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24 September 2011

Poppies in October, by Sylvia Plath




Poppies in October

By Sylvia Plath
 
Even the sun-clouds this morning cannot manage such skirts.   
Nor the woman in the ambulance
Whose red heart blooms through her coat so astoundingly——

A gift, a love gift
Utterly unasked for   
By a sky

Palely and flamily
Igniting its carbon monoxides, by eyes   
Dulled to a halt under bowlers.

O my God, what am I
That these late mouths should cry open
In a forest of frost, in a dawn of cornflowers.

Annabel Lee, by Edgar Allan Poe




Annabel Lee  
by Edgar Allan Poe

It was many and many a year ago,
   In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
   By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
   Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
   In this kingdom by the sea:
But we loved with a love that was more than love--
   I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
   Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
   In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
   My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsman came
   And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
   In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
   Went envying her and me--
Yes!--that was the reason (as all men know,
   In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
   Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
   Of those who were older than we--
   Of many far wiser than we--
And neither the angels in heaven above,
   Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
   Of the beautiful Annabel Lee:

For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams
   Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes
   Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling--my darling--my life and my bride,
   In her sepulchre there by the sea,
   In her tomb by the sounding sea.

The Highwayman, by Alfred Noyes





Alfred Noyes (1880-1958)
                                   The Highwayman
                                        PART ONE
                                                 I
    THE wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
    The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
    The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
    And the highwayman came riding—
                      Riding—riding—
    The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.
                                                 II
    He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
    A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;
    They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh!
    And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
                      His pistol butts a-twinkle,
    His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.
                                                 III
    Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
    And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred;
    He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
    But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
                      Bess, the landlord's daughter,
    Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
                                                 IV
    And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
    Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked;
    His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
    But he loved the landlord's daughter,
                      The landlord's red-lipped daughter,
    Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—
                                                 V
    "One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize to-night,
    But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
    Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
    Then look for me by moonlight,
                      Watch for me by moonlight,
    I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."
                                                 VI
    He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
    But she loosened her hair i' the casement! His face burnt like a brand
    As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
    And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
                      (Oh, sweet, black waves in the moonlight!)
    Then he tugged at his rein in the moonliglt, and galloped away to the West.
 
                                        PART TWO
                                                 I
    He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon;
    And out o' the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon,
    When the road was a gypsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor,
    A red-coat troop came marching—
                      Marching—marching—
    King George's men came matching, up to the old inn-door.
                                                 II
    They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead,
    But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed;
    Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!
    There was death at every window;
                      And hell at one dark window;
    For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.
                                                 III
    They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest;
    They had bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
    "Now, keep good watch!" and they kissed her.
                      She heard the dead man say—
    Look for me by moonlight;
                      Watch for me by moonlight;
    I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!
                                                 IV
    She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
    She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
    They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,
    Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
                      Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
    The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!
                                                 V
    The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest!
    Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast,
    She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;
    For the road lay bare in the moonlight;
                      Blank and bare in the moonlight;
    And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love's refrain .
                                                 VI
        Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear;
    Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?
    Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
    The highwayman came riding,
                      Riding, riding!
    The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still!
                                                 VII
    Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!
    Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
    Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
    Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
                      Her musket shattered the moonlight,
    Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death.
                                                 VIII
    He turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood
    Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!
    Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear
    How Bess, the landlord's daughter,
                      The landlord's black-eyed daughter,
    Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.
                                                 IX
    Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
    With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
    Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat,
    When they shot him down on the highway,
                      Down like a dog on the highway,
    And he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.
                  *           *           *           *           *           *
                                                 X
    And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
    When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
    When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
    A highwayman comes riding—
                      Riding—riding—
    A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.

                                                 XI
    Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard;
    He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred;
    He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
    But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
                      Bess, the landlord's daughter,
    Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

If I Could Tell You, by W.H. Auden




If I Could Tell You

Time will say nothing but I told you so,
Time only knows the price we have to pay;
If I could tell you I would let you know.

If we should weep when clowns put on their show,
If we should stumble when musicians play,
Time will say nothing but I told you so.

