solitary dog sculptor: 11/11/13

lunes, 11 de noviembre de 2013

Music: Luigi Boccherini - Minuetto

Luigi Boccherini - Minuetto

Statue of Luigi Boccherini in Lucca

Music: Luigi Boccherini - Minuetto

Ricardo M Marcenaro - Facebook

Blogs in operation of The Solitary Dog:

Solitary Dog Sculptor:
http://byricardomarcenaro.blogspot.com

Solitary Dog Sculptor I:
http://byricardomarcenaroi.blogspot.com

Para:
comunicarse conmigo,
enviar materiales para publicar,
propuestas comerciales:
marcenaroescultor@gmail.com

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contact me,
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My blogs are an open house to all cultures, religions and countries. Be a follower if you like it, with this action you are building a new culture of tolerance, open mind and heart for peace, love and human respect.

Thanks :)

Mis blogs son una casa abierta a todas las culturas, religiones y países. Se un seguidor si quieres, con esta acción usted está construyendo una nueva cultura de la tolerancia, la mente y el corazón abiertos para la paz, el amor y el respeto humano.

Gracias :)

Music: Canned Heat - Clarence Gatemouth Brown - Live at Montreux

Clarence Gatemouth Brown

Canned Heat

Canned Heat - Clarence Gatemouth Brown - Live at Montreux

Music: Canned Heat - Clarence Gatemouth Brown - Live at Montreux

NASA: Australia - Sydney - Burn Scar near Sydney - 11.11.13

acquired November 5, 2013 download large image (6 MB, JPEG, 4000x4000)

acquired November 5, 2013 download GeoTIFF file (37 MB, TIFF)

The combination of a wet spring that bulked up grasslands and a hot summer that left forests in the Blue Mountains parched set the stage for a wave of aggressive wildfires in October 2013. One of the larger fires in New South Wales raged outside of Sydney, near the communities of Balmoral, Yanderra, Wilton, and Yerrinbool.

On November, 5, 2013, the Operational Land Imager (OLI) on Landsat 8 captured this natural-color view of the burn scar left by the fire. Areas with charred vegetation are brown. Forested areas that were not affected by the fire are green. The combination of buildings, roads, and fields appears white to pale brown.

The fire started on October 17 near Balmoral, then spread south and east toward Yanderra and Yerrinbool. After jumping Hume Highway, it moved farther east into the hills surrounding Lake Neapean, Lake Avon, and Lake Cordeaux. The blaze forced thousands of people to evacuate their homes. While firefighters prevented it from causing serious damage to property, a nearby blaze around the same time destroyed nearly 200 homes.

References
Australian Broadcasting Corporation News (2013, September 2) Large areas of southern Australia at higher risk of bushfires this summer. Accessed November 8, 2013.
Australian Broadcasting Corporation Rural (2013, September 2) Inland grass growth increases bushfire risk. Accessed November 8, 2013.
Bushfire Cooperative Research Center and Australasian Fire and Emergency Service Authorities Council (2013, September) Southern Australia seasonal bushfire outlook 2013-14. Accessed September 9, 2013.
Daily Telegraph (2013, October 21) Bargo and Yanderra townships unite as Balmoral bushfire burns on. Accessed November 8, 2013.
Wollondilly Advertiser (2013, October 17) Fire burning in Balmoral, heading to Yanderra. Accessed November 8, 2013.
Illawarra Mercury (2013, October 18) Gallery: Eerie scenes at Picton Road, Balmoral. Accessed November 8, 2013.

NASA Earth Observatory image by Jesse Allen and Robert Simmon, using Landsat data from the U.S. Geological Survey. Caption by Adam Voiland.

Instrument:: Landsat 8 - OLI

NASA: Australia - Sydney - Burn Scar near Sydney - 11.11.13

Poetry: Amy Lowell - Listening - In Darkness - The Fruit Shop - Venetian Glass - Links to her poems

Listening

'T is you that are the music, not your song.
The song is but a door which, opening wide,
Lets forth the pent-up melody inside,
Your spirit's harmony, which clear and strong
Sings but of you. Throughout your whole life long
Your songs, your thoughts, your doings, each divide
This perfect beauty; waves within a tide,
Or single notes amid a glorious throng.
The song of earth has many different chords;
Ocean has many moods and many tones
Yet always ocean. In the damp Spring woods
The painted trillium smiles, while crisp pine cones
Autumn alone can ripen. So is this
One music with a thousand cadences.

