Dear Poet Friends, and all true lovers of Jazz!  Being a lover of Classical and Smooth Jazz, I had composed first two parts in Verse on the History and Evolution of Jazz Music. Seeing the poor response of the Readers to my Part One here, I was hesitant to post my Second Part. I would request the Readers to kindly read Part One of this True Story also for complete information. Please do read the Foot Notes. With best wishes, - from Raj Nandy of New Delhi.


THE STORY OF JAZZ MUSIC : PART-II
               BY RAJ NANDY

        NEW ORLEANS : THE CRADLE OF JAZZ
BACKGROUND :
Straddling the mighty bend of the River Mississippi,
Which nicknames it as the ‘Crescent City’;
(Founded in 1718 as a part of French Louisiana
Colony),  -
Stands the city of New Orleans.
New Orleans* gets its name from Phillippe II,
Duc d’ Orleans , the Regent of France ;
A city well known for its music, and fondness
for dance.
The city remained as a French Colony until 1763,
When it got transferred to Spain as a Spanish
Colony.
But in the year 1800, the Spanish through a
secret pact, -
To France had once again ceded the Colony back!
Finally in 1803 the historic ‘Louisiana Purchase’
took place ,
When Napoleon the First sold New Orleans and  
the entire Louisiana State, -
To President Thomas Jefferson of the United
States!     * (See notes below)

THE CONGO SQUARE :
The French New Orleans was a rather liberal
place,
Where slaves were permitted to congregate,
For worship and trading in a market place,
But only on Sabbath Days, - their day of rest!
They had chosen a grassy place at the edge of
the old city,
Where they danced and sang to tom-tom beats,
Located north of the French Quarters across the
Rampart Street,
Which came to be known as the Congo Square,
Where one could hear clapping of hands and
stomping of feet!
There through folk songs, music, and varying
dance forms,
The slaves maintained their native African musical
traditions all along!
African music which remained suppressed in the
Protestant Colonies of the British,
Had found a freedom of expression in the Congo
Square by the natives; -
Through their Bamboula , Calanda, and Congo dance!
The Wolof and Bambara people from Senegal River
area of West Africa,
With their melodious singing and stringed instruments,
Became the forerunners of ‘Blues’ and the Banjo.
And during the Spanish Era, slaves from the Central
African Forest Culture of Congo,
Who with their hand-drummed polyrhythmic beats ,
Made people from Havana to Harlem  to rise and
dance on their feet!       (see notes below)

CULTURAL MIX :
After the Louisiana Purchase , English-speaking
Anglo and African-Americans flooded that State.
Due to cultural friction with the Creoles, the new-
comers settled ‘uptown’,
Creating an American Sector, separate from older
Creole ‘down-town’ !
This black American influx in the uptown had
ushered in,
The elements of the Blues, Spirituals, and rural
dances into New Orleans’ musical scene.
Now these African cultural expressions gradually
diversified, -
Into Mardi Indian traditions, and the Second Line.^^
And eventually into New Orleans’ Jazz and Blues;
As New Orleans became a cauldron of a rich
cultural milieu!

THE CREOLES :
The Creoles were not immigrants but were home-
bred;
They were the bi-racial children of their French
Masters and their African women slaves!
Creole subculture was centred in New Orleans.
But after the Louisiana Purchase of 1803,  -
The Creoles rose to the highest rung of Society! @
They lived on the east of Canal Street in the
French Sector of the city.
Many Creole musicians were formally trained in
Paris,
Had played in Opera Houses there, and later led
Brass Bands in New Orleans.
Jelly Roll Morton, Kid Oliver, and Sidney Bechet
were all famous Creoles;
About whom I now write as this true Jazz Story
gradually unfolds.
In sharp contrast on the west of Canal Street lived
the ***** musicians,
Who lacked the economic advantages the Creoles
possessed and had!
The Negroes were schooled in the Blues, Work Songs ,
and Gospel Music;
And played by the ear with improvisation as their
unique characteristic !
But in 1894 when Jim Crow’s racial segregation
laws came into force,     # (see notes below)
The Creoles were forced to move West of Canal
Street to live with the Negroes.
This mingling lighted a ‘musical spark’ creating
a lightening musical flash;
Igniting the flames of a ‘new music’ which was
later called ‘Jazz’ !

INFLUENCE OF THE EARLY BRASS BANDS:
Those Brass Bands of the Civil War which played the
‘marching tunes’ ,
Became the precursors of New Orleans’ Brass Bands,
which later played at funeral marches, dance halls,
and saloons !
After the end of the Civil War those string and wind
instruments and drums, -
Were available in the second-hand stores and pawn
shops within reach of the poor, for a small tidy sum!
Many small bands mushroomed, and each town had
its own band stand and gazebos;
Entertained the town folks putting up a grand show!
Early roots of Jazz can be traced to these Bands and
their leaders like Buddy Bolden, King Oliver, Bunk
Johnson, and Kid Orley;
Not forgetting Jack 'Pappa' Laine’s Brass Band
leading the way of our Jazz Story !
The Original Dixieland Band of the cornet player
'Nick' La Rocca,
Was the first ever Jazz Band to entertain US Service
Men in World War-I and also to play in European
theatre, came later.     (In 1916)
I plan to mention the Harlem Renaissance in my
Part Three,
Till then dear Readers kindly bear with me!

CONTRIBUTION OF STORYVILLE :
In the waning years of the 19th Century,
When Las Vegas was just a farming community,
The actual ‘sin city’ lay 1700 miles East, in the
heart of New Orleans!
By Alderman Story’s Ordinance of 1897,
A 20-block area got legalized and confined,  
To the French Quarters on the North Eastern side
called ‘Storyville’, a name acquired after him!
This 'red light' area resounded with a new
seductive music ‘jassing up’ one and all;
Which played in its Bordello, Saloons, and the
Dance Halls !         (refer  my Part One)
Now the best of Bordellos hired a House Pianist,
who also greeted guests, and was a musical
organizer;
Whom the girls addressed respectfully as -
‘The Professor’!
Jelly Roll Morton, Tony Jackson author of
‘Pretty Baby’, and Frank ‘Dude’ Amacher, -
Were all well-known Storyville’s ‘Professors’.
Early jazz men who played in Storyville’s Orchestra
and Bands are now all musical legends;
Like ‘King’ Oliver, Buddy Bolden, Kid Orley, Bunk
Johnson, and Sydney Bechet.      ++ (see notes below)
Louis Armstrong who was born in New Orleans,
As a boy had supplied coal to the ‘cribs’ of
Storyville !          ^ (see notes below)
Louis had also played in the bar for $1.25 a night;
Surely the contribution of Storyville to Jazz Music
can never be denied!
But when America joined the First World War in
1917,
A Naval Order was issued to close down Storyville;
Since waging war was more important than making
love the Order had said !
And from the port of New Orleans US Warships
had subsequently set sail.
Here I now pause my friends to take a break.
Part Three of this story is yet to be composed,
Will depend on my Reader’s response !
Please do read below the handy Foot Notes.
Thanks from Raj Nandy of New Delhi.

