Three greatest romantic poets

George Gordon Byron, 1788-1824

Percy Bysshe Shelley, 1792-1822

John Keats, 1795- 1821

Share one thing in common, 
they all died young.
Byron was 36 years old
Shelley was 29 years old
Keats was 26 years old
How my heart ache!

My days are in the yellow leaf;
The flowers and fruits of Love are gone;
The worm — the canker, and the grief
Are mine alone! —Byron

The day becomes more solemn and serene
When noon is past; there is a harmony
In autumn, and a lustre in its sky,
Which through the summer is not heard or seen,
As if it could not be, as if it had not been! —Shelley

But strength alone though of the Muses born
Is like a fallen angel: trees upturn,
Darkness, and worms, and shrouds, and sepulchres
Delight it; for it should be a friend
To sooth the cares, and lift the thoughts of man. —Keats

Intelligence was there

Athens 416BC. Euripides premieres his Electra.
Two rivals attend, Sophocles and Aristophanes.
And two friends, Socrates and Plato.

Firenze 1504. Palazzo Vecchio, on facing walls,
two painters: Leonardo da Vinci and Michelangelo.
And apprentice Raffaello.
A manager: Niccolo Machiavelli.

Philadelphia, USA 1776-1787. Declaration of
Independence and the Constitution. Adams, Franklin,
Jefferson, Washington, Hamilton and Madison.
No other country has been so blessed.

Blue on Blue

Japanese

Danish

American

Irish

Art of Cooking

 Mussel with mint vinegar and olive oil







Arugula with figs and cheese

here life is simple

Sitting in my patio, at sunset on a early summer's evening. I want to be in a place where life is simple. I'm originally from a very old culture, our people know how to live. Eating outdoor in the summer's evening, sipping wine, watching the moon slowly come up in the eastern sky, listening to the cicadas making continuous sound after dark, that sort of thing. It's comforting. I try to re-create that kind of setting.

Dear Updike

Dear Updike — Evelyn Lau 
I dreaded those future aeons when I would not be
present — an endless succession of days I would
miss, with their own news and songs and styles
of machine.
— John Updike, “On Being a Self Forever”

No, nothing much has changed.
A year later, the world is still one you’d recognize —
no winged cars to clog the air,
no robots to do our dirty work.
The hours and days, as it turns out,
just go on. No space age fabrics
drape our tired bodies, though I did try on a sweater
built of bamboo, soft as chewed silk.
The chrome surface of the dream’s lake
where I swim every night
still hides the same wreckage in its mud bottom.
Sometimes I open my eyes at the morning
and wonder what words you would wring
from the splendour and boredom
of these limited hours. Some day
there’ll be a future we won’t recognize,
but not now. Outside my window,
the low moan of winter in the ragged street.
Flakes of funereal ash falling from the sky.
The soiled comforters of the clouds;
the tightly wrapped buds of winter roses.
These grudging gifts of December,
tied in newsprint. For weeks after your death,
The New Yorker continued to print your backlog
as if death couldn’t stopper your creativity,
as if you were still writing in that midnight room.
But not a word from you now, and it’s dark at four.

John Hoyer Updike, March 18, 1932 – January 27, 2009, was an American novelist, poet, short-story writer, art critic, and literary critic.

Evelyn Lau is a Canadian poet and novelist. 

We all feel sorry for ourselves

The roots of artistic ability grow from psychological injury. — Charles Dickens

Rolling in the Deep — Adele 

There's a fire starting in my heart 

Reaching a fever pitch, and it's bringin' me out the dark

Finally I can see you crystal clear 

Go ahead and sell me out, and 

I'll lay your shit bare 

See how I'll leave with every piece of you 

Don't underestimate the things that I will do...