Hemingway’s Way With Words

 

 

    I’m a lover of Hemingway’s work, and, A Farewell to Arms, plays a part of the story in my book, No Kissing Required. This poem of his I’m featuring today, I find kind of sexy. The man most definitely had a way with words. 

 

Oily Weather

The sea desires deep hulls,

It swells and rolls.

The screw churns a throb,

Driving throbbing progressing.

The sea rolls with love,

Surging, caressing.

Undulating its great loving belly,

The sea is big and old.

Throbbing ships scorn it.

Ernest Hemingway  (Stories and Ten Poems, 1923)

 

Pied Beauty, a Poets Thanks

     

      I love colors, the brighter they are the better. Anything that has bold color combinations, from lipsticks to clothes. I can't walk by without admiring.

    These  all of course depend on a little human intervention. However, I adore the nature that surrounds us. It's ever giving contrast of colors, in the way of wildlife, our skies and seas. They all give us variants of color that change without notice, in a blink of an eye.

    I found a sonnet by the poet, Gerard Manly Hopkins, which I want to share with you today on the anniversary of his birth.

    He is believed to be thanking and praising God for the creation of the world Gerard lived in. Whatever any one of us believes in, is up to us as individual humans. But, it is nice if we can stop to admire the beauty and be thankful for what is around us, in any which way we can and if we can. 

    Today I'm writing about the beauty I have experienced and I'm featuring some photos, in my way of thanks.

    Have a great weekend people.

Pied Beauty

Glory be to God for dappled things

For skied of couple color as a brinded cow

For rose-moles all the stipple upon trout that swim

Fresh-fire coal chestnut-fall, finches' wings

Landscape plotted and pierced, fold, fallow and plough

And all trades, their gear and tackle and trim.

All things counter, original, spare, strange

Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)

With swift, slow, sweet, sour, adazzle, dim

Her father's-forth whose beauty is past change

Praise him.

                              Gerard Manley Hopkins 

                              (28 July 1844-8 June 1889)

A Queen's Poetic Retreat

    

   July 24th 1567, following a year of imprisonment in Loch Leven Castle in Perth and Kinross, Mary Queen of Scots was forced to abdicate. 

    Her time as queen was tumultuous, and she escaped from the reality and skullduggery that surrounded her by writing poetry.

     Today I've included a short sonnet of hers, believed to have been written about the Earl of Bothwell to whom she later married. A marriage that would throw her life into further turmoil.  

    Please enjoy and thanks for visiting my blog today.  

Lord, grant your mercy unto me:

Teach me some way that he may know

My love for him is not an empty show

But purest tenderness an constancy

For does he not, alas, ev'n now possess

This body and this heart which would not flee

Discord, dishonour, nor uncertainty,

Nor family hurt, nor evil's worst distress.

For his sake, I value all my friends as dust

And in my enemies I seek to place my trust,

For him, my concience and good name to chance I've cast;

I would renounce the worls, were it his whim:

I'd gladly die if it should profit him,

What more is there to prove my love steadfast.

Mary Queen of Scots (8 December 1542-8 Feburary 1587)

Giant Leap for Mankind

      

   

 

       OMG, where do the years go? Fifty-four years ago, Apollo 11 landed on the moon. I can remember watching, Neil Armstrong taking one step for man and one giant leap for mankind. (Yes, I am that old, and remember a lady never discloses her age.)

 

   My mother and I watched the scratchy black-and-white transmission of this historical moment. Yes, I know that many believe that it never happened. However, this gal believes it did, and I wanted today to relive that short time I felt was special in my life. 

 

    Another historical event that happened on that date was that UK TV transmitted all night. This was also a momentous moment for the UK. 

 

   While I give some further thought to that day, I've included a poem by US poet, Emily Dickinson called, The Moon. Hoping you enjoy.

The moon was but a chin of gold

A night or two ago,

And now she turns her perfect face

Upon the world below.

 

Her forehead is of amplest blonde;

Her cheek like beryl stone;

Her eye unto the summer dew

The likest I have known. 

 

Her lips of amber never part;

But what must be the smile

Upon her friend she could bestow

Were such her silver will!

And what a privilege to be

But the remotest star!

For certainly her way might pass

Beside your twinkling door.

Her bonnet is the firmament,

The universe her shoe, 

The stars the trinkets at her belt,

Her dimities of blue.

 Emily Dickinson 1830-1886

Taking Time to Commemorate

 

    I have been a great admirer of the author, Ernest Hemingway, since high school and since my early teens I have read the book, For Whom the Bell Tolls, numerous times.

   Like many great authors of that time, Hemingway took part in the Spanish civil war, spreading propaganda for the Republican cause, aided by the Russian army.

  He was not the only author who joined the fight against the Nationalist army, led by Fransisco Franco Bahamonde. UK writer, W.H. Auden and U.S. writer, Malcolm Cowley were amongst the many who took to arms. 

   While I haven't read much of their work, I have read, Homage to Catalonia, by the British Indian author, George Orwell. Orwell's book is an account of his service in the Republican Army. Like the Hemingway book, it is a timeless read, considering the war started eighty–seven years ago. Similar to the Hemingway book it was also censored by the Franco regime.

