Monday, August 14, 2006

Emily Dickinson...

...is my favourite poet. That is not to say that I, like a wine-taster, ventured out to sample an array of bards, and anointed her as my favourite poet. It simply means that given the limited range of my reading, this is one person who swept me off my feet with her sheer, uh-hm, poetry. She is bliss to read and she has a way with words;to emote with words; Ah! I can never do justice. So, let me do the smart thing and quote her.

Well, anyway, here is the poem:
I can wade grief,
Whole pools of it,—
I ’m used to that.
But the least push of joy
Breaks up my feet, 5
And I tip—drunken.
Let no pebble smile,
’T was the new liquor,—
That was all!

Power is only pain, 10
Stranded, through discipline,
Till weights will hang.
Give balm to giants,
And they ’ll wilt, like men.
Give Himmaleh,— 15
They ’ll carry him!

Tuesday, June 27, 2006

The usual English excuses

"The Tottenham goalkeeper said: 'The conditions have made it hard for us. I think we are finding the pitches particularly difficult.It's slowing our passing game down. We are finding it hard to get a rhythm. I think we are finding the pitches particularly difficult because they are not putting water on them"
http://soccernet.espn.go.com/news/story?id=372669&cc=3436
Where do I start on this one? - am still rolling on the floor laughing.
So, folks, now you know why England have not set the stadiums alight yet in Germany. I say, Portugal, please pour water...on English hopes!