The Fruit Shop

Cross-ribboned shoes; a muslin gown,
High-waisted, girdled with bright blue;
A straw poke bonnet which hid the frown
She pluckered her little brows into
As she picked her dainty passage through
The dusty street. "Ah, Mademoiselle,
A dirty pathway, we need rain,
My poor fruits suffer, and the shell
Of this nut's too big for its kernel, lain
Here in the sun it has shrunk again.
The baker down at the corner says
We need a battle to shake the clouds;
But I am a man of peace, my ways
Don't look to the killing of men in crowds.
Poor fellows with guns and bayonets for shrouds!
Pray, Mademoiselle, come out of the sun.
Let me dust off that wicker chair. It's cool
In here, for the green leaves I have run
In a curtain over the door, make a pool
Of shade. You see the pears on that stool --
The shadow keeps them plump and fair."
Over the fruiterer's door, the leaves
Held back the sun, a greenish flare
Quivered and sparked the shop, the sheaves
Of sunbeams, glanced from the sign on the eaves,
Shot from the golden letters, broke
And splintered to little scattered lights.
Jeanne Tourmont entered the shop, her poke
Bonnet tilted itself to rights,
And her face looked out like the moon on nights
Of flickering clouds. "Monsieur Popain, I
Want gooseberries, an apple or two,
Or excellent plums, but not if they're high;
Haven't you some which a strong wind blew?
I've only a couple of francs for you."
Monsieur Popain shrugged and rubbed his hands.
What could he do, the times were sad.
A couple of francs and such demands!
And asking for fruits a little bad.
Wind-blown indeed! He never had
Anything else than the very best.
He pointed to baskets of blunted pears
With the thin skin tight like a bursting vest,
All yellow, and red, and brown, in smears.
Monsieur Popain's voice denoted tears.
He took up a pear with tender care,
And pressed it with his hardened thumb.
"Smell it, Mademoiselle, the perfume there
Is like lavender, and sweet thoughts come
Only from having a dish at home.
And those grapes! They melt in the mouth like wine,
Just a click of the tongue, and they burst to honey.
They're only this morning off the vine,
And I paid for them down in silver money.
The Corporal's widow is witness, her pony
Brought them in at sunrise to-day.
Those oranges -- Gold! They're almost red.
They seem little chips just broken away
From the sun itself. Or perhaps instead
You'd like a pomegranate, they're rarely gay,
When you split them the seeds are like crimson spray.
Yes, they're high, they're high, and those Turkey figs,
They all come from the South, and Nelson's ships
Make it a little hard for our rigs.
They must be forever giving the slips
To the cursed English, and when men clips
Through powder to bring them, why dainties mounts
A bit in price. Those almonds now,
I'll strip off that husk, when one discounts
A life or two in a nigger row
With the man who grew them, it does seem how
They would come dear; and then the fight
At sea perhaps, our boats have heels
And mostly they sail along at night,
But once in a way they're caught; one feels
Ivory's not better nor finer -- why peels
From an almond kernel are worth two sous.
It's hard to sell them now," he sighed.
"Purses are tight, but I shall not lose.
There's plenty of cheaper things to choose."
He picked some currants out of a wide
Earthen bowl. "They make the tongue
Almost fly out to suck them, bride
Currants they are, they were planted long
Ago for some new Marquise, among
Other great beauties, before the Chateau
Was left to rot. Now the Gardener's wife,
He that marched off to his death at Marengo,
Sells them to me; she keeps her life
From snuffing out, with her pruning knife.
She's a poor old thing, but she learnt the trade
When her man was young, and the young Marquis
Couldn't have enough garden. The flowers he made
All new! And the fruits! But 'twas said that he
Was no friend to the people, and so they laid
Some charge against him, a cavalcade
Of citizens took him away; they meant
Well, but I think there was some mistake.
He just pottered round in his garden, bent
On growing things; we were so awake
In those days for the New Republic's sake.
He's gone, and the garden is all that's left
Not in ruin, but the currants and apricots,
And peaches, furred and sweet, with a cleft
Full of morning dew, in those green-glazed pots,
Why, Mademoiselle, there is never an eft
Or worm among them, and as for theft,
How the old woman keeps them I cannot say,
But they're finer than any grown this way."
Jeanne Tourmont drew back the filigree ring
Of her striped silk purse, tipped it upside down
And shook it, two coins fell with a ding
Of striking silver, beneath her gown
One rolled, the other lay, a thing
Sparked white and sharply glistening,
In a drop of sunlight between two shades.
She jerked the purse, took its empty ends
And crumpled them toward the centre braids.
The whole collapsed to a mass of blends
Of colours and stripes. "Monsieur Popain, friends
We have always been. In the days before
The Great Revolution my aunt was kind
When you needed help. You need no more;
'Tis we now who must beg at your door,
And will you refuse?" The little man
Bustled, denied, his heart was good,
But times were hard. He went to a pan
And poured upon the counter a flood
Of pungent raspberries, tanged like wood.
He took a melon with rough green rind
And rubbed it well with his apron tip.
Then he hunted over the shop to find
Some walnuts cracking at the lip,
And added to these a barberry slip
Whose acrid, oval berries hung
Like fringe and trembled. He reached a round
Basket, with handles, from where it swung
Against the wall, laid it on the ground
And filled it, then he searched and found
The francs Jeanne Tourmont had let fall.
"You'll return the basket, Mademoiselle?"
She smiled, "The next time that I call,
Monsieur. You know that very well."
'Twas lightly said, but meant to tell.
Monsieur Popain bowed, somewhat abashed.
She took her basket and stepped out.
The sunlight was so bright it flashed
Her eyes to blindness, and the rout
Of the little street was all about.
Through glare and noise she stumbled, dazed.
The heavy basket was a care.
She heard a shout and almost grazed
The panels of a chaise and pair.
The postboy yelled, and an amazed
Face from the carriage window gazed.
She jumped back just in time, her heart
Beating with fear. Through whirling light
The chaise departed, but her smart
Was keen and bitter. In the white
Dust of the street she saw a bright
Streak of colours, wet and gay,
Red like blood. Crushed but fair,
Her fruit stained the cobbles of the way.
Monsieur Popain joined her there.
"Tiens, Mademoiselle,
c'est le General Bonaparte,
partant pour la Guerre!"

