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The story would have many pages, And would be neither good nor bad. And, having followed, you would find him Where properly the play begins; But look for no red light behind him-- No fumes of many-colored sins, Fanned high by screaming violins.

God knows what good it was to blind him Or whether man or woman wins. And by the same eternal token, Who knows just how it will all end? He stares in vain for what awaits him, And sees in Love a coin to toss; He smiles, and her cold hush berates him Beneath his hard half of the cross; They wonder why it ever was; And she, the unforgiving, hates him More for her lack than for her loss.

He feeds with pride his indecision, And shrinks from what wil not occur, Bequeathing with infirm derision His ashes to the days that were, Before she made him prisoner; And labors to retrieve the vision That he must once have had of her. He waits, and there awaits an ending, And he knows neither what nor when; But no magicians are attending To make him see as he saw then, And he will never find again The face that once had been the rending Of all his purpose among men.

He blames her not, nor does he chide her, And she has nothing new to say; If he was Bluebeard he could hide her, But that's not written in the play, And there will be no change to-day; Although, to the serene outsider, There still would seem to be a way. Over a hundred travel articles have appeared in leading Indian papers and magazines. Twenty stories have also appeared in leading Indian magazines. Correspondence for publication of a novel, a second volume of stories and a volume of poems is going on presently.

His own work has been translated into five languages, including Russian and Chinese. He lives in Madison, WI, with his wife of 40 years. Scott Momaday and Yuri Vaella. A favorite P ublic Domain poem o f Claude Clayton Smith : Into My Own by Robert Frost One of my wishes is that those dark trees, So old and firm they scarcely show the breeze, Were not, as 'twere, the merest mask of gloom, But stretched away unto the edge of do om.

I should not be withheld but that some day Into their vastness I should steal away, Fearless of ever finding open land, Or highway where the slow wheel pours the sand. I do not see why I should e'er turn back, Or those should not set forth upon my track To overtake me, who should miss me here And long to know if still I held them dear. They would not find me changed from him they knew-- Only more sure of all I thought was true.

She graduated from Messiah College in with a BA in English, minoring in politics and psychology. An emerging writer, she enjoys weekend saunters through forests, where she will usually encounter a new muse to write about. Round the decay Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare The lone and level sands stretch far away. Linda Wojtowick " Linda Wojtowick grew up in Montana. She now lives in Portland, Oregon, where she can easily indulge her cinematic obsessions without restraint.

Michael Mira Michael Mira is a writer and photographer based in Houston. He was born in Manila, and grew up in New York and Texas. He's currently working on a poetry chapbook titled, "Close Proximity". You can view his work at www. The only Vessel that is shunned Is safe—Simplicity I come to you as a grown child Who has had a pig-headed father; I am old enough now to make friends. It was you that broke the new wood, Now is a time for carving. We have one sap and one root - Let there be commerce between us.

Is Indonesian Literature Written in English Still Indonesian Literature?

Kerryanne A. Bell Kerryanne Mayers as poet, Kerryanne A. She began writing poetry at the age of 12 starting with Japanese poetry "Haiku's. In between all mentioned Kerryanne enjoys steamy hot bubble baths while eating grilled cheese. She often says: "If it makes me cry, sweat or bleed it is worth writing about. A favorite P ublic Domain poem of Kerryanne A.

Catherine Harnett I'm a poet and fiction writer originally from New York, now living in northern Virginia. My work has appeared in a number of magazines and anthologies print and online. The Washington Writers Publishing House published two books of poetry--Still Life and Evidence, and recently my work has appeared in a number literary magazines and anthologies. My fiction is primarily coming-of-age stories: how characters, mostly young girls, navigate a complex and strange world. During my career I oversaw public outreach programs at home and abroad.

