4222008 NaPoWrimoog, and some stuff

[gone]

***
These fine people are also writing a poem a day for the month of April as NaPoWriMoistas.  So stop wasting your time here, and check them out:

Will Brown Online
A Page of Woe Absolved
Perfect Lines
The Booth of Our Conniving
Bloof Blog
jump(s) the track(s)
Slim Windows
Book of Kells
Glamor Levels Hi
Homeschooled by a Cackling Jackal
fringe matters.
Laurel Snyder
Ivy is Here
water veiled
Womb Poetry
Bernadette Geyer
Readwritepoem
Carter's Little Pill
Watermark
Bee's Hovel
The Polka Dot Witch
Chicks Dig Poetry
The Package Insert of Sorrows
Carrie Etter
Dreamspot Dot Dot
Big Window
a wrung sponge
Blogging Poet
Heaven
Shann Palmer says
Stick Poet Super Hero
VersAtile
Freak Machine Press
Mark Lamoureux
No Starting Point
Dragonfly on a Dog Chain
This is Not Made Up
Hyacinth Girls
For the Time Being
32 Poems
words intended as poetry
Forest River Journal
Lectitans
Carmen Gimenez Smith
Eric's Writing Corner
Possum
Beloved Dreamer
djkreutzer
August Avenue
freefalling me
GottaBook
A Window Within Myself
wjsullivan.net

*    *        *            *                    *                                *

Here's an excerpt from the beginning of the new transalation (RIchard Pevear and Larissa Volokhonsky of Tolstoy's War And Peace, in an effort to get you to go and buy this book and read it (the French is translated in footnotes in the book).

The princess [Helene] rested the elbow of her bare, rounded arm on a little table and did not find it necessary to say anything. She waited, smiling. Throughout the story she sat erect, glancing occasionally now at her rounded, beautiful arm lying lightly on the table, not at the still more beautiful bosom on which straightened a diamond necklace; she also straightened the folds of her gown several times, and, when the story produced an impression, turned to look at Anna Pavlovna and at once assumed the same expression as on the maid of honor’s face, and then settled back into a radiant smile. After Helene, the little princess also came over from the tea table.

“Attendez-moi, je vais prendre mon ouvrage,” she said. “Voyons, a quoi pensez-vous?” she turned to Prince Ippolit. “Apportez-moi mon reticule.”

The princess, smiling and talking with everyone, suddenly effected the transposition, and, taking a seat, cheerily settled herself.

“Now I feel good,” she said several times, and, asking them to begin, started to work.

Prince Ippolit fetched her reticule, came after her, and, moving his chair towards her, sat down close by.

Le charmant Hippolyte was striking in his extraordinary resemblance to his beautiful sister, and still more in being strikingly unattractive, despite that resemblance. The features of his face were the same as his sister’s, but in her everything was lit up by her joyous, self-contented, young, unchanging smile and the extraordinary classical beauty of her body. In her brother, on the contrary, the same face was clouded by idiocy and invariably expressed a self-assured peevishness, and his body was skinny and weak. His eyes, nose and mouth all seemed to shrink into an indefinite and dull grimace, and his arms and legs always assumed an unnatural position.

*    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *    *   

 

 

 

Comments

[Dan Vera]

BUDDY!!!
HAPPY DOG!!!
CHARMED FELLOW!!!

[zelda]

Fabulous! I was TOTALLY thinking about Christopher Smart when I wrote a poem about Top Chef's head judge Tom Colicchio a few days ago but was too lazy to imitate an entire section of "Jubilate Agno."