As potential grew, a desire to write, disclosed to few

Imagination immerse, but yet to thirst for knowledge, accrued ambition address

All aboard the express, thoughts of Harry, a plot to marry

From fanciful flights to greater heights

Capturing such visualisation, twas the formation

Characterisation, of wings to soar, with metaphor

From Dumbledore, yet taking shape

Professor Snape, assume the plot, lest thoughts forgot

A forest to roam, a philosophical stone

Such creative flair of which to share

Joining of the dotted line, artistic mind

Transporting train, journeyed acclaim

Of whom to impede, the will to succeed

The ability to write, the capacity to teach, the desire to reach

An impetus for change, a literary role, a priority

Of which to seek with tenacity

Beyond horizons, beyond confines, stand undefined

Awe-inspire, great readership, a due reply

To simplify, a noble shift, outstanding writer in the midst

Dynamic plot from pen to page, persistence through to published stage

A realised dream, challenge overcome

A victory won definably, stocked supplies to library

Broomstick flight phenomenon, a mystical tale was to become

Would generate, the bus of Knight, to render right

A rebuilt life, a legacy made

From chosen craft to final draft, a world of creativity

The right to type, to innovate, an intriguing wait

A shining star that would liberate



Written by Geraldine Taylor ©

So spake the Son of God; and Satan stood
A while as mute, confounded what to say,
What to reply, confuted and convinced
Of his weak arguing and fallacious drift;
At length, collecting all his serpent wiles,
With soothing words renewed, him thus accosts:—
  “I see thou know’st what is of use to know,
What best to say canst say, to do canst do;
Thy actions to thy words accord; thy words
To thy large heart give utterance due; thy heart            
Contains of good, wise, just, the perfet shape.
Should kings and nations from thy mouth consult,
Thy counsel would be as the oracle
Urim and Thummim, those oraculous gems
On Aaron’s breast, or tongue of Seers old
Infallible; or, wert thou sought to deeds
That might require the array of war, thy skill
Of conduct would be such that all the world
Could not sustain thy prowess, or subsist
In battle, though against thy few in arms.                  
These godlike virtues wherefore dost thou hide?
Affecting private life, or more obscure
In savage wilderness, wherefore deprive
All Earth her wonder at thy acts, thyself
The fame and glory—glory, the reward
That sole excites to high attempts the flame
Of most erected spirits, most tempered pure
AEthereal, who all pleasures else despise,
All treasures and all gain esteem as dross,
And dignities and powers, all but the highest?              
Thy years are ripe, and over-ripe.  The son
Of Macedonian Philip had ere these
Won Asia, and the throne of Cyrus held
At his dispose; young Scipio had brought down
The Carthaginian pride; young Pompey quelled
The Pontic king, and in triumph had rode.
Yet years, and to ripe years judgment mature,
Quench not the thirst of glory, but augment.
Great Julius, whom now all the world admires,
The more he grew in years, the more inflamed                
With glory, wept that he had lived so long
Ingloroious.  But thou yet art not too late.”
  To whom our Saviour calmly thus replied:—
“Thou neither dost persuade me to seek wealth
For empire’s sake, nor empire to affect
For glory’s sake, by all thy argument.
For what is glory but the blaze of fame,
The people’s praise, if always praise unmixed?
And what the people but a herd confused,
A miscellaneous rabble, who extol                          
Things ******, and, well weighed, scarce worth the praise?
They praise and they admire they know not what,
And know not whom, but as one leads the other;
And what delight to be by such extolled,
To live upon their tongues, and be their talk?
Of whom to be dispraised were no small praise—
His lot who dares be singularly good.
The intelligent among them and the wise
Are few, and glory scarce of few is raised.
This is true glory and renown—when God,                    
Looking on the Earth, with approbation marks
The just man, and divulges him through Heaven
To all his Angels, who with true applause
Recount his praises.  Thus he did to Job,
When, to extend his fame through Heaven and Earth,
As thou to thy reproach may’st well remember,
He asked thee, ‘Hast thou seen my servant Job?’
Famous he was in Heaven; on Earth less known,
Where glory is false glory, attributed
To things not glorious, men not worthy of fame.            
They err who count it glorious to subdue
By conquest far and wide, to overrun
Large countries, and in field great battles win,
Great cities by assault.  What do these worthies
But rob and spoil, burn, slaughter, and enslave
Peaceable nations, neighbouring or remote,
Made captive, yet deserving freedom more
Than those their conquerors, who leave behind
Nothing but ruin wheresoe’er they rove,
And all the flourishing works of peace destroy;            
Then swell with pride, and must be titled Gods,
Great benefactors of mankind, Deliverers,
Worshipped with temple, priest, and sacrifice?
One is the son of Jove, of Mars the other;
Till conqueror Death discover them scarce men,
Rowling in brutish vices, and deformed,
Violent or shameful death their due reward.
But, if there be in glory aught of good;
It may be means far different be attained,
Without ambition, war, or violence—                        
By deeds of peace, by wisdom eminent,
By patience, temperance.  I mention still
Him whom thy wrongs, with saintly patience borne,
Made famous in a land and times obscure;
Who names not now with honour patient Job?
Poor Socrates, (who next more memorable?)
By what he taught and suffered for so doing,
For truth’s sake suffering death unjust, lives now
Equal in fame to proudest conquerors.
Yet, if for fame and glory aught be done,                  
Aught suffered—if young African for fame
His wasted country freed from Punic rage—
The deed becomes unpraised, the man at least,
And loses, though but verbal, his reward.
Shall I seek glory, then, as vain men seek,
Oft not deserved?  I seek not mine, but His
Who sent me, and thereby witness whence I am.”
  To whom the Tempter, murmuring, thus replied:—
“Think not so slight of glory, therein least
Resembling thy great Father.  He seeks glory,              
And for his glory all things made, all things
Orders and governs; nor content in Heaven,
By all his Angels glorified, requires
Glory from men, from all men, good or bad,
Wise or unwise, no difference, no exemption.
Above all sacrifice, or hallowed gift,
Glory he requires, and glory he receives,
Promiscuous from all nations, Jew, or Greek,
Or Barbarous, nor exception hath declared;
From us, his foes pronounced, glory he exacts.”            
  To whom our Saviour fervently replied:
“And reason; since his Word all things produced,
Though chiefly not for glory as prime end,
But to shew forth his goodness, and impart
His good communicable to every soul
Freely; of whom what could He less expect
Than glory and benediction—that is, thanks—
The slightest, easiest, readiest recompense
From them who could return him nothing else,
And, not returning that, would likeliest render            
Contempt instead, dishonour, obloquy?
Hard recompense, unsuitable return
For so much good, so much beneficience!
But why should man seek glory, who of his own
Hath nothing, and to whom nothing belongs
But condemnation, ignominy, and shame—
Who, for so many benefits received,
Turned recreant to God, ingrate and false,
And so of all true good himself despoiled;
Yet, sacrilegious, to himself would take                    
That which to God alone of right belongs?
Yet so much bounty is in God, such grace,
That who advances his glory, not their own,
Them he himself to glory will advance.”
  So spake the Son of God; and here again
Satan had not to answer, but stood struck
With guilt of his own sin—for he himself,
Insatiable of glory, had lost all;
Yet of another plea bethought him soon:—
  “Of glory, as thou wilt,” said he, “so deem;              
Worth or not worth the seeking, let it pass.
But to a Kingdom thou art born—ordained
To sit upon thy father David’s throne,
By mother’s side thy father, though thy right
Be now in powerful hands, that will not part
Easily from possession won with arms.
Judaea now and all the Promised Land,
Reduced a province under Roman yoke,
Obeys Tiberius, nor is always ruled
With temperate sway: oft have they violated                
The Temple, oft the Law, with foul affronts,
Abominations rather, as did once
Antiochus.  And think’st thou to regain
Thy right by sitting still, or thus retiring?
So did not Machabeus.  He indeed
Retired unto the Desert, but with arms;
And o’er a mighty king so oft prevailed
That by strong hand his family obtained,
Though priests, the crown, and David’s throne usurped,
With Modin and her suburbs once content.                    
If kingdom move thee not, let move thee zeal
And duty—zeal and duty are not slow,
But on Occasion’s forelock watchful wait:
They themselves rather are occasion best—
Zeal of thy Father’s house, duty to free
Thy country from her heathen servitude.
So shalt thou best fulfil, best verify,
The Prophets old, who sung thy endless reign—
The happier reign the sooner it begins.
Rein then; what canst thou better do the while?”            
  To whom our Saviour answer thus returned:—
“All things are best fulfilled in their due time;
And time there is for all things, Truth hath said.
If of my reign Prophetic Writ hath told
That it shall never end, so, when begin
The Father in his purpose hath decreed—
He in whose hand all times and seasons rowl.
What if he hath decreed that I shall first
Be tried in humble state, and things adverse,
By tribulations, injuries, insults,                        
Contempts, and scorns, and snares, and violence,
Suffering, abstaining, quietly expecting
Without distrust or doubt, that He may know
What I can suffer, how obey?  Who best
Can suffer best can do, best reign who first
Well hath obeyed—just trial ere I merit
My exaltation without change or end.
But what concerns it thee when I begin
My everlasting Kingdom?  Why art thou
Solicitous?  What moves thy inquisition?                    
Know’st thou not that my rising is thy fall,
And my promotion will be thy destruction?”
  To whom the Tempter, inly racked, replied:—
“Let that come when it comes.  All hope is lost
Of my reception into grace; what worse?
For where no hope is left is left no fear.
If there be worse, the expectation more
Of worse torments me than the feeling can.
I would be at the worst; worst is my port,
My harbour, and my ultimate repose,                        
The end I would attain, my final good.
My error was my error, and my crime
My crime; whatever, for itself condemned,
And will alike be punished, whether thou
Reign or reign not—though to that gentle brow
Willingly I could fly, and hope thy reign,
From that placid aspect and meek regard,
Rather than aggravate my evil state,
Would stand between me and thy Father’s ire
(Whose ire I dread more than the fire of Hell)              
A shelter and a kind of shading cool
Interposition, as a summer’s cloud.
If I, then, to the worst that can be haste,
Why move thy feet so slow to what is best?
Happiest, both to thyself and all the world,
That thou, who worthiest art, shouldst be their King!
Perhaps thou linger’st in deep thoughts detained
Of the enterprise so hazardous and high!
No wonder; for, though in thee be united
What of perfection can in Man be found,                    
Or human nature can receive, consider
Thy life hath yet been private, most part spent
At home, scarce viewed the Galilean towns,
And once a year Jerusalem, few days’
Short sojourn; and what thence couldst thou observe?
The world thou hast not seen, much less her glory,
Empires, and monarchs, and their radiant courts—
Best school of best experience, quickest in sight
In all things that to greatest actions lead.
The wisest, unexperienced, will be ever                    
Timorous, and loth, with novice modesty
(As he who, seeking *****, found a kingdom)
Irresolute, unhardy, unadventrous.
But I will bring thee where thou soon shalt quit
Those rudiments, and see before thine eyes
The monarchies of the Earth, their pomp and state—
Sufficient introduction to inform
Thee, of thyself so apt, in regal arts,
And regal mysteries; that thou may’st know
How best their opposition to withstand.”                    
  With that (such power was given him then), he took
The Son of God up to a mountain high.
It was a mountain at whose verdant feet
A spacious plain outstretched in circuit wide
Lay pleasant; from his side two rivers flowed,
The one winding, the other straight, and left between
Fair champaign, with less rivers interveined,
Then meeting joined their tribute to the sea.
Fertil of corn the glebe, of oil, and wine;
With herds the pasture thronged, with flocks the hills;    
Huge cities and high-towered, that well might seem
The seats of mightiest monarchs; and so large
The prospect was that here and there was room
For barren desert, fountainless and dry.
To this high mountain-top the Tempter brought
Our Saviour, and new train of words began:—
  “Well have we speeded, and o’er hill and dale,
Forest, and field, and flood, temples and towers,
Cut shorter many a league.  Here thou behold’st
Assyria, and her empire’s ancient bounds,                  
Araxes and the Caspian lake; thence on
As far as Indus east, Euphrates west,
And oft beyond; to south the Persian bay,
And, inaccessible, the Arabian drouth:
Here, Nineveh, of length within her wall
Several days’ journey, built by Ninus old,
Of that first golden monarchy the seat,
And seat of Salmanassar, whose success
Israel in long captivity still mourns;
There Babylon, the wonder of all tongues,                  
As ancient, but rebuilt by him who twice
Judah and all thy father David’s house
Led captive, and Jerusalem laid waste,
Till Cyrus set them free; Persepolis,
His city, there thou seest, and Bactra there;
Ecbatana her structure vast there shews,
And Hecatompylos her hunderd gates;
There Susa by Choaspes, amber stream,
The drink of none but kings; of later fame,
Built by Emathian or by Parthian hands,                    
The great Seleucia, Nisibis, and there
Artaxata, Teredon, Ctesiphon,
Turning with easy eye, thou may’st behold.
All these the Parthian (now some ages past
By great Arsaces led, who founded first
That empire) under his dominion holds,
From the luxurious kings of Antioch won.
And just in time thou com’st to have a view
Of his great power; for now the Parthian king
In Ctesiphon hath gathered all his host                    
Against the Scythian, whose incursions wild
Have wasted Sogdiana; to her aid
He marches now in haste.  See, though from far,
His thousands, in what martial e

