Famous Poet ~

My Indian In-laws – Belinda Subraman

I remember India: palm trees, monkey families, fresh lime juice in the streets, the sensual inundation of sights and smells, and excess in everything. I was exotic and believable there.   I was walking through dirt in my sari,  to temples of the deities following the lead of my Indian in-laws. I was scooping up the fire with my hands, glancing at idols that held no meaning for me, being marked by the ash.   They smiled at the Western woman, acting religiously, knowing it was my way of showing respect. It was an adventure for me but an arm around their culture for them. To me it was living a dream I knew I could wake up from. To them, it was the willingness to be Indian that pleased them. We were holding hands across a cultural cosmos, knowing there were no differences hearts could not soothe. They accepted me as I accepted them, baffled but in love with our wedded mystery. 

Famous Poet ~

At Home – Christina Rossetti

When I was dead, my spirit turned To seek the much-frequented house: I passed the door, and saw my friends Feasting beneath green orange boughs; From hand to hand they pushed the wine, They sucked the pulp of plum and peach; They sang, they jested, and they laughed, For each was loved of each. I listened to their honest chat: Said one: "Tomorrow we shall be Plod plod along the featureless sands, And coasting miles and miles of sea." Said one: "Before the turn of tide We will achieve the eyrie-seat." Said one: "Tomorrow shall be like Today, but much sweeter." "Tomorrow," said they, strong with hope, And dwelt upon the pleasant way: "Tomorrow," cried they, one and all, While no one spoke of yesterday. Their life stood full at blessed noon; I, only I, had passed away: "Tomorrow and today," they cried; I was off yesterday. I shivered comfortlessly, but cast No chill across the table-cloth; I, all-forgotten, shivered, sad To stay, and yet to part how loth: I passed from the familiar room, I who from love had passed away, Like the remembrance of a guest That tarrieth but a day. 


Book Passion – Belinda Subraman

I dreamed I was eating a book. It was made from 8” by 12” slabs one inch deep. It tasted like cheese but cut like watercress. as I chewed I understood.   As I looked around others were reading the same title but regularly, I couldn’t determine which was best, eyes only or digesting it my way.   Others began to notice me and stare. Made me feel queer.   I was in a restaurant though, a fitting place to eat and drink so I ordered a bourbon and I kept on chewing.   I realized their eyes would never make them full. 


A Fairly Sad Tale – Dorothy Parker

I think that I shall never know

Why I am thus, and I am so. Around me, other girls inspire

In men the rush and roar of fire,

The sweet transparency of glass, The tenderness of April grass,

The durability of granite;

But me- I don’t know how to plan it.

The lads I’ve met in Cupid’s deadlock

Were- shall we say?- born out of wedlock.

They broke my heart, they stilled my song,

And said they had to run along,

Explaining, so to sop my tears,

First came their parents or careers.

But ever does experience

Deny me wisdom, calm, and sense!

Though she’s a fool who seeks to capture

The twenty-first fine, careless rapture,

I must go on, till ends my rope,

Who from my birth was cursed with hope.

A heart in half is chaste, archaic;

But mine resembles a mosaic-

The thing’s become ridiculous!

Why am I so?

Why am I thus?



A Dream Lies Dead – Dorothy Parker

A dream lies dead here.

May you softly go

Before this place, and turn away your eyes,

Nor seek to know the look of that which dies

Importuning Life for life.

Walk not in woe,

But, for a little, let your step be slow.

And, of your mercy, be not sweetly wise

With words of hope and

Spring and tenderer skies.

A dream lies dead; and this all mourners know:

Whenever one drifted petal leaves the tree-

Though white of bloom as it had been before

And proudly wait full of fecundity-

One little loveliness can be no more;

And so must

Beauty bow her imperfect head

Because a dream has joined the wistful dead!

World History & Research Reports

HISTORY TODAY: St Kilda’s Isle at Edge of the World Poet Called Broken on the Wheel

This is our daily post that is shared across Twitter & Telegram and published first on here with Kindness & Love XX on

#AceNewsRoom With ‘Kindness & Wisdom’ Aug.30, 2022 @acehistorynews

Ace News Room Cutting Floor 30/08/2022

Follow Our Breaking & Daily News Here As It Happens:

#AceHistoryDesk – The small archipelago of St Kilda, 50 miles west of Harris, has long attracted romantic attention for its remoteness, with the sense of strangeness and difference such isolation implies.

Derelict cottages in Village Street, Hirta,  St Kilda. Vincent Lowe/Alamy.
Derelict cottages in Village Street, Hirta, St Kilda. Vincent Lowe/Alamy.