There are no fortunes to be told, although,
Because I love you more than I can say,
If I could tell you I would let you know.

The winds must come from somewhere when they blow,
There must be reasons why the leaves decay;
Time will say nothing but I told you so.

Perhaps the roses really want to grow,
The vision seriously intends to stay;
If I could tell you I would let you know.

Suppose all the lions get up and go,
And all the brooks and soldiers run away;
Will Time say nothing but I told you so?
If I could tell you I would let you know.

W.H. Auden

The Night Is Darkening Round Me by Emily Bronte





The Night Is Darkening Round Me by Emily Bronte
 
The night is darkening round me,
The wild winds coldly blow ,
But a tyrant spell has bound me
And I cannot cannot go.

The giant trees are bending,
Their bare boughs weighed with snow ;
The storm is fast descending,
And yet I cannot go.

Clouds beyond clouds above me,
Wastes beyond wastes below ;
But nothing drear can move me,
I will not cannot go.

How do we know what's really true?

Bringing Dawkins home to the kids

Andy Coghlan, reporter
Magic-of-Reality-spread.jpg
(Image: Dave McKean)
In The Magic of Reality, Richard Dawkins brings science - and atheism - to teens. New Scientist reporter Andy Coghlan took it home to read with his family

John Lennon famously found himself in hot water in 1966 after declaring that the Beatles were "more popular than Jesus". In the US Bible Belt, Beatles records were thrown on bonfires by infuriated evangelists eager to prevent their children's corruption by this pop icon. The question is whether the same fate will now befall arch-atheist Richard Dawkins's new book, a lavish tome entitled The Magic of Reality.

Dawkins has repackaged his passion for atheism - and for the capacity of science to deliver demonstrable truths about nature - in a book designed to appeal to teenagers. While Lennon gave offence by accident, Dawkins is unabashedly out to prevent what he sees as the brainwashing of children into religion.
Stunning in appearance, the book features beautiful illustrations by artist Dave McKean, which enhance and help to explain the text.

The writing is also masterly, if a little waffly in places. From the strident polemicism of The God Delusion, Dawkins has shifted into "wise grandad" mode. His strategy is laid bare in the list of chapters, a clear "scientific" rewrite of the contents of Genesis. The formula is simple: each chapter addresses a basic question: "Who was the first person?" or "When and how did everything begin?" Dawkins then supplies imaginative answers provided by ancient myths from around the world - among them prominent tales from the Bible. Finally, he demolishes these myths by supplying the "real" answers provided by science.

This formula works brilliantly. The tone may be softer, but as ever Dawkins is uncompromising in his refusal to accept religious explanations as anything other than fables. Scientists who quite happily square their faith with acceptance of evolution will likely find this incredibly patronising.

Under the title "Who was the first person really?", his explanation of evolution is compelling, as well as surprising, well reasoned and thought provoking. To his credit, Dawkins also admits to not fully understanding material outside his normal bailiwick, evolutionary biology. Of the big bang origin of the universe, he writes: "Time itself and space itself began with the big bang too. Don't ask me to explain that, because, not being a cosmologist, I don't understand it myself." But the closest he comes to conceding that forces might exist beyond scientific inquiry is when discussing the possibility of parallel universes where different rules of physics might apply.

The most provocative chapters, are the final two: "Why do bad things happen?" and "What is a miracle?" In the first, he rams home the message that nature, evolution and the workings of the universe are indifferent to our individual fates, and that it is through pure chance that misfortune strikes some but not others. In the second, he takes issue with Jesus's "water-into-wine" feat and admonishes against accepting miracles as truth. "Don't ever be lazy enough - defeatist enough - to say 'It must be supernatural' or 'It must be a miracle'," he writes. "Say instead that it's a puzzle, it's strange, it's a challenge we should rise to."

