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Every novel generates its own climate, when you get going.

quote by Penelope Lively
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The Climate Change Converts

After eleven years as Prime Minister it does seem quite strange
That John Howard the ageing politician is talking of climate change
But this after all is an Election year
And of losing the top job is now his greatest fear.

For eleven years warnings of climate change he chose to ignore
But climate change has become an Election issue as never before
Howard the climate change convert on combating climate change now leads the way
On climate change he has become an instant expert and on it has much to say.

His opponent for the top job Kevin Rudd is a climate change convert too
It is amazing what an Election can do
To the climate change realist voters they are trying to appeal
Of climate change suddenly they make a big deal.

The ideas of the climate change experts Howard and Rudd now embrace
As their moment of truth they are about to face
The climate realist voters they are trying to appease
But try as they will not everyone they will please.

poem by Francis Duggan
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The Eternal generates the One. The One generates the Two. The Two generates the Three. The Three generates all things.

quote by Lao Tzu
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The Novel....

this has something to do with the novel that
you have been writing
the one that you started many years back
about your hero
that you regret writing

now you want to change him
his vision and what he is going to do
in the next chapters
something that he cannot do too
because of what he is known already
to the other characters
they do not expect him to do that
the twist of his character is simply
too unexpected
and they are getting apprehensive
that this novel may not have
a happy ending after all

you think about it for days
you ask and even beg him to understand
that he must fall and be humiliated
and be condemned
but he definitely disagrees and warns you
that if that is the case then
he better be killed and simply be
ended in Chapter X of the novel

you feel pity for him
you think for more days
you give it time tonight
and you decide no to kill him

the novel will not be that good
to kill him or not
that is your eventual decision

at dawn you start typing the
next chapter
you keep him alive
but the novel shall be damned
the other characters of course
shall continue adoring him
till the last chapter.

there shall be no other sequel
on such a bland and usual novel
of that happy ending
that saddest ever-after.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Climate Change

'Tis said that Bangladesh and Holland will be covered by the sea
And that climate change and global warming will cause World-wide poverty
Yet the advice of climate experts we do never seem to heed
Our disrespect for Mother Nature to our own demise may lead
Millions due to rising of sea water levels of homelessness and poverty will know
Yet for Mother Nature who does feed us little respect we do show
The burning of fossil fuels and noxious gases we pay for in acid rain
And the warnings of the climate experts sad to say have been in vain
Millions of cars and factory chimneys pumping black smoke to the sky
And from long spells of warm weather water reservoirs near dry
Climate change is all around us and climate change it is for real
And if we do not show respect for Nature her wrath we are bound to feel
And Bangladesh and Holland will be covered by sea water within decades it is said
And millions will be homeless and millions will be dead.

poem by Francis Duggan
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Burning Words

Every moment
the world wants something new.
Novel evenings
And novel dawns,
Raw days
And fresh nights
Pretentious abjures,
And blatant vows
Novel affinities,
And novel copulations
Novel inclinations,
And new appreciations
Yore myths,
And bygone tales
Isn't what they really admire
Or desire.
This constant grinding of phrases and words
Had me haggard and wearied out
So I wrapped them all so exquisitely
in a finest wrap I could find,
And then threw them all
In the fiery pits of my heart,
Screaming and crying
while burned into ashes
the words called out
from the dancing fires,
While ashes flew higher and higher
what would you do?
What would you do?
How will you express your desires?
Since you're left bare and blank
With only our ashes in hands.
Ashes Oh ashes,
Now fly away there's nothing left to say.
For I've clocked myself into my own
Narrative.

poem by Faeza gilani
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Somthing New

