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I have nothing revolutionary or even novel to offer.

quote by Samuel E. Morison
Added by Lucian Velea
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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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Offering

I offer you my forests and my street-cries
With hands of double-patience under the clock,
The antiseptic arguments and lies
Uttered before the flood, the submerged rock.
The sack of meal pierced by the handsome fencer,
The flowers dying for a great adventure.

I offer you the mysterious parable,
The mount of reason, the hero's glassy hymn,
The disquieting uproar of the obvious
Hate in the taproom, murder in the barn
The long experienced finger of the Gulf Stream,
The flying sense of glory in a failure's dream.

I offer you the bubble of free will,
The rarefied agony of forgotten places,
The green cadaver stirring to the moon's pull,
The cheerful butchery of raw amateur faces
Which, like the half-blind nags shipped off for food
Die, doubtless serving some higher good.

I offer you the Egyptian miracle,
The acrobat doing handsprings in the rain,
A touched up photograph in sepia
Of the future teasing the fibres of the brain
I offer you the seven league army boots he wears
Striding down the black funnel of the years.

I offer you a coral growth of cells,
A flash of lightning anchored in a carafe
The withered arm of the last century
Cannot provoke a demon to anger us,
The strap-hanging skeleton of what has been
Is out of date forever like the crinoline.

I offer you clouds of nuisance, fleur de lis,
The opening lips of summer where pigeons rest
The exploding office of the vast nebula
The heraldic device under the left breast,
The taut string and the scribbler's Roman tread
Impinging on the slow shores of the dead.

I offer you the tithes of discontent,
The deck-games played with shadows on a cruise
Beyond the islands, marked on the ancient maps
With the broken altars, markets in disuse
To some "unspoilt" and blessed hemisphere
Where comfort twists the lucid strands of air.

I would offer you so much more if you would turn

[...] Read more

poem by Kenneth Allott
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Sneaky With the Looks

Sneaky with the looks that they give.

I perceive myself alone.
I feel a curiosity directed.
At first I am not sure,
If the curiosity is directed towards me.
And I look around.
Nothing is there to block my steps.
And I begin to whistle in nervousness.
To then talk to myself...
In a calming peacefulness.
I admit is beginning to get a bit restless.

Sneaky with the looks that they give.

I am among the trees.
Alone in fresh Spring breezes.

Sneaky with the looks that they give.

I begin to hear the chirping of birds.
Conversing to break the silence,
With a charm that does not disturb.
And they fly high between the trees.
Trying to hide within the leaves.

Sneaky with the looks that they give.

I follow a path made clear of obstacles.
I stop.
So does the chirping.
I pick up a small rock,
To toss as I also pick up a twig.
There is a wind.
And I continue my journey.

Wings flap as if there is clapping.
I adjust my cap.
And two squirrels chase...
Across my path!
To play tag and hide and seek.
I stop to watch.

Sneaky with the looks that they give.

I look up!
And there they all sit.
As if in conference on a branch.
Together...
Laughing!

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Picture Perfect

Picture perfect a life that you saw in a magazine
Or maybe a travelling book
Wanted to get on that plane and fly away
cause you are a rock star deep down inside
You walk with a swagger, got nothin' to hide
Cigarette in your mouth, a cuff on your jeans
Your sideburns are perfect, you're a perfect and lean
So you made an oil painting to inmortalize
All of the hope and vision in your eyes
In your leisure coat and cowboy hat
North American records and so much to bat for
Please bring me along
Please bring me along
Because I want to see everything you have to offer me
Get a job lifting cement
Oh it's so dry when it rains it gets wet
And the village was great, now it's a suburb
You left behind half of all that you had learnt
Relearn a couple things along the way
The thrift shop so clean all for half what you'd pay
So you try everything on, on for size
Drop top your Camaro and go for a ride
Please bring me along
Please bring me along
Because I want to see everything you have to offer me
And I don't mind to sit here and waste my time
Oh but this world is not mine to define
And I want to shine
Please bring me along
Please take me away
I don't want to stay
And I want to see everything you have to offer me
And I want to see everything you have to offer me
And I want to see everything you have to offer me
I want to see everything the world has to offer me
I want to see everything the world has to offer me
I want to show everything I have to offer it
I want to show everything I have to offer it now

song performed by Nelly Furtado
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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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David Bowies Revolutionary Song

