the poetry and
music in it so much so that that it contains the
perform for the human soul to give it room
enough as to be able to flow like the Universe.
This event is FREE to the poetry and music
lovers but a donation will be expected to help
support the necessary costs. The Festival's time
is between 19:00 and 23:00 but actual readings
and musical performances will take place 19:30
and 22:30. But Tickets MUST be Booked.
There is a Cafe within the Church where food and drinks are
served. Those wanting to have a meal can do so at the Cafe. For all the poets,
musicians, performers, musical groups and all those, who love poetry are invited
to join us. Poets and musicians wanting to take part, please, get in touch:
editor at thehumanion.com. Volunteers: The Festival needs volunteers. Join us
and let us celebrate the word. For further on the Festival, please, visit the
Festival Website. Normally, the Festival was held for four-evenings. Because we
are resuming the Festival after a break, this year, the Festival is beginning
For Stories Published in
World Literature in || October || November || December ||
World Literature Arkive Q-Delta 2017