R 47535 pas 45374 tempo 44574 pessoas 3764 parte 36451 dias 36145 milhes. India should equally focus on development and security since compromising on either of these would not augur well for the country, said R. Chidambaram. Poetry Features. Shari Wagner               September 2. In Praise of Invisible Birds                              The Poetry of Doris Lynch               Doris Lynch has published poems in many literary magazines andanthologies and has been awarded three individual artist grantsfrom the Indiana Arts Commission. Her chapbook Praising Invisible. Birds was published by Finishing Line Press. Scholastic Press publishedher young adult biography J. R. R. Tolkien Creator of Languages and. Legends.   She has reviewed poetry books for Library Journal for overtwenty years. Currently, shes intrigued by haibun, an old Japaneseform that combines prose and haiku. Doris works as a communityengagement librarian for Monroe County Public Library in Bloomington. Watch HERE for what channels we have realtime OVER 4000 CHANNELS. Clarkes Bookshop established in 1956 is situated in Cape Town, South Africa and carries both new and second hand books on Southern Africa. November 1, 1959 Sunday In Rwanda, violence between the Hutu and Tutsi people was triggered by an attack upon Hutu activist Dominique Mbonyumutwa. The Hollywood Reporter is your source for breaking news about Hollywood and entertainment, including movies, TV, reviews and industry blogs. She thanks her husband, Thom Gillespie, for being her tech guru parexcellence and for his continuous encouragement to pursue her writing. Above Photograph of Griffy Lake by Doris Lynch. The poems of Doris Lynch recognize that realm where the invisiblemeets the visible air meeting water as mist. Her poems sing theconnections of what we often take as opposites animals and humans, physical and spiritual, darkness and light, the living and the dead. Theystartle us with figurative language that brings a sense of mysteryto what we thought was familiar. I admire their music, intensity ofemotion, observation of nature and readiness to take leaps. After reading a selection of Doris collected and uncollected poems,you will find an interview in which she speaks eloquently of what has had the most impact on her poetry the experience of motherhoodand of living a year in Indonesia and a year in an Inupiat village. Shealso talks about her favorite poet, why shes drawn to the haibun form,and why Griffy Lake is so important to her. Photo by Doris Lynch. From Praising Invisible Birds Finishing Line Press, 2. Praising Invisible Birds. At dawn when birds whistle and prattle,its the others theyre calling to those whove hadthe misfortune to crash through patio windows,those with the bad luck to have been friedby electric wires, those thrown off courseby hurricanes. So many other naturaldisasters I can hardly name cats and bebeguns and choice pieces of poisoned suet. So many suffered blue ones, yellow ones,red breasted ones, those black iridescent ones withyellow fur speckled like medals across their chests. Evenings, hear them sing to theirdear departed. Notice how they closetheir wings like hymn books in church,how their dark claws clutch the tree limbs,how their voices travel up and downthe bark as if hoping to embrace that othernight sky with their music. Pity them. They,poor birds, have no sense. See how they welcomedarkness, even the cold finality of night. Photo by Doris Lynch. Walking in the Quaker Wood         Marie Rosella Olson Lynch 1. I wanted to tell you about the fox how it paused on a hillock of snow,the tall pines of the Quaker wood standingsentinel around it, a watchful army of trees. As I stared, the foxs head jerked upward,as though someone had wrenched a ropeon its neck toward the sky. Followingits direction, I caught the last split secondof a shooting stars odyssey downto Earth. It streaked across the sky beforedisappearing into the haze of man made lights. I raced back to your room to tell youthat I recognized your soul insidethe foxs sleek body, your musclesrippling its fur. I rushedinto the house through the storm doorwhich sang on its hinges, up the stairsto your room, not stopping until I found youon your bed, not stopping until I feltthe rise and fall of your breathon my palm. I stood listening to youthe way I listened to