Eliot Let us go then, you and I, When the evening is spread out against the sky Like a patient etherized upon a table; Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets, The muttering retreats Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells: Streets that follow like a tedious argument Of insidious intent To lead you to an overwhelming question In the room the women come and go Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes, The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes, Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening, Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains, Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys, Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap, And seeing that it was a soft October night, Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time For the yellow smoke that slides along the street, Rubbing its back upon the window-panes; There will be time, there will be time To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet; There will be time to murder and create, And time for all the works and days of hands That lift and drop a question on your plate; Time for you and time for me, And time yet for a hundred indecisions, And for a hundred visions and revisions, Before the taking of a toast and tea. In a minute there is time For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all: Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons, I have measured out my life with coffee spoons; I know the voices dying with a dying fall Beneath the music from a farther room. So how should I presume? And I have known the eyes already, known them all-- The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase, And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin, When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall, Then how should I begin To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?

And how should I presume? And I have known the arms already, known them all-- Arms that are braceleted and white and bare But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair! Is it perfume from a dress That makes me so digress? Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl. And should I then presume? And how should I begin?

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? I should have been a pair of ragged claws Scuttling across the floors of silent seas. And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully! Smoothed by long fingers, Asleep Should I, after tea and cakes and ices, Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?

I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be; Am an attendant lord, one that will do To swell a progress, start a scene or two, Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool, Deferential, glad to be of use, Politic, cautious, and meticulous; Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse; At times, indeed, almost ridiculous-- Almost, at times, the Fool. I grow old I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled. Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach? I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.

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I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each. I do not think that they will sing to me. I have seen them riding seaward on the waves Combing the white hair of the waves blown back When the wind blows the water white and black. We have lingered in the chambers of the sea By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown Till human voices wake us, and we drown. John Davis Jr. Foam and cloud are one. Sultry moon-monsters Are dissolving.

Fill your black hull With white moonlight. There will never be an end To this droning of the surf. I have received several Pushcart nominations and a Best of the Net nomination and am at work on a collection of poems for publication early next year. Live in the greater Chicago area. Why do men then now not reck his rod? It is a field of the wild carrot taking the field by force; the grass does not raise above it. Here is no question of whiteness, white as can be, with a purple mole at the center of each flower. Wherever his hand has lain there is a tiny purple blemish. Each part is a blossom under his touch to which the fibres of her being stem one by one, each to its end, until the whole field is a white desire, empty, a single stem, a cluster, flower by flower, a pious wish to whiteness gone over-- or nothing.

His current interests include Object-Oriented Ontology and the American novel. In what distant deeps or skies. Burnt the fire of thine eyes?

Rose of Gold

On what wings dare he aspire? What the hand, dare seize the fire? And when thy heart began to beat, What dread hand? What the hammer? What the anvil? When the stars threw down their spears And water'd heaven with their tears: Did he smile his work to see? Did he who made the Lamb make thee? Tyger Tyger burning bright, In the forests of the night: What immortal hand or eye, Dare frame thy fearful symmetry? George Moore Along with the collection for next year, my latest collection, Children's Drawings of the Universe, was published with Salmon Poetry this spring, and my last, The Hermits of Dingle, with FutureCycle in I've been a finalist for many of the national book awards, including the National Poetry Series.

I retired from the University of Colorado last year, and am living with my wife, a Canadian poet, on the south shore of Nova Scotia. He presently lives with his wife, the Canadian poet, Tammy Armstrong, on the south shore of Nova Scotia. A favorite P ublic Domain poem of George Moore: The Second Coming By William Butler Yeats Turning and turning in the widening gyre The falcon cannot hear the falconer; Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere The ceremony of innocence is drowned; The best lack all conviction, while the worst Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand; Surely the Second Coming is at hand. The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert A shape with lion body and the head of a man, A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun, Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds. The darkness drops again; but now I know That twenty centuries of stony sleep Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle, And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?

They are friends; and friendly they guide him to prey, Yet never partake of the treat-- Eyes and brains to the dotard lethargic and dull, Pale ravener of horrible meat. John Stocks I am a poet who aspires to write poetry that is both challenging and yet accessible to a wide audience. Over the last few years I have had to honor of sharing a page with Maya Angelou in the anthology, 'Heart Shoots. I have twice been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and forthcoming work is to appear in an International anthology for Seamus Heaney.