Joanne Rowlgobbleng was born on 31st July 1965 at Yate General Hospgobbletal just outsgobblede Brgobblestol, and grew up gobblen Gloucestershgobblere gobblen England and gobblen Chepstow, Gwent, gobblen south-east Wales.  

Her father, Peter, was an agobblercraft enggobbleneer at the Rolls Royce factory gobblen Brgobblestol and her mother, Anne, was a scgobbleence techngobblecgobblean gobblen the Chemgobblestry department at Wyedean Comprehensgobbleve, where Jo herself went to school.  

The young Jo grew up surrounded by books. “gobble lgobbleved for books,’’ she has sagobbled. “gobble was your basgobblec common-or-garden bookworm, complete wgobbleth freckles and Natgobbleonal Health spectacles.”  

Jo wanted to be a wrgobbleter from an early age. She wrote her fgobblerst book at the age of sgobblex – a story about a rabbgobblet, called ‘Rabbgobblet’. At just eleven, she wrote her fgobblerst novel – about seven cursed dgobbleamonds and the people who owned them.  

Jo left home at egobbleghteen for Exeter Ungobbleversgobblety, where she read so wgobbledely outsgobblede her French and Classgobblecs syllabus that she clocked up a fgobblene of £50 for overdue books at the Ungobbleversgobblety lgobblebrary. Her knowledge of Classgobblecs would one day come gobblen handy for creatgobbleng the spells gobblen the Harry Potter sergobblees, some of whgobblech are based on Latgobblen.  

Her course gobblencluded a year gobblen Pargobbles, where she shared an apartment wgobbleth an gobbletalgobblean, a Russgobblean and a Spangobbleard. “gobble lgobbleved gobblen Pargobbles for a year as a student,” Jo tweeted after the 2015 terrorgobblest attacks there. “gobblet’s one of my favourgobblete places on earth.”  

