Reading Travels: with Colin from rural Australia to Buckingham Palace and back

Colin is your average twelve year old bloke. He likes to play cricket, climbs on trees and once, he had borrowed his friend’s bike and rode it in a ditch. This Christmas he is disappointed because (a) he did not get the gift he asked for but a new pair of shoes and (b) his brother got exactly what he wanted – a new model plane. Colin is a little envious of his younger brother Luke luck -as the youngest he got spoiled much more often and had fewer responsibilities. Because Colin is only an average older brother…until... Until Luke falls ill.




Luke’s illness changed everything, especially after he got transferred to the big hospital in Sydney and his family was told that his cancer is incurable. It is then when his parents decide to send him temporally to stay with his maternal uncle and aunt in a London Suburb. Because, they believe that this way they could spare him the pain of seeing his brother die slowly. And if Colin accepts to leave is only because he believes that once in London he can get an audience to the Queen and her Majesty will get the best doctor in the world and send him to save Luke.



Once in London, Colin begins to realize that things and people are not always what they seemed to be from far. For example, in the eyes of his British uncle the Queen is not as majestic as she seemed during her speech on the telie, back home, in Australia. He also learns that single children who get too much attention from their parents like his cousin Alistair are not necessarily happier. He realizes that is not quite that easy to break in the Buckingham Palace and that important looking doctors are not necessarily the kindest or the best. Most important, as he tries to help his new friend Ted take care of his dying lover Griff, he realizes that good friends can be more important and powerful than majestic personalities and definitely much more supportive during hard times. So, when Ted is roughened up by some local gang for being a “queen”, he starts visiting Griff in the hospital by himself. At least until his friend can get back on his feet. During these hospital visits, Colin learns what it is maybe his most important lesson. Patients that had their families around them were happier and more hopeful. No matter what the outcome of Luke’s illness will be, it is more important for him to have his brother Colin, by his side rather than chasing for some miracle cure thousands and thousands miles away…





“Two weeks with the Queen” by Morris Gleitzman reiterates the story of the ingenuity of a child as opposed to our adult, reasonable beliefs which are often weighted down by prejudices. The theme is also central to classic stories such as “The New Clothes of the Emperor” and “ The Little Prince”. It is the naïve child who discovers the true meaning of things in his innocence, meaning that remains hidden to us because our bias laden minds. This is why most adults cannot take Colin too seriously and their reaction to his openness is either embarrassed silence or cold detachment.



Gleitzman’s approach to the subject is set apart by the author’s unique sense of humor as well as the contemporary issues he is addressing such as:  children, terminal illnesses and gay relationships. When confronted with these issues most adults react awkwardly - an embarrassing silence, coldness, rejection or exaggerated kindness and concern. Perhaps, as adults, we only perceive the world through the limitation of our own stereotypes: there are proper versus improper ways to behave and react for each situation. An elephant digesting a boa constrictor couldn’t possibly look like a hat. This is why, when real life events reveal to use contrary ways to the ones we came to live our life by, the best we can do is be silent. And it should not come as a surprise to the reader that among the few adults who can respond properly to Colin’s real wishes and needs are Ted and Griff. Ted’s love for his partner is considered to be “outside the norm” so he is used to look for human kindness and value beyond appearances. And, on the other side, this is why uncle Bob and his wife, a typical middle class couple that spends many weekends in the big hardware superstore for DYI enthusiasts will never be able to understand him.



The publisher recommends the book for children 11 to 14. My recommendation : YA and adult readers may enjoy the book as well as it offers a nice alternative perspective on the “what is proper and what not “subject.



Reading this book was my way to celebrate the International Day Against Homophobia (May 17) and a as gesture , expressing my  gratitude towards my friends N. and  O.

Confession Tuesday -Digitize me!