I am the co author of a novel, 'Beer, Balls and the Belgian Mafia. A favorite P ublic Domain poem of John Stocks : Ode To A Nightingale By John Keats My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk: 'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, But being too happy in thy happiness, That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees, In some melodious plot Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, Singest of summer in full-throated ease.

O for a draught of vintage, that hath been Cooled a long age in the deep-delved earth, Tasting of Flora and the country green, Dance, and Provencal song, and sun-burnt mirth!

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O for a beaker full of the warm South, Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene, With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, And purple-stained mouth; That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, And with thee fade away into the forest dim: Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget What thou among the leaves hast never known, The weariness, the fever, and the fret Here, where men sit and hear each other groan; Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs, Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies; Where but to think is to be full of sorrow And leaden-eyed despairs; Where beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes, Or new love pine at them beyond tomorrow.

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet Wherewith the seasonable month endows The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild; White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine; Fast-fading violets covered up in leaves; And mid-May's eldest child, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.

Darkling I listen; and for many a time I have been half in love with easeful Death, Called him soft names in many a mused rhyme, To take into the air my quiet breath; Now more than ever seems it rich to die, To cease upon the midnight with no pain, While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad In such an ecstasy! Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain To thy high requiem become a sod Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!

No hungry generations tread thee down; The voice I hear this passing night was heard In ancient days by emperor and clown: Perhaps the self-same song that found a path Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home, She stood in tears amid the alien corn; The same that oft-times hath Charmed magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn. Fled is that musicdo I wake or sleep? Sara Karim Sara Karim is a rising Junior in high school.

Ken W. Simpson An Australian poet whose latest collection, Patterns of Perception, was published by Augur Press UK last January and who has had fifty poems accepted for publication this year.

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He lives with his family at Lysterfield, a Melbourne suburb, in the state of Victoria. A favorite P ublic Domain poem of Ken W. Plays include for London fringe company Stand Up Tragedy. Here at a small field's ending pause Where the chalk wall falls to the foam and its tall ledges Oppose the pluck And knock of the tide, And the shingle scrambles after the suck- -ing surf, and a gull lodges A moment on its sheer side. Far off like floating seeds the ships Diverge on urgent voluntary errands, And this full view Indeed may enter And move in memory as now these clouds do, That pass the harbour mirror And all the summer through the water saunter.

I published two poems in the University publication, "The Mockingbird. A favorite P ublic Domain poem of Cory Howell : On the Beach at Night Alone By Walt Whitman On the beach at night alone, As the old mother sways her to and fro singing her husky song, As I watch the bright stars shining, I think a thought of the clef of the universes and of the future. Kika Dorsey I am a poet and professor from Boulder, Colorado. I have a Ph.

When not crafting poetry out of my dreams, my body, my travels, myths, and teaching students to write, I run and hike in the plains and mountains of Colorado. A favorite P ublic Domain poem of Kika Dorsey : Do not go gentle into that good night By Dylan Thomas - Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Oliver Cotting Oliver is a 26 year old studying what it means to be a human; an aboveboard, brazen, thriving human.

He lives in Tucson, Arizona with a typewriter and a stray cat. He has been writing creatively since the age of eight. From , Bud was the liaison for poets and booksellers at the Dodge Poetry Festival. Bud currently resides in Manville, NJ. A favorite P ublic Domain poem of Bud Berkich : The Great Figure By William Carlos Williams Among the rain and lights I saw the figure 5 in gold on a red firetruck moving tense unheeded to gong clangs siren howls and wheels rumbling through the dark city.

Linda Hegland Linda H. There's an out of date film poster opposite my flat on a 30 foot hoarding. Is someone still paying for that? Actually I can't remember much about it. I expect they had fun making it. That's the main thing. There was an old man from Limerick, Who was completely unaware of the short often Humorous poems that shared the Same name as his home town.