Every moment
the world wants something new.
Novel evenings
And novel dawns,
Raw days
And fresh nights
Pretentious abjures,
And blatant vows
Novel affinities,
And novel copulations
Novel inclinations,
And new appreciations
Yore myths,
And bygone tales
Isn't what they really admire
Or desire.
This constant grinding of phrases and words
Had me haggard and wearied out
So I wrapped them all so exquisitely
in a finest wrap I could find,
And then threw them all
In the fiery pits of my heart,
Screaming and crying
while burned into ashes
the words called out
from the dancing fires,
While ashes flew higher and higher.
what would you do?
What would you do?
How will you express your desires?
Since you're left bare and blank
With only our ashes in hands.
Ashes Oh ashes,
Now fly away;
There's nothing left to say.
For I've clocked myself into my own
Narrative.

poem by Faeza gilani
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Of Global Warming And Climate Change

Of Global warming and climate change we read of and hear
The changes in our natural environment gives us reason to fear
Of what does lay ahead for the children of today
We've brought climate change forward by centuries it does seem that way.

The polar ice caps are melting at an alarming rate
Our polluting of our natural environment not something to celebrate
To combat global warming we've left it a bit late
As a species we may well have sealed our own fate.

The burning of fossil fuels and carbon emissions have gone on for too long
On what causes climate change the experts have never been wrong
What we do to Nature in kind she repay
Global warming a threat to human existence many experts now say.

War and terrorism as a threat to humanity seems little at all
When compared to climate change it's impact seems small
Humans not known to learn from mistakes of the past
We must change our ways and we must change them fast.

poem by Francis Duggan
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For a Jewish Puritan of the middle class, the novel is serious, the novel is work, the novel is conscientious application why, the novel is practically the retail business all over again.

quote by Howard Nemerov
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Take Another Road

Take another road
By: jimmy buffett, jay oliver, roger guth
1989
Seen the false horizons fade away like bisons
Headed for the jungle, cowboy cant endure
Never look back, thats what he swore
Ill take my pony to the shore
Somewhere, somewhere
Chorus:
Take another road to a hiding place
Disappear without a trace
Take another road to another time
On another road in another time
Like a novel from the five and dime
Take another road another time
Follow the equator, like that old articulator
Sail upon the ocean (oooh, sail away) just like mr. twain
Never look back, this is my plan
Run my pony through the sand
Somewhere, somewhere
Chorus:
Take another road to a hiding place
Disappear without a trace
Take another road to another time
On another road in another time
Like a novel from the five and dime
Take another road another time
Leave my cares behind
Take my own sweet time (take my own sweet time (time))
Oceans on my mind
Chorus:
Take another road to a hiding place
Disappear without a trace
Take another road to another time
On another road in another time
Like a novel from the five and dime
Take another road another time
Take another road to a hiding place
Disappear without a trace
Take another road to another time
On another road in another time
Like a novel from the five and dime
Take another road another time

song performed by Jimmy Buffett
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Solving Mysteries

SOLVING MYSTERIES

Deep mysteries may be solved by analytic clarities,
but then dissolve as you dismantle their disparities,
their solution, if not leading to their dissolution,
depleting them of mystery which has suffered diminution.

Andrew Miller, whose latest novel Pure is about to be published, reviews Peter Carey's The Chemistry of Tears (NYTBR,5/27/10) :