I don't' have a phone (will call later from my android)
I do not have cable TV(I streamline movies , news & discovery channel shows)
I ask favors from people I never seen in human flesh.
And
I cannot cease to look surprised when
some of the people I admire & know best
I only met online.
I (even) fell in love digitally
-a few times.
I go to school
-online. Read books
-online. Never met you
-but will break up with you.
I'll call, no better text -or better e-mail from my phone.
So clean.
Digitize me!

Eco-Friday:Napowrimo #2

Prompt: A poem based on different senses for the acronym RWP. And since several were green like resource watch program or recycling world publications, I have a recycled poem about dreaming green. With the help of L&L for my eco-friday topic.





So it looks more like a slogan than a poem, maybe...but we tried

April madness: napowrimo#1

Prompt: shuffle MP3, use first five titles as the base for a poem

I shuffled my Android (not as eclectic as my ITunes playlist, but…) and this is the silly result in poetic form:

Midnight dance

…watch the pairs moving slowly on the dance floor

this is not America, the puritan

where lovers were punsihed by scarlet

labels. I touch your hand: my tender

China girl, we both love the midnight radio
You take off your red shoes and say

let's waltz, let's dance la javanaise ...
and you are the most beautiful girl in the room

Titles: This is not America, China Girl, Midnight Radio, Let's Dance and You are the most beautiful girl in the room. The last title came with the phone and the shuffling on the Android seems to pick related titles, otherwise I cannot explain why 3 David Bowie out of five. More shuffles for the napowrimo challenge on the read, write poem website

Wallpaper (Nana)

My Nana was not fearless

at all. The way this story goes

when she was young was asked

to chaperon her brother and his fiancée

she refused to climb in the boat.

She feared she might drown:

“my brother, she said, has no idea

how to row or handle a boat”. True,

but this was the lake in the public garden.

The water so deep, it won’t pass over

the hips of a ten year old.



But she must fear God more

than she fears people. On beggars she

taught me: ”poor souls”.(She knew misery

in the world war.)She handed small coins as

she cut noodles or baked holy bread for service

My Nana, I need an answer glued

Wallpaper, picturepaper in my old album

"would she fear?" like I do

now that I faced the one

fake beggar , most pitiful robber

Since I had this unpleasant experience with a local panhandler which made me reconsider giving change to them. The problem I have now: this form of human compassion was part of my core…And of course there is organized giving. But this takes away this genuine spontaneous gesture you can make when feeling blessed and wishing to make others feel just the same way….

Note: my Nana was my great aunt . And, if you red this and are unfamiliar with the Byzantin rite, I shall point that to bake holy bread one has to be a virgin.

Readwritepoem #103- the anti-pomegranate

In the realm of pomegranate

we are believed to be children

of the mythical fruit. Indeed.

Open it!

You search for the seeds:

embryos in the fleshy womb

the color of blood

to become later fruits of consumption.

But the children from the old myth were not born of the pomegranate. They were born of drought and Demeter's fury. Children were born of the gods 'fear of emptiness, they were to suffer in the absence of tithing. Born of destruction…

…and where are now

the invisible children of disaster?

Dark rains (Chernobyl Hiroshima)

Bhopal- deadly gases

The unborn children of the forty millions nine hundred sixty-eight thousands dead ( in the wars of the 20^th century).

...another said two hundred millions almost, if one counts all dead in conflicts we haven't denominated as war ...

Never to be born children of mothers jumping of the windows of the Triangle building during the Fire of 1911 because their bosses locked the doors : you shan't leave here unless you are done or dead.

Not even in the realm of pomegranates

were we safe. This land were each had mother and father,

and a heart to hold in front of a just God.

Not even in our washed blue

dresses we saw//our hands in our mothers hands

for school: Old Order Amish Nickel Mines.

This draws from this readwritepoem prompt, a 2x3x7 poem about Bhopal, the remembrance of Frenkel waltzing with Bashir , O. 's post about memory and all other stories of human misery...

and if you did not knew it already, Western Pennsylvania was always a very good place for the pomegranate...

