Welcome to bookchat where you can talk about anything...books, plays, essays, and audio books. You don’t have to be reading a book to come in, sit down, and chat with us.
I had a wild three day weekend with grandbabies which was great fun, and I am still tired so I am falling back on a favorite topic. I said at OND that I feel like one of those old jalopys up on blocks in the woods whose tires have been eaten off by porcupines. But we made a lot of good memories. :)
I love images. Try some in the comments.
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The Wind sprang up
The Moon frowned down
The Mist sneaked through
The streets of town.
cfk
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The train growled as it pulled into the empty station.
Late, late, late shrieked the locked wheels on the rails.
The water tower purred as it delivered its gift.
Steam gored the sky as the boiler bellowed.
cfk
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I have always liked Sandburg’s poem:
www.poemhunter.com/...
Fog
The fog comes on little cat feet.
It sits looking over harbor and city on silent haunches and then moves on.
Carl Sandburg
Images I have found in my reading:
The Time of Our Singing by Richard Powers
Pg. 5
The year is a snowy black-and-white signal coming in on rabbit ears.
Pgs. 26, 27
He, of course, stood ready to blast through the piece at the speed of delight.
We stood on high and watched the congregation mill about the pews like iridescent bugs under a lifted garden stone.
Most weeks, the moment passed, a sample swatch of spiritual wallpaper that the customers of grace fingered and set down. But that week, the bobbing cello obbligato launched such spring that even those already dozing sat up in their pews, alarmed by pleasure.
Pg. 53
His sound put him beyond his classmate’s hatred, and they listened, frozen in the presence of this outlandish thing, holding still as this firebird came foraging at their backyard feeder.
Pg. 83
Delia sang fearlessly. She threw back her head and nailed free-flying notes like a marksman nails skeet.
Pg. 132
Big sister just cupped their closely cropped heads to her, one in each palm and gazed at them, as if memorizing their faces before stepping off remembrance’s dock into oblivion. It scared them witless, and the boys took their chairs without another word...
The syllables rumbled through the kitchen, each a lumbering boxcar in foreboding’s freight.
Some of my favorites:
PORTIA: “The quality of mercy is not strain’d,
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven Upon the place beneath: it is twice blest; It blesseth him that gives and him that takes…
Act-IV, Scene-I of The Merchant of Venice
We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.
The Tempest
The Song of Wandering Aengus
I went out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.
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When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire aflame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And some one called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.
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Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.
William Butler Yeats
“When he shall die,
Take him and cut him out in little stars, And he will make the face of heaven so fine That all the world will be in love with night
And pay no worship to the garish sun.”
― William Shakespeare, Romeo and Juliet
The Panther
His vision, from the constantly passing bars,
has grown so weary that it cannot hold anything else. It seems to him there are a thousand bars; and behind the bars, no world.
As he paces in cramped circles, over and over,
the movement of his powerful soft strides
is like a ritual dance around a center
in which a mighty will stands paralyzed.
Only at times, the curtain of the pupils lifts, quietly--. An image enters in, rushes down through the tensed, arrested muscles,
plunges into the heart and is gone.
Rainer Maria Rilke
The Road Not Taken
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim
Because it was grassy and wanted wear,
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I, I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
Robert Frost
Just plain speaking that touches the heart and inspires:
The Gettysburg Address
President Abraham Lincoln
"Four score and seven years ago our fathers brought forth on this continent, a new nation, conceived in Liberty, and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.
Now we are engaged in a great civil war, testing whether that nation, or any nation so conceived and dedicated, can long endure. We are met on a great battle-field of that war. We have come to dedicate a portion of that field, as a final resting place for those who here gave their lives that that nation might live. It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.
But, in a larger sense, we can not dedicate — we can not consecrate — we can not hallow — this ground. The brave men, living and dead, who struggled here, have consecrated it, far above our poor power to add or detract. The world will little note, nor long remember what we say here, but it can never forget what they did here. It is for us the living, rather, to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced.
It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us — that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion — that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain — that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom — and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth."
literarydevices.net/...
Every artist dips his brush in his own soul and paints his own nature into his pictures.— Henry Ward Beecher
Art washes away from the soul, the dust of everyday life. – Pablo Picasso
All art is autobiographical; the pearl is the oyster’s autobiography. — Federico Fellini
What are your favorite images from books, poems or songs?
Diaries of the Week:
Write On! Forgot-about-the-scheduling-conflict edition.
By SensibleShoes
www.dailykos.com/...
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Contemporary Fiction Views: Homeward bound
By bookgirl
www.dailykos.com/...
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All Times are EDT, EST
Readers & Book Lovers Series
Schedule Day Time EST/EDT Series Editor(s)
Sunday 6:00 PM Young Reader's Pavilion The Book Bear
(last Sun of the month) 7:30 PM LGBT Literature Chrislove
Monday 8:00 PM Fantasy: The Language of the Night DrLori
Tuesday 5:00 PM Indigo Kalliope: Poems from the Left Kit RMP, ruleoflaw
8:00 PM Contemporary Fiction Views bookgirl
Wednesday 7:30 AM WAYR? Chitown Kev
8:00 PM Bookflurries Bookchat cfk
Thursday 2:00 PM Self-Publishing 101 akadjian
8:00 PM Write On! SensibleShoes
(once a month) 2:00 PM Monthly Bookpost AdmiralNaismith
Friday 8:00 PM Books Go Boom! Brecht
Saturday 9:00 AM You Can't Read That!
Paul's Book Reviews pwoodford
9:00 PM Books So Bad They're Good Ellid
Note:
Dkos Book Club: The Brothers Karamazov, book 3
By pico
www.dailykos.com/...