Sirius is the South Star
The prettiest rainbow star
Glowing with the sun’s halo
The brightest, biggest Dog Star
Chasing the chariot of Apollo
From the sunrise to the sunset
Bringing the dog days of summer.
Tag: creative writing
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Polaris
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Grift
When a thirsty wayfarer
sees an oasis in the desert,
And a weary sailor beholds
the kingdom of shore distant,
the joyful tears of the beholders
remove the stains from the chamber
of the hearts furious of grift desire
And return them to the tender hearts. -
Moonlight Sonata
For all those years gone by
I can’t just look back and
say, “They’re gone away,”
For all that time, I lived
Liked, hoped, cried, laughed
With five faces of a fool;
Still dreams I dreamt before
Are beckoning me smiling
Under a diaphanous veil
Of luminescent moonlight. -
Twilight
The hoofs are galloping
The wheels are racing
The Sun Chariot is nearing
To the end of the horizon;
The day’s memory follows
In a sweet soft twilight
With pale hues of sunshine
Reflecting on the windows
Of the beholder, bidding
Time return from yesterdays. -
About a poet
Hollow cheeks
Sunken eyes
The #gaunt poet
He may look,
Passion fills
His heart with
Paramount excitement,
Truth quenches
His mind with
Imperturbable reason
In his Palace of Soul
Stone by stone
Prisoners of Reality
Against the minions -
A Man Without a Country by Kurt Vonnegut
A Man Without a Country by Kurt Vonnegut Jr.
My rating: 5 of 5 stars
A man without a country is a connoisseur of humanity, appreciating the universality of sentiment and reason common to all humankind beyond the demarcation of the territorial, cultural, and racial ambits. In that regard, Kurt Vonnegut is not only a great American writer but also an honorable citizen of the world.
Vonnegut was liberal and socialist without being Marxist, but he was also a traditionalist and Christian without being conservative and religious. He was on the side of the underdogs because he regarded himself as one by being a kind of black sheep in the literary circles for his studying engineering, not English literature. However, he wasn’t a grumpy sullen dark literary figure but a funny, talkative writer who stroke conversations with anyone in daily life. Vonnegut refused to lose his days in unsocial solitude and decided to become – as Samuel Johnson called – the sun in his evening declination, remitting his splendor and maintaining his magnitude, pleasing more, though intimidating less.
A Man without a Country is a charming little book packed with thoughts, wits, and knowledge. Vonnegut was only a human because he saw the heart of human nature and wanted to help people bring it out and nourish it thus: “To practice any art, no matter how well or badly, is a way to make your soul grow. So do it.” Vonnegut was a writer who practiced what he preached. So why not read this book by such a writer?
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