The year is 1874. It is a cold day in November, and as the world awakens in the small town of Clifton, Prince Edward Island, a little girl with a big name cries out in her mother’s arms. Yes, Lucy Maud Montgomery, one of the classic wonders of our world, was once a little baby. Her story may not be so different than yours. Or maybe…it is.
It’s hard for me to say
Or describe what I feel
Though I’m physically better,
It does take time to heal.
It all began with me
And a thoughtless inspiration
Which caused an injury
And cut off my respiration.
On Thursday night, I flew
To a hospital to stay
But I don’t remember much,
You see, they knocked me out that day.
I woke on Friday evening—
Two fractures in my skull.
Alarmed, I prayed to God who yet
I knew was in control.
Pete and J-Boy pulled the boat further onto the island.
Once they had tied the boat safely to the tree, the boys walked around the island to get a bearing on where exactly they had landed.
It was an island, much the same as any of the other islands, with the express difference of being the only one they were currently standing on.
Measuring roughly thirty meters across in one direction and fifty in the other, it seemed to be on the smaller side. At least insofar as the boys could tell, not having much experience with these floating islands.
Johann Sebastian Bach and Claud Debussy were two of the most influential musicians in the world. They published songs they wrote, played instruments, and were brilliant when it came to music. Yet both their lives and their styles differ vastly, from the wild life of one to the disciplined way of the other; from one’s greed and self-interest to the other’s humility and hope in God. How did both come to play such a big part in the development of music in such different ways?
In Echoing Halls
What is this room, replete with crucifixions,
Nativities, a dozen "Madonna-and-Child"'s?
The Renaissance. Who else shows Roman soldiers
In full knight's armor, Mary in Italian gown?
But note that sparkling reflection -
The gilded Bethlehem Star
Echoed in gilt embroidered dresses
And haloes framing faces, eyes cast down,
Or else lifted with hands towards heaven's heights.
In the series of essays The Language of Bacteria, we discussed some ways that bacteria are able to fight against us. Specifically, we know that bacteria can protect themselves under coated biofilms, or they can pass around genes to make them unresponsive to antibiotics.
I grew up a nomad, wondering as I went,
With backpack over shoulder and shoes well spent.
I've seen Mesopotamian graveyards where dust fell from the Ishango Bone,
And trudged Mediterranean shores where Nap found the Rosetta Stone.
There's nothing like old Stonehenge at the midwinter heirophany,
Or late noons at Giza, shadows long like Modiglianis.
The snowflakes carved in Moscow are each a precious little fractal.
Who's tasted cacao where Aztecs toasted their own Quetzocoatl?
I rarely - if ever - construct a poem at a computer. For whatever reason, when I decide I want to sit down and write a poem, I always look around for a pencil and my notebook. Even if I've been sitting at my computer for a while, as soon as I want to work on a poem, I almost instinctively leave it for a piece of paper.
Archaeoastronomy is a field that studies how the ancients saw the stars – and how they used their knowledge of them. Ancient people in Egypt, Ireland, Greece, and the Americas were capable of determining the times of astronomical events with great accuracy, and incorporated this into their architecture. The Greeks used advanced knowledge of geometry to study the heavens, but even the Mayans, who had no written language, were able to gain advanced knowledge about the heavens and studied the movement of Venus.
By a lonely road stands a lonely light,
‘Neath the clouded full moon above.
A dismal stretch of a country path,
Devoid of warmth and love.
A traveler stands on the lonely road,
Looking both to the left and the right,
And turns to walk down the lonely road,
Lit by the lonely light.
Houses full of Christmas cheer,
Windows glow warmly within,
But the shutter is closed, the curtains are drawn,
And no one invites him in.
As he reaches a fork in the lonely road,
A lantern’s light draws his eye.