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Tema tuntuimate teoste sekka kuuluvad 'Proua Dalloway' , 'Tuletorni juurde' , 'Orlando' ja 'Lained' , samuti feminismiklassikasse kuuluv essee 'Oma tuba' III' , Garden and Forest, The team, however, was good, though the driver was not a man of brilliant intellect. Neither of the men, born and bred in Marion, had ever been on the mountains, and both would infinitely have preferred to stay at home. It was on a dull day during the last week in May that we started. The road was passably good till we began he ascent of Iron Mountain, which was crossed at an altitude of over three thousand feet in a driving hail-storm. Pennsylvanicum and great hedges of the luxuriant Purple-flowering Raspberry Rubus odoratus. The road on the descent of Iron Mountain winds for two or three miles along White Top-tree Creek; the many small brooks that feed it run through dense forests consisting for the most part of Hemlock. Some of the trees are magnificent specimens, three to four feet or even more in diameter, and tower above everything else in the gloomy ravine, where Rhododendron maximum made an impenetrable tangle, individual plants being over twenty-five feet in height and tree-like in character. Kalmia La ti folia was there also in great abundance, quite respectable little trees, with the gnarled, picturesque aspect of old Apple-trees. At that season, however, the only conspicuous tree in flower was Magnolia Fraseri. Manv of them must have exceeded the filty feet given as their height in Gray's Manual, for in some instances they seemed to rival the giant Hemlocks themselves. These made a picture to be remembered long. For several miles at each turn of the road we saw a scries of lovely trec-groups, and though, of course, there were many other interesting and remarkable trees. We were unable to reach the mountain that night, and took refuge in a small wayside inn near Green Cove on the North Carolina border, some twelve miles by the roud from the top. Near the spring where our hostess kept her milk-uans and great stone jars of butter, we found an antique Kaimia that has survived many winters. It was about twenty-live feet tall, and at six inches from the ground measured seven feet and two inches ; at one foot from the ground four feet and three inches in circumference. It was not yet in bloom, but its magnificent proportions compcltcd our admiration. Among the plants not collected before, nearer Marion, was Phacelia finibriata, with charming little white flowers, a smaller and more delicate species than P. With it along a little mountain stream was the tiny spring beauty, Claytonia Caroliniana, in fruit. The woods were all second growth, and, with few exceptions, large trees were seldom seen. A thousand feet or so below the summit we passed through a belt of Spruce-trees growing in a deep black loam bog. Clintonia umbellata grew there in great beds and was at its best; C. Streptopus roseus, with its tiny rosy bells, was plentiful; the delicate white Thalictrum clavatum grew along every little rill and ditch, as did also a particularly large and handsome swamp form of Viola cucullata. Of all the swamp flowers, however, the roost conspicuous and luxuriant was Anemone trifolia. Tins charming little plant, so long confounded with A. It was collected twenty-five years or more ago by Mr. Canby on the Salt Pond Mountain, and again by Mr. Curtiss on the Peaks of Otter. It had been considered a distinct species, but on comparing it with the European A. Two years ago we found it in great abundance in flower and fruit in the localities mentioned above, und all through the higher altitudes of the Smythe County mountains we found it this year in even greater quantities, and especially fine in the great swamp on While Top. The plant stands mostly six to eight inches hign,and sometimes even higher, and has m every way larger and coarser leaves and larger flowers than the trail little Wood Anemone of the northern lowland woods. The Spruces were neither very old nor very large trees, and their very ancient appearance was caused by the luxuriance of the moss and lichen crop with which their trunks and branches were covered. Above the Spruce-swamp, on the edge of the road, stood a venerable Hirch, one of the remains of the older forest on the mountain—a great gnarled old trunk that measured at three feet from the ground within two inches of twenty-three feet in circumference. Some twenty feet or more from the ground the main trunk was separated into four great erect branches, each a large tree in itself. Range after range of billowy forest-clad mountain-tops of ever-increasing height, with the Roan and Grandfather mountains for a somewhat hazy background against a cloudless midday sky, was the sight that greeted us as we came out of the woods'on to the great open field at an altitude of over 5. The mountain-slope was not precipitous, but the great semicircle of North Carolina mountains lay apparently just at our feet. The grass is strewn with