my children breathewhen they were new, two fingers poisedunder their nostrils in the dark. I held your hand, its veinsblue as the sky at firststarlight. I wanted to tell youabout the fox, how her prints scrimshawedthe snow, how the night came alivewith her breath, how one star above usexploded to dust in the night. Griffy Lake by Doris LynchHow to Eat a Rose In China they eat them beforebreakfast, in Swedenbefore making love. Men saytheir petals feel as softas a womans flanksjust after bathing. Parisianwomen insist that if you tastejust one, youll hungerafter them forever. In Japan, they eat the firstof the year pickled in Indiathey fry them with cardamom,cumin and garam masala. Native. Americans gave papoosestheir apples to suck upon,while the Inuit ate them frozenstraight from the sled. To try one yourself, pick onefrom your neighborsgarden. Like everything elsethey taste better stolen. Eat under coverof darkness or with a secret friend. As with an artichoke, work your wayfrom outer skin to inner heart. Marinate the petals in nectar,thieved also, served in a silver bowl. When you approach the center of eachdelectable flower, bite hard. Tastetiny gold stamens betweenyour teeth and your tongue. Insideyour belly one kernelof silk will grow. Wheneveryou make love, you will feel itwildred pulse, passionate flower,unravel, blossom, then bud. Griffy Lake Nature Preserve by Doris LynchWhat the Dead Miss Most. What the dead miss mostis bird song, that joy shaking downfrom the trees, the way grass spreadsits green hair over the graves, and lightningbugs rise in its shadowy furls switchingminiature yellow bulbs on and offin the honeysuckle scented air. And the frogs, what other creature knowsso much about love madnessHear themthrumming so loudly in the bulrushesnext to the creek. Rememberhow your flesh rose bellyto belly when greeting your love. When a woman pauses to watcha hummingbird drink from a flower,the dead can only guesswhat has caught her eye. For whatdo the dead rememberbut the world of the sensesThe smellof freshly mown grass, a mockingbirdmocking, crickets rustling their prayerbooks, the fog hornblasting its double note. During moments such as thesethe dead struggle to leashin their bones, especially muzzlingthat empty spot just above the jawwhere the mouth once lay, pink,round, and perfect. How painfulto hold back those ahs which longto escape each time a starsplinters its body across the sky. Doris with Cody and Kristen near Skagway. A Selection of Uncollected Poems From Quill Parchment, Pushcart Prize Nominee, 2. First Call Cody. Was it the evening Oscardrove past with his dog team When we heard the whoosh of his sledover the crusted snow Or perhaps,the night the stove oil ran outand the village turned as blackas though the engineof the world had blown out Surely, it was a night whenthe Aurora Borealis rippled herflaming chest across the sky,and we lay in each others armslistening to Gods angelssoldering heaven. Or perhaps, it was a nightmore ordinary. A night like any otherwhen the iron stove spat its sparksacross the floorboards and Orion spilledhis tallow over the sky. A nightwhen lemmings squeezedtheir swag bellied bodies under our door,leaving etched snow braceletson the counters of the shed. Batman: The Dark Knight Returns, Part 2 Free Online Cartoon. That night, you little darling,were cruising along at just the rightlongitude, just the right latitudethrough the cosmic dust. How lucky we wereto be billeted just south of the Arctic Circlewaiting, waiting. Your sister slept soundly, her handsstill clutching Good Night Moonwhile I called to you with my bellyand breasts. Outside, our chimney,and the chimneys of all the Inupiat villagers,poured cloud after cloud of smokeinto the sky, little grey ghoststhat beckoned you home. Kristens first summer. From Cradle Songs An Anthology of Poems on MotherhoodQuill and Parchment Press, 2. By the Levee     New Orleans. Sunflowers with their pebbly faceshung over our clapboard fencethat first summer of your life. Even without the photo, I remember you then,bald as a walnut, bare assed, skin brindledfrom your mud play at the bottom of the steps. I hung laundry above you on the line,jerry rigged from fence to dilapidated fence. You shriekedlike a blue jay as the diapersflapped against the fleshreddening on the tomato plants.