Venetian Glass

As one who sails upon a wide, blue sea
Far out of sight of land, his mind intent
Upon the sailing of his little boat,
On tightening ropes and shaping fair his course,
Hears suddenly, across the restless sea,
The rhythmic striking of some towered clock,
And wakes from thoughtless idleness to time:
Time, the slow pulse which beats eternity!
So through the vacancy of busy life
At intervals you cross my path and bring
The deep solemnity of passing years.
For you I have shed bitter tears, for you
I have relinquished that for which my heart
Cried out in selfish longing. And to-night
Having just left you, I can say: "'T is well.
Thank God that I have known a soul so true,
So nobly just, so worthy to be loved!"

English:

Poetry: Amy Lowell - Petals - A Fairy Tale - Sea Shell - Summer - Link to Bio data

Poetry: Amy Lowell - Before the Altar - Irony - Patterns - Links to her poems

Poetry: Amy Lowell - A Winter Ride - A Little Song - Patience - Links to her poems

Poetry: Amy Lowell - New York at Night - Roads - Dreams - Links to her poems

Poetry: Amy Lowell - To a Friend - Behind a Wall - The Crescent Moon - Links to her poems

Poetry: Amy Lowell - Happiness - The Taxi - Song - Links to her poems

Poetry: Amy Lowell - Wind - Azure and Gold - The Way - Links to her poems

Poetry: Amy Lowell - Lead Soldiers - In Darkness - Music - Links to her poems

Poetry: Amy Lowell - Listening - In Darkness - The Fruit Shop - Venetian Glass - Links to her poems

Photos - Fotos: Rene Maltete - Part 4 - 17 Fotos - Photographer of humor and absurdity - Fotógrafo del humor y el absurdo - Links to precendent parts

René Maltête

Links

Photos - Fotos: Rene Maltete - Part 1 - 16 Fotos - Bio Data in English. Francaise y Espanol

Photos - Fotos: Rene Maltete - Part 2 - 16 Fotos - Bio Data in English. Francaise y Espanol

Photos - Fotos: Rene Maltete - Part 3 - 16 Fotos - Links

Photos - Fotos: Rene Maltete - Part 4 - 17 Fotos - Photographer of humor and absurdity - Fotógrafo del humor y el absurdo - Links to precendent parts

Cuento: Ruben Dario - Aguafuerte - Links a mas Cuento

Aguafuerte

De una casa cercana salía un ruido metálico y acompasado. En un recinto estrecho, entre paredes llenas de hollín, negras, muy negras, trabajaban unos hombres en la forja. Uno movía el fuelle que resoplaba, haciendo crepitar el carbón, lanzando torbellinos de chispas y llamas como lenguas pálidas, áureas, azulejas, resplandecientes. Al brillo del fuego en que se enrojecían largas barras de hierro, se miraban los rostros de los obreros con un reflejo trémulo. Tres yunques ensamblados en toscas armazones resistían el batir de los machos que aplastaban el metal candente, haciendo saltar una lluvia enrojecida. Los forjadores vestían camisas de lana de cuellos abiertos y largos delantales de cuero. Acanzábaseles a ver el pescuezo gordo y el principio del pecho velludo, y salían de las mangas holgadas los brazos gigantescos, donde, como en los de Anteo, parecían los músculos redondas piedras de las que deslavan y pulen los torrentes. En aquella negrura de caverna, al resplandor de las llamaradas, tenían tallas de cíclopes. A un lado, una ventanilla dejaba pasar apenas un haz de rayos de sol. A la entrada de la forja, como en un marco oscuro, una muchacha blanca comía uvas. Y sobre aquel fondo de hollín y de carbón, sus hombros delicados y tersos que estaban desnudos hacían resaltar su bello color de lis, con un casi imperceptible tono dorado.

Rubén Darío