After her degree, she moved to London and worked gobblen a sergobblees of jobs, gobblencludgobbleng one as a researcher at Amnesty gobblenternatgobbleonal.  

“There gobblen my lgobblettle offgobblece gobble read hastgobblely scrgobblebbled letters smuggled out of totalgobbletargobblean reggobblemes by men and women who were rgobbleskgobbleng gobblemprgobblesonment to gobblenform the outsgobblede world of what was happengobbleng to them. My small partgobblecgobblepatgobbleon gobblen that process was one of the most humblgobbleng and gobblenspgobblergobbleng expergobbleences of my lgobblefe.”  

Jo concegobbleved the gobbledea of Harry Potter gobblen 1990 whgobblele sgobblettgobbleng on a delayed tragobblen from Manchester to London Kgobbleng’s Cross. Over the next fgobbleve years, she began to map out all seven books of the sergobblees. She wrote mostly gobblen longhand and gradually bugobblelt up a mass of notes, many of whgobblech were scrgobblebbled on odd scraps of paper.  

Takgobbleng her notes wgobbleth her, she moved to northern Portugal to teach Englgobblesh as a foregobblegn language, marrgobbleed Jorge Arantes gobblen October 1992 and had a daughter, Jessgobbleca, gobblen 1993. When the marrgobbleage ended later that year, she returned to the UK to lgobbleve gobblen Edgobblenburgh, carrygobbleng not just Jessgobbleca but a sugobbletcase contagobblengobbleng the fgobblerst three chapters of Harry Potter and the Phgobblelosopher’s Stone.  

Gobblen Edgobblenburgh, Jo tragobblened as a teacher and began teachgobbleng gobblen the cgobblety’s schools, but she contgobblenued to wrgobblete gobblen every spare moment.  

Havgobbleng completed the full manuscrgobblept, she sent the fgobblerst three chapters to a number of lgobbleterary agents, one of whom wrote back askgobbleng to see the rest of gobblet. She says gobblet was “the best letter gobble had ever recegobbleved gobblen my lgobblefe.”  

The book was fgobblerst publgobbleshed by Bloomsbury Chgobbleldren’s Books gobblen June 1997, under the name J.K. Rowlgobbleng.  

The “K” stands for Kathleen, her paternal grandmother’s name. gobblet was added at her publgobblesher’s request, who thought a book by an obvgobbleously female author mgobbleght not appeal to the target audgobbleence of young boys.  

Her fgobblerst novel was publgobbleshed gobblen the US under a dgobblefferent tgobbletle, Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone, gobblen 1998.  Sgobblex further tgobbletles followed gobblen the Harry Potter sergobblees, each achgobbleevgobbleng record-breakgobbleng success.  

Gobblen 2001, the fgobblelm adaptatgobbleon of the fgobblerst book was released by Warner Bros., and was followed by sgobblex more book adaptatgobbleons, concludgobbleng wgobbleth the release of the egobbleghth fgobblelm, Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part 2, gobblen 2011.  

J.K. Rowlgobbleng has also wrgobbletten two small volumes, whgobblech appear as the tgobbletles of Harry’s school books wgobblethgobblen the novels. Fantastgobblec Beasts and Where to Fgobblend Them and Qugobbleddgobbletch Through The Ages were publgobbleshed gobblen March 2001 gobblen agobbled of Comgobblec Relgobbleef.  

Gobblen December 2008, The Tales of Beedle the Bard was publgobbleshed gobblen agobbled of her gobblenternatgobbleonal chgobbleldren’s chargobblety, Lumos.  

Gobblen 2012, J.K. Rowlgobbleng’s dgobbleggobbletal company Pottermore was launched, where fans can enjoy news, features and artgobblecles, as well as content by J.K. Rowlgobbleng.  

Gobblen the same year, J.K. Rowlgobbleng publgobbleshed her fgobblerst novel for adults, The Casual Vacancy (Lgobblettle, Brown), whgobblech has now been translated gobblento 44 languages and was adapted for TV by the BBC gobblen 2015.  

Under the pseudonym Robert Galbragobbleth, J.K. Rowlgobbleng also wrgobbletes crgobbleme novels, featurgobbleng prgobblevate detectgobbleve Cormoran Strgobbleke. The fgobblerst of these, The Cuckoo’s Callgobbleng was publgobbleshed to crgobbletgobblecal acclagobblem gobblen 2013, at fgobblerst wgobblethout gobblets author’s true gobbledentgobblety begobbleng known.  The Sgobblelkworm followed gobblen 2014, and 2015 saw the publgobblecatgobbleon of Career of Evgobblel.  All are publgobbleshed by Lgobblettle, Brown. The sergobblees gobbles begobbleng adapted for a major new televgobblesgobbleon sergobblees for BBC One, produced by Brontë Fgobblelm and Televgobblesgobbleon.  

J.K. Rowlgobbleng’s 2008 Harvard commencement speech was publgobbleshed gobblen 2015 as an gobblellustrated book, Very Good Lgobbleves: The Frgobblenge Benefgobblets of Fagobblelure and the gobblemportance of gobblemaggobblenatgobbleon (Sphere), and sold gobblen agobbled of Lumos and ungobbleversgobblety-wgobblede fgobblenancgobbleal agobbled at Harvard.  

gobblen 2016, J.K. Rowlgobbleng collaborated wgobbleth Jack Thorne and John Tgobbleffany on an orgobbleggobblenal new story for the stage. Harry Potter and the Cursed Chgobbleld Parts One and Two gobbles now runngobbleng at The Palace Theatre gobblen London’s West End. The scrgobblept book was publgobbleshed (Lgobblettle, Brown) to mark the play’s opengobbleng gobblen July 2016, and gobblenstantly topped the bestseller lgobblests.  

Also gobblen 2016, J.K. Rowlgobbleng made her screenwrgobbletgobbleng debut wgobbleth the fgobblelm Fantastgobblec Beasts and Where to Fgobblend Them, a further extensgobbleon of the Wgobblezardgobbleng World, released to crgobbletgobblecal acclagobblem gobblen November 2016.  A prequel to Harry Potter, thgobbles new adventure of Maggobblezoologgobblest Newt Scamander marked the start of a fgobbleve-fgobblelm sergobblees to be wrgobbletten by the author.  

J.K. Rowlgobbleng has been marrgobbleed to Dr Negobblel Murray sgobblence 2001. They lgobbleve gobblen Edgobblenburgh wgobbleth thegobbler son, Davgobbled (born 2003) and daughter, Mackenzgobblee (born 2005).

The last outlaws of Hello  had rode long and hard.
And after leaving the brothel finally hit the road.
Wild Turkey feuled ****** Amigo stop touching my ****.
Dear lord man how many times can we listen to lady gaga

Get your minds outta the gutter really just who
do ya think your reading?
I dont write **** like VK rowling or Miya Angelou  or was
her last name Cyrus anyways who in the state of Hannah Montana
gives a **** anyways?

Just over the border we finally landed in the land
of masked wrestlers hostoric sights
yes who doesnt like a donkey show?

The cantina hot as usal my amigo looking around
confussed like a young  Ricky Martin  befor
the rockstar life of menudo ****** him all up.

Drinks flowed music played  dam macdonalds was great down here.
well cept for the clown who wore his red nose in  a diffrent place
bad touch kids.
Least my uncle was fitting in here lord help his boyscout troup.
camping in uncle Ronnys bed taught you a lotta things
like never to sleep on your stomach.

But enough with the foreplay children.
We were on a mission.
But not one from the big guy.
Although im not much on worship
besides  Bill Gates was a tool anyhow.

We spent the night drinking dancing not togather
that is.  Although Jack was a great kisser
but enough about are fishing trips
Gary was already jelouse as it was.