FOOT NOTES:-
New Orleans one of the oldest of cosmopolitan city of Louisiana, also the 18th State of US, & a major port.
Louisiana was sold by France for $15 Million, & was later realized to be a great achievement of Thomas Jefferson!
Many African Strands of Folk Music & Dance forms had merged at the Congo Square.
^^ ’Second Line Music’= Bands playing during funerals & marches, evoked voluntary crowd participation, with songs and dances as appropriate forming a ''Second Line'' from behind.
@ Those liberal French Masters offered the Creoles the best of Education with access to their White Society!
# ’Jim Crow'= Between 1892 & 1895, 'Blacks' gained political prominence in Southern States. In 1896 land-rich whites disenfranchised the Blacks completely! A 25 year's long hatred
& racial segregation began. Tennessee led by passing the ‘Jim Crow’ Law ! In 1896, Supreme Court upheld this Law with -  ‘’Separate But Equal’’ status for the Blacks. Thus segregation became a National Institution! This segregation divided the Black & White Musicians too!
+ Birth of Jazz was a slow and an evolving process, with Blues and Ragtime as its precursor!    “Jazz Is Quintessence of  Afro-American Music born on European Instruments.”
++ Jelly ‘Roll’ Morton (1885-1941) at 17 years played piano in the brothels, – applying swinging syncopation to a variety of music; a great 'transitional figure' between Ragtime & Jazz Piano-style.
++ BUDDY BOLDEN (1877-1931) = his cornet improvised by adding ‘Blues’ to Ragtime in Orleans  during 1900-1907, which later became Jazz! BUNK JOHNSON (1879-1849 ) = was a pioneering jazz trumpeter who inspired Louis Armstrong.  KID OLIVER (1885-1938) =Cornet player and & a Band-leader, mentor & teacher of Louis Armstrong; pioneered use of ‘mute’ in music! ‘Mute’ is a device fitted to instruments to alter the timber or tonal quality, reducing the sound, or both.
KID ORLEY (1886-1973) : a pioneering Trombonist, developed the '‘tailgate style’' playing rhythmic lines underneath the trumpet & cornet, propagating Early Jazz.  SYDNEY BECHET (1897-1959) = pioneered the use of Saxophone; a composer & a soloist, inspired Armstrong. His pioneering style got his name in the ‘Down Beat Jazz Hall of Fame’! LOUIS ARMSTRONG (1890-1971) = Trumpeter, singer, & great improviser. First international soloist, who took New Orleans Jazz Music to the World!  
% = After America joined WW-I in 1917, a Naval Order was issued to shut-down  Storyville, to check the spread of VD amongst sailors!
^^ ”Cribs”= cheap residential buildings where prostitutes rented rooms. Louis Armstrong as a boy supplied coal in those ‘Cribs’.
During the 1940 s  Storyville was raised to the ground to make way for Iberville Federal Housing Project.
ALL COPYRIGHTS RESERVED BY THE AUTHOR : RAJ NANDY **
E-Mail : rajnandy21@yahoo.in

Dear Poet Friends, I had posted Part One of the Story of Jazz Music in Verse few months back on this Site. Today I am posting Part Two of this Story in continuation. Even if you had not read part one of this true story, this one will still be an interesting portion to read especially for all lovers of music, and for knowing about America's rich cultural heritage. I love smooth & cool jazz mainly, not the hard & acid kind! Kindly do read the ‘Foot Notes’ at the end to know how the word ‘Jass’ became ‘Jazz’ way back in History. Hope to bring out a book later with photographs. Thanks, - Raj Nandy, New Delhi.


STORY OF JAZZ MUSIC  IN VERSE PART – II

    NEW ORLEANS : THE CRADLE OF JAZZ
BACKGROUND:
Straddling the mighty bend of the River Mississippi,
Which nicknames it as the ‘Crescent City’;
Founded in the year 1718, as a part of French Louisiana
colony.
New Orleans* gets its name from Phillippe II, Duc d’ Orleans,
the Regent of France;
A city well known for its music, and fondness for dance!
The city remained as a French Colony until 1763,
When it got transferred to Spain as a Spanish Colony.
But in 1800, those Spanish through a secret pact,
To France had once again ceded the colony back!
Finally in the year 1803, the historic ‘Louisiana Purchase’
had taken place, -
When Napoleon First of France sold New Orleans and the
entire Louisiana State,
To President Thomas Jefferson of the United States!
(See Notes below)

THE CONGO SQUARE:
The French New Orleans was a rather liberal place,
Where slaves were permitted to congregate,
To worship and for trading in a market place, on
Sabbath Days, their day of rest.
They had chosen a grassy place at the edge of the
old city ,
Where they danced and sang to tom-tom beats,
Located north of the French Quarters across the
Rampart Street;
Which came to be known as the Congo Square,
Where you could hear clapping of hands and
stomping of feet!
There through folk songs, music, and varying dance
forms, -
The slaves maintained their native African musical
traditions all along!
African music which remained suppressed in the
Protestant colonies of the British,
Had found a freedom of expression in the Congo Square
by the natives, -
Through their Bamboula, Calanda, and Congo dance forms
to the drum beats of their native music.
The Wolof and Bambara people from Senegal River of West
Africa, -
With their melodious singing and stringed instruments,
Became the forerunners of ‘Blues’ and the string banjo.
And during the Spanish Era slaves from the Central African
forest culture of Congo, -
Who with their hand-drummed poly-rhythmic beats,  
Made people from Havana to Harlem to rise up and dance
on their feet!   * (see notes below)

CULTURAL MIX:
After the Louisiana Purchase, English-speaking Anglo and
African-Americans flooded that State.
Due to cultural friction with the Creoles, the new-comers
settled ‘Uptown’,
Creating an American sector separate from older Creole
‘Downtown’.
This black American influx ‘Uptown’ brought in the elements
of the blues, spirituals, and rural dances into New Orleans’
musical scene.
These African cultural expressions had gradually diversified,
into Mardi Gras tradition and the ‘Second Line’. ^^ (notes below)
And finally blossomed into New Orleans’ jazz and blues;
As New Orleans became a cauldron of a rich cultural milieu!

THE CREOLES:
The Creoles were not immigrants but were home-bred.
They were the bi-racial children of their French masters
and their African women slaves!
Creole subculture was centred in New Orleans after the
Louisiana Purchase of 1803,
When the Creoles rose to the highest rung of society!
They lived on the east of Canal Street in the French
Sector of the city.   @ (see notes below)
Many Creole musicians were formally trained in Paris.
Played in opera houses there, and later led Brass Bands
in New Orleans.
Jelly Roll Morton, Kid Oliver, and Sidney Bechet were
famous Creoles,
About whom I shall write as this Story unfolds.
In sharp contrast on the west of Canal Street lived the
***** musicians;
But they lacked the economic advantages the Creoles
already had!
They were schooled in the Blues, Work songs, and Gospel
music .
And played by the ear with improvisation as their unique
characteristic,
As most of them were uneducated and could not read.
Now in 1894, when Jim Crow’s racial segregation laws
came into force,       # (see notes below)
The Creoles were forced to move west of Canal Street to
live with the Negroes!
This racial mingling lighted a ‘musical spark’ creating a
lightening flash, -
Igniting the flames of a ‘new music’ which was later came
to be known as JAZZ !