Familar dinners

"Families , real ones, are chairs and tables and the right number of cups..."
From Jeanette Winterson -Oranges are not the only fruit

The table, we absent:
square solid spruce,
squared solid legs

to hold pork& cabbage brought hot

directly from the kitchen, heavy pots -
matrices of tradition.

The load too heavy for this transient plane
we left behind, over the ocean.

The arguments, we present

to map our new values,

this brave new world.

Organic tuna helper, pasta salad

the foreign neighbours we invite for dinner.

'Twas once our familiar kingdom

gone now

all we have left : the same thanksgivings.

more about food customs and memories : Readwritepoem #102

Readwritepoem #99 -a letter to Liraz*-

The river flows heavy, loaded with barges. An yellow fall river in its ochre mood that supercedes rain. Two men are eating their lunch on the other shore of the river. One sits on a tree trunk . The other sits on a waterproof winter coat laid on the grass. But their legs arch in the same way; the ankles touch and the knees face outwards. One eats a sandwich from a Ziploc bag. The other eats warm food from a Tupperware container. They talk. Or not.

Perhaps they face the river with the same bare look, stripped of any expression, finding nothing to say to each other.

Maybe they are observing me as I am noticing them :
a woman,
in a brown coat
eating her lunch
on a green wooden table
- the picnic area by the bike trail.

I wave. But they do not respond. And I wonder if we are looking at the same river. There are rivers in other places that are heavy with dead bodies .

I used to know men and women that came from those places. They are eating in silence, chewing their food slowly. Still. As you try to warm up the chat by describing the local food places and foodstuffs, they face you with blank eyes. And you know they are not watching you or the red leaves of what the locals call blood bushes. All they can see are their own memories frozen mid-air among dead leaves.
History is a stalker. **




*Liraz is a friend I never met (for she is O's friend and he is my friend too).
I was told that she starts any explanation with "There are too few things in this world meant to be forgotten". So this is for you Liraz.

** the russian stalker (Сталкер) is a guide.

More answers to the prompt here : Readwritepoem #99

Readwritepoem #94

We often misrepresent the devil
paint him dark(red)
like a rust stained angel of some sort…

when the devil was merely tinged
by a standard deviation (or two)
from redemption.

Now you believe that you must stay
right in the middle
no matter what stats, hypothesis ,interpretation …

for you fear God, as He’ll measure all justly
one step away from the path and you fall
no exception.

Once you taught yourself to ignore variances
like evil,
feeling safe beyond this blindness to color

for the Devil to loom closer. A made-up angel
you follow (now) in all faith.
See: you forgot it was just a matter of shade
When you made yourself blind to your color.

for the image prompt : Read Write Poem #94

...about memories for Reardwritepoem#91

...since it seems that if want to forget something it stays forgotten, my draft is about something I wanted to remember:

You allowed my fingers
to flow, jail free, over
the dampness of the chestnut table.

I allowed my fingers
to seize a small saffron book
with a calf-binding cover …

… I still hold in this binding:
the cowherd and his story,
the calves and the smell of hay,
and all our memories jailed
in a clay pipe and few ashes
of G. L. Pease
the Piccadilly blend.

more memories here.

a translation for readwriteprompt #90

Since I busied myself with school, work and some translation lately, I haven't wrote anything worth posting. Therefore my contribution to this prompt will be a translation. Well, it is the draft for a translation so i am open to any suggestions. So please hit the small dialogue bubble at the bottom to leave your comments.
Caveat:you need not understand the original language in order to make suggestions, any English idiom that seems misused, and word that you notice out of place, any grammar issues you bring to my attention are welcomed and much needed.


Amurg Violet
George Bacovia

Amurg de toamna violet ...
Doi plopi, in fund, apar in siluete
-Apostoli in odajdii violete -
Orasul tot e violet.

Amurg de toamna violet ...
Pe drum e-o lume lenesa, cocheta;
Multimea toata pare violeta,
Orasul tot e violet.