    The Canary Islands, and the island of Tenerife in particular play a part in this piece of history, that many Spaniards wish to forget. General Franco met here on the island with his other conspirators to plan the uprising against the democratically elected government. With the help of, Nazi Germany, Franco took the lead and the Spanish Civil War commenced, on 18 July 1936. His dictatorship did not end until his death, on 20 November 1975.

     Today is not a day to celebrate, but a day to commemorate the fallen on both sides of the fight.

No Kissing Required Chapter Two

 Chapter Two

“These in white robes - who are they, and where did they come from?”
Revelation 7:13

 
Phoenix, Arizona

    Thanks for deciding to join me. I’ll fill you in and then you can keep up with me the rest of the way. I’m sitting near the back of a Greyhound bus, I boarded some seven hours or so ago. Mikey and I arrived on Earth together; he said he had some business to take care of in Las Vegas.
    He’s most probably following up a sighting of Satan. But from what I can gather, these sightings are as regular as people saying they saw a dead rock ‘n’ roll star working behind the counter of a burger joint. Scary.
    Everything for my mission has been taken care of. I’ve got clothes, money in my pocket, and even a tablet with an app especially installed for heavenly beings. This app allows Heaven to contact me 24/7 and they can feed me useful information about my assignment, amongst other things.
    I also have a small gold stud in my right ear, but it’s no normal piece of jewelry, it’s a demon early warning device. But it’s a prototype, so they’re still uncertain on its reliability. That’s the boooring stuff out of the way, let’s talk about the exciting stuff, like me.
    My human form is that of a seventeen-year-old male. I’m not too shy to say that I’m a gooorgeous guy. Amigas, you’ll love me. You’ll love my buzz cut, my piercing blue eyes, and of course my toned pecks and abs. I’m not quite as tall as I would have liked, but hey, none of us are perfect. Oh, I forgot to say, I’m a little tiger; grrr. Amigos,don’t worry, you’ll like me a lot too. Why? Because I’m a real cool dude to hang around with, that’s why. Need I say more?
    I’m feeling pretty exhausted, I’ve got roughly an hour to go before I reach my destination and meet my guardian, she’s called Sylvia Angell. I’ll be living with her for now. The cover story is that she’s my Aunt and I’m living with her because my parents are working overseas.
With me? Good. I’ve got a little homework to do, you can read along with me, but not aloud, because I need to concentrate. Information is downloaded in story form on to my tablet, kind of like an e-book, and you’ll be able to read what’s available to me. No pictures though, so I hope you can read. Duh, that was a stupid thing for me to say, of course you can!
    Hopefully no little gremlins, or devils as the case may be, manage to hack into my system and tamper with my data. The IT department is working on security software as we speak. Unfortunately for heaven, they have no software available here as yet to secure their system.
    Oh and another thing, if you see quotes from the bible dotted here and there, well these are little messages sent to me by the Elders. They have a couple of purposes, some are for my spiritual guidance, you know; so I remember that I’m on God’s side and he’s on mine. The others give me an indication, or as I like to call it; step for a hint, as to what my day ahead may be all about.
    The step for hint stuff is based on information gathered from Earth. I suppose it’s what government agencies would call their intelligence. Now I have no idea if this intelligence is gathered from intelligencers, a bug in Satan’s chambers, or geek angels analyzing incoming data.
    All I know is that I have to take some direction from these messages and act upon them where appropriate. With me so far? Good. Right, eyes down, get reading.

Paul’s Story

    “Now Paul, you take care walking home. Don’t detour, and use your cell phone to call your pop at the first sign of trouble.” The small, gray haired woman is full of concern and apprehension as she addresses her grandson.
    “Gran, stop fussing. I’m a big boy now.” The six foot, one hundred and seventy pound seventeen-year-old tries to make light of her anxiety.
    “I know you are, but it’s not like it was when I was a teenager. You could safely walk for miles and not a soul would bother you.”
    “Gran, nothing’s like it was when you were a teenager. You’re prehistoric.”
    The old woman slaps the young man playfully across the back of the hand. Then throwing her arms around him, she hugs him with all her might.
    “Goodbye, I’ll call you later,” says the teenager and he kisses his Gran on her cheek.
    “Goodbye, I love you Paul.”
    “I love you too Gran.” The young man leaves his grandmother standing on the top step of her front porch.
He stops before finally stepping onto the side-walk. He turns around, blows her a kiss, and then goes on his way. She blows one back and she continues to wave until he is out of sight.
It isn’t just Paul Mitchum’s grandmother who’s apprehensive about her grandson’s walk home, Paul has his own doubts. But his father made it clear in their last man-to-man talk that he expected his son to fight his own battles. He told him that “he needed to start acting like a man.”
    When his father, George, went off on one, as he regularly did since Paul’s mom had gone, there was no reasoning with him. There were regular heated exchanges of words between father and son, caused by George drinking copious amounts of liquor.
    On these occasions, Paul is left with no alternative but to lock himself away in his bedroom. Only coming out when he hears his pop snore, after him falling into a deep alcohol fueled sleep. Paul’s only confidante is his Gran, but he doesn’t like to tell her about his rows with his pop. After all it seemed disrespectful, speaking to her about her own son.