CONTRIBUTION OF STORYVILLE :
In the waning years of the 19th Century, when Las Vegas
was just a farming community,
The actual ‘sin city’ lay 1,700 miles East, in the heart of
New Orleans!
By Alderman Story’s Ordinance of 1897,  a 20-block area
had got legalised and confined, -
To the French Quarters on the North Eastern side called
‘Storyville’,   - a name which was acquired after him.
This red light area resounded with a new seductive music
‘jassing up’ one and all;
Which played in its bordellos, saloons, and dance halls!
The best of bordellos hired a House Pianist who greeted
guests and was also a musical organizer;
Whom the girls addressed respectfully as ‘The Professor’!
Jelly Roll Morton++, Tony Jackson author of  ‘Pretty Baby’,
and Frank ‘Dude’ Amacher, -
Were all well known Storyville’s  ‘Professors’!
Early jazz men who played in Storyville’s Orchestras and Bands
now form a part of Jazz Legend;
Like ‘King’ Oliver, Buddy Bolden, Kid Orley, Bunk Johnson,
and Sydney Bechet.    ++ (see notes below)
Louis Armstrong who was born in New Orleans, as a boy had
supplied coal to the ‘cribs’ of Storyville!   ^ (see notes)
He had also played in the bar for $1.25 a night,
Surely the contribution of Storyville to Jazz cannot be denied!
But when America joined the First World War in 1917,
A Naval Order was issued to close down Storyville!   % (notes)
Since waging war was more important than making love,
this Order had said;
And from the port of New Orleans the US Warships had
set sail!
Here I pause my friends to take a break, will continue
the Story of Jazz in part three, at a later date.
                                               -Raj Nandy, New Delhi
FOOT NOTES :-
NEW ORLEANS one of the oldest cosmopolitan city of Louisiana,
the 18th State of US , & a  major port city.
LOUISIANA was sold by France for $15 million, which was later
realised to be a great achievement of President Jefferson.
*Many African strands of Folk music and dance had merged at the
Congo Square!
^^ ‘SECOND LINE MUSIC’ = Bands playing during Funerals & Marches evoked voluntary crowd participation, with songs & dances as appropriate forming a ‘Second Line’ from behind.
@ =THOSE LIBERAL FRENCH MASTERS OFFERED THE CREOLES THE BEST OF EDUCATION WITH ACCESS TO WHITE SOCIETY!
#’JIM CROW’= between 1892&1895, blacks gained political prominence in Southern States. In 1896 LAND-RICH WHITES DISENFRANCHISED THE BLACK COMPLETELY! A 25 YRS LONG HATRED &RACIAL SEGREGATION BEGAN. TENNESSEE LED BY PASSING ‘JIM CROW LAW’. IN 1896, THE SUPREME COURT UPHELD THIS LAW WITH ITS ‘’SEPARATE BUT EQUAL’’ STATUS FOR THE BLACKS ! THUS SEGREGATION BECAME A NATIONAL INSTITUTION. THIS SEGREGATION DIVIDED THE BLACK & WHITE MUSICIANS ALSO.
+ BIRTH OF JAZZ WAS A SLOW AND EVOLVING PROCESS, WITH BLUES AND RAGTIME AS ITS PRECURSORS . “JAZZ WAS QUINTESSENCE OF AFRO-AMERICAN MUSIC BORN ON EUROPEAN INSTRUMENTS.”  See my ‘Part One’ for definitions.
++ JELLY ‘Roll’ Morton (1885-1941): At 17 yrs played piano in the brothels, applying swinging syncopation to a variety of music; a great Transitional Figure- between Ragtime & Jazz Piano-style.  ++ BUDDY BOLDEN (1877-1931): His cornet improvised by adding ‘Blues’ to Ragtime in Orleans; which between the years 1900 & 1907 transformed into  Jazz! BUNK JOHNSON (1879-1849): pioneering jazz trumpeter, inspired Louis Armstrong; lost all teeth & played with his dentures! KING OLIVER(1885-1938): Cornet player & bandleader, mentor& teacher of Louis Armstrong; pioneered use of ‘mute’ in music. KID ORY(1886-1973): a pioneering Trombonist, he developed the ‘tailgate style’ playing rhythmic lines underneath the trumpet & the cornet, propagating early Jazz !
SYDNEY BECHET (1897-1959): pioneered the use of SAX; a composer & a soloist, he inspired Louis Armstrong. His pioneering style got his name in the Down Beat Jazz Hall of Fame!
Louis Armstrong(1890-1971): was a trumpeter, singer and a great
improviser. Also as the First International Soloist took New Orleans music to the World!
% = After  America joined WW-I in 1917,  a Naval Order was issued to shutdown Storyville in order to check the spread of VD amongst sailors.
^ ’cribs”= cheap residential buildings where prostitutes rented rooms.
# "JASS" = originally an Africa-American slang meaning ‘***’ ! Born in the brothels of Storyville (New Orleans)  & the Jasmine perfumes used by the girls there; one visiting them was  said to be 'jassed-up' . Mischievous boys rubbed out the letter ‘J’ from posters outside announcing  "Live Jass Shows'', making it to read as ‘'Live *** Shows'’! So finally ‘ss’ of ‘jass’ got replaced by 'zz' of JAZZ .
DURING THE 1940s  STORYVILLE  WAS RAISED TO THE GROUND TO MAKE WAY FOR ‘IBERVILLE FEDERAL HOUSING PROJECT’ .
  * ALL COPYRIGHTS RESERVED BY THE AUTHOR : RAJ NANDY