Notably missing, however, is a chapter entitled: "Why do people do bad things to others?" This question plays a key role in how and why religion evolved, and it is one that is still being researched. An experiment earlier this year, for example, found that children were less likely to cheat in a game if told they were being observed by "Princess Alice", an invisible, fictitious person (New Scientist, 23 April, p 18). Of course, the flip side of the order and cohesion religion can promote is the hostility it can engender towards strangers who are not part of the group. The book provides a golden opportunity for Dawkins to ask whether we can evolve to treat one another more civilly. Alas, he doesn't seize it.

Still, he finishes with a flourish, encouraging readers to be bowled over by the stunning beauty of reality - a sentiment I thoroughly support. Too few of us wake up each day and reflect on how amazing it is that we are not only alive, but aware of being alive. "The truth is more magical than any myth or made-up mystery or miracle," he writes. "Science has its own magic: the magic of reality."

The book is a triumph and will undoubtedly be a bestseller. The inevitable bonfires will only serve as brilliant advertising.
Andy Coghlan

I was a little apprehensive about reviewing Richard Dawkins's book, mainly because I remember spending science lessons staring out of the window in agonising boredom. But although I haven't studied chemistry or biology for four years, I was unable to put the book down. I found myself enjoying learning exciting new facts and having old ones reinforced. It was definitely no repeat of the classroom scenario.

The aim of The Magic of Reality is to make readers distinguish between myth and science. Critics may say that it is a one-sided argument, and perhaps a little too patronising or offensive towards religious explanations for earthly matters. Yet, as a history undergraduate, I appreciate how Dawkins backs up each point with evidence and explanation.

Perhaps the book's greatest asset is that it manages to bring science to life. The vibrant illustrations reinforce this, as do the fun font styles. There are "fact of the day" type statements, such as that the word "shampoo" originated from the Hindi language. Analogies, too, attach science to everyday life: Dawkins compares the history of generations to the height of New York skyscrapers. His style is colloquial, creating a relaxed, lighter tone. At one point, he suggests we hop in a time machine, "fire up the engine and zoom back ten thousand years".

The book is for people of all ages looking for a clear, simple and interesting read to improve their general understanding of science (though some explanations remain tricky - the Doppler effect might require a second reading, for example). While tackling questions of inconceivable magnitude about how and why events occur in our universe, this book conveys just how absolutely amazing - and magical - science really is.
Phoebe Coghlan, age 20

Miracles don't exist. Simple as that. The Magic of Reality hasn't changed my views on anything, but it has reinforced my views on miracles and why natural disasters happen and definitely expanded my knowledge.
The book is easy to understand, thanks to analogies Dawkins uses to back up or explain some of the science - for example, the idea that plate tectonics can be compared to moving walkways at airports, or that the distance between stars can be demonstrated with two distantly positioned footballs.

At times, Dawkins uses one too many analogies or scientific examples to get a point across, and the jumps between chapters sometimes seem very random indeed - such as aliens to earthquakes - but his style is very fluid, so I really didn't mind.

The book is also written like a discussion. Dawkins is inviting teenagers, such as myself, on a voyage of discovery with him! He refers to "us" and "we", instead of "you", and I really felt like I was being invited to find out all about earthquakes, stars and what have you, alongside him.
Callum Coghlan, age 13

23 September 2011

How to make Oatmeal cookie-crusted Brownies

IMGP4954
Mary Pat's Oatmeal Cookie-crusted Brownies

Chef/Owner Anne Kearney, Rue Dumaine, Dayton, Ohio

For 12 servings (requires advance preparation)

Oatmeal cookie crust:

nonstick cooking spray
1 1/2 cups rolled oats, pulsed in a processor 5 to 6 times
3/4 light brown sugar
3/4 cup all-purpose flour
1/4 tsp. baking soda
1/4 tsp. salt
3/4 cup unsalted butter, melted


1.  Heat oven to 350 degrees F.
2. Line 9" by 12" baking dish with parchment paper; spray with cooking spray; reserve.
3. Mix all ingredients except butter in a bowl; add butter; mix well; pat evenly into prepared pan; bake 10 minutes; remove fromoven; cool 30 minutes; reserve.