Amurg de toamna violet ...
Din turn, pe camp, vad voievozi cu plete;
Strabunii trec in palcuri violete,
Orasul tot e violet.

Autumn's Violet Dusk Violet Twilight


Autumn’s twilight, violet... dusk is violet…
Two poplars in the background, flyby silhouettes
-Apostles clad in violet-
The whole town becomes violet.

Autumn’s twilight, violet... dusk is violet…
The trendy passersby are indolent
The crowds seem to be clad in violet
The whole town becomes violet.

Autumn’s twilight, violet...
dusk is violet…
And from the tower I see the ol’princes on the fields;
The sires will pass by in violet heaps,
The whole town becomes violet.

To love or not to...

He told me that I had never loved him. He who was once my lover for whom I begged and crawled, down on my knees. I was puzzled at first. I used to cook romantic dinners for him with whipped cream over fresh strawberries at candlelight. I read Plato (complete and unabridged)because he told me to (read it). I dreamt him with such intensity that I compelled his materialization in front of me.

When I visit, you always remember to ask charmingly if I would like a glass of juice or something else. Since you are sick in bed, I have to go down to your kitchen and serve myself. And by the time I reach your room’s door I always remember to turn and ask if you'd like something from the kitchen too.


He was right.
However, you are not my lover.
Note:

More opposites at readwritepoem #77

readwritepoem #74:hyperlink

What about you?

What about you?

I have never met you 

but I saw your picture, read your blog...

You look just like a CMU student I once knew:

he was drawn to dark stories and healthy diets.

What about you?

What void drawn you into the desert?

You must be aware how unhealthy it is

to tell stories from war countries.

Than it gets too dark. It was averred:

I made the healthy choice and cowered

under the table,

as they shot each other on the rooftops.

I record no memory of my adventitious presence

in a revolution. What about you?

"What about you?" is dedicated to journalists risking their lives to report from conflict areas. The picture of the freelance journalist reporting from Pakistan reminded me of a CMU student I knew and who is a very intelligent and decent person. His image as well as mine cowering under the table are dramatizations, of course. ( I did not do such thing as hiding under a table during the Revolution). The hyperlinks are used to connect the readers with news about journalists in conflict areas and happenings.  And, you can also find great poems and stories on an webzine dedicated to the right to free speech: Protestpoems.org

 more hyperlinks here.

NaPoWriMo #22

List poem

It had to be based on five poets I love, one line from each ... It's late and I do not have the energy to dig  for five poetry books so I just picked the first five: some poetry, some prose and made the best use :

I went on being, and being always (1)

The friend, the lover's portrait of whom his friend his lover was fondest (2)

For whom I disavowed my past regrets and said

Call me be but love, and I'll be new baptized;(3)

My heart, like dust, raised beyond your steps (4)

the darkness smelled of rain of damp grass and leaves

the gray light drizzling like rain the honeysuckle

coming up in damp waves (5)

more poems here

(1) Pablo Neruda -Goodbyes

(2) Walt Whitman - Recorders Ages Hence

(3) William Shakespeare -Romeo and Juliet (obviously)

(4) Gustave Flaubert -L'Education  Sentimentale (my translation, original:Mon coeur, comme de la poussiere, se soulevait derriere vos pas)

(5) William Faulkner -The Sound and The Fury

        

NaPoWriMo #21

Rites of passage

Each time when  your open wounds hurt from the pain of my crumbling spine, you forgave me.

Your forgiveness heals me. And I am healing in my children and my children's children.

Someday a city will fill with the love of your forgiveness.

more writes of passage here.

NaPoWriMo #10

One does not speak of death(1),

the words kept their magic

spell

even in this strange country

where the Lord has forsaken us.

We had lost our ways since our guides

were drawn in quicksand long ago. With

the end

of this journey nowhere in sight

all we can do is watch our people die

on the side of the roads. We're told

that there is not time 

to stop

and bury them according to the rites.