Indigo. A dream of the color, and the sound of soft rain. Bathing birds babbled among pines beyond her window, and morning light was warm on her closed face. An ache in the spine. Creaking knees. Shoulders cold cliff-rock. Complaining muscles knotted tight as wood. The wooden house around her also creaked in the wind. Smelled wet. And somewhere echoing through her fields Edgar barked three times, then once more in playful affirmation. Today maybe the last today. In her mind’s eye, falling almost back into dream, Nora surveyed the long acres surrounding her cold home: untended wheat, alfalfa, cattle-corn, all woven through untold ecosystems of weeds. Stray indigo flowers and violets. Scattered dust-filled barns. What the place might look like after all this time. With her right hand she sought the frame of the bed, found it, rough chips of paint flaking. Slowly exhaling at once Nora lifted her iron legs over the edge, thin-socked feet found the bedroom’s planks. Cold air. November hopelessness. With spider-sensitive fingers she plucked her way around the room, imagining violet dawn spilling through her screen window. Stood before the poker-faced mirror out of habit, ran her brush through hair that must now be silver. She felt the satisfying tug on her scalp and loudly past her ears. If her dresser was in front of her, to her right was the window and the pine-scented boxes where she kept his clothes, behind was her rumpled bed, and to her left then was the bathroom. She felt along the door-frame, the sink, the toilet, and sighingly she settled onto its seat. Relief.
Rain drops on her roof were like the “shh” breathed to an infant. Warm blanket of rain over the cold farm. The breathy wind was driving the rain towards her house, cranky knees told of a storm to come. The boisterous wind had the sound of laughter and strife, of voices: the twins arguing somewhere, Edgar probably with them over-enthusiasticly ******* their footsteps. The bellowing wind made the house creak more than usual, but there was something else. A distinctive groan from the foundation up the east wall to the roof-tiles. Someone was in the kitchen. Constance, just like it used to be. Connie was here and the twins were outside: they had arrived closer to dawn than Nora expected. Heavy truck’s tires in mud, headlights had pioneered dawn darkness. Smell of soil. Massaged her own back, kneaded the the flesh on either side of her spine, then wiped and stood from the seat letting her nightgown fall all down around her knotted ankles. Washed herself, and a short shower before the water turned cold. Dried her wrinkles feelingly, smelling soap, and pulled her soft nightgown back on. Socks.
Always a joy whenever Constance came to call — less frequently these days it seemed — always a joy to be with her grandchildren though little Bastian was still mistrustful of her. Always a joy to see her daughter’s family… but she never got to see Matt’s. An image of her son’s face, a red haired ghost of the past, flickered in Nora’s memory. He couldn’t stand this place since he was young, hated his full name “Matthias,” maybe hated Nora too. No reason to stay after his father died. He fled to the city. Must have a wife, several children by now. Well. At least Constance kept coming by. The rain grew heavier, played on the roof like the roll of a snare drum.
Out of the bathroom and bedroom, feeling the planks of floorboard with her soles, hand by hand and foot by foot she traced her steps down the rickety stairs. Uneven. Nora knew the chandelier she once hung here was red; she pictured the color as hard as she could to envision its reflection on each surface of the stairwell. Smell of pine. Like the smell of his clothes safely preserved in the boxes by the window. Jagged nostalgia. Nora had met dear Rowan back in another world: a world of whirling sights and colors and beautiful ugliness and ugliest beauty all. To America when she was nineteen, leaving behind all Germany and studying her new tongue. Had still devoured books then, was able to become a school teacher. When twenty-three, met in a chance cafe Rowan who worked the docks. Red hair. Scottish but of many American generations. Nora grabbed blindly at a face just out of memory’s reach. Her hold on the bannister revealed the places where varnish had been rubbed away by her wringing hands. From the kitchen, acrid cigarette stench and shuffling. Inflamed knees hating her meticulous descent, but better this ordeal each day than to abandon the bedroom they had shared. When the two met, Rowan still sent money to his agricultural folks in New York (“Upstate,” he protested more than once, “Not that awful city, but in the countryside!” and he’d pantomime a deep breath) because of the expenses of running their farm. Nora’s now. From the cafe he had bought her an almond pastry, triangular, smaller than a palm, its sweet crisp flakes made her think of Mediterranean forests, and when the two were married they worked this hereditary farm. Nora knew all the animals, when they still kept livestock. Now Nora’s farm, whose after? When her little Matthias was born they had praised him as the farm’s inheritor. Unwise.
Last step. Sound from the kitchen of Connie shifting in her seat, rustling papers. Smell of strong coffee. Strong cigarettes. Composed herself, quietly cleared throat. Sauntered down the hallway, monitoring expression and tone. Nora said, “Hello Constance. When did you three get here?”
“Hey ma,” said the woman’s voice when the elder crossed into the kitchen. “For christ’s sake don’t call me that.”
“For christ’s sake, don’t take his name,” Ma scolded, but then traced her way past the table to the countertop and felt about for utensils. “I’ll make you something Connie.” The counter was in front of her, bathroom to the left, stove to her right and along that same wall was the back door. ”How about some nice eggs and toast like how you like.”
“No ma, I handled it already.”
“And what color is that hair of yours this time?” Ma asked, carefully inserting slices of bread into the toaster. “Seems like months you haven’t been by.”
A patronising, sarcastic chuckle. “…it’s orange, ma.
Listen—”
“That is so nice. Your father’s hair was just that shade of orange.” Felt around inside the refrigerator. The styrofoam carton. Small and cold and round, her fingers seized four of them. “Do you remember?”
Pause. “I remember, ma.”
“What I don’t understand,” said Ma swallowing a cough, expertly igniting one gas burner as practiced and putting on hot water for tea, “is why you don’t fix to keep it natural. I love our nice fair hair, very blonde, very pretty.” Back home in Germany Nora had been the favorite of two men, but many years since engaging in the frivolous antics she in those days entertained. “Best to flaunt your natural hair color while it’s still there: orange like Matt and dear Rowan, or fair like you and Lorelai got.” Memories of her own face as she remembered it. Relatively young the last time she had seen. What wrinkles there must be. What a mask to wear. No wonder Bastian. Nora ignited another burner. Tick tick tick fwoosh. Smelled gas. Sound of the almost boiling water complaining against its kettle. Phantom taste of anticipated tea. Regret. The contents of the vial hidden on the top shelf. Today maybe the. Sound of heavy rain. “And how are your bundles of mischief?”
Connie sighed. “I told Lorelai to get her little **** inside the house, as if she hears a word. She’s playing with Ed somewhere in the fields I don’t wonder, rain be ******. That girl is such a little — well she’d better not be down by the creek anyhow. Could get flooded in a downpour like this. Bastian was out with her, but he’s playing in his room now. You know we don’t have time to stay long today, it’s just that you and I got to finally square this business away. No more deliberating, ok?”
Swallowed. “Course, Constance. Just nice to hear your voice. You’re taking care?”
“Care enough. Last time I was — oh! Jesus, ma!”
Ma’s egg missed the pan’s edge. She felt herself shatter the shell into the stove top, in her mind’s eye saw the bright orange yolk squeezed into the albumen. The burner hissed against liquid intrusion. Connie made a strained noise and scooped her mother into a seat at the table. Movement. Crisply, the sound of two fresh eggs being broken and sizzling on the pan. Scrambled as orange as Connie’s guarded temper. The table’s cool surface. Phantom smell of pine wood polish and recollections of Rowan at his woodworking tools building this table once. Other breakfasts. Young Constance, young Matthias. Young self. Her left hand massaged her aching right shoulder, then she switched. The sound of plates being readjusted with unnecessary force.
“You know,” said her daughter, “living in one of them places might even be fun. Might be good for you instead of moping about this place. But like I’ve been saying, we got to make our decision today: sell this place or pass it on. I know you don’t take no walk, cause where would you go? What’s the point in keeping all this **** land if you’re not gonna do nothing with it? You can’t even ******* see it!”
“Constance! Language!”
“Come on ma, just cut it out! This is great property, and you’ve let it get so it’s bleeding money.”
“…But Constance I can’t sell it, not like your brother wants me to do. He’s always trying to get rid of this place and turn a profit, but someone needs to take care of it! You know that this is the house that your f—“
“‘That your grandparents lived in where your father and I raised you…’ Yeah I know, ma. And I get it. Believe me. But what you’re doing is just plain impractical, why don’t you think about it? All you’re doing is haunting this place like a ghost. Wouldn’t you rather live somewhere where you can make friends? Things can’t go on like this.” A plate was placed softly on the table and it slid in front of Ma. Can’t go on like this. Egg smell. Salted. Toast, margarine. A cup of tea appeared nearby. “Anything else you want? Here’s a fork.”
“What will you eat, Constance?”
“I ate, ma, I ate already. Have your breakfast, then we can talking about this for real. Ok?” Then, the sound of her daughter’s body shifting in surprise, a pleasant unexpected, “Oh,” before Connie said low and matronly, “Hi baby, how you doing? Are you hungry?” But only the sound of the downpour. Orange eggs still softly sizzled. The wind pushed the creaking house. “Sweetie, you don’t have to hide behind the door, it’s ok. Come say hi to grandma… don’t you want some scrambled eggs?” Refrigerator’s hum. Barking echoed, coming over the hill. But not even the little boy’s breathing. Grandma had met the twins two years ago, following the **** of Constance’s rebellious years and independence. Nora was reminded of her german gentlemen and her own amply tumultuous adolescence. She could forgive. Two years ago Lorelai and Bastian had already been too big to cradle and fawn over, but they were discovered to be just starting school and already bright pupils. Grandma hung her head. Warm steam from where the uneaten eggs waited patiently. Edgar’s approaching yapping. And, fleeing from the doorway, a scampering of feet so light they might have been moth wings. Down the hallway back into his room. “Sorry ma,” said Constance.
Shrugged. A nerve flared in pain up her neck but she didn’t react. Only fork scrape. Ate eggs. On introduction, poor little Bastian had burst into tears and refused to go near her. Connie had consoled: “It’s ok baby, she’s just Grandma Nora! She’s my mother.” But poor little Bastian inconsolable: “No, no, no! She’s not!” What a wrinkled mask it must be. How hideous unkempt with silver hair. How horrible unflinching eyes. “She’s not,” would sob the quiet boy in earnest, “she’s a witch! Don’t you see?” And he never would let Grandma hold him. Lorelai was always polite, hugged warmly, looked after her pitiable brother, but her mind too was far elsewhere. Edgar alone loved them all unconditionally and was equally beloved. Barking. Yowling. Scratches at the door. Downpour. Door and screen door opened, wet dog happy dog entered, shook, and droplets on her cheek.
And there appeared Lorelai, a star out of sight. “Hey mom. Hi grandma!”
Grandma swiveled for cosmetic reasons to face where the door. Grinned, “Hello Lorelai. Wet?” Envisioned yellow sunlight entering with the excitable girl in spite of the deluge.
“Oh it’s so rainy out there grandma, I found little streams through your fields and big mud puddles and Edgar showed me where your secret treasure was, we found it!”
“Stop right there, missy!” commanded Constance. “For christ’s sake you look like you took a bath in the mud and the **** dog with you. Come on, your filthy coat needs to be on the rack, right? Now your boots.”
Warm nose found Nora’s palm, excited lapping. Slimy fur, smelly fur. A cold piece of egg dangled in her fingers, then dog breath came hot and licked it up. Satisfied, he trotted off elsewhere, collar jingling out of the kitchen and down the hall.
Little Lorelai lamented, “I couldn’t help it mom, the mud was all over the place! When we got past the motor barn and the one alfalfa field that looks like a big marsh frogs went ‘croak croak croak’ but Edgar growled and chased them and then we made it all the way in the rain to the creek and it’s so much—”
“Now you just hold on. Hold still!” Sounds of wrestling. Grunts of a struggle. “That creek must have been overflowing! Didn’t I tell you not to? You didn’t take your new phone out there did you, Lori?”
“No ma’am.”
“**** right you didn’t, cause I sure ain’t buying you a new one. Didn’t I tell you not to go all the way out there? Didn’t I? Now you get into that bathroom and wash your **** hands!”
“But I’m telling Grandma a story!” huffed little yellow haired Lorelai.
“Well wash your hands first and then we’ll hear it, Grandma don’t listen to misbehaving girls who are all muddy and gross. Not a squeak from you till you look like you come from heaven instead of that nasty creek.”
A profound sigh, a condescending, “Fine,” a door closing and a squeaky faucet running. Muffled hands splashed, dampened off-key ‘la la la’s.
“Who knows what the hell that one is ever talking about,” said Connie. “It’s everything I can do to get her to shut up for five ******* minutes. You done with your eggs?”
Ma fidgeted. The plate was scraped away, and a clunk by the sink. Licked her lips, mouthed a syllable, about to speak. But then her house creaked three strong along the east wall. From deeper within bubbled a suppressed sob: “Mom,” little Bastian wailed, “Mom, come quick!” Constance sighed, Constance cursed, and Constance swept off down the hallway struggling to refrain from stomping.
Sound of washing. Wind. Rain. Alone. Cold. Picking out the paint for this room, listed in gloss as ‘golden straw yellow.’ Rowan hadn’t liked it and chose himself the bedroom’s color in retaliation. The loss of the home they had built together. The contents of the vial hidden on the top shelf: do they see it? Bathroom sink stopped flowing, door wrenched open. Smell of soap, clean smell. Grandma said to her, “Your mother went to check on Bastian,” Taste of eggs still yellow on her tongue.
“What a *****!”
Stunned. “Lorelai!” she snapped. “Don’t you dare take that language!”
“But mom does it all the time.”
“Then Lorelai, it’s up to you to be better than your mother. When I’m not around any more, and your mother neither, you’ll be the one who keeps us alive.”
“But as long as you’re alive you’ll always be around, you’re not a ***** like mom. And remember? I got all the mud off so can I finally tell you can I what we found? Well actually it was Edgar found it. Oh and I’ll describe it real good for you grandma just like you could see it: when we pulled up we were just wandering in the blue rain, Bastian and me, and silly Edgar joined us but Mom tried to make us come back of course but I told Bastian to stay with us at first, but later I changed my mind on it. It was he and me and Edgar were hiding in the old motor barn where it smells like a gas station remember grandma and he was so excited to see the sun when it rose and made the morning violet sky he started clapping and Edgar got excited too and was barking ‘bark bark’ and howling so I told Bastian to go back even