When people call us revolutionary
Theyre just tryin to see
All that we choose
When all we want is everybody free
The universe would be one brotherhood
It isnt wrong to be prepared to fight
Together to unite if we believe
In giving everything our heart and soul
Until we reach the goal we should achieve
It shouldnt matter if were brown or white
Yellow or black as night to anyone
Were all born equal with the self same rights
Sharing the same daylight under the sun
If loving freedom makes me quality
Of opportunity is where revolutionary
Constantly, fervently, firmly
Revolutionary

song performed by David Bowie
Added by Lucian Velea
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A mother and land

Mother in any form is dear and precious,
There is no single reasons but to offer various
Bowing head with respect with clear conscious,
World recognizes it and holds it right and continuous,

In our pain she cry
She never asks why?
What do we offer her later?
It is not a new matter

Whole world debate on this delicate issue
We fail to recognize and offer no due
She is there all the time to offer solace
Whether she is in small tent or palace

She may not complain about what went wrong
She is all alone like solid rock all along
Her woes may disappear and can’t last long
This is how she ignores plight and sings a song

Her beautiful voice may sound nice in the ear
The tile may pass and result into long years
She may remain same but definitely wear
She will contain onslaught and hold the tears

What all she can offer us for future?
She has no fixed agenda or tenure
She is still holding her ground well
There is no one for her stories to tell

We run to her and seek refuge,
For us she is supreme and huge,
Not a word we hear in her dishonor
She is by our side in the critical hour,

I would prefer to stay alone to serve the mother,
Even if heaven is offered, I won’t accede to or bother,
She kept us together like birds in nest
Why we go other place and see the best?

Mother land is no less sacred,
I would prefer to lay down life and allow tears not to shed
Hold the ground near to chest and don’t desert or fled
Let whole land turn into blood with color red

to serve mother land is altogether different
It has got wider concept and looks quite apparent
What do we offer in terms of loyalty?
It is the only reason that we consider as our duty

[...] Read more

poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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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
Added by Lucian Velea
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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
Added by Lucian Velea
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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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Fundamental of Liar Chapter XXVII: Storyteller

I only offer story
not the truth
I only offer fantasy
not the future
I only offer dream
not destiny
I only offer wish
not wisdom
I only offer memory
not the fact
I only offer chance
not miracle

poem by Maria Sudibyo
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This Offer Is Unrepeatable

Dont send any money!
Fate has no price
Ignore at your peril this splendid advice
An invaluable link in an infinite chain
An offer like this will just not come again
You wish you had women to charm and bewitch
Power of life and death over the rich young girls will be swooning
Because youre exciting them
And not only fall at your feet but be biting them
Guaranteed, guaranteed to capture your breath
Or just possibly scare you to death
Sign it and seal it and send it to friends
But dont mention my name
Dont make any long term plans
In thirty-six hours your fortunes will change
Your best friends wont know you
And neither will strangers
Do not keep this letter
It must leave your hand
You have been selected from over five thousand
A twister or dupe will bamboozle or hoodwink you
I cant say more it would only confuse you
The wine that they offer will go to your head
And youll start to see double in fishes and bread
Guaranteed, guaranteed for a lifetime or more
Guaranteed, for this world and the next
Guaranteed, guaranteed for the world and its mother
Cherish this life as you dont get another one
Unless you should take up this fabulous offer
Dont leave it too late or youll be bound to suffer
And woebetide anyone so woebegone
You wont know youre born or about to pass on
Youll never get tired
Youll never get bored
By the way I just hope youre insured
And if youre not satisfied
If you want more
We can always provide an improved overture
Guaranteed at a price that is almost unbeatable
This offer is unrepeatable
Your trouble will vanish
Your tears will dry
Your blessing will just multiply
Guaranteed at a price that is almost unbeatable
This offer is unrepeatable
Guaranteed, guaranteed to bring fortune and favor
In a riot of colours, (a variety of) and flavours
Guaranteed at a price that is almost unbeatable
This offer is unrepeatable
Would I lie to you? would I sell you a dud?