Violets and little low iitraw-berry-blossoms, and above, near the trees, the dainty little Carolina Claytonia was blooming, while the fragrant Trailing Arbutus still lingered in the dense shade. Under the Spruces we walked nearly knee-deep in luxuriant mosses, and the Cryptogamic collection was very large and mosi interesting. From those rocks we saw three white-iiowered shrubs and trees blooming in the valley below : Amelanchier Canadensis, the Servicc-uerry of the natives, its fruit already tinged with red; the Wild Red Cherry Pro n us Pennsylvanica , a graceful little tree covered with slender-pedicelled, delicate white blossoms, and the crowning glory of the whole, the Hobble-bush Viburnum lantanoides. Early the next day we started on the return rip by a shorter and somewhat better road. On the south-east side of the mountain the white Baneberry Act. The Diphylleia is a tall, handsome plant, with large, coarse, roundish peltate leaves and small cymes of white flowers with bright golden-yellow stamens. Along the road wo yellow Umbelliferous plants were abundant, the small Zizia Bcbbii, and the larger, more showy Thaspium barbinode. At a somewhat lower altitude we found a thicket of Menziesia glohularis, wi h what in the Manual is called Vaccinium corvmbosum, var. The Blueberry is a slender shrub, with Hat. The Pipe-vinc Aristolochia SiphoJ grew high over shrubs and up on trees, and was covered with its strange little brown flowers. During the latter port of he descent we were caught in another storm, and reached Marion at nightfall in a drenched condition. The luxuriance and almost abnormal growth of the mountain vegetation are not to be wondered at when the rainfall is taken into consideration. The day without a thunderstorm or sudden, short shower was a rarity, and a three days' drought happened only once during our six weeks'sojourn in the county. Emily Greene Balch 8. Belle da Costa Greene Scutts, Joanna 17 May Morgan's Library'. Retrieved 8 August He sent the bill to his librarian, Belle da Costa Greene, with a note asking where the sculpture was. It has been there about a year. I loved them even then, the sight of them, the wonderful feel of them, the romance and thrill of them. Before I was sixteen, I had begun my studies, omitting the regular college courses that many girls take before they have found out what they want to do. Evening Sun, 19 October For my family, my strength For my comrades, my light. For the sisters and brothers whose fighting spirit was my liberator. For those whose humanity is too rare to be destroyed by walls, bars, and death houses. And especially for those who are going to struggle until racism and class injustice are forever banished from our history. Caitlin Moran, 'What have they done to my library? You sat on your desk, swinging your legs, reading a poem by Yeats to the bored girls, except my heart stumbled and blushed as it fell in love with the words and I saw the tree in the scratched old desk under my hands, heard the bird in the oak outside scribble itself on the air. Some days, although we cannot pray, a prayer utters itself. So, a woman will lift her head from the sieve of her hands and stare at the minims sung by a tree, a sudden gift. Some nights, although we are faithless, the truth enters our hearts, that small familiar pain; then a man will stand stock-still, hearing his youth in the distant Latin chanting of a train. Prayer Some days, although we cannot pray, a prayer utters itself. Pray for us now. Grade 1 piano scales console the lodger looking out across a Midlands town. Then dusk, and someone calls a child's name as though they named their loss. Darkness outside. Inside, the radio's prayer - Rockall. William Crawley. Retrieved 17 July Today we have a poet in the class. A real live poet with a published book. Notice the ink-stained fingers girls. Perhaps we're going to witness verse hot from the press. Retrieved 16 March Part of Duffy's talent — besides her ear for ordinary eloquence, her gorgeous, powerful, throwaway lines, her subtlety — is her ventriloquism. Like the best of her novelist peers However, she is also a time-traveller and a shape-shifter, gliding from Troy to Hollywood, galaxies to intestines, sloughed-off skin to department stores while other poets make heavy weather of one kiss, one kick, one letter Enam ei kuule siin tuulte ulgu. Silmapiiril veel viivitab ehavalgus. Taevas mu kohal on otsata suur. Now we assert How could catastrophe possibly prevail over us? Associated Press. February 21, Archived from the original on August 6, Retrieved August 6, Tallinn : Varrak, , tlk Triin Tael. I certainly never intended to speak for anyone other than myself. Even myself I find it difficult to speak for. I was born in the same year a Virgin megastore was raided for selling condoms without a pharmacist present. Two years before the decriminalisation of homosexuality. Four years before the legalisation of divorce. It was a completely new way of thinking about books and literature and it felt intellectually