63rd entry to the Colonel`s Scrapbook
Birthdates which occurred October 21:
1772 Samuel Taylor Coleridge England, poet (Rime of the Ancient Mariner), I learned it by heart and I have a candle in my heart for this man 1790 Alphonse-Marie Louis de Lamartine Macon France, writer (Ren‚),his Meditations inspired Franz Liszt for his tone poem Les Preludes 1833 Alfred Bernhard Nobel Stockholm, created dynamite & the awards that carry his name after he was announced as dead by mistake
12 Sir Georg Solti Budapest Hungary, conductor (Fidelio) great baton man1917 Dizzy Gillespie trumpeter, a creator of modern jazz,such an extraordinary guy
1921 Malcolm Arnold Northampton Engld, composer (Bridge over River Kwai),I learned to whistle with his theme tune for the fil Bridge over River Kwai
events
1520 Magellan entered the strait which bears his name, and did he ever have any inkling that his voyage would have no return for him because he would be eaten by the natives in Mactam? 1553 Volumes of the Talmud are burned,oh we have been so passionately loved us Jews!
1879 Thomas Edison perfects the carbonized cotton filament light bulb, it was his nth attempt, that guy had patience
1945 Women in France allowed to vote for 1st time, what had happened to the Libertè,Egalitè and Fraternitè of the French Revolution?
POETRY
Prince Korkut`s chants for the Mevlevi dervishes waft from the speakers of my PC, my shawl is wrapped around me and I sit down, now without uniform, boots off, in a flowered dress,to write to you. On a day like today one of my favourite bards,the Englishman Samuel Taylor Coleridge,was born. I fell in love with his Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner when I was a kid,but unlike most crushes, this was has lasted a lifetime. This has nothing to do with I miss you sweeties that ether of internet or old yellowed pages can hold. I have passionately loved my Samuel through all my life.I still recall his famous poem verse by verse. The fabulous and poisonous charm of poetry, although I have never been able to write a single line of it. Dearest reader of my heart, what wouldn`t I give in order for me to be able to lay at your feet a sonnet like the ones Petrarch or Shakespeare wrote, a madrigal that would put even Guillaume D `Aquitaine to shame, something to make Ruben Darìos bones-buried in the cathedral of Leòn-.shake with envy? But I have been denied that privilege,so you must try to be happy with the humble entries of this non fiction scrapbook I modestly offer at the altar of my inmense respect and tenderness for you. Poe could do it with his Raven, Jean Aleixandre of Normandie)my own ancestor) could sing to his adored Henri and tell him that his measurement of love was to love him beyond measure, and Miguel Hernàndez makes me cry with his Nanas de la Cebolla(Nursery of Onions), and I grow green with envy when I read Ya Habibi(the pen name for the formidable Sultan Sulyeman Kanuni of Turkey) when he mentions to his Roxelana that she is his gazelle. So please undertand me, poetry was the road I couldn`t take, and may Robert Frost forgive me for using the title of his most famous poem. It was the world I couldn`t create like James Weldon Johnson did when he said he was lonely and he would make himself a world, and I never learned to whistle softly, far and wee like e.e.cummings`little lame balloonman with the goat`s feet. That Rubèn Darìo, the Prince of Castilian letters, was born in my same country only makes me proud of him, but he left nothing for me to say in meter and rhyme. Did I make his website www.cablenet.com.ni/rubendario as a compensation because I cannot write poetry? What can I do besides love him without restriction and wish I had been single and young when he was in the same condition too? ? I still haven`t found my Clancy of the Overflow just like the Bnjo Paterson depicted him.