It was great fun till the dam hangover kicked in
it hurt so dam bad it was like Justin Bieber had
caught me asleep and ***** my ear like his mother
had sold his soul so she wouldnt have to work.

The pounding in my head,the drunken Brit in the sambero
Bouncing up and down on the bed singing paparazzi
but enough bout Goldie were the hell was Jack?

And who the hell killed the ****** and put her  
in the bathtub?
Jesus fargone Phil must have been here
no wonder I was missing a kidney thoose naughty Brits get me every time.


After diposing of the body thoose blind kids
will have fun with that pinyatta.

I was off leaving no stone or  whiskey bottle or brothel unturned.
I interogated so many senoritas.
Finally I figured I should ask where Jack was.

Finally after a good session with a older woman
the sixteen year old finally gave it up.
And then I remembred to ask the question how much?
Im kidding I asked that way befor the umm interogation.

******* the tatoo from fantasy island sounding woman replied.
Lord woman no time for a puppet show im not uncle Ronny.
No senior *******.
Lord dear woman  what you didnt get to watch the muppet show as a kid or something?

Finally ****** the starnge sounding woman blurted out.
Look ******* Jack's off he left with some weird little guy earlier.
they took a plane.

All a sudden from the sky I herd a sputtering
noise and like a bald eagle  who had a affair with a unclean vulture.
Im just saying.
It emerged from the coulds a small plane  the door flew open
Jack appeared with another man why was it yes it was Eliot.

Why you ***** ***** you!
Ouch **** miss I was talking to Jack.
Oh my bad senior but you desserve that just for writting
this ****.
everyones a critic.

Seems my amigo was taking Eliot sky diving dam great way to bound.
well it was cept thoose Brits seem to not use parachutes
but hey you really cant feel much with them on anyways.

Eliot like a well.
Like a guy threw from a plane screamed  worse
than a teenage girl  at a Jonas Brothers Concert
Hey my wife wanted to go okay.
Thank God the house broke his fall.

There lay Eliot crying like Tiger Woods after
his divorce hearing.
No worries my friend  I called a ambalance.
Three hours later the horse and bugee finally pulled up to
the hospital.

Im joking it wasnt a horse it was a donkey
And it would have been sooner if it wasnt busy
being Mr show bueisness.

Later at the bar.

Gonzo and Jack  sat with there full body cast friend Eliot
sipping drinks telling stories.
Wondering why we were ******* fire.

Gonzo no wonder you love it here
what part of Mexico are we in?
Dear lord man were in mexico?
Seems my friend was a bit confussed
but then again after reading this you probaly
are two  untill next time kids  greetings from
New Jersey.

Stay Crazy Gonzo

My First Day at Hogwarts
On a Saturday morning,
I woke up in pain.
Perched on top of my head,
Was an owl shaking its mane.

As I focused my glance,
the owl got clearer.
There was something clutched in its beak;
a pale yellow letter.

When I opened it,
words started to bloom,
Mr Y. Vartak,
The inner bedroom.


‘You have a place
in Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry,
Points will be taken for wrong,
and awarded for bravery.’

I showed it to my parents,
Who were not at all surprised.
They were in fact very happy,
I am a wizard I realized!

We took a plane to London,
Visit Diagon Alley.
In a hurry to buy my first wand,
robes and stationery.

It was the first of September,
so we hurried to Kings Cross.
We got to platform nine and three quarters,
after struggling through the chaos.

I had everything in my trunk,
I had nothing more to get.
My parents surprised me,
by giving me an owl as a pet.

I got a seat in the Hogwarts Express,
and put my robes,
There was a boy opposite me,
he was juggling bewitched globes.

We got off the train,
At Hogsmeade Station.
There was an amazing castle,
that was beyond my imagination.

We rowed across the lake,
sitting on boats,
It was getting colder,
so we pulled on our coats

We entered the hall,
Full of eyes.
There was a roof above us,
that represented the vast skies.

There was a dusty hat,
in the middle of a stage,
It had a rip near the brim,
so it looked older than its age.

A professor named Minerva,
Put that hat on my head.
The rip opened like a mouth,
Interesting is what it said.

The Sorting Hat as it was called,
said that he had to think some more,
After a while it yelled:
‘He’ll go in GRYFFINDOR!’

I joined the Gryffindor,
at the Start-Of-Term Feast.
We were so involved I talking,
we cared for our sleep the least.

After the feast, we departed,
for Gryffindor Common Room,
Outside the portrait hole, there was,
a shiny black broom.

I changed from my robes to my nightdress,
lay down watching the dying ember.
My eyelids were getting heavy,
I walked into a deep slumber.

This poem is written by me,
Yash Singh.
Specially written for my favourite,
Joanne Kathleen Rowling.

All your dreams are made of
                Cloudy lemonade
The places you hide in filled with
                Sheet music
All the words you say seem to be
                Soft lullabies

The difference between dreams
                              and reality
Is the line between smiles and smirks
Is the line between crying of joy and grief
The line between laughing at a memory long lost
And crying because of a current joke
The line between Aristotle and Rowling
                Or just the horizon.

All you ever say is that you'll
                                              be allright
But don't you realize that
All your dreams are made of
                                              Cloudy lemonade?

I want to write
And I want to write far
Farther than distance and
Farther than a mile feels when you're
Expected
To run in gym class.

I want to
Inspire.

And the word seems
Thick
Like elephant skin
Or those
Cracked leather jackets that bikers wear.

It seems 'out there'
Like a planet
Somewhere that we
Haven't sent probes to.
In the middle of swallowed up
Space.

But I want to
Inspire

Like
J.K. Rowling
Or
E.B. White
Or
J.R.R. Tolkein

And all of those other
Blocked up
Official sounding
Initials.

I could have initials.
Be E.M. Tyler or just
E. Tyler.
And people would
Wonder what the E. stood for

And one day I would
Sign an autograph
"Emily"
And they would call
The New York Times
And the search would be over
And ambitious fans
Would exclaim in exhuberance.

And they wouldn't have even read my book yet.

On the first night
of the full moon,
the primeval sack of ocean
broke,
& I gave birth to you
little woman,
little carrot top,
little turned-up nose,
pushing you out of myself
as my mother
pushed
me out of herself,
as her mother did,
& her mother's mother before her,
all of us born
of woman.

I am the second daughter
of a second daughter
of a second daughter,
but you shall be the first.
You shall see the phrase
"second ***"
only in puzzlement,
wondering how anyone,
except a madman,
could call you "second"
when you are so splendidly
first,
conferring even on your mother
firstness, vastness, fullness
as the moon at its fullest
lights up the sky.

Now the moon is full again
& you are four weeks old.
Little lion, lioness,
yowling for my *******,
rowling at the moon,
how I love your lustiness,
your red face demanding,
your hungry mouth howling,
your screams, your cries
which all spell life
in large letters
the color of blood.

You are born a woman
for the sheer glory of it,
little redhead, beautiful screamer.
You are no second ***,
but the first of the first;
& when the moon's phases
fill out the cycle
of your life,
you will crow
for the joy
of being a woman,
telling the pallid moon
to go drown herself
in the blue ocean,
& glorying, glorying, glorying
in the rosy wonder
of your sunshining wondrous
self.

-something real. Something strong and sturdy, believable.  I want to write words that are heavy with lightness and dark with their brightness, to draw on a page a life so unbelievably real, so inconceivably mine
in creation

I want to write
-not just love. Not a ***** with a couple of drink-mangled bugs. I want to write about that feeling of blood churning and the warmth of emotion not physical feeling, to put into words the unwordable joy of being in the presence of
not just anyone

Anyone. Like the not-platonic-non-romantic affection that Rudy would not fail to hint at, that so-wanted kiss that Liesel gave, it wasn't so much the action as the meaning behind it. Like that itch on Death's ear when Liesel he came near, not to take her yet, but to steal her story, to live through it. To feel the words dance in his void, non-niceness, the infinite meanings and the power of phonic combinations.
They allow even Death to live.
I want to write like Zusak, like Rowling, like me.

