A takthi is the wooden slate rural desi pre schoolers use to learn to write alphabets, usually a wooden board about 8x12 inches on which they practiced writing with wooden qalams.
the takhti in the time of wi fi
wood makes a fine throne
table in the morgue
an innocent's child's takhti...
the poet has written
seeing is believing
but he also laments
what he sees is unbelievable
there were sixty seconds
in the minute then
but they went by s l o w l y
the takhti words were wiped clean
but the PC words haunt an eternity
the yellow stickie
a straddler of the takhti era
-under the peepul tree, mat, breeze and takhti
not to forget the zee nib, ink and pot
now the climate controlled room
PC, keyboard and wi-fi
that time passed us by and with the same certainty
we can say this time too shall pass by
Poem by Niilofer Farrukh, art historian and writer
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Saturday, October 25, 2008
Charles Dickens on English Churches
The following is an excerpt from Dicken's "City of London Churches".
Among the uncommercial travels in which I have engaged, this year of Sunday travel occupies its own place, apart from all the rest. Whether I think of the church where the sails of the oyster-boats in the river almost flapped aginst the windows, or of the church where the railroad made the bells hum as the train rushed by above the roof, I recall a curious experience. On summer Sundays, in the gentle rain or the bright sunshine - either, deepening the idleness of the idle City - I have sat, in that singular silence which belongs to resting-places usually astir, in scores of buildings at the heart of the world's metropolis, unknown to far greater numbers of people speaking the English tongue, than the ancient edifices of the Eternal City, or the Pyramids of Egypt. The dark vestries and registries into which I have peeped, and the little hemmed-in churchyards that have echoed to my feet, have left impressions on my memory as distinct and quaint as any it has in that way received. In all those dusty registers that the worms are eating, there is not a line but made some hearts leap, or some tears flow, in their day. Still and dry now, still and dry! and the old tree at the window with no room for its branches, has seen them all out. So with the tomb of the old Master of the old Company, on which it drips. His son restored it and died, his daughter restored it and died, and then he had been remembered long enough, and the tree took possession of him, and his name cracked out.
There are few more striking indications of the changes of manners and customs that two or three hundred years have brought about, than these deserted Churches. Many of them are handsome and costly structures, several of them were designed by Wren, many of them arose from the ashes of the great fire, others of them outlived the plague and the fire too, to die a slow death in these later days. No one can be sure of the coming time; but it is not too much to say of it that it has no sign in its outsetting tides, of the reflux to these churches of their congregations and uses. They remain like the tombs of the old citizens who lie beneath them and around them, Monuments of another age. They are worth a Sunday exploration now and then, for they yet echo, not unharmoniously, to the time when the city of London really was London; when the 'Prentices and Trained Bands were of mark in the state; when even the Lord Mayor himself was a Reality...
Among the uncommercial travels in which I have engaged, this year of Sunday travel occupies its own place, apart from all the rest. Whether I think of the church where the sails of the oyster-boats in the river almost flapped aginst the windows, or of the church where the railroad made the bells hum as the train rushed by above the roof, I recall a curious experience. On summer Sundays, in the gentle rain or the bright sunshine - either, deepening the idleness of the idle City - I have sat, in that singular silence which belongs to resting-places usually astir, in scores of buildings at the heart of the world's metropolis, unknown to far greater numbers of people speaking the English tongue, than the ancient edifices of the Eternal City, or the Pyramids of Egypt. The dark vestries and registries into which I have peeped, and the little hemmed-in churchyards that have echoed to my feet, have left impressions on my memory as distinct and quaint as any it has in that way received. In all those dusty registers that the worms are eating, there is not a line but made some hearts leap, or some tears flow, in their day. Still and dry now, still and dry! and the old tree at the window with no room for its branches, has seen them all out. So with the tomb of the old Master of the old Company, on which it drips. His son restored it and died, his daughter restored it and died, and then he had been remembered long enough, and the tree took possession of him, and his name cracked out.