AN INTRODUCTION TO THE STUDY
OF HISTORY IN VERSE : PART ONE
              BY RAJ NANDY
              INTRODUCTION
The very mention of History brings to mind
many civilizations, its wars, with endless
succession of ruling dynasties and kings;
Its many dates and events, which appear to be
rather dull and boring!
“If history were taught in the form of stories, it
would never be forgotten”, said Rudyard Kipling!
So if a good teacher of History narrates those
events like a story within a broad chronological
frame work,
While skillfully linking the present in light of the
past;
Mentioning both important and lesser known
interesting facts to arouse the interest of his
class; -
History would be better appreciated by us!
Perhaps in its narrowest sense, History may be
viewed only as a chronological succession of
dates and past events!
But let me assure you that History is a dynamic
linear progression, adapting and evolving with
changing times,
As present recedes into the past all the while!
These changes could be environmental, socio-
economic, or political changes faced by mankind.
But we remain as a living part of History all the
while!
Yet while we live through History, we fail to realize
the impact we make upon history and time;
And this is perhaps the very magic and enigma of
History,
Which occasionally lends it a touch of mystery!
Our family album is a record of our history we
create and leave behind at the micro level;
Just as past civilizations have left behind their imprints
in their architecture, statues, literature, and works
of art at the macro level !
History breathes and speaks to us from the distant
past,
If only we could pause to hear its unspoken words,
As the Romantic poet John Keats had once heard!
Keats’  “Ode on a Grecian Urn” composed during
early 19th century, -
Harks back to the Classical Age of Greek History!
Keats waxes eloquent in his description of pastoral
scenes painted on the urn which lies frozen in time;
While Keats leaves behind his exalted and eternal
aesthetic message - ‘Beauty is Truth and Truth
Beauty’, - which shall outlive our mortal time!
So it is with History, like the Grecian urn the past  
remains eternalized in time with its lessons and
stories;
While it beckons us to unravel her mysteries!
For the historian, the architect, the geologist,
the anthropologist, scholars and the artist,
‘’History is a continuous dialogue between
the present and the past’’;
As observed by the English historian and
diplomat EW Carr.
Even though we cannot change the past, we can
surely absorb the lessons it has left behind for us!
The Spanish born American philosopher George
Santayana had said; -
“Those who cannot remember the past are
condemned to repeat it!”
The Dutch philosopher Soren Kierkegaard had
once remarked; -
“Life must be lived forward, but it can only be
understood backward.”
So let us learn from past History to create a
better future for humanity.
For the past gives us a sense of belonging
and an identity;
Since our very roots lie enshrined in History!
By the time you complete reading my entire
composition,
I hope to convert you into a Lover of History
by broadening your perception!

HISTORICAL BACKGROUND OF HISTORY!
Ancient Greece, the cradle of Western Civilization
during the 6th century BC, -
Saw the birth of Philosophy!
Thales of Miletus, Anaximenes, and Anaximander,
from the Greek colony of Ionia on the west coast
of Asia Minor,  (now Turkey)
Broke the previous shackles of all mythical and
superstitious explanations.
With their questioning mind and rational thinking
they sought,  -
To seek the real behind the apparent, and substance
behind the shadow;
By seeking natural and logical reasons for explaining
natural phenomena, -
Free from all previous religious and mythical
interpretations!
Thus, these Milesian School of thinkers in their quest
for truth with their intellectual lust, -
Gave rise to ‘philosophia’, Greek word for ‘love
of truth’, an early birth!
Subsequently, this newly born Greek Philosophy with
its progressive thoughts inspired scientific methods
of inquiry;
Along with Logic, trial by Jury, and the very concept
of Democracy!
The Greeks also inspired Literature, History, Tragedy,
Comedy, the Olympic Games, Astronomy, and Geometry!
Around 500 BC the Greek written script had stabilized,
going from left to right;
And the first addition of vowel letters by the Greeks
to the adopted Phoenician consonants, can never
be denied!
The first two Greek letters ‘alpha’ and ‘beta’ which
gave the name to our Alphabets forms a part of
early History.
Now Herodotus, during the 5th century BC, had
inherited this intellectual Greek Legacy!