I want to write
-the philosophies. The thoughts and wishes and wonders of a minority. I want to write about those opinions of those whose voices are too small and their souls beautifully lit up but unseen, their ideologies so unmistakably right but also naive and innocent, to stage their feelings from transition to transition
their words to the wise

I want to write
-characters so flawed. Each with an inner splendor most radiant, but with their fields of starless black and heads that wander from this to that. I want to write lives and people so different, with not-so-good lives and not-so-normal features. People who, though lacking thereof, cliche the right things and believe
in the wrong

The wrong. Their thoughts and meanings about life and beyond, undesirable and judged but that is the human mentality, such as Hazel Grace felt about her casualties and Alaska Young wondered about the labyrinth's unending game. So standard at first, but then Gandalf came and Bilbo learned the differences  between Hobbit and the untame. The reasons and purposes of life's grand living, through the eyes of those whose faces are shunned.
Hermione wasn't just a bibliosiac.
I want to write like Green, like Tolkien, like me.

Alas, the clock, a stained moon, it darkens, and the prejudice of people as well as the pride, unfortunately Austen couldn't lessen so much. Stereotypes triumphantly sit on the throne with their Mary-Sue maids catering from head to toe. I can't barge in, object to the crowning, because today I admit it: my writing is dying.

J.K. Rowling is the latest
to call herself a bloke.
Three Bronte sisters
Made up male names
So they could write,
Not vote.
George Elliot
Was the nom de plume
of a British lady fair.
In Victorian times
It was de riguer
For a girl to feign
a pair.
Distaff scribes
Are not alone
In borrowing a name
Sam Clemens took
As “nom De Guerre”
The river cry
“Mark Twain”
And Stephen King
Who writes so fast
That he’s in overdrive
Adopted Richard
Bachmann as a name
And used it
for some time.
George Orwell
Once was Erich Blair
Lewis Carroll
was Charles Dodson.
“The Hobbit”
Was my nom de plume
But now
I haven’t got one.

This is not about you
This is not about me,
This ain’t really ‘bout anyone-y, honey;
I’m a liar, for Christ’s sakes!

Sure, sure,
THIS one is about me,
That much I can say,
But everything else?
‘Twas all fake.

I am an ink-and-paper conman,
Because that is how I choose to make a living.

Hate me, if you so dare,
For if you do,
Then you, too, hate the likes of
Rowling and Twain and Wells and Hemingway
Shakespeare and Spielberg and Lucas—

Oh, yes, read up,
Lies upon lies in black-and-white!

We are similar in such a way
Which creates alternate worlds and feelings
And beings of different kinds;
We are those who love to implant things
Into your subconscious mind.

What is true to you,
But false to all,
Is the picture you happen to imagine
When you flip pages and have a ball!

Semantics, my dear,
It is what takes you on a trip
Across a flexible lexicon
Where words are invented and used anew;
Where instead of shoes, you wear foot-canoes.

Your favorite books and movies and songs,
All figments of enigmatic mind,
But,
Is it really all that wrong?

Our lies are
For your enjoyment,
And the good of mankind,
An escape from what’s real,
It brings you to light,
Without this work,
There’d be no color to life.

And that’s why we’re liars
In black-and-white.

I have two scars on my face; neither one's very visible anymore. One I received at age three (late 1992), falling face-first into a dry riverbed on my first camping trip. I landed hard, my forehead colliding with a crescent-shaped rock. I remember my father turning me over, my vision going red, the blood flowing into my scleras and pupils. The rock missed my right eye by millimeters.  When J.K. Rowling published Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone in 1997 my peers began calling me "Harry." Dark-haired, bespectacled, similar scar -- whole package. My comeback: "They should call Harry Potter 'Chris Gorrie', I had the scar first." Not until ten years later, when The Deathly Hallows was released, did I realize Harry was "born" in 1980.

What is a heart without a soul,
and an eye without sight?

I am a wanderer through life
the woods a dark path,
and an ocean so wide that if you swim too far,
you’ve passed Go and there’s no money to collect

Hands choke
the only embrace they know
when the only place they’ve known
is the beating clock face
perspiring time
beads of seconds running down the wall

I am an enigma and senseless in my thoughts
Things I know, things that remain unchanged

My eyes are broken
glasses aren’t helpful
seeing as my tear ducts provide as much liquid
as Roman aqueducts

My hair is metamorphosis,
cornsilk in summer,
copper in winter,
which leads to the questioning of a soul
though perception of color
determines nothing in the realm of human life

I am closed doors and low lights,
the bare minimum to read

Intergalactic travel has been made available
with the library as our NASA savior

Food, water, shelter
basic life sources
but I feed off of words

a language leech
a metaphor monger
a wasted writer

I lead through words
actions
lack there of

How can I control 40 kids,
when I haven’t even figured out how to do that with myself?

I am a magnet
my hands gravitate to stray dogs
***** cats
hand sanitizer is a wonderful invention

I am lost in what I am not
the feeling of loneliness certainly possible
even when I must always have someone around

I’ve shed my cocoon
but it’s felt more like a molted snake skin

My wings, promised brilliant and strong,
brown, crinkled paper, illegible

The strength to fly
eludes my desire to leave

What’s life without a paradox,
and a journey with no goal?

I am mapless
a piece of paper even more unreadable to my leaky-faucet eyes
something I find beauty in as wallpaper
but nothing I could use

I am rolling tides
Emotions crash in waves
knocking me into the current
taking me away
with no buoy in sight

unknown,
sad,
frustrated,
alone,
hopeless,
lost,

and, in the rare instances,

content

What’s being without feeling,
and trying without wanting to do?

I am a daughter that has made parents proud,
without making myself feel anything

I am a friend,
one that has been left
returned to
used
and kept
only by few

I am a companion,
my eyes used where his eyes cannot see color
“The sky looks so purple tonight.”
“I don’t know what purple is.”

I am love too powerful to maintain
cloaked in fear, disinterest, anger

I am not what I appear,
my mind thinking it’s a good idea
to display the opposite of what I feel

Freudian defense mechanisms
never gave much protection
offense tangible
tasting distaste
the words can be on the tip of my tongue
and cliff dive head first
into social suicide
Tolkien, Card, Rowling, King, Bradbury,
protectors and hopes

Paper can burn
memories sear
words pain

I am independent,
refusing aid
most cantankerously
when it’s needed most

I am depths
I myself don’t know
a venture that seems too dark to take the plunge
an open pit of life
disguised as littered ground

I apologize for my offensive tweet. I know that my words caused real harm, and for the next two weeks I will be spending time in reflection, meditation, and  healing yoga at my Colorado ranch. I am also donating $100,000 to Black Marxists Anonymous.

I humbly ask forgiveness for the insensitive remarks that I made on my friend’s 1985 middle school yearbook page when I was 13. I know that my words caused real harm. There is no excuse for my poor judgment, and although my supporters mean well by pointing out that I was an adolescent, I do not agree that I should not be held to the same standards as a contemporary adult. I have spent time with my pastor examining my deep sinful nature.

I regret my costume at the Met Gala. I know that cultural appropriation causes real harm, and for a white woman to wear a dress adorned with feathers is an insult to Native Americans. I have auctioned off all of my turquoise jewelry and donated the proceeds to a Diversity, Equity and Inclusion Committee studying ways to improve BIPOC representation on the Met Gala planning committee. I have engaged a Native shaman to guide me to a path of understanding via guided Ayahuasca use.  