There are few more striking indications of the changes of manners and customs that two or three hundred years have brought about, than these deserted Churches. Many of them are handsome and costly structures, several of them were designed by Wren, many of them arose from the ashes of the great fire, others of them outlived the plague and the fire too, to die a slow death in these later days. No one can be sure of the coming time; but it is not too much to say of it that it has no sign in its outsetting tides, of the reflux to these churches of their congregations and uses. They remain like the tombs of the old citizens who lie beneath them and around them, Monuments of another age. They are worth a Sunday exploration now and then, for they yet echo, not unharmoniously, to the time when the city of London really was London; when the 'Prentices and Trained Bands were of mark in the state; when even the Lord Mayor himself was a Reality...
Friday, October 17, 2008
Ana Maria Matute
Ana Maria Matute Ausejo was born on July 26, 1926 in Barcelona, Spain. She was the second of five daughters. Her father was the owner of an umbrella factory. Her mother was very religious. The family spent the summers in Mansilla de la Sierra where Matute's grandparents lived. Many of her stories reflect her experiences of the rural environment of Mansilla de la Sierra in La Rioja.
Ana Maria Matute nació en Barcelona, España el dia 26 de julio de 1926. Era la segunda de cinco hijas. Su padre era dueño de una fábrica de paraguas. Su madre era muy religiosa. La familia pasaba los veranos en Mansilla de la Sierra donde vivían los abuelos de Matute. Muchos de sus relatos reflejan sus experiencias del ambiente rural de Mansilla de la Sierra en La Rioja.
At age five, after having been at the point of death due to a severe kidney infection, she wrote her first story. She also enjoyed drawing and her drawings reveal the fertility of her young imagination.
A los cinco años, tras haber estado a punto de morir por una infección severa de riñón, ella escribió su primer relato. Además gozaba dibujar y sus dibujos revelan la fecundidad de su imaginación infantil. (Dos de sus dibijos se ven aquí.)
At age eight, she began to suffer from another illness and went to live with her grandparents in Mansilla de la Sierra. Many of her stories relate events and experiences from her childhood in the rural environment of this part of La Rioja.
A la edad de ocho, comenzó a padecer de otra enfermedad y fue a vivir con sus abuelos en Mansilla de la Sierra. Muchos de sus cuentos relatan sucesos y experiencias de su niñez en el ambiente rural de esta parte de La Rioja.
Matute was educated at a Catholic school in Madrid. At 16, she wrote her first novel, 'Pequeño teatro' for which she received 3,000 pesetas. Nevertheless, the work was not published until eight years later.
Matute se educó en un colegio catlóico en Madrid. A los diecisiete años escribió su primera novela, ‘Pequeño teatro’ por la que recibió 3.000 pesetas. Sin embargo, la obra no se publicó hasta ocho años después.
A repeated theme of Matute is childhood and the destruction of innocence during the civil war in Spain (1936-1939). She was imaginative and original, and frequently mixed history and fantasy.
Un tema repetido de Matute es la niñez y la destrucción de la inocencia durante la guerra civil en España (1936-1939). Era imaginativa y original y frecuentemente mezclaba la historia y la fantasía.
Puede leer más de Matute aquí.
Sunday, October 12, 2008
Jake, the Mennonite, Strays at the Beach
According to Espiritu Paz, "Sarasota is the Amish-Mennonite retirement capital of the USA." Here is a modern parable set in Sarasota, written by someone in the Amish-Mennonite tradition. The parable is called The Prodigal Beachy.
A certain rich Beachy farmer had two sons, and they lived in the land of Holmes County. Now the farmer, whose name was Amos Beiler (cousin to Sam Beiler from Plain City, who I think you all might know) lived quite happily in Holmes County for many years, and his two sons had now Come of Age.