Don`t get me wrong. I can technically write poetry. I know the format by heart, and that I must give my thanks to my teacher James Martin. I know about how to measure the feet, that a sonnet has 14 verses as Lope de vega said when “a sonnet is what Violante sent me to do”, and I have sighed profoundly with Whitman`s Leaves of Grass, and in my high school years I astonished everyone by describing DNA in a series of perfectly rhymed quartets that I handed to my contrary biology teacher Mrs.Eberhardt, who never liked me because she was anti-Semitic. I pleased my teacher Pletzke who always asked us in the least gentle tones to shut the fuck up our battering,chattering and nattering traps and wrote a few sonnets. Technically perfect poetry.`Yuck,it tasted like wet cotton,sorry folks. Something must be missing in my hormones that I cannot produce poetry. I can quote it,recite it,memorize it.I memorized Beowulf,to give you and idea, and Chrètien de Troyes Romance of Tristan and Isolde on which the anti semitic and sexist Richard Wagner built his screaming opera that sounds like cats in heat mating on top of my roof at he sleepiest moment of the night. I memorized tons of poems by the Indian Rabindranath Tagore(Nobel Prize for Literature 1913), Lin Yu Tang from China,
T.S.Eliot(particularly his Hollow Men, and the whole book of Old Possum`s Book of Cats where it is stated that the naming of cats is a difficult matter), the love poems by Boris Pasternak for his mistress(somehow I feel his Dr.Zhivago is trash compared to his poems), and even those that the Zulu Unifier U Shaka Zulu wrote for his three red haired Abyssinian cat colonels. If I could write anything like what king Stefan Lazarevic penned down while he was depressed, I would be lucky. I am not the shadow of Veronica Franco, nor the wind that ruffled the feathers on his head of Tatanka Yotanka(Sitting Bull) of the Sioux. I have translated many poems into English, even my own compatriot Ruben Darìo`s which are so difficult to work on. But the ultimate joy, the final rapture of producing a poem of my own…has yet been denied.
I have used other people`s poetry in quotes for my stories, even some popular songs. Poetry has a bewitching charm for me that nothing except music can challenge. I will continue to read poetry until I die, and if you throw a book by Antonio Machado.Khalil Gibran or Vinicius de Moraes in my coffin when I expire, be sure I will be reading it before the worms eat my stormy looking eyes. Poetry still has the power to eliminate all my fracture pains,flushing away all the sediments of anger I may have kept from the day`s work. I grab a book by Salomòn de la Selva or Thibaud de Champagne-who was uselessly wooing the hard –hearted and domineering queen Blanche of France-and you are there, at the tip of my fingertips. Neruda or Alfonso Cortez, or his relative Silvio Alejandro Cortez whom I had the privilege to meet and make friends with, have the same effect. I am full of quotes from great poets,and I like them better than any politician. Someday it will be possible to recite a few to you- But the final rapture of giving birth to a full live poem is yet beyond me, and I must continue having the feeling of being a sterile woman who must admire the others`kids when I find a poem that expresses exactly what I wished to say, the shadow of the flame is there, and it is enough to spark a whole day.
Birthdates which occurred October 21:
1772 Samuel Taylor Coleridge England, poet (Rime of the Ancient Mariner), I learned it by heart and I have a candle in my heart for this man 1790 Alphonse-Marie Louis de Lamartine Macon France, writer (Ren‚),his Meditations inspired Franz Liszt for his tone poem Les Preludes 1833 Alfred Bernhard Nobel Stockholm, created dynamite & the awards that carry his name after he was announced as dead by mistake
12 Sir Georg Solti Budapest Hungary, conductor (Fidelio) great baton man1917 Dizzy Gillespie trumpeter, a creator of modern jazz,such an extraordinary guy
1921 Malcolm Arnold Northampton Engld, composer (Bridge over River Kwai),I learned to whistle with his theme tune for the fil Bridge over River Kwai
events
1520 Magellan entered the strait which bears his name, and did he ever have any inkling that his voyage would have no return for him because he would be eaten by the natives in Mactam? 1553 Volumes of the Talmud are burned,oh we have been so passionately loved us Jews!
1879 Thomas Edison perfects the carbonized cotton filament light bulb, it was his nth attempt, that guy had patience
1945 Women in France allowed to vote for 1st time, what had happened to the Libertè,Egalitè and Fraternitè of the French Revolution?