Phoenix, Bus Depot

    My bus draws into the depot, and I’m feeling slightly nervous about the challenges that lie ahead. There is only one man waiting, as the bus finally draws to a halt.
    I know this has to be Aunt Sylvia’s neighbor Isais. I stand up and tug at my backpack; it drops heavily from the overhead parcel shelf onto my seat.
    Making my way down to the front exit, I notice the deep-set eyes of the waiting man scour the length of the bus, presumably in search of me. He hasn’t caught sight of me yet. I start to descend the steps of the bus, and now he’s looking straight at me.
    “Are you Sylvie’s ward, Daniel?” His Native American face lights up, he sure is a good-looking man for an oldie. I mean to say he’s over forty years old.
    “I am, but call me Dan. You must be Isais Bia?”
    “I surely am boy and you can call me Isais.” He chuckles at what he thinks is a witty reply and continues,  “Sylvie will be so glad you’ve arrived safely. She’s been baking pies all day. She’s even tackled a new ‘un, mango and banana. Hell knows what that’ll taste like.” He slaps me on the back heartily. Putting his large arm around my shoulders, he pulls me towards him and hugs me. My internal organs feel as though they have just been squished like an accordion.
    According to my app, he’s six feet five inches and two hundred and seventy pounds. His large frame dwarfs all of my five feet seven inches, one hundred and thirty seven pounds. I can’t help but like this guy, I hope we’re going to be very good friends.
    “Isais, I don’t care what the pie tastes like, I’m starved.”
    “Boy, you sure could do with some of Sylvie’s pies inside you. Fatten you up a bit. Give me your backpack; it looks as though the weight of it is going to snap you in two.” His arm remains tight around my shoulders and I gladly hand over my bag.
    His firm grip assures me that I’m in safe hands. As he guides me through the large bus depot, my feet only make contact with the ground on every second or third step I take. I must look like a puppet or cartoon character.
    Finally we’re out into the warm July night, the parking bays across from the depot are all taken. I couldn’t even take a guess at what this guy’s going to drive. Whatever it is, it’s going to have to be big.
    “That’s my truck over there.” Isais releases his grip on me. His big long legs take such wide strides that I have no alternative but to start running. We cross the street to an old battered Nissan, Isais puts a key into the driver’s door, and the central locking clicks. “Climb in boy, I’ll throw your bag in the back.” Isais opens the rear passenger door and I hear my bag thump onto the seat.
    I climb up into the front passenger side and look around. Brightly colored throws cover the leather seats of the truck and a small leather bound dream catcher hangs from the rear-view mirror. Its blue colored beads catch the street light and its feathers move with a wisp from the warm breeze that’s coming in through the now open driver’s door. There’s a picture of a kid around my age fixed to the dashboard. I wonder if Isais has a son. I wasn’t told about one, but then again maybe it’s for me to find out.
    Isais climbs in, the truck groans gently under his weighty movement, then he starts the engine and we move out into the flow of traffic and head North.
    “How long will it take us to reach Aunt Sylvia’s, Isais?”
    “Twenty minutes ride to Wingate, boy,” says Isais cheerfully.
    “How long have you been a neighbor of Aunt Sylvia’s, or Sylvie as you call her?”
    “Sylvie is my pet name for her. How long? Eh, I’m not sure exactly how long, because it seems as though I’ve known her forever.” Isais scratches his head, as if in a hope that he’s going to come up with the answer to my question. But I think that’s one question he isn’t going to be able to answer.
    Isais and I continued to chat non-stop, like long lost friends, for the journey. The kid in the picture is his son. But it seems I won’t have the pleasure of meeting him. The kid’s the D word, same as me. I felt like such an idiot when I asked about him, but hey ho, I had to ask. We finally turned into a small street located in what I am reliably informed is the older side of town. The wide streets are lined with small single story homes; cacti and palms fill the gardens.
    The truck stops in front of number six, North Orange, Wingate, Scottsdale. The porch lights are on and a woman I can only assume is my new aunt sits on a rocking chair. As I jump out of the truck, she smiles and outstretches her arms. I think I’m going to like her.

No Kissing Required Prologue

No Kissing Required Chapter 1

DOS BESOS

 

    Kissing here in the Canary Islands is part of everyday social interaction. In Spanish culture, kissing friends and even comparative strangers is a normal action when greeting, or saying goodbye to people.
  I don’t mean a great big smacker on the lips or cheek, but an air kiss when two people's cheeks touch, first the right then the left.
  In my homeland of Scotland, kissing was reserved for family, close friends and of course an act of intimacy.
  International Kissing Day ⁄ World Kiss Day, is being celebrated throughout the world today, July 6 2023. So come on, find a quiet corner, purse those gorgeous lips of yours and give someone a special kiss today.
  If that doesn't take your fancy, why not go to Amazon and buy my ebook? I guarantee, No Kissing Required.  https://www.amazon.com/No-Kissing-Required-Salvation-Book-ebook/dp/B08GD315P1