In Peter Carey's 12th novel, much depends on two voices. The first belongs to Catherine Gehrig, an horologist working at the (fictional) Swinburne Museum in London. We join her — she begins to speak to us — at the very moment she learns of the sudden death of her lover, Matthew Tindall, Head Curator of Metals at the same institution. For 13 years, Catherine has been Tindall's mistress. He was older, married, a father, but the pair of them lived a blissful, secret life together. Now Tindall is gone — felled by a heart attack on the Underground — and gone with him, in Catherine's mind, is all good, all possibility of happiness….
Her boss gives her a project, which involves reading a pile of antique notebooks:
The notebooks introduce us to the novel's second voice, that of a wealthy mid-19th-century Englishman, Henry Brandling. As a voice, a narrator, Henry is not, at least at the start, much easier to be with than Catherine. He is fulsome, sentimental, the doting father of an ailing son, a boy whom Henry's wife, still mourning the death of another child, will neither nurse nor comfort. Henry seeks to keep the boy alive by continually exciting his interest in the world, but each success is temporary, and the next focus of interest, of enchantment, must always be more thrilling. So he decides to commission the building of an automaton, and not just any old automaton but a duck — he has seen a picture of it somewhere — that will eat grain, apparently digest it and then, with a whirring of springs, excrete the residue. To get it made he travels to Germany, to the Black Forest, and to the "mighty race of clockmakers" who live there. The notebooks are the journal of his travels, his search for a master technician.
Catherine, reading in the annex or (breaking all museum protocols) at home in her flat, calls Henry's narrative "intriguing, " but the diaries are often dense, awkward to read, somewhat dull. There is at first a type of comedy — the bumptious Englishman abroad, continually misunderstood by or misunderstanding his hosts. But then the tone darkens and takes on the feel of a fairy story by the Brothers Grimm, or something out of those monstrous cautionary tales in Hoffmann's "Straw Peter."
Henry finds his master clockmaker, a large, physically threatening man called Sumper, but Sumper isn't interested in a fecal duck. He has something much grander in mind for Henry and his son, and he teases Henry, torments him, hinting at mechanical wonders of an order the Englishman has not the wit to imagine. He recounts his adventures in Queen Victoria's England, where he worked as assistant to an inventor called Cruickshank, a character clearly modeled on the great Charles Babbage (whose prototype computer, the Difference Engine, has been reconstructed at the Science Museum in London) .
It is here, perhaps, in the watchmaker's hallucinogenic parable, that we come to what Carey is playing with in this novel: the illusory versus the actual, the mechanical versus the organic. The gap, if any, between that which, in its complexity, imitates life, and that which is living and may possess something else, something that isn't simply part of the works. A soul! Carey, of course, isn't going to come down on one side or the other of this venerable debate. Instead, he puts into the mouth of Catherine's boss the still persuasive Romantic plea for ambiguity, for the power and beauty of mysteries, for defending these from "analytical clarities." The closing scenes, in which Catherine and her young assistant finally recreate what Henry Brandling brought back from the forest, are among the best in the book, and the moment when it — the not-a-duck — is set in motion is thrilling.

5/28/12 #10340

poem by Gershon Hepner
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Goin Down The Road Feelin Bad

Goin down the road feelin bad.
Goin down the road feelin bad.
Goin down the road feelin bad.
I dont want to be treated this away.
Goin where the climate suits my clothes.
Goin where the climate suits my clothes.
Goin where the climate suits my clothes.
I dont want to be treated this away.
Goin down the road feelin bad.
Goin down the road feelin bad.
Goin down the road feelin bad.
I dont want to be treated this away.
Goin where the water tastes like wine.
Goin where the water tastes like wine.
Goin where the water tastes like wine.
I dont want to be treated this away.
Goin down the road feelin bad.
Goin down the road feelin bad.
Goin down the road feelin bad.
I dont want to be treated this away.
Goin where the chilly winds dont blow.
Goin where the chilly winds dont blow.
Goin where those chilly winds dont blow.
I dont want to be treated this away.

song performed by Grateful Dead
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Goin' Down The Road Feeling Bad

Goin' Down the Road Feelin' Bad
-------------------------------
Goin' down the road feelin' bad.
Goin' down the road feelin' bad.
Goin' down the road feelin' bad.
I don't want to be treated this a away.
Goin' where the climate suits my clothes.
Goin' where the climate suits my clothes.
Goin' where the climate suits my clothes.
I don't want to be treated this a away.
Goin' down the road feelin' bad.
Goin' down the road feelin' bad.
Goin' down the road feelin' bad.
I don't want to be treated this a away.
Goin' where the water tastes like wine.
Goin' where the water tastes like wine.
Goin' where the water tastes like wine.
I don't want to be treated this a away.
Goin' down the road feelin' bad.
Goin' down the road feelin' bad.
Goin' down the road feelin' bad.
I don't want to be treated this a away

song performed by Grateful Dead
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Climate of Repression

Climate of repression.
Depresses the stressed,
With an bombardment of fear...
To incite anxieties!