challenging. The original reason for a Thanksgiving Day has long ago ceased to exist—the Indians have long ago been comprehensively and satisfactorily exterminated and the account closed with Heaven, with the thanks due. But, from old habit, Thanksgiving Day has remained with us, and every year the President of the United States and the Governors of all the several States and the territories set themselves the task, every November, to advertise for something to be thankful for, and then they put those thanks into a few crisp and reverent phrases, in the form of a Proclamation, and this is read from all the pulpits in the land, the national conscience is wiped clean with one swipe, and sin is resumed at the old stand. It was a regional holiday, observed only in the New England states or those in the Midwest to which New Englanders had migrated. Individual states decided whether and when they would hold the holiday, though the traditional time was late November to mark the close of the agricultural year. The so-called First Thanksgiving, as a gathering of English colonists and Wampanoags has come to be known, was not the root of this holiday. Civil War. Hale believed that the observance would foster unity amid the horrors of the Civil War. Afterward, the tradition stuck, with some modifications to the date, and gradually it spread to the South, too. Around the same time, Americans began to think of the holiday as originating in a feast shared between the English colonists of Plymouth and the surrounding Indians. The first suggestion that such a link existed appears to date to , when the Reverend Alexander Young published the only primary source account of that event, consisting of a mere paragraph of four lines. Leah Goldberg ka Lea Goldberg; Kuninganna koduta, kuningas kroonita seal. I am the centre Of a circle of pain Exceeding its boundaries in every direction The business of the bland sun Has no affair with me In my congested cosmos of agony From which there is no escape On infinitely prolonged nerve-vibrations Or in contraction To the pinpoint nucleus of being Pain is no stronger than the resisting force Pain calls up in me The struggle is equal The irresponsibility of the male Leaves woman her superior Inferiority. He is running upstairs The next morning Each woman-of-the-people Tiptoeing the red pile of the carpet Doing hushed service Each woman-of-the-people Wearing a halo A ludicrous little halo Of which she is sublimely unaware. A silver Lucifer serves cocaine in cornucopia To some somnambulists of adolescent thighs draped in satirical draperies Peris in livery prepare Lethe for posthumous parvenues The human cylinders Revolving in the enervating dusk That wraps each closer in the mystery Of singularity Among the litter of a sunless afternoon Having eaten without tasting Talked without communion And at least two of us Loved a very little Without seeking To know if our two miseries In the lucid rush-together of automatons Could form one opulent wellbeing The impartiality of the absolute Routs the polemic Or which of us Would not Receiving the holy-ghost Catch it and caging Lose it Or in the problematic Destroy the Universe With a solution. Antonia Lolordo, Oxford University Press, Las taltub tuul. Las muutub kuuri sisemus mustaks. Minu jaoks oli juba hilja, sulle seal, kus sa olid, mitte. Ronisin voodist kahel tugeval jalal. Tunnen sust pidevalt valuliselt puudust. But see what they do! Evil is nothing new, so what does it matter now if we shell the infirmary, and the well where the fearful and rash alike must come for water? God thinks Mary into being. Suspended at the apogee of the golden dome, she curls in a brown pod, and inside her mind of Christ, cloaked in blood, lodges and begins to grow. Pierson's Verlag, \[um \]. Bertha von Suttner, 'Rahuriik', rmt: 'Maailma ja inimsoo tulevik', koostas J. Ta ise ei nimetanud ennast kuningaks. Ta oli vagatseja ja suur liivi rahvuslane. Ka Buuntikul oli see raamat ja ta luges seda iseenesest maksvaks ka liivlaste kohta. Sellestki on paar lauset kustutanud Ventspilsi vangla tsensor. Uldrikil oli 13 last. Kui O. Loorits Liivi luuletajad Liivi aktivistid. Temagi on sinu elu. Nad on elus luuletused. We were running out of breath, as we ran out to meet ourselves. It was difficult to lose days in the Indian bar if you were straight. Easy if you played pool and drank to remember to forget. And some of us could sing so we drummed a fire-lit pathway up to those starry stars. Sin was invented by the Christians, as was the Devil, we sang. We knew we were all related in this story, a little gin will clarify the dark and make us all feel like dancing. We had something to do with the origins of blues and jazz I argued with a Pueblo as I filled the jukebox with dimes in June, forty years later and we still want justice. We are still America. We know the rumors of our demise. We spit them out. They die soon. Me hingeldasime, joostes vastu iseendile. Me tegime plaane, et hakata elukutselisteks - ja hakkasimegi. Patu