(By “Come of Age” I refer, of course, to the Amish Mennonite system of family finance, in which you give your parents all (or a vast majority) of your money, until you Come of Age at 18 or 20 or 21 or 45, whichever your parents decide. In exchange, the parents will buy you your first buggy/car and maybe some furniture when you get married, but if you would have kept all your money, you could have got that yourself, and probably paid off the house to boot, but that’s beside the point. But back to the story…)
Now when the two brothers had Come of Age, the younger brother, Jake Beiler, said to his father, “Verily, Father, now that I am Come of Age, I want to journey to Sarasota, Florida, on vacation, and since some of the youth group is going down over the same time, it could be a great bonding experience.” His father did not think too highly of this idea, but hey, now it was his son’s money, and he didn’t think he could interfere, since that was the only control he had ever had over his son in the first place. Besides, they had some Relatives down there, so he said “I guess we could make arrangements with your aunt, Mabel Hostetler (from Gap Mills), since she has a house down there, you could just stay there, and it would all be peachy.” So that’s what they decided to do.
And Jake journeyed to Sarasota to sojourn for two months. And when his youth group was come unto the place, and he saw their manner of attire, that it was not Beachy. Then said he in his heart, “Yea, is this not the manner of Sarasota? For verily, I can come hither, and wear all manner of T-shirts and shorts, and get a full body tan, and the bishop can say nothing to me, for I am a stranger and pilgrim in a different land. Oh, what fun!” And so Jake went to Wal-Mart and stocked up on many shorts and every manner of striped and checkered and flowery T-shirts, and said in his heart, “Now no man shall know that I am Beachy.”
So Jake ventured daily to the beach to tan, and talk to the Beachy girls (who had also discovered the principles of Floridian immodesty and bishop noninvolvement). For all the visiting Beachys had cast off standards of every kind, and did wear bathing suits of very immodest varieties, and did participate in mixed swimming and beach volleyball, and journeyed to the spring training camps, as though they supposed God could not see them in Florida as well as in Holmes County.
But then came the time when most of the visiting youth went home. And Jake was left alone in that strange country, with no friends, for yet another month. And he was tired of tanning, and besides, all the girls from his youth group had gone home, so it was rather pointless anyway. There was nobody with whom to play beach volleyball, for all the Beachys had gone home. And his conscience was pricked when he thought of all the things he had done, for he had wasted his money on riotous living, but now that it was over, he felt a vast emptiness in his life. And so he went to Wal-Mart and bought a four-pack of Amp, some Full Throttle, and a country music CD, and therewith he tried to drown out his troubles. So the next morning, after all the country music and energy drinks were spent, he came to a conclusion. “This is really dull,” he said, “So I will go home, where at least there are enough people to play a game of Rook or something.” And so he packed up his car, and started home. When he had gone for about 3 hours, he began to get a bit tired of driving, and definitely needed some different music. So he stopped at Wal-Mart to get a couple cases of Red Bull and No Fear, and a little Nos, and some snacks. He also picked up several more country albums, and hit the road again, ready to go.
He drove on. Caffeine and country music kept him awake and on the road (for the most part at least). He didn’t stop for anything but gas. Jake loudly sang along with Kenny Chesney, extolling the merits of his attractive farm equipment. Down the road he sped, feeling on top of the world, at the peak of a caffeine-induced high. At this point he had enough caffeine in his blood stream to kill a small raccoon, and his body reacted accordingly. He couldn’t focus on one thing, but tried to look everywhere simultaneously, taking in the other cars, the road, signs, towns, mile markers, headlights, tail lights, flashing red and blue lights…
Flashing red and blue lights! Jake’s unnaturally bright eyes saw them in the rearview mirror. He was tempted to take the advice of Dierks Bentley and cut through the corn field. He would have done just that, except the field next to the road was soybeans. He pulled over to the side of the road, with the police cruiser right behind him.
As the officer checked his license and registration, Jake’s mind reeled, trying to invent an excuse for whatever the cop might have stopped him for, trying to make the fried circuits of his brain connect with some relevant fact. Nothing. Finally the officer came back and said, “You were doing quite a bit of weaving back there. Have you been drinking any alcohol this evening?”
“No sir,” Jake said, “Just a couple energy drinks.”
“Mind if I check out the car?” the officer asked.