POETRY
Prince Korkut`s chants for the Mevlevi dervishes waft from the speakers of my PC, my shawl is wrapped around me and I sit down, now without uniform, boots off, in a flowered dress,to write to you. On a day like today one of my favourite bards,the Englishman Samuel Taylor Coleridge,was born. I fell in love with his Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner when I was a kid,but unlike most crushes, this was has lasted a lifetime. This has nothing to do with I miss you sweeties that ether of internet or old yellowed pages can hold. I have passionately loved my Samuel through all my life.I still recall his famous poem verse by verse. The fabulous and poisonous charm of poetry, although I have never been able to write a single line of it. Dearest reader of my heart, what wouldn`t I give in order for me to be able to lay at your feet a sonnet like the ones Petrarch or Shakespeare wrote, a madrigal that would put even Guillaume D `Aquitaine to shame, something to make Ruben Darìos bones-buried in the cathedral of Leòn-.shake with envy? But I have been denied that privilege,so you must try to be happy with the humble entries of this non fiction scrapbook I modestly offer at the altar of my inmense respect and tenderness for you. Poe could do it with his Raven, Jean Aleixandre of Normandie)my own ancestor) could sing to his adored Henri and tell him that his measurement of love was to love him beyond measure, and Miguel Hernàndez makes me cry with his Nanas de la Cebolla(Nursery of Onions), and I grow green with envy when I read Ya Habibi(the pen name for the formidable Sultan Sulyeman Kanuni of Turkey) when he mentions to his Roxelana that she is his gazelle. So please undertand me, poetry was the road I couldn`t take, and may Robert Frost forgive me for using the title of his most famous poem. It was the world I couldn`t create like James Weldon Johnson did when he said he was lonely and he would make himself a world, and I never learned to whistle softly, far and wee like e.e.cummings`little lame balloonman with the goat`s feet. That Rubèn Darìo, the Prince of Castilian letters, was born in my same country only makes me proud of him, but he left nothing for me to say in meter and rhyme. Did I make his website www.cablenet.com.ni/rubendario as a compensation because I cannot write poetry? What can I do besides love him without restriction and wish I had been single and young when he was in the same condition too? ? I still haven`t found my Clancy of the Overflow just like the Bnjo Paterson depicted him.
Don`t get me wrong. I can technically write poetry. I know the format by heart, and that I must give my thanks to my teacher James Martin. I know about how to measure the feet, that a sonnet has 14 verses as Lope de vega said when “a sonnet is what Violante sent me to do”, and I have sighed profoundly with Whitman`s Leaves of Grass, and in my high school years I astonished everyone by describing DNA in a series of perfectly rhymed quartets that I handed to my contrary biology teacher Mrs.Eberhardt, who never liked me because she was anti-Semitic. I pleased my teacher Pletzke who always asked us in the least gentle tones to shut the fuck up our battering,chattering and nattering traps and wrote a few sonnets. Technically perfect poetry.`Yuck,it tasted like wet cotton,sorry folks. Something must be missing in my hormones that I cannot produce poetry. I can quote it,recite it,memorize it.I memorized Beowulf,to give you and idea, and Chrètien de Troyes Romance of Tristan and Isolde on which the anti semitic and sexist Richard Wagner built his screaming opera that sounds like cats in heat mating on top of my roof at he sleepiest moment of the night. I memorized tons of poems by the Indian Rabindranath Tagore(Nobel Prize for Literature 1913), Lin Yu Tang from China,
T.S.Eliot(particularly his Hollow Men, and the whole book of Old Possum`s Book of Cats where it is stated that the naming of cats is a difficult matter), the love poems by Boris Pasternak for his mistress(somehow I feel his Dr.Zhivago is trash compared to his poems), and even those that the Zulu Unifier U Shaka Zulu wrote for his three red haired Abyssinian cat colonels. If I could write anything like what king Stefan Lazarevic penned down while he was depressed, I would be lucky. I am not the shadow of Veronica Franco, nor the wind that ruffled the feathers on his head of Tatanka Yotanka(Sitting Bull) of the Sioux. I have translated many poems into English, even my own compatriot Ruben Darìo`s which are so difficult to work on. But the ultimate joy, the final rapture of producing a poem of my own…has yet been denied.
I have used other people`s poetry in quotes for my stories, even some popular songs. Poetry has a bewitching charm for me that nothing except music can challenge. I will continue to read poetry until I die, and if you throw a book by Antonio Machado.Khalil Gibran or Vinicius de Moraes in my coffin when I expire, be sure I will be reading it before the worms eat my stormy looking eyes. Poetry still has the power to eliminate all my fracture pains,flushing away all the sediments of anger I may have kept from the day`s work. I grab a book by Salomòn de la Selva or Thibaud de Champagne-who was uselessly wooing the hard –hearted and domineering queen Blanche of France-and you are there, at the tip of my fingertips. Neruda or Alfonso Cortez, or his relative Silvio Alejandro Cortez whom I had the privilege to meet and make friends with, have the same effect. I am full of quotes from great poets,and I like them better than any politician. Someday it will be possible to recite a few to you- But the final rapture of giving birth to a full live poem is yet beyond me, and I must continue having the feeling of being a sterile woman who must admire the others`kids when I find a poem that expresses exactly what I wished to say, the shadow of the flame is there, and it is enough to spark a whole day.
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