Bipasa Basu--santabanta

the books I read you forget the day

It would not be him if he was there. The man who stirred my heart to my reading telescope patients. It is my imagination and my present. As these words in the books I devoured, driven by the slow chant of syllables that gave me their pictures, their deserts, their winds, their homes, these beds, these windows overlooking the park, the deafening noise of streets klacksonnées these things hanging over a discussion that revealed the excitement, hesitation, the drumming of the heart facing the reasoning mind, so perfect in the choice of words. Like many in my reading, these words so true, I stammer while thinking Hocquette between the concept is taking shape and emotion that seeks his sentences. He came. And I closed the books to tell him my words. He welcomes them. He became greedy. Gourmand my clumsy translation they can not tell him not to repeat his power as the hand he grabbed her and there, there, there fingers firmly crossed hers.

Herpès Around Nose

The Copenhagen conference will seal the future of humanity.

The Summit International (191 countries) must give a sequel to the Protocol 1997 Kyoto fight against climate change. For, despite the efforts made since the Kyoto climate changes are accelerating, and the scientific predictions are alarming. Our emissions of greenhouse gases, which cause global warming are greater than expected.

The first consequences are already visible: the melting of glaciers and the poles, flooding or extreme drought, hundreds of thousands of climate refugees in the space of a century, the average temperature of the planet 's high of 0.74 ° C. This seems little, but behind this average hides huge differences. The average temperature rose by 1 ° C in Europe, but above 2 ° C to 4 ° C in the polar regions, threatening ecosystems already.

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New Republic in New

Ouran High School Doujins

paintings of Marie-Paule Derycke

Paints (India ink, pastels, pigments) produced in the workshop for free expression of Marie-Lydie Joffre

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Jwel Denyle Interview

"Brittany Jade", photographs by Françoise Renaud

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Photo: Françoise Renaud copyright 2008 - 2009

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http://www.francoiserenaud.com/

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A diagonal of land continues to heaven.

It reads like a book of origins, the light of the austere opulence. Below the massive stone wall, whispering of generations beyond the massive hedge, endless roar of the ocean.

On the dirt road of life, the man of the sea floor, seen from the back, head high, walk quietly rustling in ages ...

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Marie-Lydie Joffre ( September 2009)

September 2009

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Accueil
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How Nuetralization Works

Although sometimes I think not to think of you, I still say the word love.

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este hombre

Here to get started: the movement, this imprint of the body in the ephemeral. The sensuality of movement is a cry of anguish. The gesture of meaning is a call and a struggle. Occupy the space that is his existence, and talking with the words of his body, forget his loneliness and solitude of the body telling the union possible.
The body is unthinkable that these words just to find that vital pulse, which breaks the momentum of crystal wings of our personal prisons. He alone knows to the naked man, alone.

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Stir-fried Vegetable, Calories

Photos by Bettina + Uwe Steinmueller

Photos of B + U Steinmueller taken at Fort Point and Alcatraz.

http://galleries.outbackphoto.com/

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Nadine Jansen Post Pregnancy

Françoise Renaud: Country (text and photography)

A new order seems established in the childhood home.

The episode of the disease has drawn a mask on the face of my father, finally pushing toward another age: the great - the last always. Pallor which froze this winter - and worried me - nevertheless disappeared. His stance is firm again, his steady hand. There are only more slowly in him, as if time around it's body had changed its flow quarter. But summer is coming and it holds its chalk garden.

salads and bean seedlings growing under glass melons, tomatoes on the verge of producing. He introduced me to the scarecrow he planted in the middle of its strawberry to deter blackbirds, plum promising harvest.

I remain attentive. Attentive to his business, his words.
I observed watching the rust on roses, hoeing the flower beds with a tool, its eating asparagus with difficulty and gasping after his bad teeth. I speak of him with my mother, from her and her appetite. His existence fills me with the intensity of a sting in this time of life when capsized certainties, but I can not say, to tell him. It is only natural that I travel to his home: see, I am his daughter, and he is the old man. That my presence gives him pleasure or not is not a question. Just passing day, the fruits ripen and color of the sky.


As he went to a game of cards, I want to win the shore, not knowing at what stage the ocean will it inspires.