“Go ahead,” Jake consented. He stepped from the car and watched the officer rummage through the 5 or 6 empty cases of energy drinks in the back. His hands shook, partially from nervousness but mostly from all the energy within. At last the officer came out.
“You certainly can be glad there is no limit on caffeine and country music, or you’d be in jail for quite some time,” said the officer. “As it is, I think I’ll let you off with a warning, but slow down, and stay in your lane.” Jake thanked the officer. He got in and drove the rest of the way home. He was beginning to feel a little queasy, and his mind was starting to fog up. He reached home in a near-zombie state, and collapsed into his own bed.
The next morning brought Jake a clear mind but an upset stomach. He was glad to be home again, but his stomach was in absolute rebellion against the variety of energy drinks that he had imposed upon it. His whole body still felt jittery from the caffeine of the day before. And he could turn on the touch lamp on his night stand from a foot away. Yes, Jake had finally learned two of the greatest lessons in life.
Energy drinks and Country music do not mix in large quantities.
Neither do Beachys and Sarasota, Florida.
A certain rich Beachy farmer had two sons, and they lived in the land of Holmes County. Now the farmer, whose name was Amos Beiler (cousin to Sam Beiler from Plain City, who I think you all might know) lived quite happily in Holmes County for many years, and his two sons had now Come of Age.
(By “Come of Age” I refer, of course, to the Amish Mennonite system of family finance, in which you give your parents all (or a vast majority) of your money, until you Come of Age at 18 or 20 or 21 or 45, whichever your parents decide. In exchange, the parents will buy you your first buggy/car and maybe some furniture when you get married, but if you would have kept all your money, you could have got that yourself, and probably paid off the house to boot, but that’s beside the point. But back to the story…)
Now when the two brothers had Come of Age, the younger brother, Jake Beiler, said to his father, “Verily, Father, now that I am Come of Age, I want to journey to Sarasota, Florida, on vacation, and since some of the youth group is going down over the same time, it could be a great bonding experience.” His father did not think too highly of this idea, but hey, now it was his son’s money, and he didn’t think he could interfere, since that was the only control he had ever had over his son in the first place. Besides, they had some Relatives down there, so he said “I guess we could make arrangements with your aunt, Mabel Hostetler (from Gap Mills), since she has a house down there, you could just stay there, and it would all be peachy.” So that’s what they decided to do.
And Jake journeyed to Sarasota to sojourn for two months. And when his youth group was come unto the place, and he saw their manner of attire, that it was not Beachy. Then said he in his heart, “Yea, is this not the manner of Sarasota? For verily, I can come hither, and wear all manner of T-shirts and shorts, and get a full body tan, and the bishop can say nothing to me, for I am a stranger and pilgrim in a different land. Oh, what fun!” And so Jake went to Wal-Mart and stocked up on many shorts and every manner of striped and checkered and flowery T-shirts, and said in his heart, “Now no man shall know that I am Beachy.”
So Jake ventured daily to the beach to tan, and talk to the Beachy girls (who had also discovered the principles of Floridian immodesty and bishop noninvolvement). For all the visiting Beachys had cast off standards of every kind, and did wear bathing suits of very immodest varieties, and did participate in mixed swimming and beach volleyball, and journeyed to the spring training camps, as though they supposed God could not see them in Florida as well as in Holmes County.
But then came the time when most of the visiting youth went home. And Jake was left alone in that strange country, with no friends, for yet another month. And he was tired of tanning, and besides, all the girls from his youth group had gone home, so it was rather pointless anyway. There was nobody with whom to play beach volleyball, for all the Beachys had gone home. And his conscience was pricked when he thought of all the things he had done, for he had wasted his money on riotous living, but now that it was over, he felt a vast emptiness in his life. And so he went to Wal-Mart and bought a four-pack of Amp, some Full Throttle, and a country music CD, and therewith he tried to drown out his troubles. So the next morning, after all the country music and energy drinks were spent, he came to a conclusion. “This is really dull,” he said, “So I will go home, where at least there are enough people to play a game of Rook or something.” And so he packed up his car, and started home. When he had gone for about 3 hours, he began to get a bit tired of driving, and definitely needed some different music. So he stopped at Wal-Mart to get a couple cases of Red Bull and No Fear, and a little Nos, and some snacks. He also picked up several more country albums, and hit the road again, ready to go.