[...] Read more

song performed by Elvis Costello
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The Iliad: Book 9

Thus did the Trojans watch. But Panic, comrade of blood-stained
Rout, had taken fast hold of the Achaeans and their princes were all
of them in despair. As when the two winds that blow from Thrace- the
north and the northwest- spring up of a sudden and rouse the fury of
the main- in a moment the dark waves uprear their heads and scatter
their sea-wrack in all directions- even thus troubled were the
hearts of the Achaeans.
The son of Atreus in dismay bade the heralds call the people to a
council man by man, but not to cry the matter aloud; he made haste
also himself to call them, and they sat sorry at heart in their
assembly. Agamemnon shed tears as it were a running stream or cataract
on the side of some sheer cliff; and thus, with many a heavy sigh he
spoke to the Achaeans. "My friends," said he, "princes and councillors
Of the Argives, the hand of heaven has been laid heavily upon me.
Cruel Jove gave me his solemn promise that I should sack the city of
Troy before returning, but he has played me false, and is now
bidding me go ingloriously back to Argos with the loss of much people.
Such is the will of Jove, who has laid many a proud city in the dust
as he will yet lay others, for his power is above all. Now, therefore,
let us all do as I say and sail back to our own country, for we
shall not take Troy."
Thus he spoke, and the sons of the Achaeans for a long while sat
sorrowful there, but they all held their peace, till at last Diomed of
the loud battle-cry made answer saying, "Son of Atreus, I will chide
your folly, as is my right in council. Be not then aggrieved that I
should do so. In the first place you attacked me before all the
Danaans and said that I was a coward and no soldier. The Argives young
and old know that you did so. But the son of scheming Saturn endowed
you by halves only. He gave you honour as the chief ruler over us, but
valour, which is the highest both right and might he did not give you.
Sir, think you that the sons of the Achaeans are indeed as unwarlike
and cowardly as you say they are? If your own mind is set upon going
home- go- the way is open to you; the many ships that followed you
from Mycene stand ranged upon the seashore; but the rest of us stay
here till we have sacked Troy. Nay though these too should turn
homeward with their ships, Sthenelus and myself will still fight on
till we reach the goal of Ilius, for for heaven was with us when we
came."
The sons of the Achaeans shouted applause at the words of Diomed,
and presently Nestor rose to speak. "Son of Tydeus," said he, "in
war your prowess is beyond question, and in council you excel all
who are of your own years; no one of the Achaeans can make light of
what you say nor gainsay it, but you have not yet come to the end of
the whole matter. You are still young- you might be the youngest of my
own children- still you have spoken wisely and have counselled the
chief of the Achaeans not without discretion; nevertheless I am
older than you and I will tell you every" thing; therefore let no man,
not even King Agamemnon, disregard my saying, for he that foments
civil discord is a clanless, hearthless outlaw.
"Now, however, let us obey the behests of night and get our suppers,

[...] Read more

poem by Homer, translated by Samuel Butler
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Brutal

I don't sauté what I say,
With puffed up fluff!
When I 've had enough...
I get brutal.

I don't offer apple strudel.
Or beat around the bush.
I'm not into fuzzy wuzzy stuff.
Or get cuddly to patch things up!
I don't sauté what I have to say,
With puffed up fluff for you!
When I've had enough...
And the going gets tough,
I get brutal.

I don't offer apple strudel.
I get brutal.
Or chicken soup with noodle.
I get brutal.

When games are lame.
And the aim is the same.
Putting my name to shame.
And wanting me to take the blame.
For something I know,
From the start I didn't do?
Because you think it's cute...
To use me as a substitute!
I don't bite my lip...
And pretend I'm not pissed!
You try to do me in...
And then you turn around and grin?
Thinking I wont do,
What now you know I can and will...
To you!
Yes...
Your looks could kill,
But I wont be a pig in swill.
I will get brutal.

I don't offer apple strudel.
I get brutal.
Or chicken soup with noodle.
I get brutal.

When games are lame.
And the aim is the same.
Putting my name to shame.
And wanting me to take the blame.
For something I know,

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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I love Richard Yates, his work, and the novel, Revolutionary Road. It's a devastating novel.

quote by Michael Chabon
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There are two ways of resisting war: the legal way and the revolutionary way. The legal way involves the offer of alternatinve service not as a privilege for a few but as a right for all. The revolutionary view involves an uncompromising resistance, with a view to breaking the power of militarism in time of peace or the resources of the state in time of war.

quote by Albert Einstein
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A novel is not an allegory... It is the sensual experience of another world. If you don't enter that world, hold your breath with the characters and become involved in their destiny, you won't be able to empathize, and empathy is at the heart of the novel. This is how you read a novel: you inhale the experience. So start breathing.

Azar Nafisi in Reading Lolita in Tehran (2003)
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I've always been a fan of the 19th century novel, of the novel that is plotted, character-driven, and where the passage of time is almost as central to the novel as a major minor character, the passage of time and its effect on the characters in the story.

quote by John Irving
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Great, big, serious novels always get awards. If it's a battle between a great, big, serious novel and a funny novel, the funny novel is doomed.

quote by Neil Gaiman
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