Our leaders pull us forward in the endless journey

we march, we lose our dead, our memories and know

that nothing'll be left soon, not even shadows (2).

(1) A quotation from Shoah, and a poem by Anne Ranasinghe.

(2) "Not even shadows" is a poetry book published in Colombo, Sri Lanka - I used the title of the book and lines from one of the poems "Umsiedlungsaktion - One does not speak of death" for the NaPoWriMo#10 prompt "Thrift Store" since the book printed in 1991 is hard to find in US. 

Anne Ranasinghe, born Anneliese Katz,  is an English language poet living in Sri Lanka and  a Holocaust survivor. She moved to Sri Lanka after marrying a Sinhalese doctor and, from my best knowledge, she embraced the local culture. 

"Umsiedlungsaktion - One does not speak of death" is a poem about and for refugees , rooted in her childhood experiences but also relevant for the refugees from  Sri Lankan conflict. 

NaPoWriMo #8

Letter to Andrew (1)

I wrote it to our short lasting love,

a hunt in the wild,

but the tang of vermouth stayed

and all men  (lips, skin) will taste the same

for years after...

You still remember my taste, you said...

So many other encounters-before and after-

are gone, forgotten

but you -

Lovec, they call you in your mother tongue,

your traps built with the patience and care 

of a master.

A silly mistake only:

One shall never hunt his own.

(1) to an old flame 

this was my first bigger than life ,  'till I die and after, love story...and all about eros the bittersweet.

NaPoWriMO #7 (nickname)

the Seductrice is the nickname I liked the most for this strong female figure one can find in many a fairytale and legends. I wanted to picture her in a few words and this is how the words came :

Don't tell me dearest
that you did not know:
As you collect art objects
I collect souls.

Farewell (2) for Readwritepoem #71

Farewell

I had done it again.

I slit open the covers

with your ink pen -

The words are raped,

the white pages compromised.

One chance to return and it's lost on you

And I a smiling woman.

I am only thirty. Thirty-three, precisely.

Just the right age to hike alone

Up the hill. Leave it all behind: you, the fig tree...

Falling requires grace and I'm already clumsy.

And like the cat I have nine times to die.

This is Number Three. Yet the crowd is tired.

Too much ado for such an ordinary matter

each book commands a final chapter.

Und so verhalt ich mich denn und verschlucke den Lockruf

dunkele Schluchzens. Ach, wen vermögen

wir denn zu brauchen?Engel nicht, Menschen nicht,

So, I shall slide quietly to read the final cover.

Notes:

(1)"I have done it again.

...........................................

And I a smiling woman.

I am only thirty.

And like the cat I have nine times to die.

This is Number Three."

From Lady Lazarus by Sylvia Plath from poets.org

Und so verhalt ich mich denn und verschlucke den Lockruf

dunkele Schluchzens. Ach, wen vermögen

wir denn zu brauchen?Engel nicht, Menschen nicht,

Reiner Maria Rilke -Duineser Elegien

http://www.amazon.com/Duino-Elegies-Sonnets-Orpheus-Rainer/dp/0395250587/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1238025824&sr=8-1 

translations by  

A. Poulin Jr. 

So I control myself and choke back the lure

of my dark cry. Ah, who can we turn to,

then? Neither angels nor men,

 Stephen Mitchell

And so I hold myself back and swallow the call-note of my dark sobbing.

Ah, whom can we ever turn to in our need?
Not angels, not humans

more poems inspired by anther's first line at readwritepoem

Crumbs and leftovers

1.

You are contagious
like a rainy day. Like November
soaks thru my clothes,
my skin. Dip deeper, trickle

in the caverns of my hearth.

2


On the bus
I took the seat behind you.

ViewTip:
I comb your curls around
the curves of your face.


3.

You unfold wonders :
this land of burning sand
and meadowgreen.

an infectious smile
the cinnamon skin.

More food poems here.