22     EVENTS: 1/22   7PM   Red Door Pottery Studio, 44 Government Street, Kittery, ME 03904                 Salon Night with Bruce Valley http:/www.reddoorpottery.com   Jan. 22, Keene,  at 2:00 p.m., Launch of Skye Stephenson's new poetry book, Ebbo: Offering. She will read some of her poems and discuss the inspirations and experiences that brought them to life Refreshments will be served. The Toadstool Bookshop   Colony Mill Marketplace    222 West Street  Keene, NH  03431603-352-8815 , Click here     BIRTHDAYS: Jan 22   Click here   1561 – Click here/1626) English essayist, philosopher, historian, and statesman Click here Sir Click here, 1570 Brit antiquarian Click here Click here (1729 – Click here/1781)  German critic and dramatist Click here Rene Charles Guilbert de Pixerecourt (1773-1844), prolific French dramatist Click here Click here Click here (1788 – Click here/1824) English romantic poet Click here Click here Click here Click here   Click here  (1849 – Click here/1912)  Swedish writer dramatist and novelist Click here Click here   Click here   (1875 – Click here/1948)  US director Click here Click here  (1879 – Click here/1953)  French artist Click here Click here Helen Hoyt, American poet (Click here - 1972) Click here Click here                      The RootHelen Hoyt Love faded in my heart— I thought it was dead. Now new flowers start, Fresh leaves outspread. Why do these flowers upstart And again the leaves spread? Oh, when will it be dead— This root that tears my heart!                                                                             by Helen Hoyt Click here Click here  (1894 – Click here/1958)  English writer Click here Click here Click here 1899-1973 Finnish folklorist and poet Click here   Robert E[rvin] Howard, Click here -  US, sci-fi author (Conan the Conqueror) Click here Click here   Howard Teichmann   (1916 – 07/07/1987)    US writer Click here Click here   William Warfield 1920. He was an African-American Vocalist and singer. Click here Click here (1922-1987), poet, playwright, and long-time Click here poetry editor , wrote satirical and epigrammic Instant Lives (1974) Click here Click here                                Someone Howard Moss You watch the night like a material Slowly being crammed into a tube of rooms; It showers into gunshot, pepper, dew, As if a hand had squeezed it at one end, Is blank as innocence when daylight comes Projecting sunlit patches on the wall That fade. Too much is going on, too much Of life, you say, for you to live alone On top of an old tenement, on a train That might start off sometime, but never does. Your view is gone. Turn around, and boom!, A park appears between two fixed ideas Whose narrow aperture of sky in time Will house the slums of 1989 . . .   Now New York is feigning its gray dark London winter. Invisible uptown Is out there somewhere, raining on its own. Palmed in the dusty pane, a circle bares A scene that seems reprinted from the past: A man with a dog is walking very fast Along a path among the stunted trees Of the little square below. He disappears. by Howard Moss   Click here Sam Cooke 1935. He was an African-American songwriter and performer. Click here Click here (1937) Pittsburgh-born crime writer Click here Click here Francis Wheen, 1957 -  English writer and journalist Click here Click here Aryn Kyle  , 1978. U.S. Novelist  Click here       PASSED George Steevens, editor of Shakespeare, Hampstead, 1800 Click here Richard Westall, painter, 1850 Click here George D. Prentice    (12/18/1802 –1870)     US writer Click here Click here   Click here  (Click here/1819 –1901)  Queen of England Click here Click here  (Click here/1838 –1922)  Irish writer, diplomat Click here Click here Click here  (Click here/1856 –1933)  US literary and theatrical agent Click here Click here  (Click here/1860 –1942)  German-English painter Click here   Arthur Symonds (1945) Eng poet & critic Click here                                                   IDEALISM KNOW the woman has no soul, I know The woman has no possibilities Of soul or mind or heart, but merely is The masterpiece of flesh: well, be it so. It is her flesh that I adore; I go Thirsting afresh to drain her empty kiss; I know she cannot love; 'tis not for this I rush to her embraces like a foe. Tyrannously I crave, I crave alone, Her body, now a silent instrument, That a my touch shall wake and make for me The strains that I have dreamed of, and not known; Her perfect body, Earth's most eloquent Music, the divine human harmony.                                                                by: Arthur Symons (1865-1945) Click here   Else Lasker-Schuler, German-born poet 1869-1945 Click here Click here   William Thomas Walsh, American author 1891- Click here Click here Click here   Click here  (Click here/1908 –1973) US President (36), Vice President (37 Click here   Craig Claiborne, American writer and editor 1920-2000 Click here   Anne Hébert, French Canadian author and poet (Kamouraska) 1916- 2000 Click here             The Piano All it took was one light note One finger pressed By one calm slave A single note a supple instant For the muffled clamor of offense Tucked at the back of black veins To rise and burst into the stirless air The master knowing not what to do Before such tumult Commands that the piano be closed Forever                                          -Anne Hébert   Click here     Click here  (Click here/1921 –2003)  US cartoonist Click here SITES: Click here Click here Click here Click here Click here Click here Click here Click here Click here   HISTORY:   John Keats writes "Click here" (1818) Click here" Lord Byron's "On This Day I Complete My Thirty-sixth Year, Missolonghi, January 22, 1824 Click here Click here - Bollingen Prize for poetry awarded to John Crowe Ransom    Click here                                  BONUS POEM:                         JUNGLE DRUMS   In a late night mind meandering mood I sit at my computer, my entertainment An African choir, all young men brightly clad In tunics red, yellow, green, blue, purple As if celebrating the many, many colors Of the people who call their native land home.   My big black cat, my nighttime companion Listens too, sprawled lazily atop the printer An ear cocked to the throbbing beat Of tribal drums, beating out a lively base For strong voices, in many parts, singing The collective heartbeat holding them together.   I glance at my feline friend, long and lithe, Taking in the music, utterly relaxed, Suddenly an eye opens, and in that instant I fancy I see him recall that he shares The hot feral blood of the panther Lying, waiting at the edge of the jungle.                                                         Chip Begreron                                                                                                                January 6, 2011  with permission & many Thanks     Piazza Piece   http://xroads.virginia.edu/~hyper2/modptryanthol/ransom.htm Click here by John Crowe Ransom —I am a gentleman in a dustcoat trying To make you hear. Your ears are soft and small And listen to an old man not at all, They want the young men’s whispering and sighing. But see the roses on your trellis dying And hear the spectral singing of the moon; For I must have my lovely lady soon, I am a gentleman in a dustcoat trying. —I am a lady young in beauty waiting Until my truelove comes, and then we kiss. But what grey man among the vines is this Whose words are dry and faint as in a dream? Back from my trellis, Sir, before I scream! I am a lady young in beauty waiting. John Crowe Ransom, "Piazza Piece"