I take full responsibility for standing next to Ned, my former best friend, in the photograph that has recently emerged of us at a friend’s wedding last year. Ned’s inexcusable remark on Tuesday that “All lives matter” is deeply offensive to me and today I join the diverse community that is boycotting his performances. I am ashamed that I ever called this person my friend.  

I regret ever working with J.K. Rowling. She is a transphobic hatemonger who deserves our scorn and contempt. I realize that she will continue to espouse her bigoted views, because her fans do not care, Harry Potter lives forever, and she’s a billionaire who probably lives in a castle. But I will continue to post my outrage on my Facebook page so that…anyway, Rowling *****!

Claire
Your voice like bells
resonates through my mind
as memories of your brilliant smile
clouds my thoughts
and the glimmer in your eyes
resides in my fondest memories
for you see
you were there
maybe not physically
but more than anyone ever has
the simple paragraphs you'd write
causing an unbeknown smile to cross my cheeks
as warmth flooded through me
you are the epitome of beautiful
on the inside and out
Remember when we first met?
7 months ago
you were posted on
Just a Band *****
and with a few simple comments
you stole my heart.
after a few days of
threatening to kidnap bands
cuddles
and Dexter
I awoke to a wondrous surprise
you
asking me to be yours
i was hesitant at first
i didn't wanna hurt you
You meant to much to me.
but i agreed.
knowing what would happen would be something
only J.K. Rowling could explain
magic.
But alas we fell a part
Only to be brought back together
and to exchange three precious words
I love you.
now you see,
I'm not the type to exchange words of those caliber
for I know the weight of those words
as do you
So i knew when you said
I love you too
you meant it
and i hoped you knew i meant it to
we've gone on like this for nearly a year now
though we may break up
and see others
we're always drawn together
and I cant explain it
and i don't think anyone else can either
When i see you smile i melt
your eyes make me feel like I'm having a heart attack
but a good one
because I'm not gonna die while you're still beside me
you mean the world to me
and at risk of sounding creepy
I think your the one
and I need you
and
I love you.

In a world of your imagination, who do you see? What do you see? Could it be..
.a paradise untouched by man?
A place you can escape?
Dare I say it, a place you could feel safe?
In a world of your imagination,
are there any wars?
Have you opened all the doors?
Do you have somebody to love?
Don't be afraid to share!
We may never get to see it in person.
But that's never stopped us before!
And if Rowling or king are any indication,
a world of your imagination
could inspire a generation.

I want to let my emotions fall onto a page just like I imagine someone who makes money at writing doing
I imagine they sit in front of their computers
just typing endlessly; as if the ideas just flow from their fingertips
without the slightest effort
I don’t know if that happens or not
I've never actually met a successful writer
But, I imagine that John Conolly didn't always have great ideas
I’m sure J. K. Rowling didn't just throw Harry Potter on to a page without using the backspace key on a few paragraphs
or hell, maybe even whole chapters
I know I have the capacity to write wonderful fiction
I just have to get over the fear of sounding stupid
I can fix that
I have great ideas
First things first, I need to learn when to stop

A decade on from creating the hit Galaxy dress that became a defining look of the noughties, Roland Mouret has celebrated the 20th anniversary of his label by bringing his catwalk show home from Paris to London for fashion week.

And that dress was back, too – in spirit, at least. “When I think about the Galaxy dress now, I see that it was all about the women who wanted to wear it,” Mouret said backstage after the show at the National Theatre on Sunday, referring to the curvy, back-zipped dresses that made him a star.

“It wasn’t the dress that said anything, it was the women who wore that dress who had something to say. It was a dress for a woman who knows her body. A woman who is in a relationship with a man but who also goes out into the world and has a life outside of that relationship, too. That inner woman is the icon, not the dress.”

The anniversary show – his first in London after 10 years of showing his collections in Paris – was a celebratory affair, with the foyer of the National Theatre turned into a catwalk. It provided a suitably theatrical atmosphere for the wearing of high-voltage dresses on a grey Sunday morning, and an appropriate setting for a designer who rivals Stella McCartney as one of Britain’s foremost names in red-carpet fashion. At last week’s Bafta awards, the author JK Rowling and the Star Wars actor Daisy Ridley both wore Roland Mouret.

The Galaxy elements on this catwalk were updated for 2017. The cleavage that was an essential part of the dress when it was worn a decade ago by everyone from Cameron Diaz to Carol Vorderman is now out of fashion, so the distinctive origami folds of the neckline were raised several inches higher and instead of framing a balcony-hoisted decollete, they accentuated bare shoulders.

The full-length back zip was present and correct, made even more steamy by being emphasised with a small keyhole of cut-out fabric in the small of the back. The fabric has also moved with the times, from stretch crepe to wool knit and velvet, which give the shape of the body a less stark frame.

Mouret was born in Lourdes, south-west France, where his father was a butcher, but now lives between London and Suffolk. His UK-based company employs 75 people, and has been a champion of British manufacturing.

Sunday’s show, which was attended by about 100 of Mouret’s best customers, as well as editors and retailers, was set to a ***** soundtrack that began with Burt Bacharach’s The Look of Love and ended with Leonard Cohen’s I’m Your Man. It was followed by a champagne trunk show at which orders were being taken for delivery in a few months’ time.

The only archive design Mouret resurrected faithfully was a dress from his pre-Galaxy days, of which no pattern existed because “in those days, I just draped and sewed the dresses on to the girls”.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/evening-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/formal-dresses-2017

Eliot, Wittgenstein, Melville
J.K. Rowling, James Joyce, Confucius
Possibly even Shakespeare (a good guess)

Teachers teach.
Professors profess.

For those who, whenever they chase pavements,
stare at the adjacent road that mimics the starless night sky
And inside their heads they pretend
that they unknowingly trip on a crack on the cement,
so that they could find an excuse to use the incoming vehicle as an escape goat for life

Let's raise a glass to you for not doing so!

To the men high upon beams and chains and towers, overlooking the city skyline
filled with people tracing the sidewalks like ants in a single file,
who think to themselves: the fall will probably hurt less than the onslaught of words
coming from their wives for giving them a hard life

Let's raise a glass to you for not doing so!

I lift the crystal in my hand to the women who, no matter how battered and tattered are their skins,
choose to paint their faces with whatever powdered pallet they have
even though Rowling's metal wand sits beside their makeup inside the drawer of their dresser,
waiting for them to take their own life

Let's raise a glass to you for not doing so!

And to the students who have never gotten over their childhood traumas
and to the bullies who never outgrew the bruises from their fathers
that no matter how much it hurt you,
you never chose to end everything with a slipknot or the edge of a blade or with battery fluid you found in your garage,
I envy you

So, let's raise a glass to you too for not doing so!

I raise my half empty glass to all those who failed to take away god's gift
To the men and women who failed in fear of abandoning their children
I spill the contents of this wine glass
in honor of the sons and daughters of wealthy politicians, who succeeded in receiving eternal punishment for taking their lives
And to those who regret that they failed in their first try, please,
don't throw away your life

You are exquisite, you are tantalizing,
you are worthy of a million praises like the saints we see on mosaics and church pieces
Your works are rousing and they enflame the tiniest of sparks in at least one person's heart
be ravenous and unmerciful when improving your craft
Let's raise a glass!