leiutasid kristlased, nagu kuradigi, laulsime meie. Oleme ikka veel Ameerika. Me teame kuulujutte meie surmast. Nemad surevad peagi. Selgete siniste akende teravad harjad viipavad mulle lennujaama teiselt korruselt. Olen ohtlik naine. Ehk ongi see surmav relv, mis masina laulma pani. Turvateenistus ei leia seda iial. Edges dance in the foothills of the Sandias behind security guards who wave me into their guncatcher machine. I am a dangerous woman. When the machine buzzes they say to take off my belt, and I remove it so easy that it catches the glance of a man standing nearby. Maybe that is the deadly weapon that has the machine singing. I am a dangerous woman, but the weapon is not visible. Security will never find it. Maa kingid tuuakse ja valmistatakse sellel laual. Ajame kanad ja koead selle juurest minema. Palvetame kannatusest ja kahetsusest. The world begins at a kitchen table. No matter what, we must eat to live. The gifts of earth are brought and prepared, set on the table. So it has been since creation, and it will go on. We chase chickens or dogs away from it. Babies teethe at the corners. They scrape their knees under it. It is here that children are given instructions on what it means to be human. We make men at it, we make women. At this table we gossip, recall enemies and the ghosts of lovers. Our dreams drink coffee with us as they put their arms around our children. They laugh with us at our poor falling-down selves and as we put ourselves back together once again at the table. This table has been a house in the rain, an umbrella in the sun. Wars have begun and ended at this table. It is a place to hide in the shadow of terror. A place to celebrate the terrible victory. We have given birth on this table, and have prepared our parents for burial here. At this table we sing with joy, with sorrow. We pray of suffering and remorse. We give thanks. Perhaps the world will end at the kitchen table, while we are laughing and crying, eating of the last sweet bite. In the last days of the fourth world I wished to make a map for those who would climb through the hole in the sky. My only tools were the desires of humans as they emerged from the killing fields, from the bedrooms and the kitchens. For the soul is a wanderer with many hands and feet. It must carry fire to the next tribal town, for renewal of spirit. In the legend are instructions on the language of the land, how it was we forgot to acknowledge the gift, as if we were not in it or of it. Take note of the proliferation of supermarkets and malls, the altars of money. They best describe the detour from grace. Keep track of the errors of our forgetfulness; the fog steals our children while we sleep. Flowers of rage spring up in the depression. Monsters are born there of nuclear anger. Trees of ashes wave good-bye to good-bye and the map appears to disappear. We no longer know the names of the birds here, how to speak to them by their personal names. Once we knew everything in this lush promise. What I am telling you is real and is printed in a warning on the map. Our forgetfulness stalks us, walks the earth behind us, leav- ing a trail of paper diapers, needles, and wasted blood. An imperfect map will have to do, little one. There is no exit. The map can be interpreted through the wall of the intestine—a spiral on the road of knowledge. You will travel through the membrane of death, smell cooking from the encampment where our relatives make a feast of fresh deer meat and corn soup, in the Milky Way. They have never left us; we abandoned them for science. And when you take your next breath as we enter the fifth world there will be no X, no guidebook with words you can carry. Fresh courage glimmers from planets. And lights the map printed with the blood of history, a map you will have to know by your intention, by the language of suns. When you emerge note the tracks of the monster slayers where they entered the cities of artificial light and killed what was killing us. You will see red cliffs. They are the heart, contain the ladder. A white deer will greet you when the last human climbs from the destruction. Remember the hole of shame marking the act of abandoning our tribal grounds. We were never perfect. Yet, the journey we make together is perfect on this earth who was once a star and made the same mistakes as humans. We might make them again, she said. Crucial to finding the way is this: there is no beginning or end. You must make your own map. It was way back, before there was a way back When time threaded earth and sky. Children were conceived, were born, grew, and walked tall In what we now call a day. We who were this planet and yearned for touch. Every planted thought grew plant Ladders to the stars, way back, before there was No way back, Miss Mary Mack. We used to sing along the buttons of her Dress. Our babies are always Our babies. Even back then when time waved through The corn. We knew our plants like Relatives. They had become as one song. They lay down when it was dark. I can hear their