Wanting a dependency to exist,
Within all!
And wishing to demolish,
With diminished admonishments!
To astonish with demonicness.

A climate of repression,
Expressed with aggression.
Suppressed with a recession...
Invented to digress,
Those who have chosen lives of happiness...
To inflict and spread an accepted regret.

To have all believe,
A sadness is for everyone.
And that shall be left...
For everyone to get!
And discrimination is enforced,
For those who reject in protest!
A climate of repression,
Comes to test!

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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It Is A Bleak Season For Farmers

It is a bleak Season for farmers with climate change and livestock prices down
Some of them have sold what they can sell and moved to live and to find jobs in the town
For many of them the rains have come too late climate change affecting everywhere
Global warming is in every Country in the bigger World out there
Some arrogant Humans think they can control Nature how come they have got it so wrong
How egotistical they must be for to think they can control the one we to belong
For we too are a part of Nature as much as her creatures of sea and of land
And she will always be our master though some that do not understand
Many farmers due to climate change the land are leaving and that seems a sad thing to say
With less farmers less food in the supermarket but the wealthy they will be okay
For a farm food scarcity means higher food prices but for food they can afford for to pay
'Tis the poor will be condemned to suffer in times of food scarcity 'tis always this way
It is a bleak Season for farmers and that is a sad thing to hear
And for the have nots of the World it looks like another bleak year.

poem by Francis Duggan
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The Price For Our Greed

Human Beings have invented computers and walked on the moon
But the Planet we live on we are trying to ruin
The greed of our kind may well be our downfall
We are not as great or as clever as we think we are after all
The natural beauty around us is for us all to enjoy
Yet the Planet that feeds us we are trying to destroy
Due to our carbon emissions the Polar Ice Caps melting causing sea levels to rise
We who think we are clever are not very wise
'Tis mostly of the economic depression we read of and hear
And climate change is something we do not seem to fear
Due to pollution the climate is changing from north to southern shore
Yet the warnings of Nature we tend to ignore
Global warming giving rise to climate change and it seems sad to say
That the price for our greed may be huge for to pay.

poem by Francis Duggan
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We should be taught not to wait for inspiration to start a thing. Action always generates inspiration. Inspiration seldom generates action.

quote by Frank Tibolt
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Genuine love

Pity generates love; sex generates love.
Fear demands love; favour expects love.
Generating love is a genuine love,
Which can thrive without reciprocation.
08.12.2009

poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Persistent Consistency

A persistent consistency...
With detemination to excell,
Generates a motivation...
From inside one where it dwells.

Seeking an acceptance,
For that which one loves to create...
Will never satisfy an ego that tries,
To enforce upon others...
An appreciation shown that escalates.

One attempting to do this,
Is not connected mentally...
To the gifts they have.
Or feel blessed to nourish,
As time passes on from their grasp.

Many seek results and success,
Quickly delivered.
Without a discipline applied.
Or a sacrificing done of a social life.

A persistent consistency...
With detemination to excell,
Generates a motivation...
From inside one where it dwells.

And does not derive,
From an outside source for a thriving to arrive.
Some nights may be substituted,
For a sleeplessness...
Ambitions seduce to produce.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Columbiad: Book II

The Argument

Natives of America appear in vision. Their manners and characters. Columbus demands the cause of the dissimilarity of men in different countries, Hesper replies, That the human body is composed of a due proportion of the elements suited to the place of its first formation; that these elements, differently proportioned, produce all the changes of health, sickness, growth and decay; and may likewise produce any other changes which occasion the diversity of men; that these elemental proportions are varied, not more by climate than temperature and other local circumstances; that the mind is likewise in a state of change, and will take its physical character from the body and from external objects: examples. Inquiry concerning the first peopling of America. View of Mexico. Its destruction by Cortez. View of Cusco and Quito, cities of Peru. Tradition of Capac and Oella, founders of the Peruvian empire. Columbus inquires into their real history. Hesper gives an account of their origin, and relates the stratagems they used in establishing that empire.