He drove on. Caffeine and country music kept him awake and on the road (for the most part at least). He didn’t stop for anything but gas. Jake loudly sang along with Kenny Chesney, extolling the merits of his attractive farm equipment. Down the road he sped, feeling on top of the world, at the peak of a caffeine-induced high. At this point he had enough caffeine in his blood stream to kill a small raccoon, and his body reacted accordingly. He couldn’t focus on one thing, but tried to look everywhere simultaneously, taking in the other cars, the road, signs, towns, mile markers, headlights, tail lights, flashing red and blue lights…
Flashing red and blue lights! Jake’s unnaturally bright eyes saw them in the rearview mirror. He was tempted to take the advice of Dierks Bentley and cut through the corn field. He would have done just that, except the field next to the road was soybeans. He pulled over to the side of the road, with the police cruiser right behind him.
As the officer checked his license and registration, Jake’s mind reeled, trying to invent an excuse for whatever the cop might have stopped him for, trying to make the fried circuits of his brain connect with some relevant fact. Nothing. Finally the officer came back and said, “You were doing quite a bit of weaving back there. Have you been drinking any alcohol this evening?”
“No sir,” Jake said, “Just a couple energy drinks.”
“Mind if I check out the car?” the officer asked.
“Go ahead,” Jake consented. He stepped from the car and watched the officer rummage through the 5 or 6 empty cases of energy drinks in the back. His hands shook, partially from nervousness but mostly from all the energy within. At last the officer came out.
“You certainly can be glad there is no limit on caffeine and country music, or you’d be in jail for quite some time,” said the officer. “As it is, I think I’ll let you off with a warning, but slow down, and stay in your lane.” Jake thanked the officer. He got in and drove the rest of the way home. He was beginning to feel a little queasy, and his mind was starting to fog up. He reached home in a near-zombie state, and collapsed into his own bed.
The next morning brought Jake a clear mind but an upset stomach. He was glad to be home again, but his stomach was in absolute rebellion against the variety of energy drinks that he had imposed upon it. His whole body still felt jittery from the caffeine of the day before. And he could turn on the touch lamp on his night stand from a foot away. Yes, Jake had finally learned two of the greatest lessons in life.
Energy drinks and Country music do not mix in large quantities.
Neither do Beachys and Sarasota, Florida.
Monday, October 6, 2008
Let's Away with Study!
Here is a poem that every student should be able to relate to, though originally written in Latin in the twelfth century. (The term "gay" takes it proper meaning in this poem, that is, to be light-hearted.)
The poem was translated to English by Helen Waddell, in Mediaeval Latin Lyrics.
Let's Away with Study
Let's away with study,
Folly's sweet.
Treasure all the pleasure
Of our youth:
Time enough for age
To think on Truth.
So short a day,
And life so quickly hasting,
And in study wasting
Youth that would be gay!
'Tis our spring that's slipping,
Winter draweth near,
Life itself we're losing,
And this sorry cheer
Dries the blood and chills the heart,
Shrivels all delight.
Age and all its crowd of ills
Terrifies our sight.
So short a day,
And life so quickly hasting,
And in study wasting
Youth that would be gay!
Let us as the gods do,
'Tis the wiser part:
Leisure and love's pleasure
Seek the young in heart
Follow the old fashion,
Down into the street!
Down among the maidens,
And the dancing feet!
So short a day,
And life so quickly hasting,
And in study wasting
Youth that would be gay!
There for the seeing
Is all loveliness,
White limbs moving
Light in wantoness.
Gay go the dancers,
I stand and see,
Gaze, till their glances
Steal myself from me.
So short a day,
And life so quickly hasting,
And in study wasting
Youth that would be gay!
