There is no limit to what might be written. The limits come from the space the words must fit into.
The poke controls the pig, only so much will fit.
There is no limit to what might be written. The limits come from the space the words must fit into.
The poke controls the pig, only so much will fit.
They do it in slow-motion, one pinpoint strike drawing one drop of blood per peck.
Aristippus, being asked wherein the learned differed from the unlearned said, “Send them naked to strangers, and you will see”.
Antwerp, Netherlands, 1560 – Ludovico Guicciardini sets pen to paper and reflects on the rapid growth of his city in recent years. He finds much to be pleased with. The city is richer and more populous than ever before. Traders of all sorts are flocking to the expanding market at Antwerp.
What does that mean? Nothing, of course, But doesn’t it sound like it means something? That’s part of the charm of poetry.
A lot of us are uncomfortable meeting strangers, speaking in public, leery even of speaking openly with in-laws at a family holiday.
Remember the toy of pegs & holes? The game was to tap round pegs; square pegs; and triangular pegs into their proper holes? It taught us all, early on, to think of disparate things as components of categories.
“Is it true”, asked Ailil of Medb, “that all is well for the wife of a wealthy man”? Medb snaps back,“What puts this foolish question in your head”?
A man living in the Province of Northumbria returned from the dead to tell what he saw. His story was recorded by Bede in his 731 A.D. book, The Ecclesiastical History of the English People.
My first notice of Achilles came
when I was very young. I had only to reach behind my head to the bookcase that also served as headboard. The encyclopedia’s of Funk & Wagnalls stretched the length of the shelf
Five men stand talking near the center of a cavernous room. Around them are partially completed metal frames and dangling electrical wires.
The morning mist from the Atchafalaya merged naturally with the fragrant steam rising from the chicory-laced coffee.
That’s Charles. That boy always was weak-minded. He’s down there digging up the nuts I just buried fifteen minutes ago.
Martha Jane Canary got her handle, Calamity Jane, because a lot of folks said, “ You get crossways of Martha Jane, you’re courtin’ calamity”.
“Daryl !!! What have you done”? A few fluffy yellow feathers tumble from Kael’s bloody fangs while he wonders at the pathetic stupidity of humans.
Anyone who has suffered through
a confusing, hellishly bizarre, and seemly endless nightmare will already have a sort of introduction to the writings of Franz Kafka.
Don’t know what the argument was about. Don’t even know there was an argument. Might’a been just bar talk.
Once every seventeen years the air
is filled with a cacophony of click-clacking buzzing that seems to be vibrating everywhere at once.
Stories like Eleanor Rigby’s has been repeated over, and over, over the years. If such unfulfilled longing is so typical, why does it seem to us so sad?