Brownies:

1 cup all-purpose flour
2 tsps. baking powder
8 Tbsps. unsalted butter
1.4 lb. unsweetened chocolate
2 tsps. vanilla extract
2 cups granulated sugar
4 lg. eggs, lightly beaten

1.  Heat oven to 350 degrees F.
2.  Mix flour and baking powder in small bowl; reserve.
3.  Heat butter and chocolate in small saucepan set over low heat; cook, stirring occasionally, until melted; remove from heat; cool slightly; add vanilla; stir in sugar, eggs, and reserved flour mixture; pour over oatmeal crust; spread with offset spatula to cover evenly; bake 45 minutes (do not open door during baking); remove from oven; cool; cover with plastic wrap; reserve overnight.

Assembly:

8 Tbsps. unsalted butter, melted
2/3 cup dark cocoa
3 cups confectioners' sugar
1/3 cup whole milk
1 tsp. vanilla extract

1.  Place butter in the bowl of an electric mixer fitted with whisk attachment; sift cocoa over top; mix well; add sugar, milk, and vanilla; whisk on medium speed until spreading consistency; reserve.
2.  To serve, spread frosting evenly over top of brownies with offset spatula; cut brownies into 12 squares; place each brownie on a dessert plate.

What to drink:  milk

22 September 2011

How to Make Involtini di Melanzane (Marinated Eggplant Rolls)

Involtini di Melanzane (Marinated Eggplant Rolls)

Involtini di Melanzane (Marinated Eggplant Rolls)Involtini di Melanzane (Marinated Eggplant Rolls)Involtini di Melanzane (Marinated Eggplant Rolls)Involtini di Melanzane (Marinated Eggplant Rolls)Involtini di Melanzane (Marinated Eggplant Rolls)Involtini di Melanzane (Marinated Eggplant Rolls)
Involtini di Melanzane (Marinated Eggplant Rolls)Involtini di Melanzane (Marinated Eggplant Rolls)

Ingredients:

1 medium-large firm, glossy eggplant

1 cup, approximately, extra-virgin olive oil, divided

4 garlic cloves, minced

1 bunch fresh basil

coarse salt

1/4 cup balsamic vinegar

1 pound fresh mozzarella in water

Instructions:

Trim the stem ends of the eggplant and cut lengthwise into 1/4-inch slices. Heat a contact grill / panini press (use the ridged sides instead of the flat ones if there's an option in your grill) until hot. Brush each slice of eggplant (both sides) with olive oil and cook on grill until tender. As the slices become tender remove them from the grill and set aside until all the eggplant is cooked.

In a small cup mix the minced garlic with 1/4 cup olive oil and set aside. Wipe herbs clean with a damp towel. Coarsely chop herbs separately and set aside. In a glass, enamel, or stainless steel baking dish arrange the eggplant slices in one layer. Dip a pastry brush into the oil-garlic mixture and gently paint the eggplant slices being careful not to concentrate too much garlic in one area. Sprinkle with salt to taste, then follow with a pinch of basil. Drizzle vinegar over the herbs. Begin again with another layer of eggplant slices and repeat the seasoning process until all the eggplant is prepared. Cover with a tea towel and place in a cool spot to marinate for at least 3 hours. The marinating eggplant will remain more succulent if you do not refrigerate it. If you prefer to, cover the eggplant with plastic wrap first, refrigerate it, but remember to allow it to come back to room temperature before adding the cheese.

Just before serving prepare the cheese. Drain the mozzarella of water and cut into finger-sized pieces approximately 2 inches by 1/2 inch. Place a slice of eggplant on a work surface with the short side toward you. Place a piece of mozzarella horizontally on the slice and roll up the eggplant, enclosing the cheese. Continue until all the eggplant is rolled.

From a handout given by Evan Kleiman, Chef and owner, Angeli Caffe, on November 30, 1989, when she gave a cooking demonstration at the old Robinson's Department Store in Beverly Hills.