It is the last and outmost isle, on the edge of the world: a place whose way of life, in the words of Scottish poet Kathleen Jamie, was broken on the wheel of the modern world.

Inhabited in prehistoric times and subject to both Irish and Viking incursion, it first emerges into written history with a passing reference in the early 13th-century Icelandic Prests Saga. There are brief mentions in the Scottish chronicles of John Fordun and Hector Boethius. But it isn’t until 1697 that we get a first-hand account in A Late Voyage to St Kilda by Skye native Martin Martin.

Its population – only Hirta, the largest island, was inhabited – has never topped the 180 that Martin encountered.

But it rarely broke 100 after an outbreak of smallpox in 1727 reduced it to 42. Aside from disease, the importance of fowling to livelihoods – all those seabirds nesting on the sheer 1,000-foot cliffs – made life perilous. The islanders’ euphemism for death came from the trade: they’ve gone over it, people said, when someone died.

The population grew again through immigration, but a third emigrated to Australia in 1852.

One of them, Ewan Gillies, epitomises the restless soul: he left Australia for New Zealand, before arriving in the US in time to fight in the Civil War. He returned to St Kilda twice – after two further spells in Australia – before ending his days in Canada. The islanders called him ‘California’.

Modern scholarship stresses St Kilda’s connectedness, its place in the wider context of Hebridean history and the North Atlantic sea roads.

Even Martin reported Harris islanders coming to one of Hirta’s wells for its healing powers. Remoteness and isolation are ultimately questions of perspective.

There is a Gaelic phrase – Nach du bha’n a Hirst – ‘I wish you were on Hirta.’

It isn’t a compliment. The last islanders, 36 of them, were evacuated on 29 August 1930. One former resident denounced it, writing ‘the whole business … has been the work of despairing Sassenachs’. But no one went back.

#AceNewsDesk report ………..Published: Aug.30: 2022:

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A Certain Lady – Dorothy Parker

Oh, I can smile for you, and tilt my head, 🌼

And drink your rushing words with eager lips, 🌼

And paint my mouth for you a fragrant red, 🌼

And trace your brows with tutored finger-tips. 🌼

When you rehearse your list of loves to me, Oh, I can laugh and marvel, rapturous-eyed. And you laugh back, nor can you ever see 🌼

The thousand little deaths my heart has died. And you believe, so well I know my part, That I am gay as morning, light as snow, 🌼

And all the straining things within my heart 🌼

You’ll never know. Oh, I can laugh and listen, when we meet, And you bring tales of fresh adventurings, — Of ladies delicately indiscreet, 🌼

Of lingering hands, and gently whispered things. 🌼

And you are pleased with me, and strive anew 🌼

To sing me sagas of your late delights. 🌼

Thus do you want me marveling, gay, and true, 🌼

Nor do you see my staring eyes of nights. 🌼

And when, in search of novelty, you stray, 🌼

Oh, I can kiss you blithely as you go …. 🌼

And what goes on, my love, while you’re away, 🌼

You’ll never know. 🌼



ON MARRIAGE, Kahlil Gibran

Let there be spaces in your togetherness, And let the winds of the heavens dance between you.

Love one another but make not a bond of love: Let it rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls. Fill each other’s cup but drink not from one cup. Give one another of your bread but eat not from the same loaf. Sing and dance together and be joyous, but let each one of you be alone, Even as the strings of a lute are alone though they quiver with the same music.

Give your hearts, but not into each other’s keeping. For only the hand of Life can contain your hearts. And stand together, yet not too near together: For the pillars of the temple stand apart, And the oak tree and the cypress grow not in each other’s shadow.


Ars Poetica: On the Art of My Poetry

Where does my poetry fit into the world? Where does my poetry fit into myself? My responses to these questions flow like the blood in my own veins. Inspired by the format of René Char’s essay “The Formal Share,” my own writing is broken up in sections using roman numerals. This essay will include my […]

Ars Poetica: On the Art of My Poetry

Famous Poems

Memory Of My Father – Patrick Kavanagh

Every old man I see Reminds me of my father

When he had fallen in love with death

One time when sheaves were gathered.

That man I saw in Gardner Street Stumbled on the kerb was one,

He stared at me half-eyed,

I might have been his son.

And I remember the musician

Faltering over his fiddle In Bayswater, London,

He too set me the riddle.

Every old man I see

In October-coloured weather

Seems to say to me: “I was once your father.”