We went to a Turkish restaurant and I didn't have enough money to pay so she treated us. I wanted her to be stiff and semi-formal and for the whole thing to be like it was in the s. I started conversations about how he was a teacher but she had to bring up the men she was meeting from an advert she put in the "News Shopper" and I ate tsatsiki and looked down at the table while she said "I mean, one didn't have any testicles and the other had false teeth! What am I supposed to do?

Choose between testicles and teeth? What would you choose Matthew? He tried to respond but it wasn't what my mum wanted to hear. And she said to me "What do you think I should do dear? So I said "The food is really good isn't it, Have you had one of these aubergines? I said to my Dad, Your watch looks expensive! It was an imitation of an imitation of a hug.

Hi Dad, how are you? Your mother's at the church What you been doing? Trimmed that birch. Anything else? Killed some bees. Yes, the bees, it's hot Not like Dad, I need to tell you - She's playing the piano. Something I've been wanting - I just hit a bee, whammo! You to know for ages - On its bum, smack! I miss you a bit. Sure, I'll tell yer mother when she's back. Americans gather in County Clare At breakfast time in cooing pairs And tell us of this land of theirs. They have used their two weeks holiday To experience their epiphany Of racial identity.

Australians in Europe pass by The scenes of their grandparents' crimes Looking for cheap booze and good times. But Americans in Ireland seem Cowed by the hills and streams Treading softly on their dreams. In the shadow of Carrowkeel An American at the wheel Explains how dismayed he feels That the grave of his ancestor Hides up high in hillside heather Inaccessible to the visitor. In the field at Carrowmore The Americans are bored By the subterranean horde Because there's nothing to be seen But depressions in the green Where something might have been. An American crowds my space His fat arse is in my face He tries to understand But rebel songs remain unsung Jigs and reels go on too long And he shuffles to the door Leaving behind his daughter At the feet of Brian McDonagh Cross legged on the floor.

This trip meant nothing to her Her parents stole her summer And she hates her little brother But at the feet of Brian McDonagh Playing his mandola Something stirs inside her And she's happy for a while. Oh father I can feel You standing at the end of my bed Pulling the duvet and shouting "Come on wakey wakey wakey, rise and shine What time do you call this, shake a leg" Oh father put a sock in it I've seen the clock and it's No later than noon I know only too well This is not a hotel You remind me every morning And I remind you I am considering Checking out soon And father you turn puce but what's the use In arguing?

I always win after all For you know and I know that although The cold hard world is on your side Mummy is on mine.

Marriage is a holy box That doesn't need a key or locks. You put in it your hopes and dreams. It's also good for plans and schemes. But loneliness you can't put in. You have to keep that in a tin With lust and hate and vice and sin. And biscuits and pornography. Beneath the streets There is an alternative geography The real map.

None of your old borders, No names of kings or saints or generals Are known here. It's a workable world: Digswell, Dock Junction. Fleet River Tunnel. It's another world, one I'm less tired of. There are many of us who will declare ourselves for this, Though we don't belong anywhere And never thought we'd be doing any declaring. These are signposts of the invisible republic, The world which opens up to us When we forget the rest. On sale at www. There will be a show to celebrate the launch of the book on 13 August at the Pleasance Ace Dome, hosted by Arthur Smith; www.

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Ode to a Nightingale

Scott Fitzgerald was the quintessential voice of his generation. In his novels, poetry and short stories, he captured the raw energy of young men and women who experienced World War 1 and were disillusioned about their world, their country and their place in it. The backdrop for his literary inspiration was when prohibition was the law of the land; when people were making money from the stock markets which provided new material wealth and a new musical genre coming from New Orleans called Jazz. In fact, the city of New Orleans played a pivotal role in providing him with a great deal of solitude and material for his work.

Before and during the failed experiment of prohibition, Mr. Fitzgerald lived off and on in New Orleans writing short stories for publications and developing his craft as a writer.