High o'er his world as thus Columbus gazed,
And Hesper still the changing scene emblazed,
Round all the realms increasing lustre flew,
And raised new wonders to the Patriarch's view.

He saw at once, as far as eye could rove,
Like scattering herds, the swarthy people move
In tribes innumerable; all the waste,
Wide as their walks, a varying shadow cast.
As airy shapes, beneath the moon's pale eye,
People the clouds that sail the midnight sky,
Dance thro the grove and flit along the glade,
And cast their grisly phantoms on the shade;
So move the hordes, in thickets half conceal'd,
Or vagrant stalking thro the fenceless field,
Here tribes untamed, who scorn to fix their home,
O'er shadowy streams and trackless deserts roam;
While others there in settled hamlets rest,
And corn-clad vales a happier state attest.

The painted chiefs, in guise terrific drest,
Rise fierce to war, and beat their savage breast;
Dark round their steps collecting warriors pour,
Some fell revenge begins the hideous roar;
From hill to hill the startling war-song flies,
And tribes on tribes in dread disorder rise,
Track the mute foe and scour the howling wood,
Loud as a storm, ungovern'd as a flood;
Or deep in groves the silent ambush lay,
Lead the false flight, decoy and seize their prey,
Their captives torture, butcher and devour,
Drink the warm blood and paint their cheeks with gore.

Awhile he paused, with dubious thoughts opprest,
And thus to Hesper's ear his doubts addrest:
Say, to what class of nature's sons belong
The countless tribes of this untutor'd throng?
Where human frames and brutal souls combine,
No force can tame them, and no arts refine.
Can these be fashion'd on the social plan,
Or boast a lineage with the race of man?
When first we found them in yon hapless isle,
They seem'd to know and seem'd to fear no guile;
A timorous herd, like harmless roes, they ran,

[...] Read more

poem by Joel Barlow
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Some Account of a New Play

'The play's the thing!'-- Hamlet.

Tavistock Hotel, Nov. 1839.
Dear Charles,
-- In reply to your letter, and Fanny's,
Lord Brougham, it appears, isn't dead,-- though Queen Anne is;
'Twas a 'plot' and a 'farce'-- you hate farces, you say --
Take another 'plot,' then, viz. the plot of a Play.

The Countess of Arundel, high in degree,
As a lady possess'd of an earldom in fee,
Was imprudent enough at fifteen years of age,
A period of life when we're not over sage,
To form a liaison -- in fact, to engage
Her hand to a Hop-o'-my-thumb of a Page.
This put her Papa --
She had no Mamma --
As may well be supposed, in a deuce of a rage.

Mr. Benjamin Franklin was wont to repeat,
In his budget of proverbs, 'Stolen Kisses are sweet;'
But they have their alloy --
Fate assumed, to annoy
Miss Arundel's peace, and embitter her joy,
The equivocal shape of a fine little Boy.

When, through 'the young Stranger,' her secret took wind,
The Old Lord was neither 'to haud nor to bind.'
He bounced up and down,
And so fearful a frown
Contracted his brow, you'd have thought he'd been blind.
The young lady, they say,
Having fainted away,
Was confined to her room for the whole of that day;
While her beau -- no rare thing in the old feudal system --
Disappear'd the next morning, and nobody miss'd him.

The fact is, his Lordship, who hadn't, it seems,
Form'd the slightest idea, not ev'n in his dreams,
That the pair had been wedded according to law,
Conceived that his daughter had made a faux pas;
So he bribed at a high rate
A sort of a Pirate
To knock out the poor dear young Gentleman's brains,
And gave him a handsome douceur for his pains.
The Page thus disposed of, his Lordship now turns
His attention at once to the Lday's concerns;
And, alarm'd for the future,
Looks out for a suitor,
One not fond of raking, nor giv'n to 'the pewter,'

[...] Read more

poem by Richard Harris Barham
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