Intimate low-voice talking. How they tease one another with such gut love. Earth makes a bed, with pillow Mounds. And it is there as the night insects sing They conceived their first child. They Will look back as they walk East toward the sunrise. The raw stalks of beginning Will drink the light, root deeply dark into earth. In the tracks of their loving The plant-child emerges, first the seed head, then Leafy, long male body and the white female Flowers of tobacco, or Hece, as the people called it when it called To them. Come here. We were brought To you from those who love you. We will help you. They have grown to fit Around earbuds, to hear music made for cold Cash, like our beloved smoke- Making threaded with addiction and dead words. Sing this song back to me, girl. In the moonlight, tobacco plant had silver Moon buttons all up her back. Our sun is dimming faster. Mvto hece, mvto hvse, mvto e — Kanvchaga, mvto ah. Invisible fish swim this ghost ocean now described by waves of sand, by water-worn rock. Soon the fish will learn to walk. Then humans will come ashore and paint dreams on the dying stone. Shrapnel and the eye Of a house, a row of houses. Soldiers crawl the city, The river, the town, the village, The bedroom, our kitchen. They eat everything. Or burn it. They kill what they cannot take. They rape. What they cannot kill they take. Rumors fall like rain. Like bombs. Like mother and father tears swallowed for restless peace. Like sunset slanting toward a moonless midnight. Like a train blown free of its destination. Like a seed fallen where There is no chance of trees or anyplace for birds to live. No, start here. Deer peer from the edge of the woods. We used to see woodpeckers The size of the sun, redbirds, and were greeted By chickadees with their good morning songs. Not here. This is memory shredded because it is impossible to hold by words, even poetry. This is not the best place to begin. Everyone was asleep, despite the distant bombs. Terror had become the familiar stranger. Our beloved twin girls curled up in their nightgowns, next to their father and me. If we begin here, none of us will make it to the end Of the poem. Someone has to make it out alive, sang a grandfather to his grandson, His granddaughter, as he blew his most powerful song into the hearts of the children. There it would be hidden from the soldiers, Who would take them miles, rivers, mountains from the navel cord place Of the origin story. His song brings us to his home place in these smoky hills. Begin here. Sappho oli vanakreeka luuletaja ja pedagoog, antiikaja tuntuim naiskirjanik. Oh kui ilmas vaenlasi meil ei leiduks hoopiski mitte! I was so young and debonair: My gay feet trod the summer air, Houp-la! And now I gnaw my bones for bread And lying on my naked bed — Houp-la! I wish I had a wealth of flesh To sell for bread or gnaw afresh. Oo lammund varemeteks valguslossid ja murd und vikerkaared, nende kandled — tolm matnud nende leekja muusika Tuli oli karvane nagu karu, ja leegid nurrusid Oo, et mu veri sureks! Pime maa, mis oli karvane kui karu, urises samuti. Ne jossain pohtii nytkin viinan hinnan nostoa. Vaba Maa, Kasutajaleht Arutelu. Teistes projektides. Olena Zelenska \[ muuda \]. Pjotr Akopov \[ muuda \]. Mart Laar \[ muuda \]. Tauno Vahter jt \[ muuda \]. Lavly Perling \[ muuda \]. Kaimo Kuusk \[ muuda \]. Jupitamata \[ muuda \]. Msg pudi \[ muuda \]. Hasso Krull \[ muuda \]. Kaspar Viilup \[ muuda \]. Ernest Hemingway \[ muuda \]. Ojasoo ja Semper \[ muuda \]. Indrek Allmann \[ muuda \]. Roman Jakobson \[ muuda \]. Kaja Kallas \[ muuda \]. Virginia Woolf \[ muuda \]. Anna Murray Vail \[ muuda \]. Epi Tohvri \[ muuda \]. Emily Green Balch \[ muuda \]. Tema kohta \[ muuda \]. Belle da Costa Green \[ muuda \]. Angela Davis \[ muuda \]. Caitlin Moran \[ muuda \]. Carol Ann Duffy \[ muuda \]. Luule \[ muuda \]. Intervjuud \[ muuda \]. Anette Parksepp \[ muuda \]. Simona Kossak \[ muuda \]. Kertu Birgit Anton \[ muuda \]. Aila Meriluoto \[ muuda \]. Pauli Murray \[ muuda \]. Ida B. Wells \[ muuda \]. Inez Milholland \[ muuda \]. Anna Howard Shaw \[ muuda \]. Carrie Chapman Catt \[ muuda \]. Lucretia Mott \[ muuda \]. Elizabeth Cady Stanton \[ muuda \]. John Barth \[ muuda \]. Helgi Muller \[ muuda \]. Amanda Gorman \[ muuda \]. Jill Biden \[ muuda \]. Sally Rooney \[ muuda \]. Leah Goldberg \[ muuda \]. Sheila Heti \[ muuda \]. Proosa \[ muuda \]. McKenzie Wark \[ muuda \]. Raamatud \[ muuda \]. Mina Loy \[ muuda \]. Lili Elbe \[ muuda \]. Mary Shepherd \[ muuda \]. Wellsi viiteprobleem \[ muuda \]. John D. Barrow \[ muuda \]. Christine de Pizan \[ muuda \]. Enheduanna \[ muuda \]. Luce Irigaray \[ muuda \]. Aili Nenola \[ muuda \]. Jane Kenyon \[ muuda \]. Bertha von Suttner \[ muuda \]. Keelekorraldus \[ muuda \]. Antisemitism \[ muuda \]. Joy Harjo \[ muuda \]. Martha Nussbaum \[ muuda \]. Artiklid \[ muuda \]. Sappho \[ muuda \]. Edith Sitwell \[ muuda \]. Juice Leskinen \[ muuda \]. Lingistik \[ muuda \].

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