I have read all of Joyce's poems. He was not the greatest of poets, as defined, I suppose, but to me Ulysses is one epic poem.
Irish Eyes is one I used to listen to Dennis Day singing on the Jack Benny show. http://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=endscreen&NR=1&v=xLSwBKbz5l8
Saying good night with Tommy Tucker
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hamburgboy
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Sat 14 Apr, 2012 07:21 pm
some more flowers ( and music ) - that's what spring should be like !
Keukenhof ("Kitchen garden", Dutch pronunciation: [ˈkøːkə(n)ˌɦɔf]), also known as the Garden of Europe, is the world's largest flower garden situated near Lisse, Netherlands. According to the official website for the Keukenhof Park, approximately 7,000,000 (seven million) flower bulbs are planted annually in the park, which covers an area of 32 hectares.[1]
Keukenhof is located in South Holland in the small town of Lisse, south of Haarlem and southwest of Amsterdam. It is accessible by bus from the train stations of Haarlem, Leiden and Schiphol. It is located in an area called the "Dune and Bulb Region" (Duin- en Bollenstreek).
Keukenhof is open annually from the last week in March to mid-May. The best time to view the tulips is around mid-April, depending on the weather.
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hamburgboy
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Sat 14 Apr, 2012 07:38 pm
remembering 1967 :
Canada celebrates it's Centennial
" Expo " exhibition in montreal to put canada on the world map
Sylvia's lost in the kitchen.
The marble and lemon is cold to the cold of her skin.
The day's almost done and she hasn't the strength to begin.
The white mist clings to Sylvia's window,
Just a little lost cloud reaching out …
It's a desperate … is it only the rain
She wants to believe for the sake of believing
That fate has abandoned her here,
And this promising day turned to fade a beige-grey,
So she waits for her man to appear.
He comes home, Sylvie Sovay.
He's only home late 'cause he's having one hell of a day.
Briefcase flung, she's left stung by his rage at the mess she'll have made,
But why listen when you could fire on, Sovay?
Fire on, Sylvie Sovay?
Sylvia takes the bus to the town park.
She bequiets the clammy stale air as she clings to her seat,
And she runs from the steps to the green with the dirt at her feet.
Sylvia, when you're sad for no reason,
It's hard just to get through the day without feeling betrayed.
When there's no one to blame you'll be blaming the life you once craved.
She's broken too much so she's hiding her love
In the shapes of the skeleton trees.
She's cried all she can and her crystalline tears
Are hanging where once there were leaves.
She goes home, Sylvie Sovay.
She's got back late and he's having one hell of a day.
Fists are flung; she's left stung by his rage at her bone-idle ways,
But why listen when you could fire on, Sovay?
Fire on, Sylvie Sovay?
Sylvia dreamt of the future,
But what's there to work for when finally our dreams come true?
When the songs are all sung, what's the heroine left with to do?
Sylvia, how will you tell?
If you ask if he loves you, you're damning the whole thing to hell,
But the pain of being lost in tradition might kill you as well.
Sylvie Sovay, her mind's burning today.
She can't take being lost any more,
So dressed all in disguise, she'll take him by surprise.
Time to see what her loving's been for;
And she's gone, Sylvie Sovay.
With his gun in her pocket she's having one hell of a day.
When they started out, she never thought they could end up this way.
Oh, why listen when you could fire on, Sovay?
Oh, why listen when you could fire on, Sovay?
Oh, why listen when you could fire on, Sovay?
Oh, why listen when you could fire on, Sovay?
She wants starry skies but they're already taken,
And in his trying eyes she sees her love forsaken.
) in 1967 - we visited EXPO for three days .