Low tide. Light wind nor'wester, gray cliffs offer shelter.
Not a cat in this weekday.


For me the ocean is like a powerful source. His presence, his rumor. It is connected to the depths of origin. It is connected to my father was born here. And he comes every twelve hours above the mineral world up to the border territory of men, out of reach of equinoctial storms. Sometimes I see
between trees tower in my village, dressed up in traditional benchmark fanciful gargoyles that I had never noticed far.


The rock, he is at the front. It takes the tide, wind, storms. He draws the coast, inlets and headlands on which I walk to vertigo. Suddenly I

extent torture material exultées then buried, compressed rocks if they have crumbled, wedding cores of rock and giving them more resistant forms of almonds. Fractures and veins shift blocks, pieces of slate that impressive passing and remember watching them - because many think only of sun and where they are going to lie to take up the burning.

space is clear before me, wind in my neck. Childhood and now closely together.

Françoise Renaud © - June 2008

be continued in fall 2009
"Brittany Jade" Photos Françoise Renaud



Welcome to the writer
http://www.francoiserenaud.com/

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Portrait of the writer as reader:

Jogging desire


In profile it splits the wind
his mane of fire

sets majestically over the horizon moved her sweater
breath rushes
in the future of his nostalgia
pitch crescendo of his time
smooth black pebbles volcanoes tenuous
scope on a pearly moon violin
to drown in the blades of a
its infinite sea voice scolds the pristine peaks of the absolute granite
where she was born

Marie-Lydie Joffre
18-12-2008

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Best Thesis Statement For Pro Life

setting

poetry is probably the hardest art. our classics of the nineteenth century they wrote even poems that five "necessarily" indicative or transformer? music example seems easier, which would explain to me how Ferré revives Baudelaire, Rimbaud, etc.. -But it is also possible that I am less inclined to taste the "fruit" of the poet, and before my youth was less pervasive, although more sensitive ...

poetry is the art more elusive. -As if the soul the truest never took any part in what tarnishes the slightest neurosis.
then. after. only the hand writes.

among many - I think currently Desjardins and Ferré - very few lines abound dimensional, very authentic breakthroughs of soul embedded in a more prosaic poetry:

because God will not speak in our way so "familiar", then it seems to me that we must work as a craftsman, caring, truthful, so as to condition, "in Home "the irruption of the Real in us.

this task as a poet, like everything that can be spiritualized - that is to say all - invites us to integrate more presence, and authenticity.

as and as I write this is particularly incompromission from moment to moment that seemed to fail me. I would say maybe a full transparency to myself, my motivations, and appropriateness of my inner dialogue.

course here is only a special case of "imperative" to live in mindfulness - mindfulness ...

Wisdom Tooth Extraction Hollywood Fl

Regard de Mille-Christine Jouhaud on a table Hopper

rooms for tourists, 1945. Painting of Edward Hopper

Invitation charming,

After my long walk wandering, I borrow the street bordered by a hedge of boxwood with a line, and found a home with white wooden facade, accented by contrast the moon in the night without stars.

Three windows on the floor and from one of them, the intimacy of a noticeable halo lamp.
rigid canvas blinds, crown their inclination to three rectangles as heavy eyelids blackened and a dense black. And adding in ancillary relief, the shutters remained open.

A blast pushes my shoulder, asking me to come closer to the house as the wind coaxes, playing with the fringes of the awning.
was allowed to it low over the bay, but the window is traversed by the inner light, the golden glow flooding the ground floor.

I went to watch the show which is offered in the window, but no trace human.

Nothing requires me redo them, then a question ghost slips into the night.
Do I desire to push the door? Enter
in the privacy of those places, whose invitation to rest is given on a sign near the hedge of boxwood.

"Rooms for Tourists".


Mille-Christine Jouhaud
Monday, November 10, 2008

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Glance Invitation text charmer!


Breath suspended

apnea in contemplation

son gossamer texture

delicate restraint

into interrogation presage a hidden beyond ...

Marie-Lydie Joffre

Discover texts Mille-Christine Jouhaud on the site of the writing workshop, Menahem Carole Lilin










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