HERODOTUS – ‘THE FATHER OF HISTORY’
Herodotus is said to have been born in the ancient
Dorian Greek city of Halicarnassus in south-west
Asia Minor, which is now Turkey;
During the latter half of 5th century BC!
During his days, the city was under the rule of Persia;
Since the Persians had captured the Greek colonies
in Asia Minor!
Frequent revolts by these colonies against the
Persians with help from Athens,
Made the Persian King Darius, and later his son
Xerxes, - decide to invade Athens!
The Persians also wanted to extend their Empire
into Europe across the Bosporus Strait, -
Which divided Asia from Europe in those days!

In 490 BC, when the massive Persian army of King
Darius landed at Marathon as assured victors;
The Athenian running courier Pheidippides ran
150 miles in two days, to seek help from Sparta!
Again later, he ran 25 miles from the battlefield
near Marathon to Athens, to announce that the
Greeks became the final victors!
This historic run by Pheidippides gave rise to the
discipline of Marathon, in our Olympic Games
later on!
Such Marathon runs are now held in many cities
of the world annually,
Thus we remain connected with our past as you
can clearly see!
Years later in 425 BC, Herodotus narrated these
invasions in his famous narrative ‘Histories’.
Cicero the Roman scholar, philosopher and orator,
Had called Herodotus the ‘Father of History’ many
centuries later!
Very little is known about Herodotus’ early life,
But from historical evidence which survive,
We learn about his stay in Athens, and his many
wanderings;
Visiting Egypt, Libya, Syria, Babylon, Susa in Elam,
Lydia, and Phrygia;
Collecting information which he called ‘autopsies’
or ‘personal inquiries’, and hearing many stories;
Prior to composing his famous ‘Histories’!

“THE HISTORIES”: HERODOTUS (430-425BC)
This was written in prose in the Iconic dialect of
Classical Greek,
Covers the background, causes, and events of the
Greco-Persian Wars between 490 and 479 BC.  
Scholars divided the entire work into 9 Books, with
each dedicated to a Greek Muse, - those goddesses
of art and knowledge,
Thereby the Homeric tradition they did acknowledge!
For example, Book-I was dedicated to Calliope, the
Muse of Epic Poetry, and Book-II to Clio, the Muse
of History.
Herodotus begins his narration with these following
words;-
“Here is the account of the inquiry of Herodotus of
Halicarnassus in order that the deeds of men not be
erased by time, and that the great and miraculous
works – both of the Greeks and the barbarians not
go unrecorded.”
Now Herodotus with his lucid narrative style, had
pioneered the writing of History with a specific
framework of space and time!
His style got emulated by later writers of History,
Who improved their narration with better authentic
source and methodology;
Thereby giving birth to the subject of ‘Historiography’.
(Historiography = critical examination of source & selection
of authentic material, synthesis of particulars into a narrative
whole, which shall stand the test of critical methods.)

HERODOTUS’ ‘INQUIRY’ GAVE BIRTH TO ‘HISTORY’!
The ancient Greek word “historia” meant ‘knowledge
acquired by investigation or inquiry’’, and the Greek
‘histore’ meant ‘inquiry’.  
It was in this sense Aristotle later used it in his ‘’Inquires
on Animals’’- during the 4th Century BC;
And this mode of ‘inquiry’ later became ‘History’!
The term ‘History’ entered English language in 1390
as a “record of past incidents and story”.
However, the restriction to the meaning “record of
past events” only, came during the 15th century.
But the German word ‘Geschichte’ even to this day,
Means both history and story, without making
distinction in any way!
Since the story element remains inbuilt in all historical
narrations,
And also remains as a tribute to its author’s creation!
CONCLUDING PORTION WILL BE POSTED LATER AS
PART-TWO. Thanks, - RAJ NANDY.
**ALL COPY RIGHTS WITH THE AUTHOR RAJ NANDY,
OF NEW DELHI

Perhaps it's the way his colostomy bag hangs
off his waist like John Wayne's pistol in Rio Bravo,
or the trail of **** left when it ripped last Monday
from his chair to the refrigerator.
He must have noticed,
he turned right and filled the sink with feces
and called over the nurse.
She pioneered along the trail,
and fit him with a new bag.
More **** oozed
through the tube
filling a fresh bag.

I sat there and licked
my nasal drip into my lips,
hoping the sparkle of my snotty glossy shine
would catch your eye,
like your favorite **** rag
in a line up of church bulletins.

The putrid lavender like scent
swimming through the air like flying fish,
allows me to dream
quicker than any drug.

I dream of the day where we both lay naked
with our old wrinkled skin connected like praying hands
where your feces and ***** flow freely to fill in epidermic gaps.

Naysayers gonna nay say, vacayers gonna vacate.
I like that I don't have to use hate;
so strong of a word to perpetrate,
this simple feeling of discord brought up on ones own accord.
Throw your hands in the ayer
if your a straight player
of the blame game,
taking in all the shame
like a flame that maimes
consuming and fuming

Get on some level
not on my level,
its reserved for those
dare devils
who can't care
or share
but want to.

cut that can't
or won't
*******.
just don't.
its a moot point and
It ain't fair
but to be real
its about the pair
that the universe designed
and that was meant for you
to complete.
you're a night
to some ones day.
youre standing in the spotlight for some one standing back stage.  
a yin to their Yang.
the turmoil
for some ones ecstasy.
or even being alive
while your other half dies.
you never know, but that's the way the world spins.
now
Steadily peel your skin, thin, kin like.
let's not succumb to the vast misunderstanding of human aesthetics.
one just can't belong to someone that needs anything.
to truly love someone or something you must first truly love yourself.
could you love me in this skin alone, walking around unbound by blood and bones and consistency and veins.
because I could,
would
and have done.
to believe you are a shell of yourself is like being your own exoskeleton.
having an out of body experience; lying there looking up at yourself wondering why you are here at this exact moment.
and why
did all events in my life culminate to this one moment of pure universal ebbing and flowing.
now read up on shedding,
that layer you just grew out of,
is unvieling this new glove.
rise above,
this is it.
feeling fit, feeling right.
3 am. weekday night.
widen your peripheral sight
its alright,
your slight change of might
may evolutionize this transition over night.
so its time to revolutionize our position for the right.

Enveloping this
eloping of collective consciousness, knowledge and intuition,
is the slow mellow bass of the  monks on mountain tops or in monasteries;
chanting as well as enchanting beautiful sweet moments of life and strife alive in our NOW.
carrying monotonously and steadily with mellow vibrating chords this unknown marriage of the cerebral bonding of these simple words.
for they are the key to your light and might and tight nit click.
get it?

