First Sentence Friday

“Isaiah was seventeen years old when his older brother, Marcus, was killed in a hit-and-run.”

~ Righteous by Joe Ide

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Tuesday Poem

Symphonic Studies: Epilogue By Emma Lazarus (1849–1887)

(After Robert Schumann)

FORTH in the sunlit, rain-bathed air we stepped,
Sweet with the dripping grass and flowering vine,
And saw through irised clouds the pale sun shine.
Back o’er the hills the rain-mist slowly crept
Like a transparent curtain’s silvery sheen;
And fronting us the painted bow was arched,
Whereunder the majestic cloud-shapes marched:
In the wet, yellow light the dazzling green
Of lawn and bush and tree seemed stained with blue.
Our hearts o’erflowed with peace. With smiles we spake
Of partings in the past, of courage new,
Of high achievement, of the dreams that make
A wonder and a glory of our days,
And all life’s music but a hymn of praise.

 

from Bartleby.com

First Sentence Friday

” ‘What the American public always wants is a tragedy with a happy engine.’ ”

~ Bun: the Rise of Hoaxes, Humbug, Plagiarists, Phonies, Post-Facts, & Fake News
by Kevin Young

Tuesday Poem

Symphonic Studies: Prelude By Emma Lazarus (1849–1887)

(After Robert Schumann)

BLUE storm-clouds in hot heavens of mid-July
Hung heavy, brooding over land and sea:
Our hearts, a-tremble, throbbed in harmony
With the wild, restless tone of air and sky.
Shall we not call him Prospero who held
In his enchanted hands the fateful key
Of that tempestuous hour’s mystery,
And with controlling wand our spirits spelled,
With him to wander by a sun-bright shore,
To hear fine, fairy voices, and to fly
With disembodied Ariel once more
Above earth’s wrack and ruin? Far and nigh
The laughter of the thunder echoed loud,
And harmless lightnings leapt from cloud to cloud.

 

from Bartleby.com

First Sentence Friday

My father was a lousy driver and a two-finger typist, but he could open a wine bottle as deftly as any swain ever undressed his lover.

~ The Wine Lover’s Daughter: a Memoir by Anne Fadiman

Sunday Poem

A Book by Emily Dickinson

THERE is no frigate like a book
To take us lands away,
Nor any coursers like a page
Of prancing poetry.
This traverse may the poorest take
Without oppress of toll;
How frugal is the chariot
That bears a human soul!

from Bartleby

1st Sentence Friday

“Glenlivet, light on the rocks.”  ~ Duplicity by Jane Haseldine

Sunday Poem

I Shall Not Care by Sara Teasdale

WHEN I am dead and over me bright April
Shakes out her rain-drenched hair,
Though you should lean above me broken-hearted,
I shall not care.

I shall have peace, as leafy trees are peaceful
When rain bends down the bough;
And I shall be more silent and cold-hearted
Than you are now.

From Bartleby