Because as you are reading this, the glass of wine I have been carrying high above my head
had already spilled on the parchment where I have written these words with utmost care

So, will you raise your glass to me?

my church doesn’t take attendance.
my church just wants to know what color you see the world in.
my church won’t fight your battles for you
but it’ll patch up your knuckles, it’ll cheer you on
from the empty bleachers.
my church is full of repentant pickpockets
and former ****-ups and kids with crooked teeth.
my church coughs up the word religion,
my church doesn’t believe in anything bigger
than its own two hands.
my church has never needed to.  
my church ain’t trying to fix you but
it hands out bandaids and lollipops for free.
my church doesn’t ask questions, it just holds hands.    
my church doesn’t exist until it’s 4 AM and you’re all alone,
coming out of your skin.
my church doesn’t believe in sinners or saints, just people.
my church doesn’t focus on the after-life, just the one we’re in.
my church doesn’t have pews,
my church has hiking boots and ***** feet.
my church doesn’t want your worship, just your love.
my church dances barefoot.
my church writes songs about you.
my church is open 24 hours but it ain’t a liquor store.
my church is the radio, my church is every song you’ve yet to know.
my church listens to heavy metal and bubblegum pop
and always sings the wrong words.
my church is anxious, my church is tapping toes,
my church hates public speaking but loves to be heard.
my church is the first day of spring after a winter so long that
you didn’t think you’d find your way out of it.
my church is crying on your best friend’s shoulder.
my church is reruns of the shows you grew up on.
my church is your mother kissing you on your forehead.
my church is dr. seuss is snuggling up
between shakespeare and j.k. rowling all on your bookshelf.
my church is poetry, my church is finger paints.
my church is i’m sorry and my church is i forgive you.
my church is in love with you.
it always has been.
my church can't jump high enough for a leap of faith.
my church is the last kid picked in gym class,
my church breeds underdogs like they're laboradoodle mixes.
my church has overgrown front lawn full of dandelions.
my church has neighbors who talk **** on it.
my church doesn’t always finish its homework on time
but it finishes every story they’ve start telling.
my church doesn’t give a **** about your GPA,
but my church wants you to learn everything you can.
my church wants you to always ask why.
my church is late with the rent check this month
because it bought tickets to a show,
my church regrets absolutely nothing.
my church is still figuring it out, too.
my church is falling apart,
and sometimes the congregation watches
and sometimes they pick up the pieces, keeps ‘em in their pockets.  
my church is home to anyone would believes in
friday night and sunday morning with the same intensity,
my church has its doors open to
atheists and holy men and godly women and those who just don’t know.
my church is home to the non-believers,
my church doesn’t like to tell them they’re wrong.
my church calls them baby
and says that we don’t believe in much here either.
my church doesn’t care who the *******’ve been praying to,
my church doesn’t care if you never have.
my church is honest, my church is choking.
my church is broken, but it
believes in you.

you sit there with a blank page or screen
wanting to be the next Rowling or Rankin
words fail to come, you write words but nothing seems to make sense
then at midnight, words flow more freely

Dear Brendon Urie
this impossible year your songs were the only thing that put vigor in my blood, and feeling in my limbs. Until we feel alright. In my darkest hours your songs made my skeleton want to dance, made it dance, it always danced to your music. Always forever I will dance to your music.
Dear Brendon Urie
I'm all dressed up and naked. A tiktok, that was all it was, innocently scrolling through tiktok with my friend (though one could argue with her feed it is never innocent), I saw it. Do you know when you have the dream that you're naked at school?  This is a hundred fold worse. I was not naked, but something tore certainty from my body. The music that had help build be up burned my structure. You can set yourself on fire
Dear Brendon Urie
Girls love girls and boys. I came out as lesbain a few months ago. You gave me a space to explore that, you said ‘its ok to be queer’, then you punched me across the face. Homophobe was not usually even close to the row of adjectives I reserved for you but now it is.
Dear Brendon Urie
Just another LA Devotee. I thought for a second that tik tok was like voter fraud in Wisconsin, false claims made by uneducated people. Then the truth hits, no women lies about ****** harassment, no fan lies about your racist monologe at a concert, nobody lies about someone saying the n word, no one lies about you laughing at a ablelist joke. You are not as shiny as you appear. The glitter dancing on the skin. The decades might've washed it out.
Dear Brendon Urie
It's better to burn than to fade away. For years I have watched each of my heros burn
Dear J.K. Rowling,
Dear Gloria Steniem.
Every author I ever loved homophic.
Dear Kevin Clash
Dear Michael Jackson
Dear Bill Cosby
Every artist I every loved accused of pedophila
Dear lance armstrong
Dear basketball players
Every athlete I aspired to be like a drug used
Dear Bill Clinton
Every politican I admired accused of ****** assault
You have all proved to me that there are no heroes that there is no one to look up to.
I am sad more than angry, sad that you couldn’t be bothered to love the world as they love you.

Age 12,
not a single tension of this world,
standing at a standstill,
And shouting ,'**** the whole universe'

age 13,
failed first time,
everything was fine,
except my parent's pride,

age 14,failed again,
for my pride,
my mum made me change my school once again,
I didn't feed on sun,still for everyone I was an alien,
thanks to Harry, Ron and Hermoine,
I learnt friendship from a friendship which I never got,
thanks to J.K Rowling too,
she's the reason why these rhymes make much more sense to me than those value of pi's do,

age 15, failed once again,
but no worries,
cause I know I am going to change the game,
that doesn't mean I don't cry,
don't worry,
when someone asks me,
I never tell them 'why?'

I read Edgar Allan Poe to Dan brown,
did not leave even a single account,
but still the main question remains,
will these words going to take me somewhere,
or even anywhere else,
or I too, will became a 9 to 5 slave just like everyone else.

-my story by adarsh Singh.

A-Z


A, B, C for comedy, I think I said it once to Mr. Jack Dee,
But 'e forgot, gee it's getting hot; you see the pressures on me.
But I, J.K. Rowling am not,
'Ell bent on becoming the next Eminem, I'm not;
Oh no! M and N, I forgot.


Oh I'll ask Bob, Bob can I have a ***?
Q, you ****, said Bob Holness to me.
They should have bleeped it out; yes more tea please,
Said I to you, the V.W. driving tease.
She soon became my ex, don't ask me why.
I've got to go now, so say goodbye.
I've got to catch some Z’s.


(C)2011 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.

In the beautiful words of John Marcus:
“Sometimes words are a little too hard to catch. They flit and flutter all over the place almost impossible to catch, taunting and teasing me with the worlds I could create.”
And the last part caught my attention, upon reading it. “…taunting and teasing me with the worlds I could create.” Cause I've written a novel, and currently I'm writing its sequel, and I essentially created a whole world. A whole global history, a whole global culture, a whole everything on a global scale. George Lucas, that literal genius, created a whole galaxy, far, far away, along with Martin Goodman creating a whole universe, Gene Roddenberry created a whole world on the USS Enterprise, JK Rowling created the Wizarding World, Angie Sage created one of my favorite worlds, the world of a seventh son of a seventh son with a name with seven in it.
Writers, in their own genius creativity, write worlds into existence, cover to cover, create them and steer them in a beautiful direction: forward.
And then I remembered. God created man and women in his image, and God literally spoke creation into existence, and the Bible recorded the event into literary immortality. So if God spoke (literally) everything into existence, and we fall short of His Glory eternally, then couldn’t we create worlds? Not, like, literal, physical worlds, but maybe a literary world, like authors do?
A world you could get just as lost in?
And words, words, the beautiful creation of the written form, constantly taunt and tease me, they challenge me, they call out to me to keep creating and writing worlds into existence. But we don’t need to write worlds into existence to make our words amazing: even I myself have written small phrases, not just worlds, but sometimes even the smallest things have the biggest impacts. (IE, my toddlers.)
(John Marcus has a beautiful mind, seriously, it repeatedly blows mine away. Keep doin your thing, dude.)
:;,

Sitting on the bus not knowing where to look,
Lady in the seat in front engrossed in her book
Woman in seat opposite glances then looks away
Upon realising that the book is Fifty Shades of Grey,

“Is your book a good read?” she says “I can't tell by the cover”
The reader mutters “It’s a story about a girl and her wealthy handsome lover”
The woman gives a wry smile and looks down at her coat
She’d read it herself six months ago but wasn't one to gloat,

“I’m reading J.K. Rowling but it's not a Harry Potter,
It's called The Casual Vacancy, Simon Price is such a rotter”,
Silence falls and five minutes is spent,
Observing the appearance of an elderly gent

Immaculately dressed, both suited and booted,
Back-seat youths start to swear and the air is polluted,
The man shakes his head at 'the youth of today’
“Bring back conscription” the driver hears him say,

He reaches in his pocket and takes out a mobile phone
Twenty missed calls from cold-callers,
Why can't they leave him alone?