I'll slow my roll for the roll call of my souls haul and ma's tall story of how worried she was  for her curry eating potato favorite
with some bone marrow on the down low.
she may be sad; however she will be had when the cab arrives.
its funny that he thrives off her drives and my strives for money.
I hope this makes sense, but if not get some intense metaphorical pretenses
up in that co centric dome
let this be known, and let the flowers of a new era be grown upon the previously sown, drones
of past scone munching, baby punching, number crunching, people at luncheons.
who needs that mess
we've got free press
and I'll address
what I think needs said.
so go with it, go against it, either way your thinking about it.

and when the truth is spoken
you will always have your token person,
who thinks their outspoken opinion has never been a
'not to mention'
and needs to be mentioned
but the tension isn't right
because they lost most of their night contemplating their own contribution rather than
what was the plight of the group as a whole.
they may elude the **** and bareness of the truth
but when truth is exposed
all doors are closed.
one can see the hosed, declothed and opposed inmate
for what she really is.

lady liberty and me, we're a lot a like as is, but to be on some other plane **** she ain't on some plain ****.
justice is her forte and the order of the court is death by a journey to sanity and back.
we have continuously for decades been doing the same things over and over again with the same results.
by choice...
this is the opposite of the definition of insanity which is only expecting different results. we have thrown ourselves into a will full suspension of disbelief and it will be our downfall.
who was the deciding factor in this big meeting where they decided how humans would lay out their lives according to a 'normal'.
but wait, justify that.
who can, just sayin, cause she nor me can but blame on any man, woman, can can dancer or politician that has the freedoms of any human being. yeah there are morals and ethics;
but what about those reefs of coral
and jungles full of antibiotics that laugh in the face of illness. who will stand for them?  
Ahem.
we can't say one thing and do another, oh wait.
that's the human resolve to almost anything really.
we don't recall its involvement in our lives, however we let it govern this encampment we have pioneered along the edges of our souls.
Oregon trail for minds veiled seems to fail and impale the true nature of the creature ruled by outside elements all the while toiling and searching for the yearning that it may quench with only the comfort of another being.

any situation, reveals that
there is unlimited potential in this gradual change we are experiencing.
a change for the bettering of humankind.
its provocative and emotive and natural and easy and thought provoking and beauty evoking.
but I'm smoking here and its bad for me but that doesn't stop me from poking my free will into this
while I sit here and am continuously choking on my own words I can't get out in the sequence I desire.
while making what few pointless decisions I get to make in the scheme of things.

why do I get to do that?

why must there be anything else. after all, if all that we are is not spiritual but physical, physics.
then wouldn't my purpose be to completely oppose another force within this environment equally and with as much force as it exerts on me.
something like an equal and opposite reaction.
or
a completion of a pair.
I'm out to find, define, refine, get in line, make mine, and waste time with my equal and opposite reaction.
please take action,
in any case, situation, point, or debate you come to find yourself placed in at the moment.
if you don't
then don't.
I can only dream and hope for a better world for the moment.
at least until I can get into this one deeper than I am already.
those of you who don't understand this I feel for you and hope that you come across some sort of super explanatory device because I'm never going to get it out right on paper in complete thoughts all nice

it's been something I've believed since the day I saw the light
the light that shines on every one's face
that shines through the acne or scars
the birth marks or bars
that everyone is beautiful
regardless of what titles theyve been given
I know you've all heard it before
or maybe you haven't
either way you need to know
that you are not what you're told
whether that be garbage, or gold
you need only one title to call yourself
that's human
that's living
breathing
and with a heart aimed somewhere past your past
you have the potential to be great
but only when you realize that you're strongest in your weakness
when you see that the road less travelled
is less trampled
beaten
because people weren't stepped on
walked all over
they carried each other
held each other up
the road less traveled isn't easier
in fact, it's rockier
sharper
steeper
and you're most likely going to get hurt
you're going to gain some scars
because the road less traveled was pioneered by forgiveness
and i don't want you to think that it's easy
because it's not
i don't want you to think it's simple
because it's not
i want you to know it's right
so do the hardest thing tonight
and forgive yourself
so that you can start down the road less traveled
called beauty

I'm sorry this ever happened to you.
I'm sorry you were just an 8 year old, so full of life and you didn't deserve this pain.
I'm sorry those pedophilic pigs preyed on your innocence.
I'm sorry you were born in India- a country powered by people, pioneered by strong men of principles but still feel powerless to protect its own people.
I'm sorry our laws are enforced to protect the lawless.
I'm sorry there is a *****, so possessed by religion out there who passed a mean comment on you.
I'm sorry there are countless many who favors his opinion strongly.
I'm sorry none of us could protect you or bring you back to life.
I'm sorry that I can only hope hell does exist and those men do rot in its deepest pits.
I'm sorry all of us can only sympathize and none of us can empathize.
I'm sorry I have no voice of my own.
I'm sorry my child, I truly am because you were born a girl.
I'm sorry to say how lucky I feel to be alive, that my sister or mother or friends are unpolluted and still breathing just fine.
I'm sorry this poem is pointless as the many hashtags that come and go after each **** but I had to write this for my own peace of mind.
I'm sorry as I can only sit back and pray there won't be anymore Asifas.

I don't remember when we stopped
Going to the grocery shop together
When the silence grew too loud to talk over
When I'd stopped trailing after you with the rattling bones of canned soup, clutching the well rusted handles of the shopping cart asyou pioneered your way
Down the discount aisles proud and dusty
Stopping to pick up another sugar laden piece of the American Dream

I do remember my first day grocery shopping alone, squeaking with my empty cart hesitantly down the aisle waiting for you to come and tell me to put back the extra box of chewy chocolate chip cookies
The scuffed tiled floors shone, the fluorescent lighting cast a dull glow and I swear I heard soft angels humming over the white noise from the refrigerators
As I headed home to our white picket nightmare, the blue bags in the backseat shone like medals, subtle victories.

Time and necessity
puppeteered its temperature to better suit
our appetite,
left it to linger in our peripheral vision
as if it was no longer a true masterpiece of  
the wild.

It blazed through forests,
pioneered and conquered,
destroyed.
Then, no longer mighty
and no longer feared,
was put into a box
to be mastered by a mother
lighting the neon colored wax candles
on a child’s blue birthday cake
or a woman
adorned with stockings slightly torn
and makeup slightly smudged
lighting a cigarette on a street corner
while waiting for the 8 o’clock bus.

Instead of burning,
it melted.
Instead of demolishing,
it decorated.
Instead of blazing,
it burnt out.

*October 10, 2013

In musical  notes composing
Ethiopia's giant
Saint Yared , irate, once
Opted to run away
From an ecclesiastical school
Dubbed by his priest teacher
An idiot and a fool
Worse still
Looked down and ridiculed
By class mates, not cool.

Desirous to burn his boat
He Trekked past a forest
And a pool
Determined never
To see those
Who cherish to pull
Over his eyes the wool.

Tired,he took a rest
By a tree shade
"I am good for nothing!"
Resonating in his head.

He continued
To lament his fate
Unaware God
Has a plan
To make him great.

While battling
To forget his pain
He saw a God-sent worm
Trying to climb a tree
Again,again,again,again
Again and again in vain!

To his surprise
The undaunted worm
Didn't fight shy
In its seventh trial it
Managed to climb
The tree high
To enjoy the fruits laden
On the boughs
Outstretched to the sky!

Drawing a lesson
Saint Yared
Returned back to school
To out smart all
Who took him for
An dummy and a fool!

At long last he
Pioneered in composing
Ten path breaking
Musical notes that
Have no match
By any of, to date,
Succeeded batch!

Strange as it may appear,
Oblivious to
The unintentional
Piercing of his foot
By a king's spear,
Fine-tuning
His ear
To angels' orchestra to God
Engrossed, he was seen
With a similar passion
Praising the Lord!

I'm not the man I was;
I'm not the man I am;
I'm not the man I'm going to be
I am the man who's been set free
Free from the life of slavery
I pioneered the mystery
The secrets there for all to see
Come share this life of bliss with me.

I forgot your reminiscences that were keeping me awake at nights,
I shut out the thoughts that reminded me of you,
I put away all your souvenirs and pioneered on a journey without you,
I shrugged off at every mention of your name,
But
Everything hit a reset switch- the moment I ran in to you today !!
Now I have to push myself out of this graveyard again, mend my broken heart again,
Erase your memories again, write off your name again.
Looks like I will have to be born again..