The poem was translated to English by Helen Waddell, in Mediaeval Latin Lyrics.
Let's Away with Study
Let's away with study,
Folly's sweet.
Treasure all the pleasure
Of our youth:
Time enough for age
To think on Truth.
So short a day,
And life so quickly hasting,
And in study wasting
Youth that would be gay!
'Tis our spring that's slipping,
Winter draweth near,
Life itself we're losing,
And this sorry cheer
Dries the blood and chills the heart,
Shrivels all delight.
Age and all its crowd of ills
Terrifies our sight.
So short a day,
And life so quickly hasting,
And in study wasting
Youth that would be gay!
Let us as the gods do,
'Tis the wiser part:
Leisure and love's pleasure
Seek the young in heart
Follow the old fashion,
Down into the street!
Down among the maidens,
And the dancing feet!
So short a day,
And life so quickly hasting,
And in study wasting
Youth that would be gay!
There for the seeing
Is all loveliness,
White limbs moving
Light in wantoness.
Gay go the dancers,
I stand and see,
Gaze, till their glances
Steal myself from me.
So short a day,
And life so quickly hasting,
And in study wasting
Youth that would be gay!
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
Third Annual Short Story Contest for Spanish 2 Students
For the past two years Student Publish Here has hosted a short story contest for Spanish 2 students. The judges have received about 130 submissions and 10 students have won to date. Their Spanish stories are published here, here and here with English translations.
The stories do not need to be perfect, but should be as grammatically correct as is possible for Spanish 2 students. Teachers may help students revise and edit, but the story ideas and the writing should be the students' work.
Spanish 2 teachers in public and privates schools may submit work. There is a separate competition for Spanish students in college, so please designate "high school" or "college". Send your best entries to Spanish Short Stories, c/o Alice Linsley, P.O. Box 3, Versailles, KY 40383. Or you may submit them electronically to aproeditor-at-gmail-dot-com.
Stories should be between 500 and 1200 words. This year the theme is family relations. Students are to use imaginary characters. If basing the character on a real family member, the family member's real name may not be used and details about the real person must be changed.
The story must include the following:
Spanish names
Physical description of the character
Description of the character's personality or character traits
The character's activities and/or experiences
What makes this character interesting
How other family members react to this character
The character's problem and how it gets worse
How the problem is resolved
A satisfying ending
A satisfying ending could involve a surprise, a good laugh, a happy ending, or a cliff-hanger to leave us wondering.
All submissions must be received by midnight on March 30. Winners will have their stories published at Students Publish Here.
No identifying information is posted on the Internet to protect students (what a sorry world, right?) For students under age 18, parental permission forms must be signed before student work can be published. Those forms are emailed to participating teachers as attachments.
The stories do not need to be perfect, but should be as grammatically correct as is possible for Spanish 2 students. Teachers may help students revise and edit, but the story ideas and the writing should be the students' work.
Spanish 2 teachers in public and privates schools may submit work. There is a separate competition for Spanish students in college, so please designate "high school" or "college". Send your best entries to Spanish Short Stories, c/o Alice Linsley, P.O. Box 3, Versailles, KY 40383. Or you may submit them electronically to aproeditor-at-gmail-dot-com.
Stories should be between 500 and 1200 words. This year the theme is family relations. Students are to use imaginary characters. If basing the character on a real family member, the family member's real name may not be used and details about the real person must be changed.
The story must include the following:
Spanish names
Physical description of the character
Description of the character's personality or character traits
The character's activities and/or experiences
What makes this character interesting
How other family members react to this character
The character's problem and how it gets worse
How the problem is resolved
A satisfying ending
A satisfying ending could involve a surprise, a good laugh, a happy ending, or a cliff-hanger to leave us wondering.
All submissions must be received by midnight on March 30. Winners will have their stories published at Students Publish Here.
No identifying information is posted on the Internet to protect students (what a sorry world, right?) For students under age 18, parental permission forms must be signed before student work can be published. Those forms are emailed to participating teachers as attachments.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)