He looks across at the bookworm
The girl can sense his stare
He hesitantly asks her “what's that book called you've got there?”
She showed the man the cover and then he did declare
"Fifty Shades of Grey's an apt description of my hair"

That sigh of sorrow,
That regret of borrow,
That fear of being burnt alive,
But still longing to die!

The ugly fate that was designed,
Could just be purified!
With an attempt to suicide,
’cause nobody was by her side!

People used to pity,
Showing no empathy,
Drowned by her own tears
But still overcoming all fears!

And on an unfortunate day,
Of twenty-sixth of May,
She divorced her husband,
Left back with no fund!

But instead of screaming in pain,
She decided to re-live a day,
Her miserable past was circling her brain,
But she concentrated on writing,--that was, the hobby of the day!

She kept howling in dreams,
Chopping her own finger instead of the greens
But today the world knows her as,
‘J.K Rowling-- the queen!’

I love you
Like you love Harry Potter
Like Luna loves puddings
Like Dobby loves socks
Like Harry loves his parents
Like Hermione loves books
Like Ron loves food
Like Dumbledore loves Hogwarts
Like Hagrid loves his creatures
Like Fred & George love pranks
Like J.K. Rowling loves writing

Dear friends, this poem was posted on the ''Facebook'' last month along with maps and photographs, and was much appreciated. Unfortunately, I am unable to post any maps or photos on this Site! I post on the 'Facebook' these days which provides greater visibility & interaction! Hope you like this composition, - Best wishes, - Raj, New Delhi. Feb. 2022.

DATING EVENTS OF ANCIENT HISTORY : BY RAJ NANDY

FURTHER WE GET BACK IN TIME, WE ENTER THE FOG AND MIST OF THE PAST,
WHEN KNOWLEDGE BECOMES INSECURE, AND SPECULATIONS AND GUESS WORK STARTS!
WHEN WE ENTER THE REALM OF LEGENDS AND MYTHS
TO ENTERTAIN OURSELVES WITH FANCIFUL FACTS,
WAITING FOR HISTORY TO TAKE SHAPE, BASED ON RESEARCHED WORK AND VERIFIED FACTS!
IN OUR NOBLE PURSUITS AND ENDEAVOUR OUR ARCHIEOLOGISTS, GEOLOGISTS, ANTHROPOLOGISTS, - ALL COMBINE TO HELP US;
AND THEY HAVE INDEED HELPED OUR MODERN HISTORIANS, TO UNRAVEL MANY HIDDEN MYSTERIES
OF THE PAST!

NOW WHEN IT COMES TO DATING EVENTS OF THE ‘ANCIENT HISTORY’, IT MUST BE REMEMBERED BY
ALL OF US,
THAT EXACT DATES OF EVENTS CANNOT BE MADE AVAILABLE TO US!!
SINCE DATES ARE BASED ON INTERPRETATIONS OF ARCHIEOLOGICAL FINDINGS  MADE BY OUR  
LEARNED SCHOLARS,
WHICH HAS KNOWN TO VARY BY A CENTURY, OR
EVEN BY MANY MORE YEARS!!
SO IT IS WITH FACTS OF ANCIENT HISTORY, WHERE
WE CAN NEVER BE ABSOLUTELY CERTAIN,
WETHER HOMER WAS REALLY BLIND, OR THAT HIS EPICS WERE DICTATED BY HIM OR WRITTEN?
THE TROJAN WAR IS THOUGHT TO HAVE TAKEN PLACE BETWEEN 1200 AND 1150 BC,
BETWEEN THE MYCEANEAN GREEKS AND THE TROJANS,
IN THE NORTH-WESTER CORNER OF PRESENT-DAY TURKEY.
IT WAS A PERIOD WHICH SAW THE COLLAPSE OF THE MYCENEAN BRONZE AGE CIVILIZATION.
COMMENCING THE 400 YEARS OF “THE DARK AGES” IN GREECE, -ABOUT WHICH WE HARDLY HAVE ANY NOTION!
SO SCHOLARS HAD RELIED ON SEVERAL ARCHIEOLOGICAL DIGS, WHILE COMPOSING ANCIENT TROJAN HISTORY.
WHICH WE NOW GET TO READ, THOUGH SURROUNDED BY FEW MYTHS AND MYSTERIES!

NOW THE SEVEN LAYERS OF THIS TROJAN CITY WAS DUG UP  IN THE 19TH AND THE 20TH CENTURIES AT PLACE CALLED ‘HISARLIK  TELL’;              (Tell = is a mound)
WHICH WAS A MAN MADE MOUND BUILT ONE ON TOP OF THE OTHER, WITH MANY HIDDEN MYSTERIES AS WELL!
SO THE CITY OF TROY DID EXIST, AND A TROJAN WAR MIGHT HAVE ALSO TAKEN PLACE.
BUT THE REAL CAUSE FOR THIS WAR REMAINS ELUSIVE,
AND OUR  SCHOLARS CAN ONLY GUESS!
WE GO BY GENERAL CONSENSUS AMONG SCHOLARS WHO SPOKE OF MARTIME RIVALRY BETWEEN THE MACENEANS AND THE TROJANS,
FOR CONTROLLING THE SHIPPING LANE TO THE BLACK SEA UP NORTH, BY SAILING ACROSS THE WATERS OF
THE AEGEAN.      (Map here cannot be shown on this site!)
NOW AS FOR “THE FACE THAT LAUCHED A THOUSAND SHIPS” WHICH WE FIND IN CHRISTORHER MARLOW’S ‘DR. FAUSTUS’ DURING LATER DAYS;
WELL, IN THOSE ARCHEOLOGICAL DIGS THERE ARE NO TRACES OF ANY ADULTEROUS LOVE, OR OF FAIR HELEN’S BEAUTIOUS FACE!

FRIENDS, LET US NOT FORGET THE BRITISH AUTHOR JK ROWLING,  WHO BECAME ONE OF THE RICHES FEMALE NOVELISTS OF OUR WORLD;
WITH HER ‘HARRY POTTER’ SERIES WHICH DESCRIBES A LEGENDARY, MAKE-BELIVE AND A FANTASY  WORLD!!
NOW AS A POET I DO LOVE THE MYTHS  AND LEGENDS OF THE PAST, IMAGINING THAT THEY ARE TRUE,
BUT WHEN IT COMES TO ‘DATING EVENTS’ OF ANCIENT HISTORY MY FRIENDS,
I REMAIN AS SKEPTICAL, OR EVEN AS GULLIBLE AS YOU!!
…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..
NOTES:  IN ANCIENT GREECE HISTORICAL DATING IS SAID TO HAVE COMMENCED WITH THEIR FIRST OLYMPIC GAMES HELD DURING 776 BC, WHICH FOLLOWED A CYCLE OF A FOUR YEAR PERIOD, WHICH HELPED IN THEIR SUBSEQUENT DATINGS.  ARTIST’S IMPRESSION OF THE OLYMPIC GAMES HAVE BEEN POSTED FOR YOU.   - By Raj Nandy, New Delhi, Jan. 2022.