A young and beautiful, but wretched soul,
Dreamt in an enchanted world of her own,
With enraptured stallions and unicorns,
Far away from the brutal world so widely known,
But little did she know, the doom of her fantasy land is close.

Long was the string of her heartfelt desires,
She wanted to gaze at the infinite stars,
And eagerly waited to whoosh to Mars,
Away from negativities and deep scars,
But little did she know, she'd always be on the radar.

Incessant lookouts for an escape,
Made her wearied, sick and frail,
It was then that the realisation kicked her brain,
For what is she suffering so much pain?
For a world that is best at growing only wolf's bane?

After a month of Sundays, time finally chipped in,
When she could take the world out for a spin,
To vanquish the conventionality like a fiery levin,
Now was the time to declare that she won't take it on the chin,
And little did the world know of its approaching ruin.

Prepared to confront the imposed tyranny one-on-one,
She took it by surprise like a curve ball,
Then the insurgence began bold and tall,
"Why are women objectified as puppet dolls?
Why do taboos exist only for womenfolk?"

Appalled by her fearless defiance,
The world warned her against such resistance,
And swore to banish her existence,
The girl merely snorted and said "to hell with your dominance",
And little did the world know, it'd be soon thrown into a vortex.

Shining from within like a blaze of sunlight,
Powered up by vexation from her plight,
She broke the ancient shields of the dark skies,
And swallowed the ossified world with plumes of her divine light,
Yet little did she know, she has pioneered a new set of star lights.

©Sri.Mun

Today is in 1950
the breeze is summer fume
sun scorced cooly and smooth
cicadas rung my ears with hoof
beside this maple trees I coved
my fountain pen and canvas book
called out the imagine that I hooked
in this small silver anklet by my foot
marking my heart, so lowly sewed

If I pioneered the 1950
today will be days of gold
we all will sit by the seaside
crying tears of joy, intertwined
no more hiding behind light shadows
to subtle the beauty of our form
patched roads be filled with laughter
and our lullabies of hope
all our hearts will heal, today in 1950

Who didst unknowingly, unquestionably,
and unwittingly script vitality
and the prologue to Thanksgiving,
(which theme poem initially written)
about three hundred and ninety seven years,
and nine months after February third 1621,
yet genesis of American November tradition
pronouncing Meleagris gallopavo domestico
sacrificial bird spurred them to revolt enmasse.

Wise no adulation, dedication and gratification
not emphasized the other three hundred
and sixty four days a year
question their role as consumed
end product of taxidermist,
gnome hatter clucks fie against industry where
when thanksgiving gobbledygook brouhaha
glib lets deified whereat
a countless range of turkeys sacrificed veer

rill lee with commendable,
gratuitous and laudatory plaudits
bequeathed to the cook,
who held as the grand umpire
calling bastes time to bring in the pitcher -
though such an action tends
tubby viewed as fowl, with tail feathers there
be fluttering in sync with shutterfly flapping
at least one angry bird

sent to the slaughterhouse -
whose peck within four square
foot locker enclosure
breeds base sill wrath bone,
which Birdseye view dispensed,
though tis grim fate
doth behoove turkeys to rear
up and protest their predestination
forbidding grim intuition

via special Turkish communication
from axe of cruelty,
the butcher will not deem queer
yet questions pop up why
this singular twenty four hour
Fitbit of time fosters the people
to summon beneficence,
and when whatsapp did appear
rent lee clinched this American custom

squawks back hundreds of years
sans "The First Thanksgiving,"
a spontaneous oscillometer
ocular venerated, feted,
and celebrated requisitioned,
when Governor William Bradford
organized a three-day long feast near
the tip of Cape Cod,
which was too far north
of intended destination.

One month later,
they made maximum headway
to Massachusetts Bay
celebrated Native Americans friends,
the year 1621 feasted
between Pilgrims and Wampanoag
at Plymouth Colony a green day
(know your enemy unsung)
arbitrarily chose spread of turkey,
waterfowl, venison, fish, lobster,

clams, berries, fruit, pumpkin,
and squash mebbe fish fillet
Thanksgiving, currently celebrated
on the fourth Thursday
in November by federal legislation
in 1941 recalling hooray,
or more particularly regaling
the maiden voyage 1620
viz a ship called the Mayflower

ambitiously disembarking stalked
by death and injury
from Plymouth, England
for the New World
after a difficult battle at sea
that lasted 66 days;
the 102 passengers roped a deejay,
which essentially doubled up as conductor,
and struck up psalm songs

for a guiding buoyant gull
they named Oak Kay
of the Mayflower landed near
and the Pilgrims began
to build a new home at Plymouth,
whence an annual tradition hay
begat by founding fathers and Mother Nature
incorporating some marketing spin,
thence United States

by presidential proclamation and fiat Gerry
rigged obeisance (essentially honoring
those brave hearts
that dared traverse
the Atlantic Ocean
without life jackets nor a whit,
they didst courageously ferry
themselves in a rickety craft
(where many perished at sea)

since 1863, and state legislation
since Founding Fathers donned gray
powdered wigs (served
to trumpet political stance)
forging fledgling colonies
slated crude establishments and primitive bidet
wrought forth from deep
within the bowels
of fecund fields broke ranks with Britain,
and pioneered United States array.

I'm a Believer.
A by-faith walker.
One foot placed
in front of the other.
A member of the worldwide
inter-generational ancestral
family of Believers.
Proudly considered
to be God-botherers
on account of us being
persistent in prayer
on all ocassions.

I'm a Believer.
I'm a disciple-maker.
I'm a get-fully-wet baptiser.
I'm a church planter.
I'm an "in spirit and in truth"
God-of-Jacob worshiper.
A not bow to caesar.
A faith keeper.
A some-might-call-me dreamer.
A vision se-er.

A full-armour take-a-stand-er.
A full alert perseverer.
A last to leave-er
when things get tougher.
An endure-er of oppressors.
A refuser to fear.
A hunger-er and thirster.
A kingdom builder.

I'm a Believer.
A seeker of truth.
A keeper of peace.
I'm with my brothers and sisters,
followers of Jesus,
who for the joy set before him
pioneered blood, sweat and tears
with a faithful to the very end
belief in the Father,
raised full of life, and ascended,
to be our heavenly interceder.

I'm a blessed Believer
in Jesus, our Messiah.,
He is my Lord and Saviour.
Amen.

University of Copenhagen
Bülowsvej 17
1870 Frederiksberg C

26 October 2020

60,000 tons of pig blood could be a new source of sustainable food
University of Copenhagen researchers have pioneered a method to transform pig blood into a neutral tasting protein powder for the food industry. Every year, 60,000 tons of blood are left over from Danish pork production. For the most part, it goes to animal feed.

60,000 tons of pig blood are produced by Danish slaughterhouses annually, an amount that can be converted into 5,000 tons of protein powder.
The researchers' method uses an enzyme from the papaya fruit to separate protein from pig blood.
The protein powder is 90% protein.
Pig blood protein has a higher nutritional value than any other plant or dairy-based protein now on the market.
The protein is transformed into a white, neutral-tasting powder that can be used in a variety of foods.
Iron and the red dye are also separated from pig’s blood and can be used in food supplements and as a natural colorant.
The research project was conducted in a collaboration between Danish Crown, Toft Care and Essentia Protein solutions.

Where hippy's go,
prosperity follows.

And indeed, this has
been the case worldwide.

They were first into West
Cork, Otago in New Zealand.

Anywhere that was barren,
became nice, sought after.

It was the same with bread,
they pioneered the old recipes.

Today, we have latter day hippies
educating us about Organic Flour.

The cult of bread is not new, just
forgotten. A buttered cult please!